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Kissing Lessons- Tenya Iida x Reader

Pairing: Tenya Iida x Gen! Reader Genre: Fluff Content Warnings: Suggestive fluff, Tenya and reader are third years here, marking (reader is okay with it lol), no actual sex or smut, making out, praise, neck kissing Word count: 1.2k words Tenya has never had his first kiss before. You offer to teach him how.

When Tenya Iida, class 3-As representative, declared that he had never kissed anyone before, you almost did a spit take.

It was understandable; an uptight guy focused on hero work probably didn’t make much time for romance. But at the same time, it was almost unbelievable. Tenya Iida was beyond handsome, if not the most handsome guy in 3-A. You can’t say you hadn’t fantasized about making a move on him in your three years at U.A. together.

So that’s how the two of you got here, sitting across from one another on your dorm bed. Tenya sits cross-legged in front of you.

When you realized the blue-haired boy had never been kissed before, he confided in you that he’d wanted his first time to be perfect. So you offered to teach him. It’s what friends are for, after all.

“So just to be clear you haven’t kissed anyone before? Not even a peck?” you verify, gentle and unjudging.

Tenya blushes and shakes his head from side to side.

“Not even a little.”

You offer him a small smile.

“That’s okay. We’ll start small. Here.”

You wait for his slight nod and straddle his lap, arms wrapped around his neck. Tenya is leaning against the wall by your bed, and your faces are close.

You can feel his breathing this close, the glisten of chapstick against his lips. His face is so close to yours. Cupping his face with one hand, you close the gap between your lips.

He grunts a little but eventually kisses back. After a few lingering moments of sweetness- chaste, nothing probing- you pull away, hand still cupping his square jaw. You can feel his stubble against your palm.

“See Tenya? That wasn’t so hard.”

He gasps a little, and his hands find your waist. During the entire kiss, he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

His glasses are askew, and a light blush is dusting his face. His blue eyes are wide with shock and wonder.

“H-how. How did you do that so confidently?” He wonders aloud.

You smirk and tuck a lock of his well-kept blue hair behind his ear.

“Practice. Just act like you know what you’re doing and gauge the other persons reactions. That way you can figure out what they like. And ask for consent before doing something huge, obviously. Ask for consent before kissing them. It isn’t too awkward if you’re upfront and honest about it, I promise.” You advise.

Tenya is still flustered, the collar of his blue shirt slightly uneven.

“If you want, you can try initiating. Go ahead.” You say, leaning away from his grasp a little. “I’m all yours.”

Tenya is hesitant when he leans forward to close the gap between the two of you, but when he does, it feels heavenly. Awkward and a little rough, his top lip bumping into yours, but your hands find purchase in his hair and adjust him to your liking. His lips are plush and soft. His breath is minty- he probably prepared for this- and hot against your mouth. He moans a little bit when you tug at his undercut and bring him closer.

His hands press into your lower back, pushing your lower body flush with his. His hands are so big and robust, capable of maneuvering you however he wishes. Your eyes flutter, taking in the senses. You moan softly, and he follows suit. You pull away briefly to switch angles and let your tongue lap out to meet his a little. Tenya’s eyes widen slightly at the intrusion, but you smile reassuringly against his mouth. “This is okay.” You seem to tell him. “I want this,” you hope to convey.

His hands move from your waist to your upper back, under your shirt, trying to feel any expanse of skin he can reach. There’s nothing but the sound of your breathing and the smack of your lips as you bring one another closer, closer, wanting never to let go.

You pull away for air, and Tenya follows your lips, desperate for more. You sigh and give him a chaste peck back.

“You seemed to like that, pretty boy. Want to try more?”

“I- yes, if you so wish to.”

You hum, scooting against the pillows on your bed.

“Then take me.”

Tenya presses you back into the pillows of your bed, pinning you down with his body weight. He is arguably the most muscular of class 3A, exceeding even Bakugo. He has so much strength and could crush you right now, but he chooses to use it gently, pinning you where he wants you, kissing you like you’re the air he needs to breathe. You claw at his back, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull your bodies flush together. You’re surprised when he pulls away from your lips, kisses your cheek, and then moves to your neck.

“Can I?” he murmurs, a low voice asking politely. He is ready for the possibility of you saying “No. This is too much. I want to stop here.” He is prepared to be rejected and return to the quiet of his room to contemplate this last lesson. If that were the case, he wouldn’t feel hurt or entitled at all. Just grateful that he got to have you, like this, in any capacity. Grateful for your expertise and understanding, grateful for your touch and compassion.

So it’s to his surprise when you whisper “yes,” scritching at the base of his well-kempt undercut.

He hums and dives in, licking and sucking at your throat. You moan at the sensation, back arching into his touch, hugging him closer. Tenya braces himself against your bed and almost growls. It happened instantaneously and without you registering it, but your crotches are grinding together, all heat and light and comfort and carnal.

Who knew your formerly uptight, type-A class rep could be so gentle yet sensual and strong?

Tenya pulls away, and his eyes widen at the mark he left.

“I- shoot, I am so sorry,” he panics at the mark left. He fusses over your bruised neck before you cut him off.

“Don’t be, Tenya. I wanted it. I liked it a lot, you made me feel really good.” you praise. Tenya adjusts his glasses, which are fogging up slightly due to his heavy breathing. His cheeks warm with the praise, and his heartbeat speeds up.

You guide him into another kiss, reassuring him that he did well. After plenty of time in class together, you know how Tenya reacts to praise. He thrives for it, chest throbbing. You nuzzle his cheek and jaw, giving him gentle pecks across his sharp jawline. Eventually you pull away, hands cupping his face, eyes meeting his. He seems so gentle here, nothing like the brazen boy or the confident leader that you’ve gotten to know.

“I’m going to ask you again because I care about you and I don’t want to put too much on you. Do you want to go further or stop here?”

Tenya looks up at you, blue eyes shining in adoration.

“More. Please don’t stop here, I want more of you.” He pleads.

You give in his body against yours, hearts beating in tandem. You give him all you’re willing to, and he gives you all of him too. He’s such a good, strong boy, and you’re more than happy to be his friend– or more. Whatever he wants to be, whatever he wants, he’s yours.

Maybe he didn’t need kissing lessons after all.

Can I have a large witches brew Frankenstein whiskey please?

Here's your order dear. Hope you enjoy and have a Happy Halloween 🎃

“Oh no. No, no, no. Absolutely not.” Tenya repeated like a mantra, after you left the bathroom, already wearing your Halloween costume. “Why? What's wrong with this costume?” you asked. “Do I really need to ask?” Tenya replied, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“It's...obscene! It covers too little – it doesn't even reach your knees! And in my opinion it's too tight on the breasts.”

You looked at your Little Red Riding Hood costume in confusion. Okay, it didn't exactly have the modesty and chastity of a character in a children's story – and you certainly weren't a little girl, but in your opinion Tenya was exaggerating.

“Aren't you making this a little too dramatic?” You asked, raising an eyebrow. Tenya tended to be particularly overprotective, especially when you went out in fairly provocative clothes.

“Listen: I don't want half the party looking at you lewdly, I wouldn't feel safe leaving you alone, and that costume doesn't help my case.” Tenya tried to reason in a soft tone, but you didn't seem to share the same reasons as him. “Well, I certainly can't change or replace this costume with another, all the shops are closed or they don't even have a wig in the back room anymore. And then this isn't as bad as you think, I can always cover myself with the cape.”

Tenya looked at the "cape" included with the costume: it barely managed to cover your torso. It wouldn't have served any purpose, much less covered you.

“Well, if the matter is resolved, let's go. If we don't hurry we'll be late!” you said passing him, but with a firm slap on the door he blocked your passage – a way of telling you that, no, the matter was not resolved. “Let's make things clear: you, dressed like that, are not going out.” he said sternly, lapidary like when, after years of no longer being at UA, he reprimanded Kirishima and Kaminari for some prank of theirs.

“And how am I supposed to go to the party, then? Naked?” You said with a challenging smirk. “It would be a much worse option!” Tenya replied, his face red with embarrassment for even thinking about that possibility, “And then I wouldn't be a good boyfriend if I let you leave the house without any clothes on!”.

“But sometimes you don't even notice that I go out without underwear!” you replied with that smirk still on your lips. “That's a completely different situation!” Tenya's red face made you want to poke him even more, in spite of his possible reaction if you went too far.

“Oh really? Like that time at the mall? When did you open a hole in my pantyhose and "helped yourself" in the toilets?”. Tenya blushed all the way to the tips of his ears. “That time you did it to provoke me, no one wears such a short skirt, together with such transparent tights, without panties I might add!”.

“And that time in the dressing room instead? I just showed you a dress and you jumped on me.” 

At that point the blush spread all the way down her neck. “You say you're worried that other males might take advantage of me, but I think the only one I need to worry about is you.” you said, giving him the finishing blow. Tenya covered his face with both hands, the blush had made it more like a traffic light.

