Tumgik
#x: banter
mydairpercabeth · 3 months
Text
Tumblr media
2K notes · View notes
loveinhawkins · 9 months
Text
Steve’s bat bites start to bleed again during the drive out of The War Zone.
It’s a slow realisation, a creeping dampness on his skin.
He stays as still as he can, keeps his movements small and contained when turning the steering wheel; he thinks he mostly gets away with it, manages to park the RV and pitch his voice on just the right side of normal as he tells the kids to scram.
Awareness of his surroundings grows a little fuzzy around the edges, but he senses enough to know that he’s alone—the silence feels heavy, makes his ears ring.
He lifts himself up out of his seat, one hand clinging onto the headrest for balance. The ringing gets sharper, more high-pitched; he shakes his head to try and clear it.
One step forward, then another, and another.
There’s a slight rocking motion under his feet. It feels a little like he’s in a boat that’s docked, constant movement even in the gentlest of waters.
His palms brush against the bathroom door.
“Okay,” Steve whispers to himself.
He hangs onto the sink to keep himself upright—feels the room sway, as if the waters underneath have suddenly become stormy.
With one hand, he finds the knot in the bandage.
“Okay, okay…”
Pulls.
Steve doesn’t think he blacks out, not quite, but there’s a shift, a dizzying tilt… and then, somehow, he’s sitting on the closed toilet seat.
And…
The bat bites must cause hallucinations or something.
Otherwise, Steve cannot explain why Eddie—who notoriously threw up and passed out during a dissection in Biology—is currently pressing a clean bandage against his stomach, staring down at the blood like he can’t look away.
“You’re good, you’re good,” Eddie’s saying.
He’s clearly trying to sound calm, but it’s just coming out strained, like what he really means is this is all a fucking nightmare actually, but we’ve gotta find something to be optimistic about.
“Think it just needs some more pressure,” he goes on. “Yeah, there, see? It’s stopping. Oh, thank God.”
Steve feels more gauze getting wrapped around his middle—if he wasn’t injured, it’d almost be a nice sensation, Eddie’s touch somehow the perfect mix of both firm and gentle.
As he works, Eddie hums nervously.
“Talk to me Harrington,” he says in a shaky sing-song. “Come on, don’t leave me hanging, man, gimme some awkward small talk. Got any hopes? Dreams? Anything I should know?
Oh, so many things, Steve thinks, still light-headed.
But then he really does mull that over: his mind goes to The Upside Down, to belatedly telling Eddie about the hive mind, and oh shit.
“Hey, weird question,” Steve says, “but I’ve not been, like, asking you to make it cold in here or, um, anything like that?”
Eddie blinks. “Uh. No?”
“Okay.” Before he lets the relief of hearing Eddie’s answer sink in, Steve adds, “If I ever do, you need to lock me in here and get out. Tell Nancy.”
Eddie’s staring at him like he’s grown a second head. “Sure. Cool. Cool! Uh, for any particular reason or—?”
“Just in case—like, I don’t feel any different, but—one time, Will Byers, when he was in The Upside Down it, like, infected him? Like a virus. Except more… possession. And they had to kinda… burn it outta him.”
“Ha,” Eddie says. A beat. “Oh fuck, you’re serious.”
“I really don’t have the energy to be messing with you, dude.”
“Sorry. Sometimes you all just say things, y’know? And if I don’t get it, I’m like, well, they’ve been living through this for a while, maybe they’ve got a code going on.”
“I mean,” Steve says, “we kinda do.”
Eddie shakes his head. “So when Buckley said she dealt with a human-flesh-based monster, and the one before that was smoke-related, that wasn’t just, like, a really fucked up metaphor?” Eddie’s eyes are wide, pleading. “Please say it was a metaphor.”
“Sorry,” Steve says sincerely.
Eddie sighs through a lacklustre chuckle. “You’re fine, Steve. As for, uh, being possessed, I don’t think so. You’re no weirder than usual, but—”
“Wow, thanks. Means such a lot coming from you.”
“—you were a bit, like, out of it for a few seconds, but it just looked like you were gonna faint on me. Um. How’re you feeling now?”
“Good,” Steve says. When Eddie raises an eyebrow, he tacks on, “As good as I can be, I guess. Still.” He groans slightly as he stands, goes back over to the sink. “Better check.”
“Check? What?”
Steve runs the water as hot as it will possibly go, until the steam is evident. He sticks his hand right into the stream, hears Eddie hiss as the water scalds his skin.
“Okay, yup. Not possessed.”
“Fucking fantastic. Now I want it cold,” Eddie says.
He takes control of the faucet, nods for Steve to put his hand under the now cold water.
After a minute or two, Eddie sighs and collapses onto the toilet seat himself.
There’s a squeak as Steve turns the faucet off—his skin’s probably not had the good of the cold water for nearly long enough, but it’ll do.
Eddie’s tipped his head back so he’s facing the ceiling, eyes closed. Steve watches him with sympathy; he really must hate blood.
“Eddie. You can go.”
“Mm, nope,” Eddie says without opening his eyes. “I’m fine right here.”
“Suit yourself.”
Steve turns back to the sink, frowns at the tiny mirror above it; there’s black spots on the glass, but he can make out enough. Christ, the bags under his eyes are horrific.
“Relax, Casanova,” Eddie says, almost as if he’s heard Steve’s thoughts. “You look good.”
“Uh-huh. Think your brain’s fried from being on the run.”
Steve leans against the sink with one hip, finds Eddie looking at him with a small smile.
“Yeah, probably. Or maybe being on the run just suits you.” Eddie’s eyes flicker down. His smile falters. “You know, in an ideal world,” he says conversationally, “you’d be in a hospital getting stitches.”
Steve scoffs. “In an ideal world, I’d be in bed sleeping.”
“Amen to that,” Eddie says lightly. But he still looks sombre. “Seriously, though. If it gets… you know. I’d drive you.”
“To the hospital? What are you gonna do, Eddie, wander up to the front desk? Sounds like a real interesting way to get arrested.”
But Eddie doesn’t leap at the chance to make a joke.
“Steve,” he says softly. “I mean it. I wouldn’t care.”
“That would sorta ruin the whole priority of hiding you.”
“That’s—” Eddie huffs. “That’s not the priority.”
“Huh, that’s funny, cause it is in my book.” Steve nods at the door, to his whole world just outside. “One of many.”
Eddie’s eyes narrow. “And your name better be right at the top, Harrington.”
Steve hums.
“In bold. Underlined.”
“Whatever you say.”
Eddie groans quietly, runs a hand down his face. “You worry me, man.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“I know. Just…” Eddie hesitates. “Don’t go off alone. You know?”
Steve thinks it over. He steps forward and offers Eddie his hand.
Eddie takes it.
When Steve pulls him up, he stumbles a little, as if he feels like he’s on a boat, too.
“Oops, sorry.” He grabs onto Steve’s forearm for balance. “Think this should be the other way round, man.”
“Hmm, I don’t think so.”
Steve leads the way out of the bathroom—doesn’t mention the fact that, really, they’re both holding each other up.
There’s a bottle of water left in the back. Steve twists the cap off. Drinks.
“You too,” he tells Eddie.
“Huh?”
Steve considers him—thinks of the little flare of panic he felt when watching Eddie walk through the woods, tiptoeing around vines. How he had a sudden instinct to catch up to him, to make sure he wasn’t alone.
“I’m making a deal,” Steve says. “I won’t go off alone if you don’t.”
He lifts the bottle up as if making a toast—drinks again then passes it over to Eddie.
For the slightest of moments, their fingers brush; Eddie’s rings skim over Steve’s knuckles.
“So what’s this?” Eddie asks. “Legally binding magical water?”
Steve shrugs. “Cool metaphor,” he replies.
You say you just turn heel and run, Eddie. But sometimes I think if there was a fire, you’d run towards the flames if it meant no-one else got hurt.
Eddie smiles. Tilts the bottle towards Steve.
“Guess it’s a promise, then,” he says.
He drinks.
Steve prays that it holds.
3K notes · View notes
infinityoftwo · 1 year
Photo
Tumblr media
Dragon Age Banter 3/???
Fenris & Merrill
4K notes · View notes
stvrchaser · 3 months
Text
𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
( pairing ) : clarisse la rue x fem!reader
( words ) : 2000
( note ) : noticed that clarisse has her nails painted in the show and… well this came out of that. reader is heavily aphrodite coded but i don’t think it’s explicitly mentioned anywhere what cabin she’s actually from? only that she’s not from apollo’s and she’s on clarisse’s side for capture the flag
also don’t we just love that every fic i’ve ever published is literally 80% pining? honestly can’t tell you the last time one of my fics didn’t have a scene that goes on for like three paragraphs about how much admiration reader has for their love interest
oh and happy new year!!
Tumblr media
Summer days can last for a lifetime and a fulfilling one at that. There’s so much to be done when the world wakes, engulfed in light and warmth, nurturing possibility. There’s so much to look forward to. But today, that anticipation has chosen to work against you.
