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halfvalid · 7 months

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nobody but you

ABOUT

alternate title: the jealous character trope is actually kinda fun to write

rating: teen+

characters: live action!roronoa zoro | fem!reader | live action!vinsmoke sanji | live action!straw hats ensemble

pairing: live action!roronoa zoro x fem!reader

word count: 3.5k

description: sanji flirts endlessly with you while dining at the baratie. zoro is displeased.

tags: strawhat!reader, female reader, fluff, kissing, no use of 'y/n', establishment of relationship, flirting, alcohol consumption, pda

author’s note: i got like ~5 requests to write this so here you guys go! this was a popular one lmao. the story is a vague spinoff to my other fic pretty in that, but it doesn't have to be read to understand this one.

You’d volunteered to deal with the docking fees for the Going Merry, locking up the pirate ship as the rest of the crew entered Baratie. You were just five or so minutes late entering after the restaurant the rest of the Straw Hats had gone into. You’d never seen anything like it before—an eatery right in the middle of the ocean, in the shape of a giant fish.

You stepped into the building cautiously, glancing around the wide expanse of the main room to try and catch a glimpse of your friends. The restaurant was big, with a mezzanine that you’d entered in and stairs leading down to the first floor. The host, a fishman who was standing at the reservation desk, glanced up to take a look at you.

“Ah, you must be with the pirates,” he said pleasantly. “Right this way, miss.”

You nodded, wondering how Luffy was intending on paying for the bill of such a place as you scoped out the area. It was far nicer than anything you would’ve expected—but then again, he’d somehow managed to score the Going Merry from Kaya back in Syrup Village, so you figured he’d work something out.

Finally, you caught a glimpse of the rest of your crew, tucked away in a circular side booth that the fishman led you to. Luffy brightened upon seeing you, waving you over with a hand so excitedly you feared it was about to flop around like rubber. Considering his powers, that was a more than likely situation, actually.

“Thank you,” you told the host, then turned towards your friends. “No food yet?”

“You didn’t miss much,” Usopp said, a little snicker in his voice. “Just the waiter getting our drink orders. He was flirting the heck outta Nami.”

“Oh?” you asked, a smile flickering up your lips. The only open space in the table was between Zoro and Nami—you gave Zoro a confused look, and he gestured down to his swords, which were caught in the ledge between the chair and the wall. You snickered. “Ro. You’re such a loser.”

“Shut up,” Zoro muttered, hand on your waist as you climbed over him to get to the empty seat. It stayed there for a moment longer, even after you’d arranged yourself in the seat, before he finally dropped his hand. Usopp made a face that you pointedly ignored.

“What’d you guys order?” you asked instead. If there’d been a menu available, the waiter had probably taken it away; still, there wasn’t much variety in the East Blue, so you could expect there’d be a lot of seafood and not much else.

“One of everything,” Luffy responded brightly. “So we’ll be able to try the whole menu!”

“You sure that’s a good idea, Cap?” you asked, brows raised. Luffy shrugged.

“I don’t see why not.”

“Quit it with the nickname,” Zoro muttered. Neither him or Nami had gotten any more receptive to it since you’d first started calling Luffy it. Usopp didn’t seem so keen on it either—if only because he fancied himself Captain Usopp. Luffy liked it, though, and that pleased you enough to keep using it.

“I’ll get you to start saying it eventually,” you teased, nudging Zoro in the arm. He shook his head, but there was a suggestion of a smile on his lips as he glanced away. “Just you wait.” You turned to Nami, eyes sparkling. “What about the waiter, though? Was he cute?”

Usopp laughed at that, and Nami gave you a disparaging look. “Come on,” she started. “Not you too. Zoro was all—”

The sound of footsteps cut off her speech, and you glanced up to find a lean, blond man pausing by the lip of your table. He held a silver plate, upon which perched a variety of different drinks—beers, milk, water. “Here are your drinks,” he said, voice lifting with an accent you couldn’t quite place. “And appetizers.”

He had just finished placing the last of the drinks balancing on his forearm on the table when the waiter glanced up and registered you sitting there. His expression instantly changed, the crease of his mouth softening into a pleasant smile, his previously-dull blue eyes bright and sparkling. “Well, hello there. An addition?”

“Yeah, sorry I’m late,” you said. The waiter flashed a grin, white ivories shining under the fluorescents.

“Oh, absolutely no problem. They say those who are late are fashionable, and you, madam, certainly fit the bill,” the waiter said. Your eyes widened, glancing over to Nami to find her shaking her head, but the waiter didn’t stop there. “I’m Sanji. What can I get for you to drink? We’ve got a wide selection of fine wines that might suit your taste.”

“Oh, um—” you started, glancing at the rest of your crew again. Usopp was hiding his snicker, and Nami was giving you a tired look. Assumedly this had been the man who’d tried it on her, too—to unfortunate ends, probably, considering how Nami was. Not that this would be any more effective on you. Your eye was already captured by a particular green-haired swordsman, after all. “I don’t really have anything in mind.”

Sanji looked pleased about that, clasping his hands together around his platter. “Ah, let me guess, then. A bayberry or red currant wine, perhaps? Fruity, tart, full of flavor.” he winked. “A feisty drink for a feisty girl.”

“Can’t say I’ve tried it, but sure,” you said, the faintest smile on your lips. “I’ll let you know how I like it.”

Sanji grinned, looking rather satisfied with that, a delighted little smile on his lips. “One red currant wine, then. I’ll have it right out. And would you also like to order a meal, or…” He glanced over at Luffy, presumably referencing your captain’s more-than-outrageous order. “Are you all set?”

“I think we’re set, thanks,” you assured, and Sanji nodded. He flashed you another bright smile before turning on his heel back off to the kitchen.

Usopp finally let out the laughter he’d been keeping in, choked sounds emitting from his throat as he thudded his chest with a fist. You rolled your eyes, but it was good-natured, letting Usopp laugh.

“Well, at least I’m not being singled out,” Nami said with a sigh, and you exchanged a sympathetic glance with her. She patted your hand comfortingly, then scrutinized the water Sanji had gotten her. “At least he didn’t put it in a flute.”

“Zoro, you’ve got competition!” Usopp called, still laughing from the entire ordeal. You glanced to your side, to where the swordsman sat. Zoro had stiffened sometime during the conversation, jaw clenched and arms wound tightly across his chest. He hadn’t even touched the beer that Sanji had set in front of him, eyes fixed carefully to a spot beside Luffy’s head and refusing to look over at you.

“He’s a waiter,” Zoro said crisply. “He buses tables for a living.” With that, he grabbed his bottle, popping the tab and taking a swig.

“I don’t know, man, did you see the way he took down those pirates?” Usopp turned to you, all excited again. “Oh, you missed this whole thing! Two pirates were fighting over a seat or something, and Sanji just demolished both of them! You would’ve loved it.”

“He is a really good fighter,” Luffy agreed. Their words did nothing but seem to annoy Zoro further.

“Can we not talk about the restaurant personnel? Surely you can think of more interesting topics of conversation.” His tone was sharp, and all icy, and you inched your hand closer to his leg to tap his thigh in question. He glanced down at your touch, but didn’t deign to say anything else. He just picked up his beer again, nursing it while the rest of the crew continued on with their conversation.

Despite Luffy changing the subject, Zoro didn’t speak, and you kept peeking glances over at him in concern. Your feelings for him had just continued developing ever since Syrup Village, although neither of you had reasonably talked about the closet incident since it’d happened. What with the reveal of Kuro and the escape from the marines and all, there hadn’t exactly been time to. But you’d been on good terms, and the actions he made around you—pressing a hand to your waist as you moved past him, turning towards you first mid-conversation, shoving you down when the marines had fired their first cannon at the Going Merry.

Before you could whisper to him and question what his silence was about, though, Sanji reappeared, carrying two platters filled to the brim with plates. They were laden with different types of meat and vegetables, sauces glinting under the light and hot steam still billowing.

He set the dishes on the table, somehow managing to arrange them so they all fit on the countertop. Sanji set down the last plate then turned to you, placing a glass and a bottle of dark crimson wine on the table in front of you. He had to lean over Zoro to reach, and Zoro flinched, but still didn’t say anything as Sanji uncorked the bottle and poured you a glass.

“Tell me what you think,” he said, all smiles again. “I’ll be embarrassed if it isn’t to your liking.”

You picked the glass up, swirling it carefully inside the glass before leaning down into the cup to take in a full sniff. You tilted your head back to take a small sip, moving the liquid around your mouth to fully savor the flavor before finally swallowing. The wine was sweet, light rather than rich with a delicate tartness that burst on your tongue. You glanced up just to see a giant grin had stretched up Sanji’s mouth, brightening his face up considerably.

“What?” you asked.

“Not often do I see a patron who knows how to taste wine properly,” Sanji answered with a little duck of his head. “A lady of class, I see. How do you like it?”

“Not too strong. I like the tartness,” you answered. “A good recommendation. Thank you.”

Sanji gave you a little bow, hand flourishing to the side as he dipped his head. “I live to serve.”

“Yeah, well, why don’t you serve me another beer?” Zoro said abruptly. Usopp coughed, and you could see Nami elbow him out of your peripheral vision. Luffy just looked confused.

Sanji’s face fell almost immediately after Zoro had spoken, his eyes flickering away from yours. “Of course. I’ll be right back,” he said, a tight smile at his lips. He ducked out of the booth, and Zoro let out an irritated noise, tongue flicking against from the roof of his mouth.

Usopp snorted, fully this time, and you turned to glance over at him—he and Nami were both hiding their gazes, though you could see smiles cracked along their lips.

Zoro glared at them. “Shut it.”

“Not saying anything!” Usopp said, though he half-hid behind Luffy like Zoro was going to lunge over the table to get to him. That didn’t seem… entirely unlikely, actually; Zoro’s right hand rested firmly on the handle of one of his swords, fingers ready to pull the blade at any second. You watched him out of the corner of your eye, wanting to say something. But not in front of everyone else. It wouldn’t be appropriate, you decided.