You took advantage of his moment of distraction to sneak up to the door, ready to leave and go to the masquerade party. A hand, putting pressure on the door, prevented you from getting out – or even just moving the piece of wood and screws. He loomed over you from behind, casting a menacing shadow over your entire figure.

“I thought I told you not to go out like that.” he said tersely, marking the last word with poorly concealed resentment. You huffed, annoyed. “Otherwise?” you challenged him. 

Stupid choice. Definitely stupid.

A firm grip on your shoulder and your back hit the polished wood hard, your boyfriend's angry face inches from yours. Tenya was usually a very calm and composed person, always following the rules, the classic teacher's pet with his shirt always precise and untouched, but if there was one and a single thing he hated – especially if it came from you – it was that "otherwise", that challenge to his authority. 

You were both terrified and adoring of that furious expression when you challenged him, the same one he had made in the public bathrooms and in the dressing room when he realized you were provoking him, because it meant that he would put you in your place as only he could do. 

The hand that was holding you in place by the shoulder moved up your neck to cup your chin. He slowly leaned over you to whisper in your ear: “Bad girl.” in that low and authoritative tone that you adored and sent shivers down your lower regions. You tried rubbing your thighs together to get some relief, but Tenya's toned leg slipped in between, blocking your movements. Still looking at you he waved his index finger at you, “Bad girls who don't listen don't deserve to come.” he said with a hint of perfidiousness in his voice.

“Don't be mean Tenya~!” you pouted, a dark chuckle rose from his chest. “Mean? Oh, trust me, darling…I haven't even started being mean.”.

His hand grabbed you by the waist,  hoisting you up as he knelt down. He maneuvered your legs to his shoulders, his face already buried within the frilly fabric of your skirt. His hot breath ghosted over the sensitive skin under the garments. Tenya's lips were soft and gentle, teasing even on your private parts.

His big hands grabbed the plush skin of your thighs, parting them more. Your breath hitched as he pulled your panties with his teeth, your hands snaked into his hair, fisting the navy blue locks for any kind of stability. 

If his lips were delicate on your sensitive skin, his tongue was nothing but. He licked your folds like a man that was granted his last meal, kissing the lips passionately as if he was making out with your upper lips. Your poor clit didn't escape Tenya's attentions, sucking and biting it like a tasty candy. You felt that scorching warmth in your stomach, that buzzing feeling going from the first strand of your hair to the tip of your toes.

“Tenya! I'm…I'm gonna…!”

He slowed his pace abruptly, your moans turned into pleading and frustrated whines. But not even the tight grip you had on his hair, or the squirming of your hips made Tenya go any faster. Your high was vanishing fast but your boyfriend only slowed down more, until the only thing you felt were ghostly kisses to your inner thighs.

“Tenya!” you whined, watching as his head came out of the numerous frills, “I was about to come, you big meanie!”. A small devilish smile raised the corners of his lips, “I told you: bad girls don't get to cum.”

“But I want it so bad~! Please, make me cum~!”

He chuckled at your antics. He said no, but he could always compromise. “You promise you'll be a good girl? If you behave I'll make you cum as many times as you want.” he said. You eagerly nodded your head, impatient of getting rid of the frustration he left on you quickly.

Your hazed mind, though, couldn't predict how challenging it was pretending to not feel the vibrator deep inside you and its intense settings – that Tenya changed every few minutes, looking at you from across the room with the most innocent smile, while you struggled to not tremble.

“If you can endure the whole party with this vibrator inside you, and not cum once, then I shall give you the reward you want.” he said prior.

Turns out, yeah, Tenya really liked your costume.

i a-door you

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ k. bakugo x fem reader. fluff. cursing. food. minor unintentional violence. ⭑ bakugo hits on you. literally.

You’re minding your business, book bag slung across your shoulder, and about to walk through the door to 2A’s classroom when something smacks you in the face.

Not only unprompted, but hard.

“Ow!”

It happens so quickly that you don’t remember squeezing your eyes shut as you stumble backwards, both hands flying to clutch your forehead.

Opening your eyes, you swear you can already feel the spot starting to bruise. The previously closed door to the classroom stood ajar and as the cherry on top of the concussion you just received, someone roughly brushes past you.

Fucking asshole.

You whip around, head still throbbing, about to give whoever it is a peace of your mind and finally speak above an inside voice for the first time since a robot almost fell on you during entrance exams semesters ago, when your teary eyes are met with crimson red ones.

He turns his head to give you a once over and your body freezes as his eyes linger a little longer on the reddening mark where the door got you. Something similar to amusement tugs at his lips.

“Pretty cute.”

You blink, dumbfounded as he casually turns on his heel to walk away.

What. The hell.

Did you literally just get hit on by Bakugo freaking Katsuki.

The identical dropped jaws of your classmates that were visible from inside the open doorway confirmed that what just happened was not in fact a post-traumatic induced hallucination, with Midoriya looking the most gobsmacked, his eyes almost comically bulging out of his skull, and upon glancing at Mina, who quickly gets over her initial shock to grin and shoot you a double thumbs up, she excitedly mouths ‘i told you so,’  and you’re not sure whether to laugh or to cry.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀:¨ ·.· ¨: ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ `· . ꔫ

The next day, you’re sporting a fresh, new bandaid on your forehead. It was quite a fashion statement, if you do say so yourself.

It was also the last one at the nurse’s so you were pretty happy to nab it, apparently being the brand that everyone chose when they too got their respective boo-boos.

The latte Mina and the girls brought back from your favorite cafe sat on the wooden coffee table in the common area, still steaming. You refused to go out with a huge bruise marring your appearance, even with the bandaid covering the most of it, and you would take the fullest advantage of the injured person princess treatment while it lasted.

All while awkwardly avoiding a certain blond.

Now that you’re thinking about it, he’s honestly always been kind of nice to you, in his own weird way.

Like when you were forced to ask if you could borrow his eraser, because apparently no one else in the class carried one. Imagine saving Japan your first year of highschool and only writing in pen, even for calculus. Is this what the future generation has come to?

After breathlessly rushing the words out in a hushed voice and wondering if he heard you at all, Bakugo doesn’t even turn around from where he’s resting his chin on his hand listening to Present Mic’s enthusiastic lecture on subject-verb agreement, as he reaches an arm behind him to drop it on your desk.

You’re not sure if you remembered to say “your” before “eraser,” so all he probably heard was “can I borrow eraser?” and it still haunts you to this day.

Shaking the thoughts of him from your mind, you flip your history textbook open to page three hundred and ninety four, ‘A Comprehensive Timeline of Quirk Generations.’ You’re attempting to study for your next upcoming quiz in Midnight’s class.

Key word: attempting.

A delicious smell was starting to waft your way from the kitchen across the room, and now you were kind of hungry. You could feel your attention waning and shook your head, the image of your most recent report card filled with straight As sobering you up. Food could come later, right now you had to focus.

Just twenty more minutes of review, then I'll eat.

Bakugo’s placing the breakfast he easily finished whipping up on the counter. As he uses a spatula to gently coax the fluffy soufflé pancakes out of the pan, he notices the familiar petals of your favorite flower decorating the ceramic he’s putting them on.

It was from a tableware set he picked out when everyone first moved into the dorms. Glasses had assigned everyone groceries among various other things to go shopping for in small groups, and he was paired up with Ponytail to go buy plates.

They were browsing the shelves of a local Daiso store filled with colorful, adorably decorated dishes and rice bowls, when he stopped in front of a price tag, eyes dragging up to study the item it belonged to.

Ponytail follows his gaze, and her own eyes brighten.

“Oh, it’s decorated with the favorite flower of–!”

“I know.” He cuts her off, glaring at the floral box set of bowls and plates, before carefully putting it in their cart.

Momo’s eyes widen a bit, before a small, knowing smile spreads across her lips and Bakugo curses at her perceptiveness.

He almost wished he was paired up with that icy-hot bastard instead, who was so oblivious that if you dangled a confession letter in front of him he would have thought you wanted him to proofread it for you.

That was a while ago now, and everyone’s been happily eating meals on the plates they bought ever since.

He tops off the pancakes with a handful of fresh berries and a drizzle of honey, and slides it next to a steaming plate of a kimchi omelette with a zigzag of sriracha sauce already on the counter.

From where he stands, he snorts at your bandaid, noticing the obnoxious amount of Hello Kitty’s plastered all around it. Out of all the bandaids from Recovery Girl’s collection that she kept in her office, of course you would pick the cutest fucking one.

It was undoubtedly something you would like, he thinks, begrudging in his fondness. It was so you.

“Get your ass over here.”

You jump in your spot on the couch at the loud volume of his voice, though it sounded a bit softer than usual. With a finger pointing to yourself, you raise your head in confusion. “Me….?”

Was this about yesterday? Oh my god, was he mad?

You’re not sure why he would be, since he’s not the one that got bitch-slapped in the face by a giant door.

“I don't see anyone else I'd be talking to.” Bakugo scoffs.

He's right, to your increasing dread. The entire common area is completely empty, and you have no choice but to comply with his request.