The sun is setting now, approaching dinnertime, and Clarisse is nowhere to be found. For all of her spontaneity and occasional recklessness, it’s unlike her to abandon routines. That is, routines she shares with you. And walking to dinner together happens to be one of your longest-running practices.
You tried to ask around, careful not to sound too concerned so as not to spark rumors. See, Clarisse La Rue has never been publicly caught in a state that warrants concern. Clarisse La Rue is untouched by the fears that plague the rest of them. But you know better.
It isn’t until you come across a few Ares kids, very obviously overworked and looking nearly faint with exhaustion, that you come to your senses. It isn’t infrequent that Cabin 5 becomes victim to one of Clarisse’s drills, training until fatigue overpowers their fear of her authority. As predicted, you find her in a clear patch of the forest overlooking the strawberry fields. Some days she likes to train here, away from watchful eyes.
The setting sun casts her in golden light, bronze armor glistening alongside golden skin. Clarisse liked to train in full gear — a fruitful habit to get herself accustomed to the added weight of leather and metal. It allows her to move with ease, swinging her spear with grace despite the strength of her whole body being evident in every step. With her head held high, spear raised, and the incredible speed at which she moves, she doesn’t look even the slightest bit mortal, but rather a god amongst men. A warrior and hunter. She is the perfect picture of divinity if you’ve ever seen it.
You let your feet drag against the dirt, a fallen branch snapping beneath your weight. It informs Clarisse of your presence from a safe distance, although the remnants of her focused state aren’t any less intimidating. Her eyes burn bright like the electricity that charges the tip of her spear.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Clarisse realizes her error with a glance at the horizon where the sun is setting and you smile warmly, dismissing any indication of displeasure. You watch her demeanor change, the rigidity in her posture fading with an apologetic tip of her head. 
“I’ve been training. Those idiots would know that if they’d stuck around to join me.” Something tells you that that isn’t entirely true. Anyone could assume that she’d been training, but the matter of where was an entirely different question. As far as you know, this particular spot is something only the two of you are familiar with — a small refuge away from everyone else.  
“Well, we don’t all have your… passion for these things.”
“You think I’m ridiculous,” she says with a sigh. 
“Babe, you’re training for capture the flag. Not war.” Clarisse only shakes her head, knowing there’s no point in arguing. She thinks this is something the two of you might never see eye-to-eye on. While you like your fair bit of competition, Clarisse takes every victory with great significance. As she does with every loss.
“Here, I’ll help you,” you say, approaching to tuck a stray curl behind her ears. Your touch lingers at her cheeks, flushed from physical exertion and maybe something more by the way her gaze settles on your lips. Every intake of breath is louder now that you stand toe to toe and the adrenaline has started to wear off. She’s too worked up to have done this all for a game of capture the flag. “I hope you’re not doing all this to get back at Percy.” Her eyes still linger on your mouth and you think she might’ve not heard you until her brows furrow in confusion.
“Since when are you on a first-name basis?”
“Oh, come on,” you say with a disapproving shake of your head. “He’s just a kid.” You reach for the leather chord at the edge of her breastplate, undoing the knot with ease.
“He’s full of it.” She refuses to look at you now, her head turned upward as if she’d developed a sudden interest in trees. You can’t tell if she’s trying to maintain her composure to keep herself from saying something she’ll regret or if your gaze and proximity was distracting her from the discussion. Maybe a bit of both.
“He’s a baby. You could body-slam him into next Friday. It’s hardly a fair fight.” You untie the last knot keeping her breastplate in place, tugging upward to slip it over her head. Clarisse doesn’t even seem to realize that you’d freed her of her armor until the weight vanished from her body.
She looks at you then with an expression you can’t quite read. Something warm, like gratitude, but reluctant. When she speaks, it’s unexpectedly solemn.
“Do you really believe he killed The Minotaur? Him? Gods, everyone here trains themselves to death for that kind of stuff and he gets all the glory? He doesn’t even know how to shoot.” Now that you’ve been made aware of the gravity of the situation, it’s suddenly harder to find your words. This isn’t the petty rivalry you’d assumed it was, and you had to handle it as such.
“Well, I’m sure a few things have been exaggerated here and there, but that’s not his fault. People love to talk about him, but nobody’s really talking to him. I don’t think he’s had a say in anything that’s been said about him. You know how rumors spread around here.”
“But he’s—”
“Look,” you start, taking her hands into yours. “I’m not asking you to make him friendship bracelets. Just… try not to drown him in the lake, okay?”
You know the exact moment an idea hits her by the mischievous glimmer in her eye. It takes a lot of strength not to bury your face in your hands, afraid that you’ve now planted an idea that would get the poor boy killed. Or worse.
“Clarisse, please.” She surrenders, albeit reluctantly. 
“Fine,” she says. Still, you’re not entirely convinced.
“Good. Now say it.”
“What?”
“Say you won’t drown him in the lake.” Clarisse laughs, but it dies down when she realizes you don’t plan to join her.
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m really not.”
“I swear not to drown Percy Jackson in the lake,” she agrees through gritted teeth. You don’t say anything about the way her hands tighten around yours as if it physically pained her to say the words.
“See? That wasn’t so hard,” you tell her, ignoring that it did, in fact, seem hard. “Now, what are we gonna do with those nails?” Clarisse stares blankly at your joined hands. Chipped black nail polish alongside your perfectly pristine, perfectly preserved set of nails.
“Why do we need to do anything about my nails?”
“Honey, I painted these like two days ago. What do you even do to get them chipped like this? I mean, are you fighting with the back of your hand? I don’t understand.”
“I have to train, you know?” she says, like it’s meant to explain anything. You know better than to ask her to elaborate.
“Shame. You have very pretty nail beds. You should spend less time fighting puppy dog-eyed middle schoolers so you can actually keep them pretty.”
“You think I have pretty nail beds?” You shrug.
“Among other things.”
“Well, tell me about these other things.”
“Hm, and people think I’m vain.”
“Come on. What other things?”
You take a moment to look at her — to really look at her. To dissect every inch of her face and the features that create the picture of beauty you know and love. There are far too many pretty things to point out, but you find yourself drawn to one in particular.
“You have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”
“Well, thank you.”
“Shut up. I’m not finished.”
“Of course. Don’t let me stop you.”
“And you have the most gorgeous smile.” Clarisse beams with pride. “Yeah, that one. And it doesn’t even matter if it looks like you’re just about ready to tear someone’s throat out with your teeth. I just like to see you happy. I like hearing you laugh even better.”
And laugh she does. Low but sweet, like honey. She looks like the teenage girl she is, deeply infatuated and with a capacity for love she has only ever shared with you. 
You indulge in the temporary amusement it brings you to think of how horrified Clarisse might be if anyone else were around to hear her giggle. Clarisse La Rue, Daughter of Ares, infamous for waging war on whichever unfortunate soul so much as breathes in her direction — producing a laugh so gentle and beautiful it could give Orpheus and his songs a run for his money. And you might be the happiest girl alive to have been the cause of it.
“You’re sure you’re not Apollo’s kid?”
“Are you calling me a talented poet?”
“I’m calling you a sap,” Clarisse insists with a sour expression, but her voice is saturated with mirth, eyes too bright, and you know she isn’t entirely opposed to your antics. 
“I think the term you’re looking for is romantic.”
“Yeah, right.” She rolls her eyes.
“I know I’m right, but thank you for the confirmation.”
“I know the nail polish fumes are getting to your head,” she mocks. You feign defeat, retreating with an exaggerated sigh.
“Maybe.” Two steps to your left and you’re concealed by a tree, its trunk twice as wide as either of you. You peak your head, locking eyes with Clarisse. “Or all that training is slowing you down. Honestly! If you’re gonna try to insult me, at least try to come up with something original.”
“Oh, you think I’m slow?” Clarisse asks, every word a thinly veiled threat — a challenge, and one you’re willing to accept.
“Unless you want to prove me wrong.” Clarisse lunges at you without warning, almost too fast, but you’re able to gather your senses. The tree had bought you just enough time to keep her whole body from slamming into yours, the force of it undoubtedly capable of launching you both to the ground. 
You dash through the woods as fast as your legs can carry you, your only advantage being that Clarisse must have tired herself out from training. But you know she’s hot on your trail.
From here, you can see the bonfire, flames burning high. You turn, prepared to declare that your victory is just seconds away. You’re tackled to the floor before a word can leave your mouth. 
“Oh, come on! That’s not fair, I was distracted!”
“Distracted by what?” Clarisse laughs hysterically although taking a much more graceful tumble to the floor than you had. She’s covered in fallen leaves and her jeans are brown at the knees where the denim fades.
“The pretty girl chasing me.” Clarisse is beside herself with joy, clutching at her stomach and close to tears, and it takes her a minute to calm herself. When the two of you have settled, she speaks again. Or tries to, that is.
“Oh, you are so—“ You place a kiss on her lips, short and sweet, but enough to leave her speechless. Clarisse turns a violent shade of red and you think she might need another minute to calm herself. You take that time to revel in your victory.