Eventually your meal wound down to an end. Zoro got less and less tense throughout it, though you were fairly certain that was due to the drinks he was having rather than any actual reassurance. Sanji, thankfully, came back with the bill in the middle of a conversation you really didn’t want to think about—Luffy and his marine grandfather was not something your mind wanted to dwell on—only for him to disappear again.

Just moments later, a man with a braided mustache came storming out of the kitchen. Luffy did some more of his Luffy nonsense, and, honestly—you were getting too tired about all of this to pay any close attention. You spared a glance over at Zoro again. His face was as blank as ever.

“Okay,” Usopp said slowly, a few delayed seconds after who’d undoubtedly been the head chef yanked Luffy out of his seat. “I’m ready to check out whatever’s outside. Let’s go.”

“What about Luffy?” you asked, perplexed.

“He’ll find his way out of that,” Nami said with a sigh. She stood up, knocking back the rest of her drink. Since she wasn’t exactly wrong, you got up, glancing over your shoulder at the last of the group that remained seated. “Zoro?”

Zoro was staring into his now-empty bottle of beer. He still seemed off, the line of his mouth creased downwards, jaw set tight. “Yeah,” he said finally, standing to his full height and slipping out of the booth. He offered you a hand, helping you down from your seat, but said nothing more.

The four of you headed out to the mouth of the Baratie fish, which boasted a bar decorated with neon lights. You found a place to sit by the fish’s bottom lip, and you turned in your seat, staring out at the sea. The water was dark with the night, peaceful ripples moving across the water that sent shimmering waves across the blue.

“I’m gonna get a drink,” Usopp said. “Come, Nami?”

“Huh?” Nami glanced up, and you turned to watch the exchange. “Oh, I’m okay, Usopp. Thanks, though.”

“No,” Usopp insisted, a smile still pasted on his face as he jerked his head, not very discreetly, in your and Zoro’s direction. Nami seemed to realize, then, eyes going wide before she got up from her seat.

“Actually, on second thought, I’ll join you,” she said, far smoother than Usopp had been. “God knows you don’t have any money to pay for a drink.”

She breezed past him, ignoring the offended gape Usopp left in her wake before he was scrambling to follow her. You turned your attention towards Zoro—he was lounging in the seat across from you, one hand on his swords with his legs crossed. “Hi,” you said carefully.

He stiffened. “Hey.”

You pursed your lips, mulling over the ways to go about the conversation before ultimately deciding to spit it out. “What’s wrong?” At his raised brow, you were prompted to continue— “During dinner. You were acting weird.”

Zoro shook his head, dropping his gaze from yours. You could see the faintest trace of freckles spattered along his cheeks, the yellow glow from the lanterns reflecting off his skin. “Nothing’s wrong. Just… the waiter.”

“The waiter,” you repeated. Zoro shifted, legs uncrossing and hand tightening around his swords again. His voice was low the next time he spoke, and you could barely hear him, having to lean forward to catch all of his words.

“He was flirting with you.”

Your breath hitched, but you tried to keep your tone casual. “He was flirting with Nami too,” you said, glancing up to meet his eyes. Zoro still wouldn’t meet your gaze, staring out into the East Blue behind you.

“That’s different.” Zoro’s eyes finally lifted, long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks as you met eyes. You shivered, gooseflesh suddenly prickling up everywhere on your skin—the back of your neck, up your spine, down your arms and legs. “I don’t like Nami.”

You tilted your head to the side, meeting his gaze. The words sent a little rush through you; a rush you got practically every time Zoro looked in your direction, actually, which was only a little bit annoying. The amount of influence a man you’d known for, comparatively, not that long had over you had you rolling your eyes all the time, but… you trusted Zoro at this point, as uncooperative as he and Nami had been throughout your entire journey.

“You’re jealous of a waiter.”

“Don’t—” Zoro sighed. “Don’t put it like that.”

“But it’s true. You’re jealous of a waiter,” you said, unblinking. Zoro rolled his eyes, teeth resting along his lower lip in an almost-bite. You snickered, tone sloping upwards to become more teasing, almost sarcastic. “How the mighty have fallen. From me practically begging you to say I looked nice in a dress to this.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Zoro said, uncrossing his legs to lean over and press his hand over your mouth. You laughed, surprised, as he leaned over you, eyes sparkling at the reaction. “Not another word.”

He removed his hand, giving you a look. You betrayed his trust almost immediately. “Of a waiter.”

“Do you want me to put the hand back?” Zoro threatened, but you were full-on laughing by now, and he couldn’t do anything but watch. The sounds escaped from your mouth, ringing out in soft, lively hiccups. He shook his head, hand falling to his side as he watched you, a ghost of a smile tugging up the side of his mouth.

“Sorry, Ro,” you said, unable to suppress your grin even as your laughter died off. “It’s a little funny, you have to admit.”

“I’d like to hear you talk if someone was flirting with me,” Zoro muttered, so quiet you could barely hear. You had to stifle another laugh.

“Okay, well, unlike you, I don’t get territorial over people I haven’t even talked about my relationship with, but I appreciate it.” You nudged him. “It’s kinda cute.”

Zoro seemed lost in the first half of your sentence, and you could practically see the cogs whirring in his head. For a moment, you were worried that the closet had been a one-time thing—but no, he’d mentioned just earlier that he liked you, so clearly something else was the matter.

Your worries were answered in just another moment. “...We’re supposed to talk about our relationship?”

“Zoro.” You gave him a look of disbelief, forced to suppress another laugh, though this time it was out of incredulity. “Yes. Have you ever dated anyone before?”

Zoro made a face at that. “Keeping that to myself, thanks.” He dropped his chin, glancing down at where you were, still leaning over you so you were forced to crane your neck to stare up at him. He tilted his head to the side. “So what kind of talking are we supposed to be doing?”

“You know, the establishment of being exclusive; a cementation of our feelings; what the relationship entails; where we want it to go…” You paused, watching as his eyes flickered down your face. Your words were going in one ear and out the other. “You’re not listening at all, huh.”

“Not really,” Zoro said, not sounding very apologetic about it. His free hand came to cup the underside of your jaw, tilting your head up just so. “Is the talking really that necessary?”

You shrugged, trying to keep your cool. “Eventually.”

“Eventually,” he repeated, stretching out the syllables of the word as he quoted you. “So we can do it another day.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to hide your smile. “What were you thinking?”

Zoro was slotting his lips over yours before you could say another word, his fingers digging into the hinge of your jaw to allow him better access. You smiled into the kiss, lips curling upwards and open to let him lick into your mouth.

It wasn’t too risqué, but Zoro took your breath away all the same, an appreciative murmur low in his throat as he kissed you. One of your hands wrapped around his wrist, tugging him insistently downwards so you could get a better angle at his mouth, sucking gently at his lower lip. He nearly stumbled, losing his center of gravity before steadying himself, one hand coming to rest on your ribcage as the kiss deepened.

“Guys!” Usopp’s voice came somewhere from the right, high-pitched and excessively scandalized. You felt Zoro scoff into your mouth.

“You realize you’re in public, right?” Nami deadpanned, plopping down in the seat next to you. You nudged Zoro’s head away, his hand still on your jaw, half-craned over your figure. Nami looked unimpressed, eyes flickering from Zoro to you and back again. “Get a room. Go back to the Going Merry for all I care.” She extended a hand, placing a mug of beer on the table before you before handing you a matching one. “I got you drinks. You’re welcome.”

“Thanks,” you said, leaning up to press one final kiss on Zoro’s lips before turning to take the glass Nami had outstretched. Usopp groaned, covering his eyes with one hand and lifting a giant cup of something with the other. It was so big you wondered how he’d even been able to carry it. You eyed him. “You’re going to pass out drinking that.”

Usopp made a face at you. You just laughed.

“Sorted out your issues with the waiter, then?” Nami asked, turning to fix a knowing look on Zoro. He rolled his eyes, effortless as ever as he settled back down into his seat.

“Still don’t like the waiter.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, and Zoro scoffed, picking up the mug Nami had gotten him. You could see the smile behind the glass rim, though, even as he clearly tried to hide it, and matched it with one of your own.

Zoro ducked his head to smile into his beer. Usopp made a gagging sound. “God,” Nami muttered, but their criticisms might as well have been deaf to your ears by then.

All you could see was Zoro.

#one piece live action #one piece netflix #opla #reader insert #x reader #opla roronoa zoro #opla zoro #roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #roronoa zoro x you #one piece live action x you #one piece live action x reader #opla fanfic #opla fanfiction #opla zoro x reader #kiki writes!

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renthony · 5 days

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In Defense of Shitty Queer Art

Queer art has a long history of being censored and sidelined. In 1895, Oscar Wilde’s novel The Picture of Dorian Gray was used as evidence in the author’s sodomy trials. From the 1930s to the 1960s, the American Hays Code prohibited depictions of queerness in film, defining it as “sex perversion.” In 2020, the book Steven Universe: End of an Era by Chris McDonnell confirmed that Rebecca Sugar’s insistence on including a sapphic wedding in the show is what triggered its cancellation by Cartoon Network. According to the American Library Association, of the top ten most challenged books in 2023, seven were targeted for their queer content. Across time, place, and medium, queer art has been ruthlessly targeted by censors and protesters, and at times it seems there might be no end in sight.

So why, then, are queer spaces so viciously critical of queer art?

Name any piece of moderately-well-known queer media, and you can find immense, vitriolic discourse surrounding it. Audiences debate whether queer media is good representation, bad representation, or whether it’s otherwise too problematic to engage with. Artists are picked apart under a microscope to make sure their morals are pure enough and their identities queer enough. Every minor fault—real or perceived—is compiled in discourse dossiers and spread around online. Lines are drawn, and callout posts are made against those who get too close to “problematic art.”

Modern examples abound, such as the TV show Steven Universe, the video game Dream Daddy, or the webcomic Boyfriends, but it’s far from a new phenomenon. In his book Hi Honey, I’m Homo!, queer pop culture analyst Matt Baume writes about an example from the 1970s, where the ABC sitcom titled Soap was protested by homophobes and queer audiences alike—before a single episode of the show ever aired. Audiences didn’t wait to actually watch the show before passing judgment and writing protest letters.