You’re still nervously fiddling with the edge of your hoodie sleeve, the usual comfort of its softness abandoning you as you approach the kitchen to find him standing at a seat near the counter, arms folded. It hasn’t even been a minute in the same proximity as him and his presence is kind of overwhelming you already.

You’re trying so hard not to stare at his biceps. And just him in general.

“Sit.” he commands, the sound of the metal stool echoing against his hand as he pats it.

You obediently sit down, cursing your lack of a backbone. But his tone didn’t sound like he was planning to take no for an answer, anyway.

“Eat.”

He jabs a thumb at the plate of warm, sweet smelling cloud-like goodness in front of you. You stare at him, wide-eyed.

“This is for me?”

“Huh. You’re slower than I thought you were.” He rolls his eyes and starts to dig into his own plate of omelette in front of him, taking a seat on the stool across from you. It looked good too, as expected. “You’re welcome or whatever.”

With his aggressive blessing and after throwing a quiet but extremely grateful ‘thank you for the meal’ his way, you start to eat.

Your face lights up in joy as the divine taste of spongy goodness and honey spreads across your tongue, and you silently praise his mom for giving birth to the next Gordon Ramsay.

He flicks your forehead as you’re mid-bite in pancake and you yelp in surprise, raising your head to glare at his handsome face. What now? And did he have to be as infuriating as he was good-looking?

That crimson gaze once again stares you down, barely contained amusement dancing in embers of the hot coals of his eyes, and your skin grows warm as you realize you said that last part out loud.

You’re about to give into the urge to run away and take the plate of half-finished pancakes with you when he gruffly speaks up.

“You can’t retain information unless you have something in your stomach, idiot.”

You nod, mouth full, and make a mental note to study on an empty tummy away from him in the future. It’s like he reads your mind because you wince as he scowls, flicking your head again, although a little more gently this time.

Taking care to do it in a spot away from the bandaid covering the injury that he caused, your brain points out.

The both of you continue to eat in comfortable silence.

After a while, your plates are nearly clean.

You smile a little, realizing that you were eating on your favorite plate in the dorm’s kitchen the whole time, and admire the petals of your beloved flowers painted in the center and outer edges of the stark white dish, with the pancakes no longer covering them.

Bakugo notices this, as you softly begin to trace the rim with your finger, and fights the twitch of his lips that threatened to curl upwards.

He’s also noticed those little glances you think you’ve been discreetly throwing his way between the bites of pancake, which you nearly inhaled to his pride.

You could almost be as quiet as that rock-faced animal whisperer of a classmate you both had, but you’ve always sucked at being subtle.

Good thing he hates subtle things.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He asks as you start to slide off the tall stool, a hint of smirk in his voice. It was cute, how you think you could run away from him so easily. You stop in your tracks, blinking at him as he rises from his own seat.

Strong, toned arms that you totally haven’t been staring at for the past half hour are slowly placed on both sides of you, caging you against the counter. An embarrassing noise escapes from your lips, and the cold granite bites into your back as you lean away, doing anything to avoid his gaze.

“Look at me.”

He rolls his eyes as you continue to look to the side, suddenly finding the chibi magnets of various high ranking heroes on the fridge to be very interesting.

“I said,” he grabs your chin in his hand, which was so big compared to your face that he could squish your cheeks between his ring finger and thumb, “look at me.

You huff, now forcefully held in place to face him against your will. “I’m looking.”

“Good.”

He leans down and his lips graze your ear, seeming to take great pleasure in only further adding to your embarrassment when he mutters:

“And don’t stand so fucking close to the door next time.”

not bakugo pulling the classic asian parent move and giving u food instead of a proper apology LOLL

new boyfriend rin would never ever, under any circumstance, admit that he likes the pet names you call him. well… unless you would stop doing it. (also me pushing the bffs to lovers pipeline)

You must be upset with him, Rin is convinced so. It’s the only logical and sensible explanation behind this unusual behavior. 

And he's going mad about it. Itoshi Rin is going mad any second now if he can't get to the bottom of this, he’s certainly convinced.

Every instinct screamed that your recent behavior was a reaction to something he'd done, but what? Was it the late replies to your text messages? No, you knew he was at practice and you told him you didn’t mind. Was it about the souvenir he brought back home to you from Paris? Sure, you teased him about its impracticality, but nothing that warranted this icy distance.

Or maybe it was something he said now? It must be, right? Everything boils down to his reckless poor choice of words, he supposes.

Slowly, Rin approached you by the couch you’re seated in. With your attention preoccupied by the selection of shows you’re browsing, you settled on looking at him briefly through your peripheral vision. Amused by how he’s slightly tiptoeing around, you let out a half-suppressed laugh to yourself. 

He looks like a cat sometimes, you thought from the sight. And acts like one too. Like a big black cat who would hiss at you if you looked at him funny, or one that would bite your hand if you stopped petting him to sleep. Funny how Rin could be like that too.

The moment Rin settles into the plush comfort of the couch, he gazes at you through lowered lashes, trying to read the play of emotions on your face, if there’s any. 

There’s nothing worth noting, and he doesn’t know if that should assure or bother him.

“Are we… alright?” he drawled.

What the fuck. He did not just sound like that. 

He did not just ask that and sounded like an anxious pathetic wet cat who just had a new home waiting for its owner’s permission over anything (highly specific because he’s a bit dramatic). Just what kind of loser have you reduced him into, really.

Oblivious of the internal turmoil in Rin’s mind, you turn to him, “Hmm? Yeah? Why’d you ask?”

“Nothing,” he grumbled. It’s enough that he already humiliated himself for the way he asked if the two of you were cool— doing it again by exposing himself that he thinks you’re mad plainly because he hadn’t heard you call him a pet name (like you always do) would be mortification in its final form.

“Okay, Rin.”

That’s it. This needs to end. Forget humiliation. He would rather choose to feel pathetic over any day than continue with this charade.

“Are you mad at me?” 

“Why would you think that?” you asked back instantly, shocked and extremely confused because of your boyfriend’s question. You’re literally just looking for a movie the two of you can watch— how is that any indication of being mad at him?

“Just answer the question,” he fumed, impatience settling on the furrow of his brows.

You said in the beginning of your relationship that you didn’t appreciate the silent treatment and guessing games, so don’t you think it’s hypocritical of you to do the same to him? (You’re not, but he just doesn’t know that.)

“I’m not mad at you, Rin.”

“You so are!” 

“I am not! But you, yelling and instigating it are making me right now!” you countered, voice hinted with irritation, “What is your problem, Rin?”

There it is again. Rin rose from the couch to face your sitting form, as if standing would better prove his point. “See? You’re calling me Rin!” he blurted.

“Well, maybe because it’s your name?!”

“Not to you, it’s not!”

A beat of surprised silence. Until your lips grew to such a wide smile that made Rin physically feel his heart melting. 

Yet, in Rin’s true fashion, he’ll never let you know how much air you knock out of him because of your beaming smile. Instead, he’ll say something along the snarky lines of, “Stop smiling like that.”

“Did my big bad grumpy Rinnie here thought we’re on a fight because I hadn’t call him baby?” you ask, purposely stressing out the words to disarm him more.

With a feigned exasperation, he comments, “I forgot how annoying you are.” 

“And I forgot how childish you can get sometimes,” you countered.

“I’m not childish.”

“You don’t mind me calling you Rin then?”

Rin rolled his eyes at you, but you know better than to put meaning to it. He lowered himself onto the couch beside you. With a swift tug, Rin pulled you closer, closing the distance between you effortlessly. His arm found its way around your waist, drawing you snugly against his chest.

“But I don’t see why you need to…” Maybe he could be a bit childish.

“I thought you didn’t like it,” you shyly muttered, drawing shapes in his arm. “The pet names, I mean,” you clarified, sensing the confused look he’s probably giving you behind.

“What the hell are you talking about?” He is baby. He is Rinnie. Fucking hell, that’s so loser of him to even voice it out in his own mind. 

“What? You call me by my name!” you defensively pointed out.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t like your nicknames of me,” he mumbled, the words barely audible.

The pet names— they were more than what they served. It was important to him more than what he would admit. 

They were a secret language, a way you marked him as yours. A reminder that he wasn't just Rin anymore— just your friend.

He was now something more, something special.

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Besides… I love your name,” he whispered, his voice velvet against your hair.

It’s tender— no, it makes him tender. Saying your name has been the softest, kindest, and most tender way he’s used his words for. 

Maybe it’s a little pathetic, feeling this undone by a name. But then it’s you. 

It was your name— a name he could whisper with adoration, a name that belonged only to him to claim. 

You melt to his words, leaning deeper into his chest. A contented sigh escaped your lips, the sound swallowed by the warmth of his embrace.

Looking up at him, your eyes held a softness he often found himself getting lost in, “I love your name too, but I also like calling you pet names. Is it okay?”