You stand, offering your hand to help her up. 
“Come on, let’s get dinner and you can rest for the game tomorrow. If you’re gonna lead us to victory, you’re gonna need your strength, captain.” She smiles, intertwining her hand with yours.
“You’re gonna be there? Right beside me?”
“La Rue, you’re crazy if you think there’s even a chance I’d ever leave your side.”
•°. *࿐
reader: pls don’t drown percy in the lake
clarisse: ok fine
clarisse: *tries to drown percy*
reader: what did i say about drowning people??
clarisse: …
clarisse: you never said the toilets were off-limits 
also i'm like brand new to the pjo fandom but i’ve been kindly informed of clarisse x silena (and their tragic ending but i turn a blind eye to that so i can preserve my sanity) but when i get there you WILL need to physically restrain me from writing fics about them
1K notes · View notes
wiingdings · 16 days
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
cat people
588 notes · View notes
whatimdoing-here · 4 months
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
VIGIL | 2.03
637 notes · View notes
Photo
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
1K notes · View notes
superbat-love · 9 months
Text
Batman and Superman being playful with each other.
1K notes · View notes
Text
It’s No Use
Natasha Romanoff X Reader
Summary: All the times Natasha wants you to ask her out and the time you actually do. Loosely inspired by No Use I Just Do by Hayley Williams. It’s the vibes okayyyyyyyy
Warnings: Cursing. minor blood (from a paper cut) and Natty being rude asf. Violence, some angst, mostly banter and fluff.
Authors note: Should still be packing to move but I took like an hour break to speed write this cute lil idea so I hope it’s not too rushed lmao
Gif not mine
Tumblr media
It happened 3 times.
“Shit!” you winced as you felt the sting of a nasty paper cut. Luckily, none of it got on the page you were reading. You let out a small sigh of relief, using your other hand to bookmark and close your hard copy of your favorite book.
Thud.
You jumped at the sound and saw Natasha Romanoff with her palms pressed against the wooden table in the library. Her face was cold, but from the malevolent look in her eyes, she might as well have steam billowing out of her ears.
“What’s your angle?” She asked. You’d been on the team for 6 months. It was the longest anyone’s gone without trying to make a pass at her and it didn’t make sense. You’re both gay, and attractive, and the two of you get along just fine on the off chance you leave the library.
“What’s your problem?” You retorted. The woman intimidated you to no end, but you were coworkers and you were determined to not have anyone walk all over you.
“You’re my problem,” Natasha pushes the words out through her clenched jaw and both your eyebrows raise in surprise before morphing into a confused pout of sorts.
“But why though?” You asked and Natasha was taken aback.
“You know why,” She says urgently, but her voice betrays her as it drops to a whisper.
“Actually… No. No, I don’t.” You say with finality, crossing both arms over your chest until you feel the blood from your fingertip smudge on your bicep. “Jesus fucking Christ-“ You look at your arm at a bit of a loss and Natasha, in her haughty annoyance, walks over to the table next to you, grabbing tissues from the box and shoving them into your hand for good measure.
“We’re not done with this conversation,” Natasha says as she watches you clean yourself up, before balling up the tissue and holding it onto your finger. You quickly looked yourself over to make sure you hadn’t left any other spots.
“And somehow this feels like more of an aimless interrogation than a conversation,” You point out and Natasha’s eyes narrow dangerously at you.
“It wouldn’t have to be if you just got it over with,” Natasha seethed and you tilted your head.
“Uhhhhhh… What now?” You asked. The spy let out an exhausted sigh and stood fully upright in front of you.
Well, that’s not a good sign.
“Just ask me out so I can say no already!” She half shouted, almost hysterically, you might add. Only, her words didn’t have their intended effect. You made an even bigger mistake next. Laughing.
As you doubled over, her frustration only grew and she wanted to slap that smile off your face, even if it meant getting a week-long suspension from the team. She stood there, still as a statue while you acted as if you’d just seen a polar bear in a tutu. Unlike you, Natasha was not amused.
Eventually, your laughter died down. Her rage felt founded as you wiped away the remnants of tears from the corners of your eyes. Clearly, you didn’t take her seriously enough at all.
“Who said I’d ask you out?” You quirked a brow and for the first time today, Natasha faltered.
“Because-“
“You know what? Scratch that. Why would I have to be the one to ask you? Couldn’t it be the other way around?” You push the envelope further and Natasha feels almost as small as you did when she first showed up today.
“So… Wait… You don’t want to sleep with me?” Natasha asked, to clarify, and for… science…
“With all due respect, I can do better than someone who interrogates me over literally nothing,” You say lightheartedly and Natasha’s face turns bright red. Yep, she was an idiot.
“Oh… alright then…” is all she can conjure up the courage to say.
“So, we square?” You ask, picking your book back up with your good hand.
“I-yeah…” Natasha finally turns to exit the library. As she does so she makes a promise to herself. She promises to never talk to you again outside of work because this experience alone was enough embarrassment for a lifetime. Plus, she’s the sole reason the embarrassment happened.
That was the first incident.
Despite working together and saving the world countless times, the team was dealt their biggest loss yet. The loss of the team itself. You rounded the side of the Hanger Steve and Buck had just flown out of, contact with T’challa and Natasha had ceased and you were concerned. You’d been working in tandem with both sides to try and quell things before the inevitable implosion.
Maybe you stepped on Natasha’s toes. Maybe she hit you with a dose of reality when she admitted this was the closest thing she had to a family. Maybe it didn’t sit right with you that she had to choose a side when you couldn’t readily do that either.
When you turned your head to check behind you, still running the length of the side of the building, you couldn’t see a heavy metal door pop open. However, your body still collided with said door and the force knocked you onto your back, the air quickly escaping your lungs in a small ‘oof’.
Your hand reached to your lower back as you rolled onto your side, hissing at the intense pain from years of superheroing. Before you knew it Black Widow was straddling and pinning you to the ground, widow bites aimed at your chest.
“Thank god you’re alright…?” You blinked the dust from your eyes and noticed the low humming that came from her gadget.
“And just where are you going?” She asked, her eyes taking in the small cuts and bruises littering your face. Wanda even apologized in the middle of the battle when Tony blasted his repulsors at a red car she’d lobbed at him and the shrapnel landed on top of you.
“I was looking for you, dumbass,” You chuckled and she rolled her eyes.
“You look like shit,” She said, getting off of you and hoisting you back up to your feet.
“You should see your hair. Those jets must’ve made quite the wind tunnel in there,” You teased and she quickly lifted both her arms to soothe her hair, which was just as in place as it had been before the fight. Her brows furrowed in confusion and you doubled over in laughter.
“Asshole,” she muttered.
“You love it,” You shot back before your smirk fell into concern. “Is T’Challa still in there?” You asked, reaching for the door and Natasha’s heart dropped to her stomach. She assumed that you’d swapped sides.
“Didn’t spiderboy attack you with his webs?” She asked and you paused, hand still on the door as you half turned to look back at her.
“I think it was an accident? It’s kinda hard to tell what counts as friendly fire when we’ve all worked together at one point or another,” You comment and Natasha sighs.
“So you don’t want to run away from all of this?” Natasha gestured.
“I do. I hate airports,” you shivered at the thought, turning back towards the door to pry it back open and Natasha bit back a smile. You always were oblivious.
“No, as in…you don’t want to run away…with me,” she said before catching herself. “and the others-” You let out a lighthearted chuckle at her words.
“Are you asking me to run away with you, Romanoff?” You teased and before you could turn to look at her she raised her arm, releasing a widow bite right onto your neck. For the past few months, Natasha had dreamed of you confessing your undying love to her. It left a bitter taste in her mouth to mutter her lifelong lesson under her breath.
Love is for children.
When you crumpled to the ground she ran, letting one small tear roll down her cheek. She’d just have to go to Norway by herself.
The third time was much less thrilling, though equally as depressing. Thanos had won. It had been 4 years since you had moved on. After everything went down you were quick to quit the team, cut off contact, and move across the country. Two years ago a wedding invitation made its way to Natasha’s hands and unlike Steve and Sam’s, the invitation had been handwritten with a long note.
It felt like a confession and a breakup all at once to the spy. Yet, anyone else reading it would only see the encouragement and support you felt from your mentor, shining through your words like rays from the morning sun. The woman's name was unimportant, but Natasha saw the similarities in herself and the woman you married…
So why’d you never ask her out?
Natasha did her best, biting back her words and burying her feelings as well as her questions in the deepest reaches of her subconscious. When that didn’t work she stopped reaching out. Pretty soon, you did too. While it hurt, Natasha was never one to pursue others. Especially if it would break up a happy marriage.
So, her eyes may have popped out of her skull when Steve informed her you’d be coming to visit for a while. Natasha took the news in with a smile that even Steve could tell was fake. Though, when he asked Natasha about it she readily denied any and all questions from the man.
That was it.