After so many years starved for positive representation, it’s understandable for queer audiences to crave depictions where we’re treated well. It’s exhausting to only ever see the same tired gay tropes and subtext, and queer audiences deserve more. Yet the way to more, better, varied representation is not to insist on perfection. The pursuit of perfection is poison in art, and it’s no different when that art happens to be queer.

When the pool of queer art is so limited, it feels horrible when a piece of queer art doesn’t live up to expectations. Even if the representation is technically good, it’s disappointing to get excited for a queer story only for that story to underwhelm and frustrate you.

But the world needs that disappointing art. It needs mediocre art. It even needs the bad art. The world needs to reach a point where queer artists can fearlessly make a mess, because if queer artists can only strive for perfection, the less art they can make. They may eventually produce a masterpiece, but a single masterpiece is still a drop in the bucket compared to the oceans of censorship. The only way to drown out bigotry and offensive stereotypes created by bigots is to allow queer artists the ability to experiment, learn through making mistakes, and represent their queer truth even if it clashes with someone else’s.

If queer artists aren’t allowed to make garbage, we can never make those masterpieces everyone craves. If queer artists are terrified at all times that their art will be targeted both by bigots and their own queer communities, queer art cannot thrive.

Let queer artists make shitty art. Let allies to queer people try their hand at representation, even if they miss the mark. Let queer art be messy, and let the artists screw up without fear of overblown retribution.

It’s the only way we’ll ever get more queer art.

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#original essays #original post #media studies #queer history #queer media #queer issues #fandom issues

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ellemj · 5 months

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Needs & Wants - Sex Pollen Trope Pt. 1

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: When you're both exposed to an unknown chemical in the field, things go from bad to worse.

Warnings: prelude to obvious smut, talk of masturbation, talk of unprotected sex, profanity, use of y/n, MINORS DNI, 18+!!!

Feel free to comment and let me know if this requires more warnings.

Word Count: 2.8k

Author's Note: Just messing around on here and seeing where I end up. I want to write an absolutely filthy part 2 but if this doesn't get anywhere I may scrap it lmao.

Every. Damn. Time. Something goes sideways every damn time. You want to blame Fury for making the two of you partners to begin with. What the hell did he see between the two of you that made him think missions would ever end in anything other than the two of you butting heads? You sigh deeply and rub your temples with the pads of your left thumb and middle finger, squeezing your eyes shut as you will yourself not to kick Bucky clear across the lab. You know what Fury saw between the two of you, and as much as you hate to admit it, when you’re in absolute life-or-death situations, you and Bucky work together better than any other partner you’ve ever had in the field. Even Nat.

Dropping your hand from your face and opening your eyes, your gaze lands on Bucky. He stands at one of the lab benchtops in the center of the room, his eyes narrowing as he examines an array of monitor screens before him. You can make out an organized table of data along with a few charts on the monitor to his left, but that’s not what draws your attention. The second monitor, the one right in front of him, displays a few words that have you on edge.

Confirmed nitric oxide stimulant capabilities. New formula contains increased quantity of aqueous extract of dried tuberous roots of C. borivilianum.

Shit. This can’t be what you think it is, but with your medical background and your old medical microbiology classes from before joining SHIELD and the Avengers, you know that there’s a very slim chance that you’re misinterpreting what you’re reading. You step forward now, gently pushing Bucky’s arm to move him away from the monitors so you can get a better look at the data. He begins snapping pictures and immediately sending them back to the team. You can feel his eyes on you as you study the graphs and tables. He’s not used to you being this quiet, he knows something’s up.

“What are we looking at?” He finally speaks up, his gaze drawn to the colorful graph displayed on one of the monitors.

“I don’t know.” You lie straight through your teeth, reaching for the keyboard that controls the monitors. You press the right-facing arrow key and the page that said something about nitric oxide disappears, quickly replaced being replaced by a row of video clips, each one titled with a trial number and date. It looks like HYDRA was running trials in this experiment for months.

“Bullshit. Why won’t you tell me what it is?” Bucky asks. His tone is sharp, impatient. He isn’t used to being the one who doesn’t know what’s going on, and it’s bothering him. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek and waits in silence for you to say something, to say anything. You hover the cursor over the first video clip, dated three months ago from today, Trial #1. Everything in you is screaming not to watch it, not to click on it and confirm your suspicions, but you’re here for a reason. You have an easy job here today: break into the HYDRA facility, collect samples and any data that goes along with what they’ve been working on for the past few months, and then destroy the facility on your way out. Sam and Torres planned it out so perfectly, making sure it would be vacant for the next 13 hours so you and Bucky could slip in and get the job done under the radar. They planned it for two months, doing recon and coming up with contingency plan after contingency plan. You need to confirm your suspicions and get as much evidence as possible before blowing the place to bits.

You glance over your shoulder at Bucky, and his blue eyes meet yours with a hint of concern. He hates when you’re quiet like this, he hates those rare moments in the field when he can’t read your mind. What the hell are you thinking? What aren’t you telling him? He knows you well enough to know that you’re nervous about whatever you’re seeing here.

You click the video link and a slightly grainy image of a padded square room fills the screen. The floor and walls are gray and there isn’t any furniture in the room, only what looks to be a set of shackles on the back wall. A shiver runs down your spine and you pull your phone out, typing up a message to Bruce Banner while you wait for something to happen on screen.

You: A chemical compound that stimulates NO and uses aqueous extract of C. borivilianum…is it going to be what I think it is?

As your message sends, Bucky reaches around you, his chest brushing against your back, and he uses the mouse to fast forward the video until people are appearing on screen. You watch as presumably a HYDRA agent shoves a woman into the room, obviously an unwilling participant in the experiment. She doesn’t fight much as she’s placed in the shackles on the wall, but it’s obvious that she’s weak and likely drugged. The HYDRA agent briefly steps out of view of the camera, before returning with a second captive, a man this time. He’s large, muscular, and has a dark look in his eye. You feel Bucky stiffen up behind you, realizing at the same time as you that this man is a super soldier. Your phone vibrates in your hand and you steal a look at the response from Banner.

Banner: Yes.

Fuck. The next two minutes of the video are pure horror, even though nothing particularly horrific happens before you slam your hand down on the spacebar, pausing the clip abruptly. You both watched on as a cloudy vapor was pumped into the room through vents, and then watched on as the super soldier became more and more restless, sweaty, and crazed. As soon as the female captive began whimpering and pulling against her shackles, with her eyes trained on the super soldier a few feet to her left, you couldn’t let the video play any longer.

“Tell me what it is.” Bucky says evenly from behind you. You swallow hard and reach into one of the pockets of your tactical pants, pulling out a device similar to a USB and plugging it into the computer before you. As all of the data and video clips begin to transmit through the device, back to Sam and Torres, you turn around and face your partner.

“HYDRA hasn’t been able to recreate the super soldier serum. They haven’t made any progress at all since Zemo killed Dr. Nagel.” You say slowly, choosing your tone and words carefully. You don’t want to say too much and leave Bucky as terrified as you are right now, but you also know you can’t keep this from him. Not when you need him to understand how fucking careful you’re both going to have to be from now until the end of this mission.

“I know that. What are we here for, y/n?” His tone is growing more and more impatient, his jaw ticking as he stares down at you. God, he can’t ever just shut up and listen. You put your hand on his chest, shoving him a few steps back and walking across the lab, to the glass refrigerator in the far corner. It’s full of vials of a clear liquid, each sealed at the top and marked with a label full of scientific terms.

“They got desperate, and turned to even more barbaric methods of creating super soldiers. They started experimenting with chemical compounds that induce a primal need in those exposed.” You explain carefully. You pause now, turning to look back at Bucky once more. You see realization spread across his face and he quickly comes to understand what you’re saying. It’s a fucking sex pollen.

Static crackles in your in-ear briefly before Sam’s voice reaches you both.

“Banner and Stark just finished reviewing some of the data you shared. This is not something that either of you want to be exposed to.” Sam advises, and you can hear Torres in the background typing away on a keyboard.

“Yeah, no shit.” You mutter, retrieving a pair of nitrile gloves from a box on the benchtop nearby and setting up the small lockbox that you brought for samples. You open it to reveal a padded interior, with enough room for three vials. The rest will have to be destroyed.

“Just grab the samples, rig the place to blow, and get the hell out of there. I don’t want you in there any longer than you have to be.” Sam’s orders spur Bucky into action, and he starts setting up explosives around the corners of the lab while you get ready to retrieve the samples from the fridge. If only you’d known that HYDRA was one step ahead.

It happened so fast that you didn’t even have time to try to protect yourself. The moment that you pulled open the small door to the fridge full of samples, that same cloudy vapor you saw in the video clip began to rush in from every air vent in the lab.

“Shit.” You mumble, reaching into the fridge and grabbing three vials. You quickly place them into the lockbox and seal it, knowing that you’ll definitely need samples to test now that you’ve both been exposed.

“Sam, we’ve got a problem.” Bucky is as calm as ever, though his voice comes out slightly annoyed. Of course he’d sound annoyed in this moment. He’s been exposed to a sex pollen alongside the partner that he can only get along with when they’re staring death right in the face. He heaves a weighty sigh before stalking over to you and snatching the lockbox from the benchtop. He quickly slides his backpack off, shoving it inside, and then heading for the exit, without checking to see if you’re on his heels or not. You strip off your gloves and bound after him. The gravity of the situation hasn’t hit either of you yet, but oh, it will soon enough.

Bucky weaves his motorcycle in and out of traffic almost recklessly, with your arms clutched around his abdomen. It’s only been fifteen minutes since you were both exposed but you swear that you’re starting to feel the effects. Your cheeks are hot and flushed under your helmet, your hands are shaking as adrenaline courses through your veins, and your heart is racing. If you hadn’t been on the back of a motorcycle with Bucky so many times in the past, you would’ve chalked your symptoms up to this experience, but it’s definitely not that.

“Loosen up, are you trying to do the Heimlich on me or something?” Bucky spits out, his voice playing in your helmet. You do as he says, loosening your hold and taking a deep breath in. You don’t say anything in response, which furthers the tension between you both. It’s been fifteen minutes of stressful silence and Bucky’s losing his damn mind. He wants you to give him shit like you usually would when a mission goes sideways. He wants you to lash out, tell him to stop driving like an ass, he wants you to say anything so he knows you’re okay. He can’t fucking stand the silence.