“Whatever you decide.” He’s yours, either way.

note. this is basically rin being "my nameeee is whatever you decideeeee and i'm just gonna call you mineeee i'm insane but i'm your baby!!!!" yeah that song basically.

clingy!rin is my favorite rin <3

it’s 4:30 am, and rin is now wide awake.

rin woke up 30 minutes before his alarm went off. his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. he blinked a few times, his brain slowly registering that something was off.

that's when he saw your figure turning away from him, your back facing him. you weren't cuddled in his arms like how he remembered falling asleep.

he frowned, his eyebrows furrowed, a typical expression he held in his everyday life, but never towards you. never because of you. except now.

this was the first time it happened. or was it? did you always slip away from his hold when he was fast asleep? did you not like having him close like how he wanted you snuggled in him? or maybe he did something wrong last night? was it something he said? he couldn't recall.

all he knew right now was that he didn't like it. you don’t get to do this to him, rin thought. cuddles were a must for him to function properly! he will never tell you that but he knows you know that!

he laid there for a moment, staring at your back. as much as he hated what was happening right now, he didn't want to wake you up. because as much as you love and adore rin, the earliest of waking up as a part of the pro-athlete life was something you would never try. who in their right mind would wake up at the crack of dawn just to be tired all over again? definitely not you.

rin continued staring at you until his alarm went off. the loud blaring of his alarm stirred you from your sleep. slowly, you turned to rin, and your sleepy eyes blinked up to meet his narrowed ones.

uh oh. someone didn’t have a great sleep, you thought.

“your alarm, rinnie. time to start the day.” you said.

that’s all you could say? no explanation? fine. 

rin let out what seemed like a huff, causing you to open your eyes. lo and behold, rin was pouting.

rin itoshi was pouting. at 5 am.

curious as to what was making your lover sulk so early in the morning, you reached out to cup his jaw. “what’s wrong, baby?” you asked softly.

“you.”

it was now your turn to frown. “me? what do you mean?”

“you were turned away from me.” rin said, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

you must be on a mission to completely infuriate him as you utter a “huh?” in response.

“i woke up and you were turned away from me.” rin replied, a little bolder and louder this time.

“oh.”

rin scoffed at your realization, completely opposite to the smile forming on your lips. 

you opened your arms, beckoning him closer. “come here, rinnie,” you said, your voice tender and soothing.

rin might be feeling a little grumpy, but who was he to decline such a sweet offer?

slowly, rin laid himself in your arms, his face buried in your neck as he took his time to get lost in your scent.

you stroked rin's hair, “i'm sorry,” you said, leaving a gentle kiss on his forehead, kissing the grumpiness away, “i must have moved in my sleep.”

rin let out a sigh at your answer, accepting that it was out of your control.

he wrapped his arms around you tighter, pulling you close to him. “just don't do it again,” he said, his voice hot against your neck. “i need you close to me.”

you smiled at his words. even if your boyfriend might be frequently grumpy and unconventionally clingy, you still wouldn’t have it any other way.

brontide

(n). the low rumble of distant thunder

➵ pairing: saiki kusuo/female! reader

➵ word count: 3.2k

➵ genre: smut, nsfw

➵ warnings: unprotected sex, penetrative sex, rough sex, hate sex, rough sex, overstimulation.

➵ summary: studying for exams is never easy. add kusuke into the mix and it’s a whole different ball game. alternatively; saiki and you spend the day studying in your dorm room until kusuke drops by unannounced to see you. saiki is not happy.

➵ masterlist  (requests are open)

➵ previous part - quell

I DO NOT CONSENT TO MY WORK BEING POSTED BY ANYONE ELSE ON ANY PLATFORM

Keep reading

˗ˋˏ happy birthday kusuo!! ˎˊ˗

“my arm is going to lose circulation if you keep doing that.”

tsukishima glares—or attempts to—at you and scoffs. of course you won’t budge. “it’s not going anywhere, can you let go please?”

you pout, displeased with your boyfriend’s comment. you haven’t seen him all day and only 30 minutes ago had you entered his apartment. needless to say, you currently cling to him like a koala.

he wrangles himself free of your grasp, relieved for his lungs and limbs. walking over to your shared closet—really just his clothes you steal—he rummages before finding something and tossing it your way. “here’s a sweatshirt. that make you feel better?”

you feel your frustration spill over and look at him with a frown. “that’s not the same thing!” you cry, tossing the clothing aside, “why would i want that when you’re right here?”

he blinks, glaring at the sight of your small tantrum. “hey, chill out.” he flicks your forehead before kissing the very spot.

he becomes silent, knowing he can’t argue with your logic. for once, you actually have a very valid point. and maybe, just maybe tsukishima likes when you’re clingy.

you sniffle, watching him settle back at his desk. you’re prepared to go and slip the sweatshirt on but you’re stopped when he softly calls your name.

“come here.” he scoots his chair back and pats his lap.

you stare at him with wide eyes, and wait for someone to pinch you. to wake you up from your dream.

tsukishima blushes a light red, the color spreading through his cheeks and the tips of his ears. “i’m going to retract my offer in a minute if you don’t hurry up.” he threatens, and you can tell he’s flustered by the way he awkwardly has his arms open.

you practically leap into his lap, and he grunts softly at the impact. another blush creeps up his neck and you plant several kisses on his skin. he adjusts you so your legs wrap around his waist as he sits in the chair.

“is that better now?” he asks, his voice rumbling against you at a frequency you know and love.

you curl impossibly further into him. “much better now.” a pleased hum leaves you and you smile.

you hear kei humming a song you recognize as one from your shared playlist and you become elated. he’s not the best singer, but he only really ever hums or sings when he’s around you, and nothing can beat the feeling of being special.

one of kei’s hand slip up your lower back and he rubs small circles up your spine. the gesture makes you drowsy, and you feel yourself begin to fall asleep.

when kei feels the weight of your head on his chest, he almost says your name before he looks down. his heart swells when he sees you fast asleep, hands gripping onto his t-shirt. you look so…peaceful in his hold and he’s glad that no one else but him can hold you like this. see you like this. never in a million years would he want to see you in someone else’s arms.

he smiles, carefully shifting you in his hold so that he can still work. his large hand cradles the back of your head before he presses several kisses to your forehead, his silent way of showing how grateful he is for you. of being able to have you and cherish you and love you like he should.

after awhile he decides to take a break. he picks you in his arms before he moves to your shared bed. he hears you call his name, your voice small and confused.

kei carefully slides in next to you, hushing you quietly. “it’s okay. you’re okay, sweet girl. just go back to sleep. i’m right here.” he says softly, pulling you on top of his chest.

“m‘kay.” you mumble, closing your eyes again.

and you’re sure you’re not hallucinating but if you weren’t so drowsy, you could clearly hear kei mumble ‘love you’ before you fall back asleep.

do not copy and or repost. likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated though! (c) 2022 hyeque

heyyy!

i dont know if you’re still taking requests buuut i couldn’t stop thinking of angry confessions with kageyama and/or tsukishima (you could add anyone else tho)

ANGRY CONFESSIONS

characters: kageyama + tsukishima + (gn!reader)

warnings: none but tsukki's a lil mean lol

notes: the backstory is that they got jealous seeing you with another guy cause i couldn't think of anything else + these can have happy endings i just didn't write them sfdghkj

part one / part two

★ kageyama storms over to you, and practically scolds you, asking you what you were doing talking to that guy. his voice keeps getting louder when you can't see the problem. you're confused and tell him you don't need his permission to talk to anybody and if you wanted to go out on a date you very well could. soon he's red in the face, frustrated saying you can't. you ask him why and he just repeats himself saying you just can't. when you ask him again, he breaks and says 'because i love you!...' his eyes widen and he's breathing hard, just staring at you. he drops his gaze and his voice gets smaller. 'how can you not see that?'

★ tsukishima started blatantly ignoring and avoiding you, and the few times he would grace you with conversation (bc you were talking with yamaguchi), it would be filled with snarkier than usual comments and eye rolls. it isn't until you confront him and ask him what's wrong that he actually looks you in the eye for longer than two seconds without rolling his eyes, but they're narrowed in slits as he sneers at you. 'because you're too blind and stupid to see that if anyone should date you it should be me.' his cheeks are starting to blush and he looks away suddenly. 'no one else would be able to tolerate you anyway.'

★★★ — kusuo getting overwhelmed in a big crowd, pressing his chest against your back to silently let you know he was uncomfortable and wanted to leave. him going nonverbal at school, having to speak up for him when a teacher tries talking to him or his group of friends try to bother him. having to contain your giggles when he'd brush himself against you or huff and puff because he secretly craved your attention. saiki subconsciously using his powers on accident when he'd get too comfortable due to the peaceful atmosphere your warm body would create for him. or, things like breaking a nearby object with his mind when you'd randomly touch him, making him flustered. and, having to deal with him randomly teleporting to your room to bother you when in reality he just couldn't get you off his mind and wanted to be near you.

Can you imagine Katsuki REALLY fucking up. Like you’re talking about leaving him for what he said/did.

All this man can think is that he can’t do it. He can’t live this life if you aren’t by his side so he drops to his knees.

The only word leaving his mouth is “please.”

He doesn’t even know what he’s down there begging for.

Maybe for you to forgive him, or to please not walk out on him.