When you showed up she kept her expressions neutral and her comments to the point. She didn’t miss the small frown every time you interacted… She was so obvious that she was upset, but she never told you why. Even if you’d figured it out several times throughout the years, the blip messed everyone up. It had to be different now, right?
So different that even when you tried to tease her like before, she didn’t even react. At a loss for what to do you decided to push all of your confusing home life bullshit aside.
It was a hot summer and due to all the missing people, many children were still displaced, despite it being over 4 years since the blip. Steve mentioned Natasha’s work on the side, helping give children food, shelter, and safety. You decided to help.
“You want to do what?!” She asked.
“My house is pretty empty on the west coast and I don’t think I wanna go back. I wanna donate the property and the land towards your cause,” You said as if you were offering her a bag of chips.
“That’s insane. You can’t just sell your house and move your whole life back here,” Natasha’s eyes were wide, her mouth hanging open in shock and you laughed at her gaping expression.
“I can. I own it,” You said before resting your chin in your hand. “Man, I should be careful before I start to sound like Tony,” You joke before your face darkens. There’s a moment of silence for both of you before Natasha finds the courage to speak. She doesn’t want to be near you or your wife.
“Don’t. It’s your home,” She said, her gaze turning softer and more insistent than demanding.
“It’s an empty mansion. I’m sure it would be put to better use,” You said. “Maybe turn it into a kickass superhero school or some shit-“
“What about your wife?” She asked and you went silent. Your eyes drifted to the window, unfocusing and letting the light of day fill your vision.
“We uh…,” rather than saying the word divorce, you hold your hands up, making fists and holding them together before promptly pulling them apart and opening them up. Even going as far as making a quiet explosion sound as you watch your own movements. You hadn’t even told Steve yet, but your world was bound to crash again. It always did when you started to actually feel happy. Then again, with that relationship, you weren’t really happy. Not when you’d always felt destined for someone else.
Even if said person could never and would never admit that they felt the same.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Natasha’s words were hollow, but she continued with more genuine words. “But… You’re more than your relationships. You’ll be alright,”
“Sounds like you’re convincing yourself more than me,” You huff and turn your head back towards hers, locking eyes. Her lips purse and she blinks slowly.
“Look, I’m not going to mince words and I’m not going for flattery, but you’re a catch and I know someone will swoop in and steal you away soon,” Natasha says confidently, knowing that that’s all she’s wanted to do with you since before the fight in that goddamn airport.
“No one’s stealing me away again. This is my home,” You say, resolute in your decision.
“No, Y/n. You should let yourself be happy,” Natasha pinched the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes.
“And I’m happy here,” You retort. Natasha sighs before looking up at you again. Her eyes soften as she sees your mischievious smirk for the first time in years.
“Are you sure you wanna stay?” she asks once more.
“I don’t know… Are you asking me to stay?” You press your luck and your eyes flicker down to see her match your expression. There’s a pause.
“No, you assumed you could still move in here!” She said.
“No, I said I was donating my property. I never said where I’d go,” You point out and to your amusement, she groans. Only then do you start the quick quips. Volleying words back and forth like a game of ping pong.
“You’re a headache,”
“You’re stubborn,”
“Fuck you,”
“Ask me to dinner first,”
“Sure, I’ll take you somewhere cheap,”
“If that’s all you can afford, babydoll,” You crossed your arms, kicking your feet up on her desk as you leaned back and her eyes narrowed like that time in the library. “Nat?” you broke the moment, your voice and features turning pensive.
“Yeah?” Natasha’s eyes glanced at the clock. Too late to make a full lunch, but she could probably still eat the sandwich that was on her desk from her snack earlier.
“You know… as fun as this game of back and forth is… I can never really tell if you like me or hate me. Which is it?” You asked nervously. The memory from two years ago floods your brain. Your girlfriend was walking towards you down the aisle yet you kept looking away to see if Natasha had shown up. She never did.
“I don’t hate you,” Natasha’s face tugged into a confused expression once more. “I don’t you realize how much I don’t hate you,” Natasha urged and you chewed on your lower lip thoughtfully. This was probably as close to a confirmation as you were ever going to get.
“Then… Will you go out with me? Like… on a date?” You ask nervously. For the first time your entire trip, Natasha was beaming. Apparently, the third time is the charm.
428 notes · View notes
dira333 · 3 months
Text
Soul-Food - Osamu x Reader
Enemies to lovers - Requested by @notsochillnerd - with Atsumu as a terrible wingman who just wanted to check out his brothers' nemesis...
Tumblr media
There is only one thing more annoying than Miya Osamu with his cooking talent, excellent marks, and unfairly good looks: his twin brother Atsumu.
“No.” You say again, arms filled with produce. He’s in your way and he’s not even sorry about it.
“Come oooon!” He whines, draping himself over the railing of the stairs as if this is a photoshoot for some perfume. “I’m so hungry! And Osamu won’t cook for me! I’ll even pay you!”
“Wow, now I want to do it even less, knowing you might not have paid me in the first place.” You snark, patience wearing thin.
“Now get out of my way, I need to get to my room.”
“To do what?” He steps to the side, but his face remains close to yours. You’re not the fastest as it is, even less when carrying that many vegetables. 
“I need to cook.”
“Perfect.” His grin is so wide, it could split his face. “You cook, I’ll eat.”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
You hesitate, if only for a second. But Atsumu is like a shark and that was the single drop of blood that he needed.
Half an hour later he’s sitting at the little table in your apartment. 
Your kitchen isn’t spacious, but equipped with everything you could possibly need - there’s a reason this school costs an arm and a leg each year. And Miya Osamu got the scholarship instead of you.
You wouldn’t have any problem with it if not for your father breathing down your neck. He’s got the money to send you here twice if he wanted to, but in his twisted mind, a 100% is barely a passing grade and you should have been able to win the scholarship, monetary status be damned.
“What are you making?” Atsumu asks from behind you.
“Udon.”
“Why is it black?” 
“I’m using Sepia.”
“Why?”
“Because I can.” You snap back, hoping against hope that he will fall quiet. He doesn’t. 
-
You’ve spent almost a year in a class with Osamu.
He might not always get a better mark than you, but he quickly figured out how much you hated it when he did. There’s nothing worse than someone else gloating over your loss.
The teachers love him and tolerate you. 
So far they’ve been kind enough not to put the two of you into a group project, or maybe they just played it safe. The sheer bloodlust you feel when he grins in your direction must have tipped them off.
But this year is going to end soon and your teachers expect you to come up with a dish. Your own creation, not unlike the dish you had to make for your entry exam. This time, however, it’s supposed to showcase what you want to do, going forward.
You can’t bring the same thing you made for your entry exam, even though it was perfect and a delight - you made it roughly one hundred times before. 
Your father has always been a fan of the Kaiseki Ryori and while you had loved taking part in the Haute Cuisine as a child, feeling grown up as you nibbled on tiny bites of expensive food, it has lost its appeal on you.
After all, there’s a set number of times you can eat a meal, even Chawanmushi, before you get sick of it.
“Hello? Are you still listening?” Nuisance number 2 asks behind you and you flinch, staring down at the dough that you kneaded for too long. 
“What’s Osamu doing for his exam?” You ask, feeling a little guilty about your attempt at spying.
“Why do you want to know?”
Nevermind. Now you only feel annoyed.
“Just because. Maybe I want to talk about something other than you.”
You move to throw the dough out, only to be stopped by Atsumu’s voice.
“What are you doing?”
“I messed it up. It’s not going to taste good.”
“So what? I’m hungry.”
“You want to eat gross noodles?” You eye him warily, but he shrugs with a grin.
“It’s definitely going to be better than what I’d produce myself. But since I hate cooking, I’d probably just get takeout pizza anyway.”
“Aren’t you an athlete?”
“Yeah?”
“And they let you eat Pizza?”
“They don’t know. Or they don’t care. Whatever you like better. I mean, they gave me a list of stuff I should keep away from but that’s like, all the food I usually consume.”
“Here.” You pull out a pen and paper. “Write down what you eat in a day. Snacks included. And drinks.”
“Why?”
“If I have to endure your chatting, you might as well get something out of this. Now, shoo!”
You turn, lid of your composter already open when his voice reaches you.
“DON’T THROW AWAY THE DOUGH!”
“Fine!” You snap. “You can eat your disgusting noodles!”
They don’t taste that awful in the end, not with your delicate sauce with mussels and steamed broccoli that turned out so good Atsumu licks his plate clean.
-
You’d been part of the track club in Middle School, switched to Volleyball in High School because they had fewer practice hours per week. Your marks had always been more important than any side activities, your future as a part of Haute Cuisine decided before you could walk. But it had been fun, especially when Coach gathered you after practice to talk about the importance of self-care. How certain foods could make or break you. How important salt and minerals were for your body, how food was more than calories, protein, carbs, and fat.
You’re not even a little bit rusty when you scribble down a meal plan for him. You keep it easy and as cheap as possible, light on the cooking because you figured he must be the opposite of his twin in the kitchen if he came begging for food… You’re not sure if you’re buying his excuse of a brotherly fight, but you’re not ashamed to say that you didn’t mind him praising your food over Osamu’s. Suck that, Miya!