He guides the bike down the long dirt road to the safe house you stayed in last night, and you hop off before he’s even put the kickstand down. He watches as you rush up the steps of the small cobblestone house, yanking off your helmet in one swift movement before you key the code into the door and force it open. You’re feeling the effects of the chemical pulsing through your veins, you’re feeling it and you’re trying to keep it from him.

“It’s a very complex compound. A nitric oxide stimulant, utilizing both natural and man-made components. It’s basically a super soldier version of Viagra and ecstasy all in one.” Bruce says, addressing both you and Bucky through the video call. Concern and stress are etched into his soft features as he stands in the lab of the Avengers compound, his arms crossed and glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “You’re going to have to look out for the negative effects, which from the video clips of their experiments, are extremely strong. Take the side effects of ecstasy and multiply their intensity by a hundred.”

“So, sweating, hypertension and tachycardia, jaw pain…” Your voice trails off as you list off the side effects of ecstasy that you know from your previous pharmacology classes. Bruce nods slowly.

“Basically, you’ll feel like you’re having a heart attack, unless you’re able to relieve yourselves.” He summarizes.

“What do you mean relieve yourselves?” Bucky questions. He’s seated on the couch next to you, his brow is furrowed and a sheen of sweat is becoming apparent along the side of his neck. You try not to look at him for too long, already feeling yourself longing for touch and physical contact of any kind.

“If you’re able to achieve a postcoital state, you should have temporary relief of your symptoms. You might have to achieve that state more than once, until the chemical is out of your system.” You can almost hear the wheels turning in Bucky’s head as he works out what postcoital means. You have to reach an orgasm to feel any relief, but bless Banner for trying to put it in a more professional way.

“Have you tested the half-life of the chemical yet?” You ponder, wanting to know exactly how long you’ll both be suffering through this. You wipe a bead of sweat from your brow with the back of your hand.

“Yeah, it seems like it can last anywhere from eight to ten hours in a non-super soldier, but it was designed specifically to work in conjunction with the serum, so it lasts eight to twelve hours in a super soldier.” Bruce’s words are starting to jumble together in your head, adding to the slightly throbbing headache that’s forming behind your eyes. You squeeze them shut and rub your temples just like you did in the lab earlier, zoning out as Tony and Bruce both start discussing the pharmacokinetics behind the compound currently wrecking your body.

“What are our options here?” Bucky asks quietly, directing his question to you alone. You turn to look at him and see his cheeks flushed like yours now, his pupils dilated a minute amount, and his hands clasped together over his knees. There’s no hiding that it’s affecting you both now.

“I don’t know. The only thing I can think to do is lock ourselves in different rooms and try to ride it out.” You say, rubbing your aching thighs through your tactical pants with the palms of your hands. Your bones are starting to hurt in a deep, consuming way, and all you want to do is give yourself a few doses of propofol to knock yourself out for the next eight hours. It’s going to be hell trying to get through this without having sex, especially if pain is setting in only an hour after the initial exposure.

“Okay, so we do that. We each lock ourselves in a bedroom and fight it.” Bucky sounds sure and resolved, like he has total faith that your only plan available will work out fine. All it took to bring out his optimistic side was being doused with a sex pollen and stuck in a safe house.

“I want to monitor both of your vitals through the night.” Bruce calls out, gaining your attention again.

“No.” You and Bucky both speak firmly at the same time, quick to reject the idea. You don’t need a medical record showing how aroused you end up being tonight, you don’t need Bruce or any of the SHIELD lab staff watching your heart rate increase as you touch yourself, watching your blood pressure spike as you near your climax alone. Bucky is thinking the same thing, shit, his heart rate is probably already through the roof as it is, just from sitting next to you. He tries to focus on whatever else you, Bruce, and Tony are discussing but his jaw is clenched in pain and he’s fighting the urge to rip off his tactical suit right there. It feels like it’s fucking ninety degrees inside. The only thing he catches in the last bit of the conversation is from Tony.

“There’s a chance you won’t find any relief in an orgasm alone, Y/n. Bucky will, because his body won’t know the difference between finishing himself off vs. finishing inside of a fertile woman, but this compound is meant to make your reproductive system go into overdrive. You won’t feel relief until your body thinks it has a chance of reproducing, until semen is introduced into your system.”

“Fuck.” You inhale sharply, doubling over in pain both at Tony’s unfortunate conclusion and at the cramping sensation you’ve suddenly felt deep in your stomach. Fucking hell.

Next Part

#bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic #sex pollen #the winter soldier #winter soldier #mcu #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel

2K notes · View notes

roseykat · 7 months

Text

KINKTOBER DAY 1

Title: Same coin, different faces

PAIRING: Bang Chan x Reader

WARNING: minors DNI with this post or my blog. I create NSFW SKZ related content and I know I won’t be able to regulate/monitor every single potential interaction with those posts so please do not engage with my work and page whatsoever.

SUMMARY: Despite not being together with Chan anymore, you somehow end up in the back of his car...fogging up the windows.

TAGS: pre-established breakup trope, swearing, a dash of angst but also a hint of resolve, mentions of alcohol (neither the reader nor Chan is drunk), a bit of manhandling by both parties, oral sex (reader receiving), car sex, unprotected, sort of hate/rough sex.

MASTERLIST - KINKTOBER LIST

(This is currently unedited but I will be proofing it later on)

It wasn’t as fun as you had hoped it to be, a party that is. Given it was the end of the semester, people usually prefer to go all out - which they did, but you weren’t feeling it. There were far too many people off of their faces, including your entire friend group that you showed up with.

Two of them were playing drinking games in the kitchen, one of them - Minho, who had completely disappeared for the past few hours, and another one who had found himself someone to hook up with.

In the end, you were on your own for the remainder of the party. After having found a way into the lounge through the masses of people attending and remained on the couch, watching those around you for a while, you decided to get back up and grab a drink. There wasn’t an entire selection to choose from; either warm beer or cheap wine, which you grab from the latter and pour some in a plastic cup to try and fit in with everyone else.

The briny taste of the wine was enough to make you think that maybe it was time to go home. It wasn’t fun, interesting, nor a good way to spend your time on a Friday night. Before being able to make the decision to leave, you find yourself planted on the ground when your eyes catch onto a familiar figure amongst the people.

Chan. Your ex-boyfriend - your ex-best friend at that too.

It was a surprise to see him given that he isn’t really a party goer, but also a surprise to see him in general after the pair of you went through such a tumultuous breakup a month ago. Things just didn’t work out the way they were supposed to which was unfortunate because Chan is one of a kind.

There isn’t anybody like him that exists in this world. He’s gentle, caring, and has a bottomless well of love to give. Now that you’re not together anymore, you know that whoever he ends up with in the future is well taken care of.

“Hi,” Chan says, walking up to you.

“Hey,” you respond back, unsure of how to actually talk to him now. “What are you doing here?”

Chan sighs, looking at the screen of his phone momentarily then turning his attention back to you, “trying to find Minho. I’m here to pick him up, but I can’t find him. Is he here?”

“I haven’t seen him for the past couple of hours,” you answer. “I highly doubt he’s actually here still.”

He sighs and rolls his eyes, “course he’s not.”

“He probably went to Jisung’s at some point,” you add.

“Yeah, that makes sense,” he replies before his eyes peer down at the plastic cup. “Drinking? That’s not like you.”

“It’s the end of the semester,” you say in your own defence. “I was trying to finish off strong.”

“Right. Have you got a ride home then?”

Your eyes dart beyond Chan to ‘your ride home’ who has probably now consumed half of his body weight in alcohol. Chan catches your gaze, turns around and sees Seungmin throwing back another shot with a couple of strangers, presumably his classmates.

Chan sighs once more and faces you again, “don’t tell me he was supposed to sober drive.”

“He won’t be now,” you respond.

“Okay well, I can drop you off. Minho’s not replying and he’s probably not here, plus I’m getting tired,” he offers.

You ponder for a moment. Since Chan had come up to you, you hadn’t felt that sting of pain that a breakup usually induces. Not since the day you both called it quits on the relationship. But that’s only because things were never awkward with him. It’s only until now that you realise how depleting life has been without him. It’s not colourful anymore.

It’s an issue because you don’t want to be reminded of what you don’t have anymore. Sometimes, the best things can be the worst for us.

“It’s okay, thank you though,” you decline respectfully. “I might tell the others to get ready to head off.”

“And who’s going to drive them? You?” He asks with a brow raised then shakes his head with disapproval. “You’ve been drinking.”

“Not that much,” you retort. “I’m not even tipsy, plus I don’t want to leave them behind.”

“Seems like they left you behind,” Chan points out a very good point which you find hard to not be in denial about.

He takes the plastic cup out of your hand and places it on the nearest surface cluttered with other discarded items. He then returns back to you to gently take hold of your wrist and leads you out of the lounge full of people.

“Wait-”

“I’m not letting you drive under the influence, end of story,” he decides.

With that matter in hand, you’re quickly reminded that Chan has always had a strong head on his shoulders and his morals are very clear cut. He held reasonably strong opinions on doing unnecessarily dangerous things, particularly when it comes to you. It happened to be one of the poisonous factors that pierced the final dagger into the relationship.

The cold air then hits you when you both make it out into the front yard.

“I can walk thank you,” you say to Chan who forgets that he’s still holding your wrist. He looks down at his hand and releases.

“Sorry,” he apologises. “Car’s this way.”

He leads you once more just across the street to the vehicle while you think about the fact that you never actually agreed you were going to accept his offer to take you home. In saying that, there was no other alternative other than walking which Chan wouldn’t have put up with anyway.

The pair of you hop in his car, finally able to catch a break from the blaring music that was blasting throughout the house. After both of your seatbelts are on, Chan starts the car and drives away down the street.

It’s not long until silence falls quickly. Things had never been this terribly awkward between you both, but there had been pockets of quietness which used to be comfortable to sit in. Now you can see that it’s not as nice.

“So what have you been up to these days?” Chan asks out of the blue, breaking that silence.