But he’s down there and he’d do or say whatever it took to keep you. He loves you and needs you.

You are the only person on earth this man would be willing to put his pride aside and beg for.

I see someone write for Voltron, I request. Anywho, I wonder how an enemies to lovers scenario would go with Keith and a Female s/o. S/O is goofy, too kind for this world, and naive and yet is still gets good grades. However, much to Keith's luck, she's denser than bricks and is oblivious to his dislike towards her.

HOLY SHIT I HAVENT SEEN THIS UNTIL NOW IM SO SORRY IDEK WHEN YOU REQUESTED THIS

now idk if you wanted it in the cannon au or a high school setting, but I'll do both

IS THE VOLTRON FANDOM EVEN STILL ALIVE?? I NEED VOLTRON MOOTS

canon paladin au

☆ keith hates anyone that continues to bother him even after he drops subtle hints to leave him alone

☆ like you'll be going on and on about some topic that he doesn't care about

☆ but he can't bring himself to tell you to shut up

☆ you and lance are the duo to end him

☆ a goofy smart one, and a questionable goofy one

☆ its more of a one sided enemy rivalry type situation, since you think keith is fine with you (he's not)

☆ he can't help but notice the small things about you

☆ but he thinks that's because you irritate the shit out of him

☆ it's not

☆ your constantly happy-go-lucky mood actually makes him feel better at times

☆ he'll start to warm up to you and maybe even discover his feelings for you, realizing he doesn't hate you

☆ he'll start getting a bit more flustered while training with you

☆ and you'll be oblivious to this as you were with his hatred for you a while back

☆ eventually he'll gather the courage to ask you out only to find out you've liked him ever since you met him

☆ he felt guilty because he really did not like you during that time

☆ you're the yin to his yang </3

high school/galaxy garrison academy

☆ he dreaded having you as his tutor

☆ you were too. . . nice (for his lil emo broken hearted self)

☆ he didn't like that, and he hated having you teach him

☆ you managed to keep him from dropping out, and even he can't explain why he decided not to

☆ he never responded to your questions, but you didn't let that deter you from you smiling brightly at him and continuing on

☆ he realized he really did listen to you, and in fact, his grades massively improved

☆ he still did not feel like interacting with you though

☆ until one day where your mood was obviously different

☆ you didn't even bother continuing on when keith didn't respond, and instead went quiet and stared down at the textbook in front you

☆ he thought you were simply reading ahead, just in case you didn't know the material, but minutes passed and you stayed silent.

☆ "you alright?" keith asked

☆ you nodded and simply carried on, finally breaking the silence with what seemed like a less energetic version of how you usually act

☆ eventually, you told him by the end of the session that someone had told you that he absolutely despised you

☆ rare keith L

☆ which was true. a few months ago.

☆ now he was absolutely enamored with you

☆ your personality really brings out the best in him and he realized that

☆ he quickly argued against that statement and while stumbling over his words, he accidentally confessed

☆ he would never forget that that's the most joyful he's ever seen you

HAN JISUNG roommate perv! x reader

word count: 1.3k

warnings: perverted behavior, betrayal of trust, masturbation

18+ pls minors dni!

You and Han are best friends, so it was only natural for him to offer to rent out his spare room to you when you were apartment searching (he was looking for a new roommate anyway). You had spent a lot of time together, so living in the same house wasn't much different from how it's always been. Honestly, with how often you hung around his place, he should have started charging you rent a long time ago.

A new aspect of your relationship was that he got impossibly more familiar with you. Like how you always need him to keep you company while folding laundry or it wouldn't get done, or how you played a specific song right before going to sleep every night (the walls were thin).

With constant exposure to you, he was forced to face his not-so friendly thoughts. He had well acknowledged that you were attractive, but always tried to prevent himself from catching feelings because of your best friend status.

He can't help but look when you wear booty shorts or a crop top around the house, but he gave himself the benefit of the doubt and figured that was just an impulsive act (at first).

Within a month, he started giving in to his more perverted thoughts. He stopped holding back from looking at your figure when you wore little clothing around the house. Stopped holding back from admiring the way your lips cutely wrapped around your toothbrush when you were holding it in place without a hand on it.

By the second month, he had joined in on helping you fold and put away your laundry "to make the process quicker" - he had even offered to start doing your laundry for you. "I know how much you hate doing it." He would say sweetly. He would do your laundry, sure, but he would lose a few panties (and knee-highs) in the process.

By the third month, he completely gave in to his perversion. He was no better than the creep you came home and told him about one day, the one who blatantly couldn't stop staring at your chest the entire train ride home. Jisung was just as bad as that so-called creep... just less obvious.

He instead opted to sneak looks at you during movie nights. He knew that you were never the biggest fan of horror films, but would never turn one down if he suggested it. There you sat on the couch in the living room, sharing the same blanket that was draped across your laps and pressed up directly against him. You opted for a tank top, as you commonly did during nights in.

The only light coming from the tv screen, Jisung had all the privacy he needed to catch glimpses of you. The way your face scrunched up in genuine concern for the main character (how cute, he thought). The way your nipples had hardened underneath the material of your thin tank top about halfway through the movie. Needless to say, he had absolutely no idea what was going on in the movie.

At one point you caught him staring. "What?" You ask. "Nothing. You're just cute when you're scared." Obviously not knowing how to respond to what he said, you turned your head back towards the screen without reacting to his comment. Fuck, he thought. He couldn't believe that was his cover. The more he thought about it, the more he spiraled. What a weird thing to say.

He couldn't deny it though. The way you lightly flinched and grabbed a handful of the blanket whenever a jumpscare occurred had given him a semi more than once, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

It's not like he's into seeing you scared or anything. He's just so reactive because it's you.

In fact, you've made him hard countless times for no reason at all.

You make a hum in appreciation at his cooking? He accidentally burns his own plate because he was too focused on palming himself through his pants while facing the stove. He sees your plain white cotton underwear with the little bow (his personal favorite) in your laundry basket? You won't see it for another week. You wear one of his T-shirts to bed? He'll put it over his face while he jerks off to your scent until it no longer smells like you.

Don't get him started on when you got the sex toy. He was putting your laundry away one day while you were out (since he's such a good roommate who definitely isn't imagining you in every single pair of panties as he folds them) when he saw something buried towards the back of the drawer. To his surprise, he pulled out a silicone dildo. It must be new, he thought to himself, because he knew every inch of your room. He was guilty of trying to find your dirty little secrets - and now he had finally found one.

From that day on, he made sure to never put his headphones in at night like he usually would to fall asleep. On the third day of waiting, his patience had finally paid off.

When he started hearing faint noises from the other side of the wall, he practically jumped out of his bed. Fuck, he thought, she's definitely using it now. He sat up against his headboard and pressed his ear to the wall. He took in your shaky breaths and closed his eyes. Imagining how the pretty pink dildo would look slipping in and out of your pussy, he pulled his hardening length out of his sweatpants. He kept his eyes closed, to in a way deny the truth, which was the fact that he was about to jerk off to the sound of his best friend pleasuring herself.

Not creepy at all, he thinks to himself. But he has had enough. Enough of your skimpy clothes, your seemingly innocent cuddles - enough of your teasing.

You must have known deep down that he was a pervert from the jokes he's made over the years. She knows and she willingly decided to share a space with me. She knows what she's in for, he says to himself, trying to justify the immoral act he was actively committing.

On the other side of the wall, you stop moving for a few seconds, then continue. Your breathing had become significantly more choppy, and you were at this point letting out soft moans. She must've changed to a new position, he thought. He wondered what it was. Would you want him to fuck into you with your legs over his shoulders? Or perhaps you'd rather be ass up with your face shoved into the pillows as he rams you into the mattress.

He started focusing his strokes to his tip. He was already leaking with precum, but he wanted to make sure he came with you, and it seemed like you were close.

After a minute, he was edging himself until you were ready. He looked out for any signs of you hitting your climax, and he finally got it... but it wasn't what he thought it would be. "Please... please fu... Ji!!" He hears you say through the wall. It was under your breath but clear enough for him to be sure that's what you said.

He froze, hand resting on the base of his cock. His heart started beating impossibly faster, and he felt his ears start burning up. All of a sudden, he had started his climax. Hearing his name - his nickname at that - had kickstarted his orgasm. He almost forgot to start moving his hand again. He helped himself ride out the latter half of his orgasm, mind still on the fact that you had called his name mid-climax.

He took his ear off the wall and slumped down against his pillows. Fuck. He was in deep.

Part 1? Let's hope I get around to writing part 2 T_T

cross-listed on @h4nj1sungfics !

I need him (inside of me)

pretty

♡ riki ﹒ reader genre fluff word count 0.?k warnings none ( bookshelf )

“you look pretty tonight.” riki confessed, a mere smile threatening to make an appearance.

for a second, you doubted the words that escaped his mouth, “what?”