Meanwhile, Atsumu’s brows are pulled so high, they’re hiding behind his bangs.
“What’s that supposed to be?”
“Your new meal plan. You follow that, you’ll increase your stamina.”
“But it’s so much work.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
“Whatever.” You get up, throw the pen down at the table. Your patience has never been the best anyway.
“Hey, hey, hey.” He follows you to the sink but not to help with the dishes.
“You could cook for me.” He offers it like it’s a great deal. You snort.
“I bet there’s something you want. Something I could do for you…” He wiggles his brows now, looks disgustingly like Osamu when he got a better mark then you. And that kickstarts your brain.
“I want Osamu… I mean the recipe…You know, what Osamu made to get the scholarship. If you can get me that dish of him to try, I’ll cook for you.”
Atsumu grins in a way that doesn’t feel good but he nods.
“Alright, it’s a deal. You’ll cook for me and I get you the dish.” He holds out his hand to sign the deal but you’ve been the daughter of a cutthroat banker for too long to fall for that.
“I’ll cook for a week.” You tell him firmly and watch with a sick satisfaction as his face contorts. He looks awful when he’s pissed and there are definitely not enough moments of the Miya twins looking awful.
“Two weeks.
“One week, only dinner.”
“One week, lunch, dinner and snacks.”
“Are you insane?”
“Do you want Osamu’s food?”
There’s a moment of Silence, and you’re eyeing each other, calculating who’s bluffing and who’s not.
“Fine.” You huff eventually, because you feel it in your bones that trying that damned dish will get you a step closer to figuring out what you need to present for your Final.
-
You feel like a drug addict, going down the deep end, when Atsumu appears at your door one week later, carrying a Bento-Box wrapped in the cutest fabric you have ever seen.
“Are those little foxes?” You ask, eyeing the reddish-tinted animals on the grey fabric.
“What if ?” He asks back, nose up in the air.
“Jeez, I was just curious.” You snap back and muster him. He doesn’t look malnourished.
“What did you eat this week?”
“Why do you ask?” He sets the Bento-Box on your table and saunters into your kitchen, peering into the still empty pots and pans.
“You’re an awful liar.”
“Okay, so I told Samu that you cooked for me.” He throws his hands up in the air like you’re the one making a big fuss about things. “Told him it was fingerlickin’ good. Got him all angry and puffy.”
You are not ashamed to say that comment lifts you off your feet just a little bit. Hah!
“So?” You ask cooly, untying the Furoshiki with eager fingers.
“So he insisted that he would cook for me. Everything went according to plan, I pretended it wasn’t as good as your food until I asked for the dish he made for his entry exams.”
“Did you know what it was?” You ask as you lift the lid of the box.
“Maybe.” He says and you can hear in his voice that he knew. He probably didn’t tell you just to experience this.
“He made Onigiri?” You ask, your voice a little shrill.
You had made Chawanmushi, a dish literally to die for, practiced one hundred times, and he beat you with Onigiri?
“Try it.” He reaches for one of the Onigiri in the box and you slap his hand away.
“Mine!” You hiss angrily and his grin is almost feral.
“I’ll take a walk around the block then.” He jokes, moving toward the door. “Leave you alone with it.”
“Leave.” You wave him off. “I’ll make dinner later.”
“Half an hour.”
“Leave!” You huff and the door clicks shut behind him.
-
You bite into the first Onigiri and time stops for a second. 
The rice is cooked to perfection, but you know the different varieties well. He must have splurged on this kind, bought from a boutique farmer of some sorts. 
It’s filled with tuna and spring onion, but it tastes different then all the Tuna Onigiri you’ve had before. You write down all the different things you can taste, compare them to the knowledge you have but still - did he use a spice you don’t know? A combination you’re not familiar with?
The taste lingers, but you cannot put your finger on it. You feel a little weepy too, as if you had just watched your favorite movie from when you were a kid. You sniff and take the other Onigiri, bite into almost cautiously. It’s Tenmusu, your favorite kind of Onigiri.
This time, literal tears run down your cheeks. The shrimp is crisp, the sweet sauce calling you back to childhood, reminding you of the few free afternoons you got to spend with your mother, just the two of you, no work allowed. You only remember to write down the taste and ingredients when the last bite has disappeared and your hands leave the paper stained. 
Well… You’re no closer to figuring out what to make for your finals, but you might be getting your period soon. Why else would you be moved to tears by food?
-
“Onigiri, huh?” You ask Osamu after class the next day. You can’t help yourself.
He looks up from his phone, surprise on his face. It’s ridiculous how good that makes him look.
“What about it?”
“I heard you made Onigiri for your Entry Exam.”
“Ah, yes.” He smiles, the kind of smile that makes you want to slap it off his face. “Tsumu told me he made you try it.”
You can feel your face go slack. WHAT?
“What did you think?” Osamu asks, way too confident for your taste. “Did you like them?”
You can’t decide between a huff and a snort and the sound that does come out reminds you more of a dying walruss.
“They were probably pitying you.” You point out, nose in the air. “I showed up with Kaiseki Ryori. I made Chawanmushi.”
“Ah.” Osamu sounds like he’s not sure what that is. But you’ve gone over that in class, he’s just messing with you.
“Well, when do I get to try it?” 
You blink. “What?” 
“Yeah, it’s only fair, right? After you tried mine.”
You swallow thickly, look around for some help, but you’re the only one’s still in the hallway.
“Fine.” You huff eventually, because he does have a point. “As long as I don’t have to eat it.”
His brows furrow and your mind unhelpfully supplies you with the information that his eyes are a different shade than Atsumu’s. Osamu’s eyes are almost as grey as his hair, reminding you of the sky outside. 
His mouth moves and you blink, try to focus on his voice, but fail. Your collar feels too tight around your neck and you pull at it, too aware of Osamu’s eyes that flicker to your neck and stay there. God, what’s going on?”
“What did you say?” You ask in the most snooty voice you can manage. “I wasn’t listening.”
“Why do you cook something you don’t like?” He asks. “Don’t you enjoy cooking?”
Something snaps inside you like a rubberband that has been pulled taut for too long.
“Why do you care?” You sniff and he rolls his eyes. 
“I was just asking.”
“Sure you were. But you’re psychological warfare doesn’t work on me! You can flutter your long eyelashes at someone else!”
Osamu laughs. “I wasn’t-”
“Neither was I. Well, are you coming or not?”
���Where?” 
“You wanted to try my Chawanmushi!”
“Gesundheit.” You turn, not the least bit surprised to see Atsumu standing there. It’s lunchtime for him, he’s coming to collect his goods. “Or was that a codeword for something naughty?”
“Oh god, you’re awful.” 
-
You know that the Chawanmushi has turned out as perfect as all the other times. You can tell by sight and smell, but you cannot bring yourself to try it.
The thought of it has you swallow back bile but you serve it to the brothers with the biggest smile you can manage.
“Here.” You present it in tiny, elegant bowls.
“Are you in pain?” Osamu asks and you drop the smile.
“Go f-” 
“Why is it so tiny?” Atsumu asks, eyeing the bowl skeptically. “I’m hungry.”
“I made you Curry.” You tell him off. “This is just a tasting. You can’t eat full bowls with Kaiseki Ryori, you’d never manage that amount of food.”
“Don’t underestimate me.” Atsumu digs in, spoon clinking loudly against the bowl to the point you fear for its life.
He’s done with it before Osamu has even tasted his, still smelling the dish carefully, pulling the spoon through as if to check for clumps.
“It was fine.” Atsumu gives his mark as one would comment on an order of KFC. “Now, the Curry?” 
You huff but don’t get up, eyes still trained on Osamu. Then, finally, he brings the spoon to his mouth. If you’re focusing a little too much on his full lips, that’s entirely because he’s the world's slowest eater at the moment and nothing else.
His face remains passive. 
Cold sweat runs down your back as he slowly but surely finishes the dish and nods appraisingly.
“It was good.” Osamu says calmly. “The Curry?”
Breathing is a little hard at the moment, but you manage to get up, collect the bowls - you don’t throw them at the floor in a fit of rage and you’re very proud of yourself for that - and get them safely to the kitchen sink.
Your hands shake a little as you serve the Curry in three different plates, but if the boys notice, they don’t comment on it. 
“I hope you like it.” Your voice is back to normal, your wounded heart tucked safely back into your chest. “It’s packed with protein and healthy vegetables to make sure you have all the necessary nutrients. You could eat this every day and wouldn’t have to worry about losing out on anything.”
Atsumu digs in without another word. He beams around the spoon, curses loudly.
“This is so good.” He says, mouth full.
“Pig.” Osamu announces next to him, puts the first spoon into his mouth and-
You can see it, in the widening of his eyes and the light blush that appears on the height of his unfairly sharp cheekbones. He likes it. He likes it very much.
You should probably feel a bit more upset about the fact that they insult your Chawanmushi but get high on your Curry, but then again, it just feels good to watch Osamu have the same reaction to your Curry that you had with his Onigiri.