“Nothing interesting I guess,” you answer blandly. “Just studies and that’s it.”

He nods, “how’s that going so far?”

“Fine, I suppose.”

Chan lets out a small huff, “you know, it’s still okay for us to talk right? We don’t need to be so hostile.”

The glow of your phone from your lap catches your attention away from his comment. You blink down at the screen and read a text from Felix.

Lix: ‘Saw you leave with Chan. Please tell me you’re both back on.’

You roll your eyes. You love Felix, but sometimes he can be too optimistic. There wasn’t any way you and Chan were going to find your way back to each other. If anything, it wouldn’t be the same anymore.

“I wasn’t being hostile, plus there’s not much to my answer anyway unless you want me to lie?” You respond back.

“No, I don’t want you to lie,” Chan adjusts his tight grip on the steering wheel. “But you speaking just proves my point on why we shouldn’t act like that.”

You turn your head, shooting him a well-deserved glare. This isn’t usually how Chan acts. He never says backhanded things as such even though he can be relatively blunt. Whatever subtle malice was behind his words obviously came from the same place that helped the relationship tear apart.

“This is why we never worked out because you always had to have some degree of control,” you scoff, ignoring the fact that you’ve now doused the flicker of the argument with petrol.

“I was only doing what I though was safest for you,” Chan argues back strongly. “It was never about having any type of control, it was because you couldn’t see what the consequences were.”

“Then why couldn’t you have let me figure it out for myself? How else am I supposed to learn, when you’re not here anymore?”

“You, driving drunk isn’t something that you just learn not to do. You don’t do it, full stop. Anyone with common sense knows that,” Chan bites back.

“I’m not even talking about that! When have I ever driven drunk? Now you’re just fucking reaching for things! All I’m saying is that it didn’t matter how much time I spent with you, I never got to be my own person. It was like I was turning into another ‘you’.”

Chan shrugs, “in comparison to what you can be like sometimes, I honestly don’t think that’s so much of a bad thing.”

The last nerve inside you, had been struck.

“Stop the car, I’m getting out.”

“No, we’re nearly at your h-”

“I don’t care Chris, I seriously don’t want to be anywhere near you right now,” you cut him off sharply, not wanting to hear another word come out of his mouth.

Chan looks over at you, absorbing how painfully angry you look right now and the fact that your hand is on the door handle, ready to bolt as soon as he pulls over. It was fairly obvious because once he did, you were out of the vehicle before he could say anything more. But as fast as you are out the door, Chan is already on the other side to meet you.

“Don’t go home angry,” he says urgently.

You shoot him a dirty look, thinking who the hell is he to tell you what to do, “or what?”

“Well can we at least talk then?” He questions, trying to grasp onto some common ground here.

With as much force as you can muster, your arms come up to shove Chan by the chest, “fuck you.”

He stumbles back a few steps and is not as nearly as surprised as you are by your own behaviour. Never has anyone elicited as much of a reaction from you until now. The shock has you to the point where you can barely assemble an apology to Chan. Even so when he comes back forward, grabbing you by the sides of your arms, and shoving you right back against his own car.

Before either of you say another word, his mouth crashes straight against yours. His swift hands are quickly groping and roaming in every place around your body that he can reach while you submit to his moves. You’ve forgotten how electrifying Chan can be at times when it comes to intimacy, that you really start to feel it when he slides his knee in between your thighs.

You gasp against his lips, yelping almost when his hands reach behind you to squeeze your ass and to try to bring your body as impossibly close to his as he can. For a split second, you break away to consolidate what is happening. Chan remains latched onto you, his mouth now working its way to your jaw and down to your throat, sucking and biting into your skin.

Neither of you care about whether or not he’s going to mark you up. All you care about at this point in time, is the hope that he’s going to fuck you.

“The door…open the door,” you mumble to him, even though you’re trying to find the handle yourself.

Even with the unshakeable frame of mind that he’s in right now, Chan listens to you. He pulls you forward with him so that he can yank the backdoor open. You hop onto the seat, pushing yourself backwards to the other side of the car to create room for him to join you. But Chan had his own idea planted already.

He grabs you by the ankles and pulls you right back to the edge of the seat closest to him. His hands take pride in reaching underneath your skirt and tearing your underwear down your legs.

He doesn’t even get the opportunity to fully take them off as they dangle on one leg. In saying that, it doesn’t take you very long to click onto what he wants to do. So you help him by doing your best to hike your skirt further up your thighs. Chan decides to take a few seconds to appreciate being able to relive this moment once more by using his thumb to swipe over your wet slit, collecting your juices only to bring it up to his mouth and suck it right off.

“Fucking missed this,” he speaks for the first time in about five minutes before lifting both of your legs and separating them for his head to slot in perfectly between.

The fan of his hot breath washes over your skin, already making your squirm forward towards his mouth. It’s been a long time since someone had touched you and Chan could tell. He knows how needy you can be, but not when you’re like this. Not when you’re straining to reach for the back of his head to pull him closer to your pussy. Not when you’re already moaning when he’s barely touched you.

Not when you’re wetter than what he usually thinks you are.

“Y-Yes…right there,” you sigh out and lie back down, waiting eagerly.

One of your hands threads through his dark hair and tugs every time he sucks on your clit. Shivers of pleasure reverberate throughout your body, already making your legs tremble on his shoulders. If anyone were to drive past, you know you and Chan would get done for public indecency. Except that devious consequence became an elicit far away thought drowned out by your own moans the more Chan continued to eat you out.

The best thing about it is that he’s not going easy on you. He’s being deceptively rough by digging his nails into your thighs and showing zero remorse when he relentlessly licks over that same sweet spot. The more work he puts into trying to make you cum, the harder he gets in his pants, straining at this point.

“P-Please Chan, hurry,” you cry out, trying to sit up and slide down further into his mouth. “Need to cum, please.”

When your begging and moaning become increasingly louder and more frequent, Chan knows you’re on the cusp of an orgasm. However, as much as he used to enjoy you cumming on his face, the idea of you cumming on his cock is just as good, if not better. So just as you’re about to tip over the edge, Chan pulls back.

You blink in amongst the haziness of what was about to be a mind shattering orgasm to see Chan who’s head had lifted up from in between your legs. His mouth and chin were covered in your juices, and is completely unashamed about it.

“You can just fucking wait,” he snaps and begins to adjust your legs so that he makes sure they cage his body at his sides, that way he can grab onto your thighs and fuck you hard and steady.

Although you can barely see, you hear the zipper to his pants open before he takes out his cock, hard and ready to put it to use on you. You bite down on your bottom lip when Chan uses his tip to tease your entrance. He pushes his hips forward, enough to make his cock slide up and in between your pussy.

Chan’s shaky hand manages to get a proper hold around his dick, aligning it with your wet hole, and slowly pushes in as the heat begins to encapsulate around his length. The top half of his body nearly falters forward if it weren’t for his hips that thrust forward first.

“Chris…” you mutter in an aspirated voice, feeling the fullness of his cock stretch you out.

There is no forewarning for the strength he has behind each buck of his hips. It takes you back to times before during your relationship and how deliciously memorable the sex always was. Chan’s main priority was to always make you cum first and regardless of his own needs and pleasure. Whether you misbehaved or were being an outright undeserving brat in bed, even then he would still let you cum. That’s how much he loved you.

“Nobody can ever fuck you the way I do,” Chan grits his teeth, his eyes watching his cock disappear inside of you each time he rams forward, hard and fast.

Every second that goes by, you’re grappling more and more onto your last threads of sanity. It’s hard to keep up and absorb Chris’s stamina and pace - a relentless and unapologetic pace that hits the same spot inside you over and over again until that build up of pleasure starts spreading around your lower abdomen.

“Make me feel…so good,” you mumble incoherently. “Gonna make me cum.”

It’s been a long time since Chan has heard you say those words - hell, even heard you moan at the very least. It’s enough to keep his pace steady but he’s very wary of the fact that he himself is already near the edge of an orgasm too. Nonetheless, he’s determined to get you there first once more.

So Chan lets go of one of your legs at his side so that he can use his thumb to now rub fast circles over your clit. Your hands grip at the hem of your skirt, back arching as you start submitting to the crest of intense pleasure Chan has built up for you. Then within seconds, Chan has you cumming hard around his cock, shuddering, and straining his name out of your mouth as it rings throughout his car.

“Fuck, baby…” he groans as his head tips back before he starts spilling white inside of you.

His hips stutter finally, gently slowing down to a leisurely pace while he drowns in the afterglow from one of the most transcendent orgasms he’s ever had. He gives you both time to come down before he carefully slides out of you. It takes you a while to fully fathom what just happened, but you allow yourself to think about it. Whatever it is, it’s not regret. There’s a longing feeling there, a borderline sense of relief.

Once Chan is decent, he helps you slide your underwear back on even though you’re both fully aware of the fact that he just came inside you. It’s not like either of you were prepared for this to happen. In saying that, Chan gently takes hold of both your hands and gets you to sit up.

“You okay?” he questions, using his finger to hook some of your messed hair out of your face.

You nod, “yes. You?”

“I’ve been worse,” he answers, making you smile. “I’m really sorry for what I said earlier.”

You shake your head, “I’m sorry as well for being so stubborn. I figured that the more hostile I am towards you, the more I push myself away so that I don’t have to deal with any feelings from before.”

Chan completely gets it, “I know. I thought I could do the same, but it seems that I’m too nice.”

You roll your eyes, “you’ve had your moments.”

“I definitely have,” he replies. “Anyway, we should go in case anybody just saw that.”

A bashful sense of embarrassment washes over you. It’s been minutes before you realised that you just fucked your ex. But even so, it doesn’t really feel that way. It’s just Chan, someone who you still have a lot of love for.

“You can stay at mine, it’s late,” you suggest to him.

Chan smiles softly, “as if I’m going to say no.”