“nothing,” he mumbled, a grin finally inviting itself to his lips. you knew riki wasn’t the best at putting his words together, but even the smallest confessions like these left your whole mind fuzzy.

diverting your gaze to riki, you noticed his nose become a tint of red while snow found itself a home in his hair. you felt a tug at the hem of your sleeve, guiding you to a small park.

the view of clean white snow in front of you, sparkling amidst the dim lighting, was ethereal. but it was soon ruined by riki as he laid on the thick snow, motioning you to join him.

you couldn’t help but copy his antics, finding yourself a spot next to him and sinking into his embrace. as you both lie in silence, you feel a sense of security within his arms. riki provided warmth, despite the cold snow beneath your bodies.

“you’re so pretty” riki said, but this time, less obscured.

© okwons

notes for my fav @bunreis riki is so winter coded ><

taglist is open @bunreis @hysgf @beomgyu-stan-present

excuse me was anyone gonna warn me about how goddamn ✨PRETTY✨ this young man is or…..

+Bonus

REVOLVER covers

animalic (4)

← chapter three // series masterlist

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader rating: mature word count: 2.5k summary: things don't go according to plan warnings: enemies to lovers, light bondage, sexual tension, arousal, choking, canon-typical violence, dub-con elements, paralysis, suicidal ideation, self-hatred, angst, miguel o'hara is not nice, no use of y/n notes: y'all. i promise we are getting somewhere. i promise. lmk what you think tho cuz i thrive off comments

“Lyla?”

While you’re – regrettably – unable to make good on your promise to phase through the floor, you catch yourself hoping it splits to swallow you whole instead. It certainly would be a better alternative to the purgatory you currently face. 

“Lyla? Come in, Lyla.” 

Feeble rays of light filter in through the weathered windows, their reach slowly growing as night surrenders to the wakings of dawn. Variegated motes bob lazily, suspended upon the streams of sun, quivering back and forth between a range of countless colours. Paralysed and splayed atop the frigid, hard ground of the empty store-lot, you try counting them all for lack of anything else to do. Pink, green, orange, gold. You wonder what force chooses the order, whether it’s sequenced to fit some plan of high design. 

“¡Ay, coño–”

Slowly, you let yourself scrutinise other things, too. The scent of neglect that permeates the stale air, particularly pungent around the entryway. You trace the yellow-brown mass that runs along the door’s hinge edge, and attribute the vaguely muddy smell to rot. Then, it’s the glint of shattered glass, winking at you from lost corner’s of the room. They look narrow, far too inconvenient to clean out with a standard broom. You revel in the understanding that whoever had been in charge of scouring the wreckage appears to share your habit of quick quitting.

It’s only when your vision begins to water do you divert your attention to the situation at hand. Last you needed to blink, it took half a minute for the command to register, and even longer for the motor neurons in your eyelids to act. By the time you eventually got them closed, you’d already started contemplating whether his venom would be the death of you. 

(Lame end to a lame life.)

It didn’t take a genius to figure out, though. You know that, if he wanted to, he could’ve kept imbuing you with the substance until your body was no longer able to perform the basic mechanisms necessary to sustain life. He could have kept his fangs lodged deep into your neck – encroached upon your stuttering veins, bathing in the ichor that flowed – until he felt you go limp, concentrated with his poison. It would have been a denouement to his problems – right there, easy, sandwiched between him and the wall – but it wasn’t. Because he didn’t. 

Just like he didn’t let you plummet to your death that day at the quarry, or strangle you while you were unconscious back at HQ. 

So, no. It doesn’t take a genius to acknowledge that Miguel O’Hara doesn’t want you dead. As he fiddles with his malfunctioning watch, you endeavour to come up with a divisive list as to why that is. 

One: you’ve charmed him. The notion is almost funny enough to elicit a snort, given that you weren’t cast in an immovable anathema.

Two: he’s a good guy. Somehow, this option seems less viable to you than the first. 

You find your third prospect slinging from the threads of a fraying memory. 

You’d been a student, before – attending college at a reputable institute close to home. It’s easy to forget what it was like most nights: cramped in that two hundred square foot dorm, borderline losing it as you tried to validate your claims on matter-antimatter rockets and their potential contribution to interstellar travel. There were concerns of total annihilation, and sourcing, and an array of other limitations – that which you’d dedicated your academic career to drawing up proposals for. It’s laughable now; the stress and theories blurring together to form a vague picture of your long-lost ambition. 

You have a hard time conjuring what exact future you were so hopeful for, but the lamp by your roommate’s bed remains clear in your mind’s eye. Warm-white, comforting. For as long as you were awake, tapping away at a never-ending thesis, she’d work through the latest volume of her beloved murder mystery anthology. 

It was the night before your start at an internship with Alchemax that the series came to a close. Her aggravated screams still ring fresh behind the clouded pane of time. You had thrown your pillow at her in a belligerent plea.

(You wanna elaborate?

The suspect behind every case was shot!

So? Isn’t that a good thing?

No, dumbass. It means the detectives fucking lost! They’ll never be able to prove how right they were.)

Admittedly, you know very little about Miguel, but you have an idea of what matters most to him. It’s entirely possible, then, that he refuses to kill you for what your death would do to negate his efforts thus far. 

“Oye,” 

Your mental traipse is reeled in when the devil himself snaps at you. Steadily, your pupils roll up to look at him. 

“I need your day pass.” 

You continue to stare. His jaw clenches. 

“Because of your little headbutt outside, my watch is busted. My only hope of fixing it is by using the parts of your day pass.” 

Is he asking? Does he expect you to respond? 

You can’t fool yourself into believing he’s that ignorant. 

But Miguel stays on standby, scanning your lax form. He takes in the webs that wrap around your waist, branching out to your thighs and shoulders, restraining your arms behind your back. When his eyes meet yours again, the reluctant question you see glaze over them pushes the recognition to the forefront of your mind. 

He is asking. 

Or, notifying – making sure you’re aware of what he’s about to do. 

God, you wish you could speak. You’ve never come up with so much to say without promptly blurting it out before. Irritation and amusement rip at one another within you, locked in a brutal dogfight fated to have no real winner. How hypocritical of him to pick and choose when your treatment takes priority over his mission; you’re littered in marks that all point to his prior negligence of such subtle humanity. Four stabs above your wrist, a pounding migraine at your temple. If it weren’t for your paralysed stomach, you’re certain you would have regurgitated your innards as consequence to the concussion he’s given you.  

But, oh. 

How funny would it be if you agreed. To let him discover the harrowing truth for himself. 

Deliberately, you muster an affirming blink.

Miguel's weariness escapes him in a heavy sigh, the weight of it etched upon his expression. Thick brows furrow, evidence to his age creasing between them, before he sinks down with a purposeful grace and carefully flips you over. Despite the resentment that festers in your gut, you can’t help but hiss a mental sigh of relief at the service it does to your elbows, which had begun throbbing in response to the pressure that the hardwood floor exerted.

From that point onward, it becomes a guessing game of sorts; you can’t see him, nor are you able to tilt your head and confirm your assumptions as to what he’s doing. Deprived of your most reliable sense, the others strain to fill the gaps in your knowledge, drawing upon every available cue; the sound of his miniscule grunts, the warmth of his skin – that which penetrates through his gloves. You’re alarmed into attempted action when the characteristic rip of his claws equipping pierces the strained air – your body powerless in addressing the adrenaline it secretes – until the spider-man touches his forefinger to your palm.

“Relax.” He all but commands. “I’m just cutting the webs off.” 

You’ve no reason to trust him, of course, but you can’t exactly pitch a complaint right now. 

(Perhaps it’s in your best interests to ignore how easy he’d been able to read you.)

A few moments of jostling ensue, before he withdraws with a curse. Your arms remain ensnared in the tight restraints, the ache that smarts your skin all too real for the continued predicament to be illusory. An assortment of jokes occur to you. 

Can’t get it up? 

In your peripheral, you catch him weighing his options. The pause is laden with a sticky indecision – this change in placement, you realise, exacerbates the already difficult task of breathing for you. 

While you fixate on that fact, he seems to come to a conclusion. With one swift manoeuvre, he positions himself astride your thighs, straddling the deadened extremities, and reaches forward to push your wrists apart. You’re quick to catch on to his intention, how the arrangement gives him better leverage, yet–

His groyne presses into the swell of your ass, worsening with every bid to sever the webbing. It’s impossible not to notice, especially not when the seam of your jeans start to shift in tandem, smoothing over your clothed core.  It’s not exactly ecstasy, far from it — no rainbow blooms, tingling gold from your toes to your nose – but it’s been ages since you were last roused like this. Enough for it to feel brand new, a wrapped curse in a prim little bow, eager for all that you shouldn’t be. 

And… Christ– 

And then he unfastens the lines around your arms, and runs his hands up your skin. It’s not gentle, nor is it brutish, but you can feel his desperation escalating. His touches grow progressively antagonistic, kneading your palms up to your shoulders, patting down to the shallow pockets of your pants. You’re searched like you hold the key to his success – you suppose that, in some oddly comical way, you do. And it should be upsetting, blasphemous. 

But you’re no sacred thing. You’d laid down that possibility a long time ago. 