“You should make this for the Exam.” Osamu points out in between a groan and another spoonful of Curry. “It’s amazing.”
“No!” Atsumu shakes his head, still speaks with his mouth full. “The Udon you made yesterday. That was crazy good.”
“What Udon?” Osamu’s voice has a tint to it you cannot place. Does he know about the Onigiri you tried but not about the deal itself? Is he jealous he didn’t get to try them?
“Okay, so she makes the Noodles herself, right? This time without the freaky black stuff-”
“Sepia,” you throw in but he ignores you, “But she used pork belly for the sauce and something creamy and mushrooms, I think-”
“Shiitake.” 
“And I tell you, Samu, it was so so good! Like, it reminded me of Mom making that stew, you know? When Dad had that big sale thing and we got to celebrate it?”
Osamu’s eyes light up in a way that has you looking down at your food, heart thrumming in your chest like a hummingbird on speed.
“Can you-” He hesitates for a second. “Can you make me that?”
“I could.” You point out, not at all feeling the upper hand. You feel nervous instead as if this is a test or something worse. You swallow thickly, try to think of something to wager against it. Your mind is unhelpful at best, offering the possibility of a date - as if! 
“If I get your recipe. For the Onigiri.”
Osamu’s mouth clicks shut. He blinks, clearly surprised. Then he grins, the kind of grin that tells you this isn’t going to work in your favor, at all.
“Sure. So, Udon tomorrow?”
“I was going to make Katsudon tomorrow.” You point out, pissed that he’s overthrowing your meal plan. Atsumu looks like he’s gotten a glimpse of heaven.
“Really?”
-
You hate to think about it, but the week is nearing its end and Osamu feels less like the devil and more like the dangerously cute boy from your class now. The dangerously cute boy who’s going to get a better mark than you, take the promised internship at one of Japan's leading five-star restaurants and laugh in your face if you don’t shape up right now.
Your father is as helpful as ever.
He’s currently obsessed with the Yakimono part of Kaiseki Ryori, taking you out to dinner each weekend only to try new variants that you should use for your Final Exam.
The food is good, there’s no denying that, but it lacks the emotional touch you had with the Onigiri.
The same Onigiri that you’ve made three times already. They never taste like Osamu’s.
You’re suspecting that he skipped on one ingredient in the recipe, the one thing you could not put your finger on when you tried them. 
“Hey.” Atsumu’s waiting at your door when you return from coffee with your mother. She had been even less helpful, talking about the new dessert dish she was creating. You might have gotten her cooking skills, but you hate baking almost as much as Chawanmushi.
“I thought we said we would skip the cooking over the weekend.” 
“Yeah, about that.” He lifts a heavy bag. “I wanted to ask for a favor.”
“I’m not setting for you.”
“Why would I- Never mind, I wanted to ask… Could you like, show me… how to cook?”
You blink in surprise.
“Why would I teach you that? Don’t you have your brother?”
“He’s not a good teacher.” Atsumu points out and you snort.
“So you want to learn how to cook? And stop harassing me and Osamu?”
“No, no, I will still harass the two of you for food, but it looked easy when you did it, so I thought you could teach me, maybe?”
“Fine.” 
“I’m even pa- Fine? Oh, wow, that was easy.”
“If I can ask you some questions in turn without you judging me?”
“Me, judging someone? Never.” He puts a hand on his chest, probably aiming for his heart, but he’s now swearing on his left ribcage.
-
You watch like a Hawk as Atsumu prepares the Omurice. He’s got a bad habit of getting distracted, but he’s not a bad student.
“So…” You swallow your nerves. “You and Osamu used to play Volleyball together, right?”
“Yeah. He could have gone Pro, like me. But he said…” He raises his hands to make air quotes and lowers his voice into a deeper pitch to mock Osamu, “Skillswise I'm just as good as you. But I think that, when all's said and done, you love volleyball just a teensy bit more than me.”
“And you were okay with that?” 
“Nah.” Atsumu flips the Omurice onto a plate and hands it over to you. “Try.”
“It’s good.” You hand it back to him. “Eat.”
-
When Atsumu leaves, you’re left with even more questions than before.
What does it mean to love something so much you’re willing to pass up something good?
Atsumu is making good money as a Pro, even now. But Osamu had no idea if he was going to make it into this school until he tried.
And why did he make freaking Onigiri?
Midnight has come and gone when you put a jacket over your sleepshirt and slip out of your apartment in nothing but booty shorts and bunny slippers.
You’re not sure if there’s a nightguard. There might be, this is still a mixed dorm filled with hormonal teens and tweens. 
Even though you’ve never been to Osamu’s place before, you know the route by heart. You had memorized it in a childish fit when you realized his room was just below the fire escape.
You wouldn’t allow him to survive you in case of an emergency.
You knock twice before you can hear movement. The door opens and you almost swallow your tongue.
His hair is in disarray as if he’d dragged his hands through it all night and there’s the imprint of his pillow left on his cheek. He’s topless and you keep your eyes trained on the imprint on his cheek as if you don’t notice his happy trail or his still well-trained abs. 
He blinks slowly and yawns.
“What’s up?” He asks. Something moves over his face, quick like a sparrow. “Shit, are you hurt? Did something happen?!”
“No, no, I… Shit, I don’t know, I-”
“Come in.” He pulls you inside, but he calculates wrong, uses too much force for your quivering body. You end up mushed against his chest, face plant right into the warm skin.
If you die like this, you won’t even be mad about it.
“Shit, sorry.” He grabs you and puts you at a distance again, blush high on his cheeks. 
“Your Onigiri.” You start, before he can realize that you’re flustered too. “You didn’t list all the ingredients.”
“I did.”
“Did not. They don’t taste the same.”
“Ah.” He makes that insufferable sound like he knows everything you don’t. 
You want to poke his abs, but you decide against it, mainly because it would make you look weird. But they do look ni-
“Tea?” He asks and you hold your right hand with your left, just in case it turns sentient. 
“Yes, thank you.”
“Your Onigiri don’t taste like mine, because I make them for someone.”
“What?”
“The Tuna one.” He looks at the kettle instead of you, but his voice is wistful, distant. “I always make that one for Tsumu.”
“And the Tenmusu?”
“It’s my Mom’s favorite.” He says softly and you can’t help it, but you start to cry.
“Your Mom likes Tenmusu too?”
“Ah, shit, don’t tell me- Wait, here, take this…” He hands you a tissue to blow your nose and dry your tears. 
“So you’re saying your secret ingredient is love? You’re really going to stand there and make me believe that you got the scholarship because you put love in your food?”
He shrugs. “You don’t have to believe me. But there’s a reason your Chawanmushi did not taste as good as your Curry.”
“Oh fuck off.”
“Gladly.” He smirks at you and this time your hand is faster than your mind, pointer finger digging into the firm muscle of his right pectoral.
“Don’t mess with me.”
“Why not?” His face moves closer to you, or did you move closer to his? “Isn’t it fun?”
Whoever moved first doesn’t matter now as his breath washes over you. His eyes skip to your lips and you lick them, no thoughts left in your brain.
Behind him, the kettle whistles, signaling that the water’s cooking, but neither of you moves. 
This could end very badly, or very great, however you want to look at it. 
Your mind, helpful as ever, comes up with a sentence that just slips out of your mouth unprompted.
“Atsumu said that you loved Volleyball a little-”
He draws back the moment he hears you speak, face now closed like a window that has let down its shutters. 
“Right, Atsumu.” He says, interrupting you. “You should get back to the bed.”
“But the tea…”
“I forgot.” He takes the kettle off the stove. “I was going to make a hot water bottle for myself. Sorry.” 
-
Somehow, somewhere, you took a wrong turn.
Maybe it was when you started liking Osamu, in this weird way that has you enjoy the bickering and the competitiveness. Maybe it was even before that, when you let Atsumu get away with his needling, fed him Udon instead of throwing him out.
Or maybe it was even before that, when you didn’t put up a fight everytime your father decided for you, when your mother put work before spending time with you. 
It’s a good thing that Finals are right around the corner.
You can’t focus in most classes, left staring holes into Osamu’s back. 
Atsumu’s stopped showing up himself, probably now a master in cooking for himself. Or he’s gone back to Osamu, to fantastic Onigiri and whatever else he knows how to make.
-
Four days before the Final, someone bangs on your door.
“Jeez, I’m coming.” You pull the door open to reveal Atsumu, soaked and clearly pissed..
“You okay?” You ask. “Or do you need a towel?”
“Why are you not a couple?” He asks back. “Like, the tension was there, you were practically undressing each other at the table - in front of me, might I add - and yet you’re not even speaking to each other? I even cooked all my meals these past weeks in the hopes of hearing good news but Samu’s acting like a bug crawled up his ass and died.”
“What are you even talking abou-”
“Oh, don’t fool me.” He steps inside and moves toward your bathroom without asking. “I just ran here because all I get from Samu are cryptic messages. Did you say something?”