A/N: Yes, I am a day late already to Kinktober - I just realised bc my dumb ass was trying to figure out time zones and when would be the best time to upload for people bc I’m quite some hours ahead from other countries. So I’ll just stick to my time zone, that way you’ll get my works a few hours earlier x

KINKTOBER TAGLIST: @mal-lunar-28 @fairy-lixie @dreamingaboutjisung @lizzetmv @luneskies 🩷🩷

#rosiewritesskz #stray kids smut #skz smut #bang chan smut #kinktober

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ghost-proofbaby · 10 months

Text

twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

HOUR EIGHTEEN

in which eddie shows you deftones, texts are missed and calls are answered, and lines are crossed once more for good measure.

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, light dry humping?, upside down does not exist, minors dni

→ wc: 4k+

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

◁ previous part, next part▷

18:00 ─────────────ㅇ── 24:00

Steve-O: rise and shine, campers! time to get back at it with these wellness checks. gonna need some proof you two are still alive.

HOUR EIGHTEEN - 9:00 AM

Eddie’s eyes narrow in concentration at your phone as his thumbs fly across the screen, navigating the Spotify app with ease to find the Deftones song he specifically wants. He doesn’t do as you had and go to their artist page – he searches with purpose, in no mood to scroll through albums to find the song he’s looking for.

“I still don’t understand how you can type so fast,” you mumble, watching with fascination that you try to tamper down with faux boredom, “Even I can’t type that fast, and I own the damn thing.”

He doesn’t even glance up as he scrolls along the screen, finding the song and clicking on it, “I’m just good with my fingers.”

There it goes. The air from your lungs, once again vacating the premises as he freezes beside you.

It isn’t fair. An internal whine that nearly works itself up your throat and out your mouth, making you want to stomp your feet like a child. You hadn’t even recovered from the casual drop of baby yet. And now he’s going to just say that?

“Oh, God, I-” he’s looking up finally, eyes wide and stuttering with embarrassment, “Fuck, I swear to God, I did not mean that as an innuendo.”

You open your mouth. You close it. You repeat the process. You’re fucking speechless and it’s a little bit embarrassing.

“I’m serious!” he persists when you don’t reply, and only stare at him in continued shock, “Seriously! I- Fuck, I was referring to with my job. At the autoshop. I’m- Fuck,” he cuts his explanation off, dragging a hand over his face and falling back into the couch, “Kill me. Kill me now, please – and be sure to make it quick and painless, pretty please.”

You finally laugh. It’s a bit choked, a bit strangled, but it instantly has Eddie lowering his hand.

“I think if we were going to kill each other, Munson, it would have happened hours ago,” you try to tease him, but something about the sentiment comes out far softer than you intended. Like it’s not a joke. Like, in your own odd way, you’re trying to whisper a truth to him – everything has changed for me now.

“Probably,” he sighs, relaxing a bit and leaning back beside you as he looks to the phone once more and clicks on a song, “Proba-fucking-ly.”

For the first two songs, there is a distance to be kept between the two of you. You peek at the screen and catch the titles – Cherry Waves and Sextape – and make a mental categorization of which one you enjoy more. You nearly audibly snort at Sextape, but manage to keep your immature humor to yourself. You prefer Cherry Waves, anyways.

The songs that follow become a bit of a blur. Because for the first two, the distance existed. You can focus on the guitar and the vocals and the bass drum and everything except the man sitting beside you. But then song three comes on.

Fucking song three. You don’t catch the name, but it might be your favorite yet. Or you might be biased.

Because it’s during this third song that something changes. Eddie is no longer content in just leaning back beside you, in letting you consume the new music in a sort of solitude that was impressive to achieve when not actually alone. You first notice his restlessness in the bounce of his knee, shaking beside yours as he finally puts the phone down on the coffee table rather than balanced on his thigh. You don’t comment on it, you let it slide. You faux indifference. But then, the flexing of his hand starts.

It’s odd. Sure, plenty of people mess with their hands in relation to nerves, but you’ve never seen it happen like that before. The slow stretch of him pushing his fingers to their limits before retracting them, bending his knuckles as he tucks the tips in. The veins along the top of his hand popping exceptionally.

“I’m just good with my fingers.”

I fucking bet he is.

You curse yourself for the warmth that burns in the pit of your stomach. Focus. You should be focusing on the music, on taking in what he’s sharing with you.

Not on his hands. Specifically his fingers, and how good they’d feel-

Fucking stop it. Cut it out. No.

It takes an ungodly amount of willpower for you to look away, but you manage it. Unfortunately, what you don’t manage to do is ignore the bouncing of his leg. You don’t manage to extinguish that burning that he’s begun in you — a fire started from his kindle.

Impulsive. Impulsive, and a little stupid, and endlessly daring. That’s what it is when you finally reach out a hand to land on his knee midsong.

The shaking immediately ceases, and you take over the soothing motions as you let your thumb initially rub in arcs against the side of his thigh. With each strum of the guitar that rings out, you let your thumb complete its semicircle motion. With each pounding of drums, you give a gentle squeeze. He doesn’t say a word about it, and neither do you. Especially when he drops his hand over yours, wiggling his fingers between yours with the failure of a casual grace. You try not to smile as you flip your hand and let him properly intertwine them.

Flexing, but this time, it’s to squeeze your palm to his. You still think about those goddamn fingers.

“So, what do you think so far?” Eddie asks after he clears his throat.

“They’re good,” you nod, finding yourself shuffling subconsciously closer to him now that he’s gripping onto your hand, “Really good.”

“I’m just good with my fingers.”

You know that he’s more than just good. Just like Deftones, you’d dare say he’s really good.

The song switches, and both of you have scooted close enough to one another that your thighs press together. Shoulder to shoulder, sharing enough space to feel his breath on the side of your bare neck.

His grip on your hand tightens.

You want the opposite. You suddenly want his hand to detach from yours and to find home on your cheeks, hands on either side of your face before he’s pulling you into him, throwing caution and formality to the wind. You two have already crossed that line; why was it so hard to take that leap once more?

The song is still playing. You don’t recognize the tinny guitars that are on the loop of repeating the same notes, an echo effect of sorts layered over them.

It’s just the guitar. And suddenly, the rasps of Eddie’s breaths are something your acutely aware of. Like he’s closer, like he’s letting his head tilt even closer to you. You feel that heat transferring between your biceps that are smashed together, not even thin layers of t-shirt or the sleeve of the crew neck able to stop it.

It all happens suddenly.

The guitar pauses and Eddie’s hand loosens in yours. Your heart races, and you realize you’re preparing yourself for what he’s doing before he’s even sprung into action.

Kiss me, the sigh you let out whispers.

It’s answered by the song, and by Eddie. A combination of the two that you can’t differentiate.

The silence in the song is cut off by whimpers. One from the lead singer on the track, one from Eddie. Both breathy, both shakey, both whispering of the loss of control.

“Fuck it.”

Two words. He says those two words again as his warning before he lets go of your hand and is reaching up, shifting your two bodies impossibly quick as his hands do exactly as you had craved. One on each cheek, and then he does it.

He kisses you.

It is neither kind nor gentle, despite the allusion that it might have been from the way he cradles your cheeks. The callouses on his fingers scrape your cheeks, you can feel every crack in his bottom lip as it slots between your own. It’s easy and quick work, the way your mouths can mold together so effortlessly. Tongues that were once so sharp as they’d spit venomous words at once another now meet and pass over teeth, blurring the lines of where you end and he begins — of where hatred ended and this began.

Whatever it is, whatever it will be for these last few hours, whatever it will be once the clock runs out, you’re grateful. You, your vinery, your civility — they all scream their prayers of thanks as his hands drop from your cheeks and find your hips. You don’t even process that he’s tugging you onto his lap or that you’re letting him until it’s happened. Your thighs bracket his own hips, and he gives you no time before he’s pressing your full weight into him, hands clawing at you, desperate to keep you close.

You can’t even hear the song anymore over the roar of your own heart.

“Baby,” he murmurs against your mouth, and you realize now what the price is.

The price is your sanity. The price is a loss of control, and letting him consume you whole. A small price in the grand scheme of it all.

“I-“ you start a sentence that you have no idea of what the ending would be, but he interrupts with his mouth. The teeth your tongue had once met bite down on your lip and you swear you taste blood, swear you see crimson as he sighs out again into your open mouth.

His hands guide your hips against his. A steady rhythm, and with only a few passes, you can feel him harden against you. Your pace picks up of your own doing, the friction of your panties and his pajama pants nudging your clit and leaving you breathless.

What the fuck are we doing?

You should stop it. You should mind the delicate balance you two have been trying to achieve since you first crossed this line.

You only push down harder on him, only bite down on his lip as he had yours. This time, blood might have honestly been drawn — the hiss that escapes him says it all.

“You’re going to be the fucking death of me,” he chastises you between kisses, “You want to know what was fucking wrong earlier? You. You are driving me insane, you are driving me straight into the fucking grave.”

Oh.

The way he had leapt up. His nervous energy. The way he had put as much space between the two of you as possible.

“I affect you that much?”

It is not a confident question — you completely pull away from him, leaning back as you breathe it out, hands finding home on his shoulders as you survey him.

He’s being honest.

His pupils are wide but those brown, doe eyes have softened as they meet your gaze. His chest is heaving, his lips are already bruising pink as they fall apart so casually.

He’s being honest.

You affect him, you’re doing this to him — he’s caught up in flames, no sign of salt water in sight.

“You always do,” he says, “Always have. Probably always will.”

Your grip on his shoulders tighten.

I could never hate you.

How blind you had been. How absolutely, blissfully unaware you had been functioning all these months.

A hand trails from its grip on his shoulders, fingers slipping over his bare collar bone, “What do you mea-“

You don’t get to finish the question or dig any deeper into the revelation. The music both of you had long since abandoned has been replaced by the ringing of your phone.

Eddie’s eyes immediately pinch shut, face twisting with irritation. You can’t tell if he’s more annoyed at the interruption due to whatever breakthrough you two were on the precipice of, or because he’s still painfully hard beneath you. But he quickly wraps one arm around your waist, tugging your torso flush to his as he leans forward quickly and reaches out to grab your phone.

“Oh, what the fuck,” he huffs once his eyes are open again and he’s looking at your phone screen.

Your face has been pressed into the crook of his neck due to the current position and way he’s tightly holding you to him. You have no clue who it is, but you have five decent guesses to throw out.

He answers for you. Sharply and bitterly, he snaps out a, “What do you want, Harrington?”