No. You’re foul, questionable at your best, and erupt into goosebumps over the ruthless grip of a man who hates your very soul. You’re a deeply detestable spirit, truly, but a detestable spirit who has just managed to get one up on Miguel O’Hara. 

He throws you back around, wrapping his hands around your throat. His snarl is primal, maturated in acrid anger. 

“Where is it?” 

You’re sure that, in some alternate reality, your face is stretched in a shit-eating grin. 

“Where’s the fucking day pass?” 

Your satisfaction is short-lived. 

You’ve never been one to notably detest humiliation. It’s productive – healthy, even – in smaller doses; a fitting consequence for those who you deem deserve it. Yet, as you find yourself unceremoniously hoisted over Miguel’s shoulder, forced into a meandering parade through the streets of New York, you breach into uncharted territory – a threshold where your tolerance encounters its breaking point. 

He makes no effort to soften his strides, unmoved by the idea of providing even a shred of respite for your susceptible self. If anything, it feels as though he deliberately seeks out the harshest terrain, silently chastising your earlier defiance in the most passive aggressive manner known to man. He’d reinforced your constraints before marching out on this fruitless venture, and now you bobble uselessly, backside pointed upward, anchored solely by the meaty arm around your knees. 

At least you’ve regained control of your mouth. 

“D’stroyed it. Gone. Dearly d’parted–” 

“If you’re going to run that little mouth, then make it helpful.” 

“M’bein’ helpfoo,” you start, straining your weakened vocal cords in an effort to mock him. The grip of paralysis may have slackened its hold, but neurotransmission remains at an all time, sluggish low. In all actuality, it astounds you that he can even begin to decipher your words from the tangled murmurs they become. 

“You had it on at the convenience, and a little bit afterward. You can’t expect me to believe that you dealt with it while running for your life.”

Running for your life. Sure. 

Displeasure sparks at the confidence he imbues in his assumption.

“Escoos m– hnngh–” A sudden jump of stress robs you of breath, your stomach plummeting alongside the rapidly distancing ground. As Miguel propels himself above the city skyline, effortlessly evading the crowded streets via a web he’d grappled to an adjacent building, you’re confronted with a stark reality – that this is the very first time you have ever, and likely will ever, experience what it’s like to swing. 

It’s exhilarating and nauseating all at once, gravity relinquishing its command as you transcend the confines of the physical, soaring through some reality where law loses significance. If it had been you, your arms and skill and jurisdiction, you’d never come down. But maybe that’s why it isn’t; maybe your life was meant to lead up to this, and only ever this. 

(Not antimatter technologies or heroic conquest. Yeah, this feels more fitting.) 

Your skin prickles. You phase through the sturdy frame that’s held you up so far, and plummet from its grasp.

Slicing through the boundless sky, you’re accompanied by a profound tranquillity. It isn’t absolute – fear still gnaws at your core, its presence undeniable. But, amidst the churning horror, your instincts are fainter than they ought to be. They whisper in a subdued tone, overshadowed by conflicting conceptions. One, being the inference you’d drawn earlier about how – whether you like it or not – Miguel would not let you die. 

Another, quieter suspicion hints toward the full reality of your… relief.

Though, of course, you’re right about the former. Tree-trunk biceps wrap around your waist, pulling you close as he slingshots off to a nearby rooftop. You flop into him, a ragdoll to the overwhelming force of his agitation, and squeeze your eyes shut at the hints of patchouli permeating from under his mask. 

You don’t have to face the gospel just yet.

“¿Qué mierda? Eh?” He shouts, propping you up against a ledge. “What the fuck was that?” 

You don’t have an answer for him. Your heart lurches, catching up to the urgency at hand, striking on the hollow bars of your ribcage to some reckless tune. It’s only amplified by the torrent of blood distending through your system, throbbing at your temple, rushing by your ears. 

What the fuck, indeed. 

He damns you, it seems, with a fervour that breaches the heavens, as if willing God Himself to commit his plea to eternal memory. Or not; truthfully, you can’t tell. With the roar of your own snowballing thrill, it becomes impossible to discern the sequence of interrogations that explode from him. The world around you fades to the background, your preoccupancy consumed by the disquietude it leaves in its wake. 

Your sense is only validated a minute later when, two blocks away, an ear-piercing shriek ruptures your dissociation. 

Miguel stiffens, slowly turning to face its source.

𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘈𝘙𝘈𝘊𝘏𝘕𝘖-𝘏𝘜𝘔𝘈𝘕𝘖𝘐𝘋 𝘗𝘖𝘓𝘠-𝘔𝘜𝘓𝘛𝘐𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘚𝘌 𝘋𝘈𝘛𝘈𝘉𝘈𝘚𝘌:

Earth-15 – analysed, marked as closed. 

Spider-totem – The Spider: soon after being bit by his radioactive spider, convicted felon Peter Parker merged with Earth-15’s variation of the carnage Symbiote.

Notes – do not engage, at any cost. 

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mary jane's husband and his boyfriend

animalic (3)

← chapter two // series masterlist

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader rating: mature word count: 2.2k summary: he's got a plan that neither of you like warnings: enemies to lovers, predator/prey dynamics, biting, bondage, temporary paralysis, concussions, miguel is not nice, no use of y/n notes: this was supposed to be longer but the cut off at the original point was super awkward. this chapter is super exciting for all you fang lover out there <3

You really can’t catch a break. 

The city bustles with a verve rivalling your own, a kaleidoscope of luminescence dancing upon the glass facades of its skyscrapers. Their spires pierce the ink-dark cloak of night, and if you weren’t so busy running for your life, you’d stop to admire the way their aviation obstruction lights mimic the stars back home. 

(Everything has a trade off, you suppose. You remember what it was like as light pollution gave away to reveal the cosmos above, the beauty of it lost upon your own grief.)

Now, it’s fear – clinging like a shadowy spectre to your heels. The pavement is unforgiving beneath you, each step sending a jolt of energy through your bones. Despite it, you can’t go any faster. Sidewalks crowd with the humdrum of everyday life – people filtering out from work and bodegas, dressed in a slightly odd fashion, their clothes a reminder of your unfamiliar landscape. Car horns blend into one another, providing an unsteady tempo to the race of your heart. 

It’s disorienting, all of it. Times like these, you wish you’d been given the opportunity to hone your abilities. Stamina, flexibility. Web shooters in particular would have proved handy in avoiding the bustle of the ground. 

Of course, he has that advantage on you too. 

You can’t see Miguel, but you sense his proximity. It prods you, nipping at your flesh in a constant assault, intensifying goosebumps and raising hairs. Your spider sense usually doesn’t last this long, solely serving as a warning for immediate danger. Yet that’s just what he is, immediate. Dangerous. Predatory eyes track your every move, sourced from all directions. He’s everywhere; atop buildings, within alleys. Neon signs morph into twisted apparitions; serrated talons, red skulls. 

How did he track you down so fast? 

The day pass? 

You wonder if he’d brought back-up – whether there are other spider-heroes here who trust in his noble cause. Your anxiety triples, and passerby’s begin to warp too. Their hurried footsteps now strike discordant notes, amplifying your isolation. You think you see some tense their wrists, or unbutton their coats, ready to reveal their tailored suits and ensure the capture you’ve managed to evade thus far. 

It’s luck. It’s only ever been luck, and that fact changes depending on who you ask. You’ve never outsmarted him, never disabled him. You just so happen to have the power of being a pain in his ass. 

Something itches at you, though. A nagging sense of foreboding. His presence in the past has spurred chagrin, annoyance, and – admittedly – arousal. But the genuine terror that lights your nerves now is new. Perhaps because you understand him, are far more familiar with his pride than most. The logical part of you can predict that he won’t let you off so easily, not after your stunt with the kiss. You won’t – can’t – get away this time, even if it damn well nearly kills him. 

Any hope you had of a bargain dissipates, rolling back from shore and into the depths of an elusive sea. You jerk the rubber band off your wrist, throwing it into some undisclosed corner.

In a then desperate bid to throw him off, your path loses cohesion. Like a leaf seized by a tempest, you turn based on split-second instinct, weaving through the labyrinth of New York’s grid. Your body sways in frenzy, bolstered by pure adrenaline, which works to dim everything else. Your ribs haven’t fully healed yet – they’d taken a pretty bad beating upon your last fight with Miguel – but you can barely feel the ache as you focus purely on the task at hand. 

Your determination surges, recklessness taking hold of your rationale. Veering abruptly, you just about collide with the racing line of cars that flow at a green light. In fact, you think you do. Your skin prickles, and a taxi runs straight through you, blearing a loud honk all the while. Some vehicles break off, drifting around your form at the last minute. In your peripheral, you can see the glowing red of your pursuers web, stretched across the gap between two apartment complexes. 

Chest tightening, your breathing loses depth at the sight, shallowing to leave room for the distress that torrents up your system. You clamber up on the hoods of parked cars, using a mast arm pole to propel yourself forward. It’s a fruitless effort. You know it’s too late – have known it since he walked into that convenience, prowling in search of one thing. 