“No, I-”
“Spill.” Atsumu points at the kitchentable, hesitates for a second, then he points at the kitchen itself. “Make some food while your at it. Also, can I have some change of clothes?”
You make Okayu with ginger and honey, the rice porridge a comfort to your heart and a boost to Atsumu’s immune system.
It’s not a long tale. It could be, probably, but you refuse to go into more detail than necessary. Atsumu might be kind of a friend, in his weird, annoying way, but he’s still Osamu’s twin brother.
“I’m gonna go talk to him.” He grabs the bag with his clothes and stalks off, dressed in one of your oversized hoodies and bright pink pajama pants, both things slightly too short on him.
“Give him a chance when he comes back,” are his parting words.
But Osamu does not show up.
Neither does he the next morning in class.
-
One of the teachers calls you over after class.
“You and Miya-san are pretty close, right?” She starts, speaks on while you’re still trying not to choke on your spit. “Could you bring him the notes from today? He called in sick. Tell him to take care and rest, so that he can take part in the Final.”
“I-I will.”
You end up in your own room instead, debating if you should just leave everything in front of his door and run. If he’s not at the final, you automatically win. But that’s not a win you’d feel good about, if you’re being honest to yourself.
Before you know it, you find yourself making Oyaku again, with Ginger and Honey, the one food that always gives you comfort and boosts your health. The process is simple, but it still calms you down every time. When it’s done, you look down at two portions and know what to do.
-
“Osamu?” The door is closed, but you can hear faint shuffling behind it. “I made you Oyaku. I heard you’re sick and got your notes from the teachers. I didn’t tell them that I’m a friend of yours, but she was convinced of it and didn’t let me change her mind. But I… we kinda are friends, right?” You feel so weird talking to the closed door. 
“Even if you don’t like me, we got to keep up the reputation. Eat the Oyaku, okay? Winning doesn’t feel the same if you kick yourself out of the game.”
You put everything in front of his door and leave, lingering at the end of the hallway, just out of sight, until you hear his door. When you look back, the Oyaku is gone and all you have to do is wait.
-
Osamu is already outside when you step out of the classroom. 
“Already finished?”
“Onigiri doesn’t take that long to make.” 
“Ah, right.” You nod, don’t know if you should avoid his gaze or follow your instinct and look a bit more closely. He sounds healthy at least.
“What did you make?” His voice is gruff when he asks.
“Ginger Honey Oyaku.” You answer, voice soft. “Which might confuse the teachers because I had all the ingredients ready for honey-glazed pork belly but I decided against it at the last second.”
“I’d have loved to try that pork belly.” Osamu sighs dreamily. “But that Oyaku was so good. I could eat that everyday and never get tired of it.”
“Same.” You smile but it falters when you feel his eyes on you and you know you’ve got to say it. “I made it for you.”
“Yeah, I know-”
“No, what you said… about the Entry Exam.” You can feel your heartbeat, like the fluttering of hummingbird wings. If you’re going to pass out during your confession, you’re going to kill Osamu for it.
Behind you, the door opens and two more students step out. Osamu looks at them and back at you and you nod, point down the hallway. “Let’s take a walk?”
There’s a broom closet not far down and you slip inside only to regret it seconds later. There’s barely enough space for the two of you, his breath washing over you as you try to focus on the words you need to say. Out loud, so he can hear them too.
“I want to beat you.” You can hear him snort, but you keep your gaze on your hands. You won’t be able to speak if you look into his eyes. “But you’re also really funny and caring and cute, in a way. I could see myself, I mean, I already, you know-”
“What about Tsumu?” He asks, voice strangely hoarse.
“What about him?”
“Don’t you like him more? You don’t feel the need to beat him every two seconds, right?”
You roll your eyes and groan.
“Seriously? The best thing about Atsumu is that he looks kinda like you.”
If you had wanted to say more - you didn’t, but you hate letting anyone else have the last word - it leaves your mind the second his lips press onto yours. 
Your mind’s not yet caught up, but your body is, hands dragging through his hair to pull him closer, to marvel at the softness of it - what conditioner is he using? - to have him a little closer.
His hands are on your hip, your back, roam over your shoulders, leaving warm trails and goosebumps behind.
Then there’s bright light and a shrill shriek and you burst away from each other only to face one of your teachers.
“What? The indecency! During an exam no less! Detention! Detention!” Her garbled words don’t make much sense, but the last word you understand.
Osamu sends you a look, his eyes speaking of little guilt and a promise to continue this latter. You can’t help but feel the same.
-
As it turns out, Detention automatically overrules your exceptional Exam marks. Neither of you wins the internship. Neither of you cares. 
Osamu had applied to an Onigiri shop not far from the school as a second option and with your last name you have no trouble securing an internship with a well-known nutritionist for Pro Athletes. 
Your father is not happy about your change in dreams, but when you explain the earning capacity of this position, and the business plan you’re already halfway through making, your excitement swaps over.
Your mother, as usual, barely listens. But you take it in stride, her usual droning on about a recipe she’s working on, by thinking about how in less than an hour, you’ll see Osamu again.
-
“You guys owe me.” Atsumu declares during Movie night. He’s perched on the edge of the couch, the last piece of the Pizza in his hands. “I’m talking about food for life.”
“We could have done it without you,” Osamu insists, arm around you, face nuzzled into your hair. He pretends he’s watching the movie, but you know better. He’s been thinking about the cheese crackers in your pantry for hours.
“If I hadn’t pulled you out in the rain to talk things through, you wouldn’t have gotten sick and your girlfriend wouldn’t have made Oyaku for you! That’s enough reason for you to love me forever!”
“If you hadn’t interfered he wouldn’t have had to think we were dating instead.” You point out and dig your hands into Osamu’s grip on your arms, moving away from him.
“Babe, what-” He starts but you nod in the direction of your pantry. “Get the crackers. I can’t watch you any longer.”
“Really?” His face lights up like a child in front of a Christmas tree. It’s worth the ridiculous price you paid for the crackers.
“Really.”
He kisses you and the moment could be perfect. But there’s still Atsumu, fake gagging in the background.
583 notes · View notes
hungharrington · 4 months
Note
I want Stevie to make me a needy little mess kissing everywhere on my tummy and thighs while purposely avoiding where I need him most
now why would loverboy be such a tease to his favourite person? maybe if they had done something to deserve it…. this one goes out to @boyfriendstevie for indulging my goofy ideas <3 while it’s technically smut it’s like… only hot if u find love hot HAHA fem!reader MDNI this entire blog is 18+
The radio sings idly behind you, midway between the kitchen and the lounge, and when you hear the fridge door close, you think nothing of it.
The novel in your hands has your attention, your body lax as you lay spread lazily across the couch. Your shoes are off and your jean shorts unbuttoned, your bra abandoned many hours ago; a picture of a well-spent Sunday afternoon.
“Someone’s awfully comfortable.”
Steve’s voice sounds from above you and you pull your eyes from the page before you to look up. He’s standing behind the couch, arms crossed, his expression… unreadable.
“Mmhm.” You hum with a happy smile. Laid back, you raise one of your legs and give his arm a poke with your toe. “Wanna come join?”
Steve smiles lightly, rounding the couch til he’s at the end of it. His hairy thighs lean up against the arm of the couch and he hums thoughtfully. “I dunno, I was gonna eat.”
A dirty thought crosses your mind. You laugh and part your thighs just an inch, insinuating just exactly what he should eat.
“Oh?” You say.
Steve catches on quick. His eyebrows hike up and he rolls his eyes, his endeared smile giving him away.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He asks, even as he moves forward to kneel on the cushions— his hands finding a place around each of your ankles. Your tummy burns as you realise he might be serious.
“I wouldn’t complain,” you quip back with a cheeky smile. Steve’s hands on your ankles shift up, smoothing up your calves with such evident adoration it makes your blood sing.
“Wouldn’t complain, she says,” Steve echoes your words with a mock-contemplation, pretending to ponder as his thumbs rub softly at the skin of your thighs. “Anyone ever call you a princess?”
He asks while his hands keep travelling up, his fingers tucking into your unbuttoned denim. Your hips lift as he pulls, letting them slide down your legs and be discarded to the floor.
Steve’s got an intense look in his eyes now, his flicking between your face and your barely clothed core. You feel yourself grow more excited.
“Mhm,” You answer his question, your breath hitching as Steve’s hands land back on your knees— sliding them down your thighs and drawing a line with his thumb right along the sensitive inner parts. “My boyfriend, actually.”
“Your boyfriend, huh?”
He bends down between his words to kiss one of your knees. You sigh, the novel in your hands pushed to the ground and forgotten completely. You hear it land with a clutter. Steve’s huge hands are still moving, still massaging up and down your thighs— til they creep higher.
“Tell me about him, this boyfriend.” Steve muses, beginning to smile. His hands ruck your shirt higher and higher, the callouses on his hands the perfect friction against your nipples. He gives them a good pinch and you gasp, your back arching into his touch.