Steve. One of the five guesses. Go figure.

“Yes, we’re fucking alive,” Eddie holds no patience for your friend, all the softness he’d held for you gone save for the stroke of his thumb against the bare small of your back, “We were-“

A pause. You wonder for a second if he is going to admit it. If right here, right now, he would confess to your friends what has happened. How he could never hate you, how you drive him insane, how by nothing changing that everything has changed.

“Sleeping.”

An answer to your question. You hate your disappointment, and bite it down with vengeance.

You can faintly hear Steve’s voice over the phone, not quite as trilling or pitched as Nancy’s or Robin’s. Eddie’s annoyance still rolls off of him in waves, and you imagine that you’d catch him rolling his eyes along with his little huffs of air if you were to finally lift your head from his neck. But you’re selfish, and his arm is still around you waist as it presses you tight to his chest, so you indulge yourself. You dig your nose deeper against the junction of his neck, you take in his lingering cologne and let the stray curls tickle your cheeks.

You should have known he wouldn’t admit it.

“Okay, okay,” Eddie grumbles into the phone, barely getting out the repetitive word before his breath hitches as you pucker your lips against the skin you’ve been burrowing into. It’s only a chaste kiss, but it has its desired effect, “Okay, Harrington. We’ll send a fucking photo. You done?”

Then it hits you. A fun game, a distraction from your disappoint and a way to crawl under his skin all in one. You fight hard not to let a smile spread at the risk of him feeling it against his neck as you take a deep breath in through your nose, noticing the way his shoulder nearly reflexively lifts slightly as if it tickles, because you’re puckering your lips again.

The second chaste kiss is testing the waters. He doesn’t react. And so you go forth with your plan, mouth falling open, teeth grazing his jugular.

He reacts microscopically. His chest halts movement.

It’s not enough for you.

So you suck. Hard. Puckered lips and a vendetta to prove, you let your teeth bite at the skin that sucks into your mouth.

That does the trick.

“O-Okay!” he yelps out in surprise, his hand bruising as he grips you harder. He tries to pull his neck back from you, but his hand only presses you down onto his lap and you feel his dick twitch beneath his thin pants, “Christ, Harrington. We fucking get it. We’ll send a photo. And we won’t sleep another wink, so bite me,“ he pants out as you move to the spot beneath his ear, finding where his jaw connects to his throat, repeating the process and doing exactly as he had told Steve. His hips buck up into you, “Okay, I’m hanging up now, Harrington. Bye.”

You’re grinning wildly against his ear as he tosses your phone carelessly somewhere on the couch — or maybe the floor, you couldn’t tell at this point — before he’s flipping you down onto your back on the couch and hovering over you.

Your head falls back instinctually, leaving your neck open for him to begin an assault of kisses.

“Are-“ A kiss. “You-“ A bite. “Fucking-“ A soothing lathe of tongue over the bite. “Kidding-“ A harsh suck. “Me.”

You writhe beneath him, but he’s pressing his entire weight down onto you, hips slotted between yours and one hand pinning both your wrists to the cushion above as the other stays glued to your waist.

“Did you think that was funny?” he breathes out against you, letting the tip of his nose barely graze over the base of your throat, “Doing that shit while I was trying to talk Harrington down from that damn ledge?”

“Why was he on the ledge to begin with?” you breathily question, trying to move your hands from his grasp, the urge to run your fingers through his curls growing. He only tightens his hold.

“Apparently,” he pauses and presses a quick kiss at the edge of the sweatshirt collar, looking up at you through his bangs and lashes, “He had texted, and we didn’t respond. Photos are back in demand.”

“We’re quite the commodity,” you try to joke, avoiding his gaze. Trying to avoid the softness buried deep inside there, all soft and melted in shades of brown, “We should start charging them.”

“We are charging them, technically,” he snorts, finally letting go of your wrists and leveling his face above yours.

Right. You keep forgetting the promise of a cash prize if you make it out of this alive.

Alive, not unscathed.

You’re already picturing that cash as blood money, some pathetic trophy that won’t even begin to cover the irreversible scars that will be left behind. All the hurt, all the fights, all the realizations — no amount of promised money can erase them.

You start to consider what could erase them, but you stop yourself when you realize that that admittance is too heavy.

He’s here. The weight of him is pressing into you, the smell of him is encasing you, and the stare of his big brown eyes is locking you in. You have him. For a few more hours, you have him.

The wounds can wait. The time to heal and scar over will come later.

“I guess they are, huh?” you laugh when you realize you’ve gone too long without replying.

The stare turns curious. Still melted chocolate, still deathly soft for you, but curious all the same. “Yeah. Yeah, they are.”

You’re about to retreat into your own head and consider what he might do with his share of the cash, but that voice in your mind whispers once more.

He’s here. You have him. Just ask him.

“What are you doing with your money?” you blurt out.

He chuckles and shakes his head, curls falling over his shoulders and creating a curtain as he continues to balance his weight on his forearms settled on each side of your head, still hovering over you.

You should probably comment on that. Make a snide remark about it. Shove him off.

You don’t.

“Is that really want you’d like to talk about right now?”

Right, the weight of his hips as he rolls them gently into you reminds you of what the two of you had been doing before the phone call. The boundaries you’d hopped right over, all the lines you two had been in the process of crossing.

The affect you have on him.

Your stomach twists and suddenly your legs fall open wider to welcome him in, only to wrap them up around his waist. He lets you, lets you pull him right in until your chests are flush to each other. The only thing separating your skin from his is this damn sweatshirt.

“I… Maybe,” you force out just before his lips capture yours. It’s not as urgent as when he’d pulled you in for a kiss to Deftones, but it’s still enough to shatter every bone in your body before melding them all back together into something new, something different.

Something changed.

Eddie smiles, and it’s almost shyly. “Maybe?”

You hum, but it’s cut off, caught in your throat with another roll of Eddie’s hips.

“Okay. Let’s talk about it then, sweetheart.”

Another roll of his hips, and you lift your own to meet the thrust this time, trying to catch him against you in a way for reprieve. You can feel the wet patch gathering on your panties, your thighs clenching onto his hips harder.

“What ever shall I do with my money?” he pretends to ponder, eyes shooting up to look away from you in faux contemplation.

As he does it, one of his hands wander over your sternum, dancing above the fabric of the borrowed clothes.

“Maybe I’ll buy a new bike,” he muses, the hand wandering lower, tracing a steady line down your abdomen, “Maybe I’ll get myself a new guitar.”

His hand has reached the hem of the sweatshirt, slips beneath it and plays with the edge of your panties.

Your mouth will be your damnation as you snipe back, “Or maybe you can buy yourself a whole collection of playboys, filled with plenty of models who definitely don’t look like someone you claim to hate.”

His hand retracts immediately, and you can’t help but begin to giggle.

“Wait, wait, wait,” you start to gasp out when he lifts away from you, reaching out to grab onto him.

He’s fast, but your hands are quicker. You wrap them around the back of his neck and tug him into you, only for him to continue to lift himself up and bring you with him as well this time.

You resemble a koala, and can only imagine what the scene looks like to an outsider.

“Eddie!” you practically squeal, and can feel the vibrations of his own laughter as he sits up on his knees, you still clinging to him.

His arms wrap around you and you lean back, catching that mischievous glint in his eyes. It breaks through the softness, burns brightly in your chest as your laughter fades into soft breaths that hit his freckled cheeks.

You stare at each other for a moment, a tangle of limbs and unspoken words. His earlier admission isn’t forgotten, the lines crossed all painted in red now.

He’s here. You have him, for now.

You can only imagine the claw marks you will be leaving behind when the clock strikes twenty four hours, and you’re forced to leave him and this behind.

“You, sweetheart,” he finally breaks the silence with gentle smirk, “are a certified boner killer.”

You don’t miss a beat, reaching down between you two, hand cupping his still prominent erection, “You sure about that?”

He only groans in response, and in your following cackles, your hold on him slips.

He could have let you fall back roughly on the couch, especially given his distraction with fighting his ever growing smirk. He could have let you smack your head back on the cushion and let you deal with the dull ache that would have followed. He could have, he could have, he could have.

He doesn’t.

He guides you back with his arms still tight around you. Makes sure that you land softly against the worn plush. Takes his time removing his grip on you before he’s standing up from the couch.

You lay back, so sincerely content as you let out a final breath of a laugh and watch him shake his head in amusement as he turns to leave.

“Where are you going?” if it weren’t for the residual giddiness of the moment, you’d have been embarrassed by the clinginess that had threaded its way into your tone.

“The bathroom,” he answers without hesitation, back facing you as he starts down the short hall.

You call after him, “Okay. Don’t take too long this time!”

Even as his laughter echoes faintly, you know you still have him. For now.

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#twenty four hours #my writing #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #i may have hyped this one up a little too much #next chapter has some action though lol

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rileysluvr · 11 months

Text

cliché jealousy trope except i suck at dialogue and ghost is a manchild in this but i still love him anyways!! nsfw <3

“Gaz is about to set the rack, if you’d like to join, Lieutenant.” You leaned one hand on his table and twisted your pool stick in the other, bending down to be heard over the loudness of the building.

Something about the way his title rolled off your liquor-smoothed tongue in that syrupy, almost meddlesome tone, had him swallowing thickly under his balaclava. He leaned back against the wall, toying with the glass of a thin line of bourbon in his gloved fingers. He made sure nobody got a peak of his face when he lifted the fabric for a drink, and despite your efforts and lingering eyes on him throughout the night and years that you’ve known him, he would continue to remain a mystery on that end.

“You really enjoy playin’ that nonsense with them?” he glared over at Soap and Gaz, downing shots and flipping the glasses upside down on the table as they waited for your return. You looked over your shoulder, and Soap threw his arms up to ask what was taking you so long. You returned to Ghost:

“I do. No harm in celebrating, Sir.”

“I’ll consider, but try not to make a scene out of it, Sergeant. You know those boys ‘ave got a hard-on for you.”

“Is that such a bad thing? Maybe tonight one of them will get lucky,” you smiled. Your words were uncharacteristic of you, and he was drawn back a bit in a mix of amazement and bitterness. He looked past you once more and Soap and Gaz were beginning to grow impatient.