(A lion only catches its prey a quarter of the time. But that twenty-five percent?)

Your ankle is the first victim to his hardwearing web, wrapped in the silk and pulled out from underneath you. The back of your head smacks into the concrete below, a high pitched ring reverberating through your skull upon impact. The collision sends a shock wave of pain throughout your being, and in that harrowing moment, everything stutters to a crawl. Spots speckle behind your clenched eyelids, metallic warmth flooding your mouth.

Well, fuck. 

To add insult to injury, your atoms rip apart and splice into one another, a consequence of your abandoned day pass. The glitch aggravates the headache that begins to pound at you. You’d allowed yourself to forget how bad it could be. 

The willpower that had just played a forefront in your mind steadily starts to trickle out, absorbed by your humiliation and the ground below. 

“You really gonna give up that easily?” 

Yes. 

You make a point to never lie to yourself. In truth, you won’t ever get enough of Miguel’s cadence. Deep and resonant – it smoulders with a charred ruggedness. Commanding attention, rumbling like distant thunder, an unmistakable authority woven into each word. Yet, even amidst the rough contours, there lingers a softness, a subtle grace that soothes the edges of his threats. 

(Sharp claws, sharp teeth, sharp cheekbones. Soft voice.)

More webs bind you, erupting from an unclear point to circle your legs, chest, and secure your arms behind your back. You’re diminished to little more than an aggravated caterpillar, ensnared in a spider’s web. And, just as his little game of bondage draws to a close, said spider stalks within view, splitting through the crowd that quickly forms around the commotion. 

With his mask on, he stands as completely impenetrable. You, on the other hand, try to reduce your quivering the best you can, afraid of relaying how truly pathetic you feel. 

“Maybe I’m biding my time.” You bite back, calling on a complete bluff. “I’m sure you know how good I am at that?” It’s a low blow. Even if you could control when and where to phase out, you wouldn’t get very far before he catches up to you again. 

But Miguel doesn’t waver in his closing in – not until he towers over you, looking down at your incapacitated state. Space buckles under the gravity of his existence; you, too, can feel yourself sinking, drawn in closer by the credence that bubbles off him in flares. You wish you had a cover – your pair of makeshift goggles, a face mask, anything that could elevate you to a degree relative to his. But you’re bare, figuratively naked, and you’ve never hated him more. 

He lingers, assessing you, weighing his options. The moment he turns to survey the mass of people who look on inquisitively, you wiggle upward into a sitting position, then throw your head forwards, aiming for his crotch. His wrist gets in the way, though, blocking your pitiful attack on his only defenceless area. Your forehead cracks against his dimensional travel watch, shattering its screen. 

“Tu puta madre!” Miguel hisses, snapping back to survey the gadget while you begin to slink away. He seems to have an eye on you, however, because you’re tugged back just as soon as you make the effort.

Like a naughty cat. You shift uncomfortably at the thought. 

“Are you gonna spend all night deciding what to do with me, then? I have plans, even if you don’t.” 

“Plans. I have plans alright.” The low timbre of his threat slices you where it hurts.

With a calculated flex of his shoulders, he crouches down, gathering the webs around your arms. They serve as leverage when he hauls you upward, exercising his muscles – of which you’d suspected had been padding up to this point – with one swift motion. The world upends on itself, nausea enveloping your senses with its oppressive weight. It allows space for little else; not the uncertainty, not the trepidation. You divert all your efforts on keeping your scarce lunch down, accepting the possibility of a concussion by product of his less-than-refined manhandling. 

The journey to wherever he takes you is not at all long enough for you to recover. Before you know it, he’s busting through the creaky door of an empty storelot, carelessly tossing you to the floor. Your vision doubles. 

Yeah. Definitely a concussion. 

Like you could afford one right now. 

“You’ll stay, and you’ll listen.” He points an accusatory finger. 

“Sure. Until I’ve had enough, that is.” 

“And where would you go, exactly?” 

“Nice try, O’hara. Like I’d tell you,” Snickering, you let your head roll to face the ceiling. The action sends you back to earlier, to the robbery you’ve been seeking to suppress. How careless you’d been, letting your fortune to date trick you into thinking that any collateral was safe too. You’d killed that woman. You. “Maybe I’ll fall right through the floor. That way, you’ll never have to worry about seeing me again.” 

The notion makes him pause mid-pace, hands on his hips, tilting his head to look at you with what you imagine is the most earnest glare. The air bobs, suspended in static tension, a crackling constant that only unravels once he seems to make up his mind. 

Marching forward, he drags you along with him to a nearby wall, upon which he then pushes you upward until you have to look down to meet his eyeline. Your bound legs kick forward, but the struggle hardly affects him. 

“I didn’t want to resort to this.” 

You assume he means treating you like a toddler does its shiny new toy, hurling you across this playpen of a city. “You really didn’t have to, then.” 

He stays quiet, fists clenching tighter around you. 

“I suppose we’re past the courtesy of letting the other recover from the last fight before starting a new one? My forearm is still fucked, thanks to you. Maybe if you’d given it some time, I would’ve proved more of a challenge today.” Your words, whilst never your most steadfast allies, betray you in lieu of this restlessness, tumbling forth with unruly incoherence.

Miguel reaches up and slips his mask off. Your mouth moves faster. 

“Okay, I get it. The fate of the multiverse and all that. I’ll listen, whatever you want, but at least try and make the lecture original.” 

His hand cups your jaw, tightening around your chin to firmly guide it upwards. Your throat stretches taut at the motion, its smooth expanse spread across the wall – an evening repast for a party of one. The imagery breaks down an all too sobering realisation into fragments small enough for you to register. His talons rest against your cheek, bordering perilously close to your waterline. 

Traces of that patchouli aftershave hit you. His skin looks especially bronzed in the dark, highlighted at the edges from the phosphorescence outside. His curls droop where they’re plastered to a sweat slicked hairline. 

You can’t help it. Your gaze flickers down to those plush lips.

Fuck. Fuck. It’d felt so good to kiss them. 

Please let this just be a kiss. 

“O-Or go with the… the usual, y’know. I don’t–” 

Miguel lunges, sinking his fangs into the fleshy sinew of your neck.

Christ.

Your jaw hangs open, but no breaths filter in. Shock wedges itself at the site of his bite, implacable, steadfast as a barrier between logic and uninhibited emotion. Your reasoning plays no part in this, provides absolutely no valuable contribution to the series of reactions you undergo. 

It’s physical, first. The cold slither of paralytic venom distends through your nerves, neurotoxins striking their functions, rendering them useless beyond the point of sensation. Which, you’d say, is the cruellest part. Miguel’s poison doesn’t stop you from feeling anything; not the puncture, nor the burn. You can truly feel it, trekking its graceful path to all muscles in your body, taking hold of the tissue, suppressing their vitality. Your back arches, your body doing its very best to fight what it cannot prevent. It cracks up your bone, down your spine. Your toes unfurl, fingers loosening to hang lamely at your side. 

And, when you lose all executive authority over yourself, you’re pulled in to centre on his mouth again. His canines slowly retract, tongue taking their place. It’s warm – so fucking warm – and dextrous, covertly lathering the blood that beads down your nape. 

Your last proper breath is wasted on a whine; a loud, keening, absolutely wanton whine. After it, you can do nothing but hold your flat inhales to cycle in as much oxygen as possible – diaphragm weak, your resolve weaker.

Miguel draws away, letting you slump to the floor, heavy and just as useless as a sack of flour. He wipes the excess carmine from his chin, kneeling to regard your glassy eyed stare. 

“Fall through now, and you’re as good as dead.” 

(You might as well already be.)

chapter four coming soon…

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I love hobie brown. I wish british people were real..

spiderman and cops. okay. intrinsically tied since the beginning. hobie mother FUCKIN brown the anarchist. gwen's dad pointing the gun at her. being the threat— not fully letting go of the goddamn gun even after she took off the mask. he, in the end, recognizing he cannot be good to her and be a cop at the same time, choosing gwen, and her, in the argument, saying "you're a good cop", saying she understands why he can't be her father instead, saying that being a good cop is not a good thing at all. he gives up his badge and saves himself by it. the narrative saves him and saves gwen too.

miguel and the centralized spider government. okay. how the scale of it and the organization around a single person take the spider people from the heroes of their own worlds to the threat in miles'. lost in the utilitarianism. and HOBIE MOTHER FUCKIN BROWN! THE ANARCHIST! not letting miguel unilaterally decide what the greater good looks like, deciding not to act in its name, deciding to act on his own perception of goodness. every spider person in the facility is indeed a spider person, but only hobie and miles act like Spider-Man. when worse comes to worse.

friendly neighborhood spiderman. spiderman as somebody supposed to exist in the small scale, in community, defiant of the complex social structures of the world. your friend. your hero. thread the needle. defy canon. listen to your gut. be there for those who matter to you. and try and try and try and try against everything against all odds because you're SPIDER-MAN YOU'RE SPIDER-MAN it's YOU and you can DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT

AAAAH