“Uh huh…” you start, entirely distracted by how his lips have started to trail kisses down your thighs. Just a few touches in the right place and he’s got you soaking the cotton of your panties. You might be embarrassed if you weren’t so turned on.
“Well, he’s prob— probably the hottest guy in Hawkins.” Your voice skips as his mouth starts to reach the V of your thigh. His plush lips start to suckle, a dart of his tongue soothing over you as he sucks a hickey into the soft skin of your inner thigh.
His mouth pulls off abruptly. “Wait, probably?”
“Definitely.” You quickly amend. Steve melts into a smug grin, diving back down to continue his hickey as you let yourself sweet talk him. “Definitely 100% the hottest dude in town. Most attractive in the st—state, if you ask me.”
Steve hums against you appreciatively, switching his focus from one thigh to the other. You can feel your legs beginning to twitch, feel yourself clenching around nothing in pure anticipation. Steve nips and soothes at your thigh, his hands still roaming, still squeezing and pinching at your nipples enough to make you sigh sweetly.
When he finally moves from your thigh, it’s only a moment of relief before you realise he’s moving up to kiss at your tummy.
“Go on,” He urges you, eyes flashing up to meet yours with a grin. He knows you’ve caught onto his teasing now and despite how it makes your skin flutter, his kisses, the languid press of his mouth, all are just so so close to where you want him. But not close enough.
“He’s also,” You huff, all breathy now. You can feel how wet you are for him— can already envision how good it’ll feel when he gets his mouth on you. If he ever gets his mouth on you. “The biggest tease in the world.”
Steve pulls back from his motions with a pout. He’s still kneeling on the couch, your legs parted around him and at your words, his hands slide down to rest on your hipbones. His thumbs swatch up at down your panty line, teasing and tantalising. You squirm.
“Ughhhhh, why are you being a tease right now?” You ask, slumping back on the couch with a half a mind to stick your own hand down between your legs.
Steve’s hand gently touches your chin, pressing it lightly so you tilt your head forward to look him in the eye when he says, “Because you ate my pickle.”
You blink at him owlishly for a moment, his words throwing you for a loop. Then a laugh titters out your mouth and you cover it with your hand.
“Oh my god, I totally did.” You giggle, half at your lousy memory for stealing Steve’s final pickle from the him — and half because he’s actually petty enough to bring it back up during sex. “I’m so sorry.”
Steve tilts his head and narrows his eyes. “Are you? I don’t think you are.”
You laugh again, head thrown back and then nod as best you can. “I am! I’m sorry I ate your pickle, baby.”
Steve’s faux-bitchiness melts away and he pouts for a moment. “You know, I was looking forward to that.”
He jabs your thigh playfully and you can’t help but laugh again. Steve stares at you unabashedly— something hot in his chest at this mixture of laughter and pleasure and a silly little bicker over a pickle.
“I can offer only one consolation,” you say, laughter now gone as you peer up at him through your lashes.
When you know you’ve got him hooked in, you nudge your thighs up and spread them a little further. You watch as Steve shivers, his eyes fluttering closed for just a moment.
He shifts on his knees, one hand pressing into his shorts which have become tighter and tighter. When he gathers himself, there’s a new fire in his eyes — fixed on his next meal.
“Well, best get rid of these then, huh?” He murmurs, his fingers finally pinching at your panties and moving to tug them down your legs. You shuffle to let him, the heat pooling in your stomach as he tucks them into his back pocket without a second thought.
This time when his mouth kisses its way down your thigh, Steve can barely wait — skipping past his previous hickies to lick through your folds with eagerly. You gasp and moan, hips squirming up to meet his mouth and Steve takes it all gratefully — more than content to spend his Sunday afternoon with his tongue between your thighs.
462 notes · View notes
kinkmom · 5 months
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Get Kissed, Idiot
Ashley knows how to rile Andrew up. 😏 Luckily the outcome is to fuck her and not kill her (this time).
Hopefully the gif keeps a readable speed. :'0 Too bad I don't know how to easily make rolling text like RPG maker does, it would have been a cooler visual.
742 notes · View notes
mommasbigd · 11 months
Text
Sirius: Looking left cause you don’t treat me right
Regulus: Looking right because you left
James: Looking up cause you let me down
Y/n: Looking down cause you fucked up
Remus: What is wrong with you guys
1K notes · View notes
zhongrin · 10 months
Text
seeing my (teasing-is-my-love-language) dad joking around with my (sigh-he's-doing-it-again) mom like "you have good taste in colors and details, no wonder you married a handsome man :)" "yes, handsome, whatever you say..." is making me think of a similar dynamic between you and al haitham, happily married (therefore he is 100% trusting and had learnt & memorized all of your habits with twice the devotion he put into mastering those 20+ languages he's now fluent in), and you two just bantering because he's being insufferable again:
"ugh you're so annoying! just because you're my husband, you're taunting me on purpose! aren't you afraid i'll get smitten by other nicer men or something?!"
"hah. like anyone else could top my attractiveness level in your eyes."
"............ i hate it when you're right."
"i am always right, darling."
"i hate you."
"strange for you to marry the man you hate, but i won't judge. your quirks have always fascinated me greatly, just like your beauty."
"did you just insult me or praise me?"
"should i give you more time to fully process my words and decide on a conclusion?"
"........... i want a-"
"-kiss? gladly. come here."
964 notes · View notes
marihem · 2 months
Text
Tumblr media
@fransweek 2024
Day 3: Shopping
249 notes · View notes
chococoveredsmores · 10 months
Note
miguel as pseudo big brother to a reader kinda similar to miles? i was thinking abt that one scene in the first movie when sp//dr broke down and noir carried peni n started feening for platonic miguel 🥹🥹
MIGUEL O'HARA as a big brother figure
Tumblr media
yes sorry kinda evil gif choice. anyway listen it is literally my second day on the job so i'm so sorry if miguel is ooc in Any way
Tumblr media
despite being such a stoic on the outside, miguel would lowkey have a soft spot for you. he is a big man with a big wall but damn are you so good at climbing over that damn wall
think those tiktoks of how miguel would have a soft spot for mayday and like burst into tears at her sight but he hides it for you bcus he needs to act Cool™ around the team.
he wouldn't outwardly show affection through physical touch or anything, but the GESTURES !! OH THE GESTURES !!
his love languages are definitely gift giving and acts of service!!
also he struggles in communicating his appreciation for you directly but you can definitely see it through the small acts he does for you everyday, like taking the time to check on your mental state every other day (he's trying his best okay).
if he's passing by the cafeteria to get an empanada or something as a snack, he's also buying a whole meal for you whether you like it or not. if you already had lunch he does Not care and you will take it.
he definitely does push you harder, but only because he knows you're capable of so much.
Tumblr media
As you run your errands in spider-society, somehow balancing your bio homework that was due the next hour along with the numerous tasks assigned against the multiversal anomalies popping up everywhere. Overwhelmed was an understatement for how you were feeling—that's when a notif popped up on your watch, summoning you to Miguel's spidercave (whatever they call it). "What is it this time?" You say begrudgingly, a little pissed off that your own damn boss summoned you while you were so busy. "Have you forgotten about your own task report? The one issued around a week ago?" Miguel doesn't even face you properly, face obstructed by his countless computer screens. Well, looks like this isn't even worth his damn time.
Sighing, you shuffle through your backpack, past the textbooks and random pens and trinkets before finding a crumpled sheet of paper that you pass to him. "...And can you tell me exactly what this means?" Miguel attempts to smoothen out the report to not much avail, and your unintelligible writing is... something for sure. "Well, so ya see—" What would've been your explanation was cut off by a loud rumble, originating from your stomach. GLRLGLRGLRLGLRGLRLGLR. "..."
"......."
After what could've been the most awkward silence in your life, Miguel finally breaks the ice with a question you didn't really have an answer to.
"When was the last time you've eaten?" "Um..." —Your stomach threatened to roar again— "Like, yesterday night..." "And do you know what time it is?" "....4 in the afternoon? "Ay, coño..." Miguel mutters to himself, as he presses two fingers to his forehead in disappointment.
"No, listen, it's just that I couldn't really eat because I had this biology thing that I had to finish today and I'm not really done with it yet and I hate bio and our teacher sucks and the anomalies too and—" "Okay, okay! I get it!" Your frantic attempts to defend yourself are then abruptly interrupted by the toss of a still-warm empanada container, along with a bottle of water stuck to it via spiderweb. Your eyes immediately brighten up at the sight of food, and your muscles tug into a smile at the man you were so fiercely defending yourself against two seconds ago. "Thank you, thank you!" When the hell did he get that and why save it for me? "Yeah, yeah. Just leave." Miguel spat out, a twinge of embarrassment showing through his features. As you waltz out the room, merienda* in hand, he watches you, not noticing the slight smile forming in his lips.
Tumblr media
*merienda is like a snack you eat midway through the afternoon! since its 4pm i thought that was much more fitting than like dinner or something
shoutout to vyn (@prinzevyn) for the help w miguel's character!! unfortunately not awake to beta read aaaAaahhh......
878 notes · View notes