“Don’t let me hold you back. Go on, I’ll watch.”

You pushed yourself from the table with a toothy smile, and returned to the game. You went up against Gaz, while Soap helped you to position yourself as you claimed to be relatively new to the sport. ‘Ladies first,’ and you broke the game, the end of your stick striking the white ball. Soap hovering behind you to guide your hits, and you got stripes, leaving Gaz stuck with solids. With each turn, Soap leaned heavier into you, hands staying on yours and your hips for longer to adjust you. You’d be a dirty liar if you said you didn’t enjoy his big arms around you, and his Scottish accent whispering tips directly into your ear. In full transparency with yourself, he had you worked and shuddering, and if your Lieutenant wasn’t already fuming with the last words you left him with, he would be sure to rub them in your pretty face later and have you gasping for air as the thought of another man, let alone member of Task Force 141, touching you had surely slipped from your memory.

You sent the white ball rolling into the black ball, pocketing it with the help of Soap and you dropped the stick on the table, both leaning up and cheering, embracing each other in a hug. You squeezed his waist as he praised your victory in your ear. Gaz was emulous, not so much because of his loss, but of the way you celebrated with Soap. Though, it was short-lived when you were pulling away from Soap and making your way over to him. You walked around behind him, placing your hands on his shoulders and massaging them lightly. You leaned up on your toes to whisper, “Good game, Garrick,” and he sarcastically crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. You dropped with a residual hand on his bicep, and you spoke to the two men, “You two play another round, I need to speak with the Lieutenant.”

Gaz mourned the loss of your hand as you walked across the bar and back to your Lieutenant. You clocked that he hadn’t touched his drink, or barely moved an inch since you were last there, as you slid into the booth opposite of him.

“You made quite the show.”

He spoke up before you could, an obvious change in his tone; disappointed and dropped down a notch from his already impossibly intense voice.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lieutenant,” you teased, but he was clearly not in the mood. His brows pulled together, distraught. How could you not know what you fucking did? To him?

He immediately relaxed his face. “Drink this, we’re leaving.” He pushed his glass towards you, the small amount of brown liquid sloshing with the movement, and he stood from the booth.

“We’re leaving?” you nearly scoffed out loud. Eyes staring down at yours when you caught his attention, he towered over you with the new dynamic. “I’m having fun here, Sir.”

“I noticed. Practically givin’ ol’ Johnny a fuckin’ lap dance over there.”

You definitely weren’t, and you took offense to his crudeness, but you also wouldn’t argue with him, a superior, and mentor - the only reason you were where you are. “And what am I supposed to tell them?” You nodded over to the pool table you came from.

“Make somethin’ up. Or don’t say anythin’ at all.”

He abandoned you at the table and walked to the bartender. As he pulled out his wallet, you watched in worry, knowing you had fucked up. You weren’t just going to leave without saying goodbye. You downed the little remaining bourbon in his glass with a wince before standing to tell Soap and Gaz you were leaving. Some bullshit reason and apology that you yourself could barely understand, your mind being everywhere else in that moment. Ghost paid cash for the drinks the three of you had racked up, plus some more for the boys to have a good rest of their night. He shoved his wallet in his back pocket and met you at the door without as little as a nod to the others.

“We’re stayin’ at the hotel across the street. You got a problem with that, Sergeant?”

He spoke to you like you were a little kid. You shook your head, and followed him out the door when he muttered a quick ‘good’ and nothing more.

The walk to the hotel was dead silent, and the ride up to the room was ten-times worse. You disrespected your Lieutenant, and while you couldn’t tell if you were actually in the wrong, or if everything was being blown out of proportion, the consequences would remain the same, whatever they may be.

The elevator dinged, doors opening up to the modern suite that the Captain had rented for the Lieutenant. The Sergeants never got rooms nearly as luxurious, on the rare occasion of being stuck in a different city for the night. Ghost’s palm landed on the small of your back, walking you both into the room as you gawked at the tall ceiling and fully glass walls looking down on the city. You stopped in your tracks to admire the view, though Ghost’s form passing you quickly snapped you back to reality. He began taking his jacket off when you finally broke the silence.

“…I’m sorry, Sir-”

“You disrespected a direct order.”

He tossed his jacket over the back of a chair, along with his wallet onto the table that went with it. He could barely face you, now unhooking his gun holster from his belt.

“I didn’t think you were serious.” Your voice was minuscule compared to his, but still held on to some confidence.

“‘Course I’m bloody serious, _____.” He brought his handgun down onto the table harshly, noise lining up with the peak incline of volume in his words.

Your name through his teeth struck your heart like a dagger, never sounding dirtier. He walked closer to you, watching his space.

“You think I wan’ t’watch another man touch you? Let alone Soap? And you fuckin’ let him?” he pried, allowing his tone and the likely apologetic answers in your mind to lecture you for him. “Bloody hell, _____, you’re testing me.”

“I said I was sorry, alright? It won’t happen again.”

He scoffs, turning away and back to his stuff on the table. He wouldn’t let up. “Bet it fuckin’ will.”

His words replayed in your mind. ‘Another man’? As opposed to who, himself? And his demeanor the entire night, practically screaming at you to focus. You relaxed in your stance, your next words coming off a little too straightforward.

“You’re jealous.”

“What?” he snapped, trekking towards you in an instant. For a man who appeared as unbothered as himself, he tended to pace quite a bit when he was angry. He halted once you were faced with his chest, dark squinted eyes set on your devilish ones.

“You don’t want ‘another man’s’ hands on me, you just said.” You pried, and pried back, trying to get a reaction. “That’s why you’re doing all this?”

He stayed silent. You took a risk and snaked your hands to the sides of his waist, tugging at the fabric and looking up at him.

“It’s called jealousy, Sir.”

“M’not jealous…trying t’teach you a goddamn lesson.” He lied; he was all sorts of jealous, and possessive with you, but he’d never admit it to you or himself. He stared down at you, dumbified by your actions.

“So you don’t like me?”

“I don’t appreciate it when you act like anyone knows you better than me.”

“Well, you know me best,” your hands trailed up his chest, to the base of his neck, where the fabric of his balaclava ended. “Wouldn’t’ve brought me to your room otherwise.” His skin was on fire under yours, and his mind abandoned all sense of reasoning once you called him out. “…But I barely know you.”

“You’re really goin’ to make me do this?”

“If it’s what you want.”

He let out a frustrated sigh, giving it some time. His choice was obvious—not even close to needing any deliberation—but he relished in the sight of you biting down on your lip, heels rolling back and legs flexing in anticipation.

“Oughta be the death of me, Kid… Take it off.”

He shocked you with his sudden leniency, while his voice did remain the same amount of gruffness and authority.

You tilted your head, “Really?”

“If it’ll help you sleep at night. Don’t make me regret it.”

With a smile, you slipped your fingers under the fabric and dragged it up his neck. Gently pulling it over his jaw, unveiling his dark stubble and pinkish lips. His eyes stayed on yours as you scanned every detail on the lower section of his face. The end reached his nose and you folded the fabric over the bridge of it when he suddenly grasped your wrist with his gloved hand and muttered a breathy ‘stop’. He didn’t give you much time to think before he was leaning down, pulling you in with his other palm on the nape of your neck. He kissed you deeply, and you moaned on his tongue out of stupefaction. You couldn’t say exactly how long you two stood like that, drunk on the released tension and few sips of alcohol from earlier. You pulled away, and your eyes met.

“Thought you were going to let me take it all the way off, Sir.”

“Always been a greedy girl,” he dragged, before drawing you into another kiss, much hungrier than the previous. He began to walk you back towards the bed, and you trusted his path and blindly went with it. You giggled, stumbling over your feet and, consequently, words.

“Can’t help it. Wanna see all of you,” you smiled.

The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and he pushed both hands lightly on your shoulders to get you to sit down. He got on one knee in front of you, and you swooned over the view.

“Go on.”

His words were simple, but you grinned dumbly at them. You reached your fingers out and slipped them under the fabric of his balaclava once again to pull it all the way off, discarding it to the mattress beside you. You’ve seen him without it a few times throughout the years, but his strikingly good looks always took you aback. Short hair that matched his beard in color, and the bump on the bridge of his nose. Dark circles under his eyes he usually had covered with the black greasepaint of Ghost’s look, a half-inch, horizontal scar right in the middle of his eyebrow that complimented the one on the opposite cheek. You’d never gotten to examine his face this close-up, so you couldn’t help but stare. You pulled him back up for one more kiss before he was back to his knees.

He untied your boots for you, throwing them to the side before he hooked his fingers under the waistband of your cargoes and harshly pulled them off from under you. You gasped at the cold air hitting your thighs, mostly in pleasure from his uncaringness for the formalities, and roughness with your plush body. You could even consider it desperation, manhandling you like you were not but a feather in his grasp, still, more valuable than any prized possession a man could own. He soaked in every inch of your skin he uncovered before you were only left in your panties, black, and laced as if you wore them for him, and the long sleeve, wooly shirt that matched his, and he absolutely reveled in the sight of you.

He really shouldn’t be doing this; you’re still young, and his responsibility, and he’s your superior - it’s wrong, written out in every language. Even a blind dog could see it. But he needed it. He needed you, so bad, he couldn’t even recognize himself in his thoughts. And you were just so fucking pretty, and witty and smart, a perfect soldier. He’d end up dead if he were to ignore it any longer.

He rolled up his sleeves before pulling you closer to the edge of the bed, simultaneously lifting your legs to hook over his shoulders. Your stomach was lit aflame, sweet butterflies and lively, strident sparks on burned wicks fighting for dominance. The eye contact this man held, you swore you would be a giggling puddle on the ground if it weren’t for your profession; still, it showed through in your blinding smile, painfully obvious, and it struck him with something he could only describe as a longing infatuation, so incredibly uncharacteristic of him it almost made him sick.

His beard against the bare skin of your thighs already had you squirming under his hold, and his bourbon-tainted breath only made it worse when he spoke.

“Such a pretty, little cunt of yours, Love.” He looked you in the eyes, “Are you gon’to let me taste it?” he hummed, and you leaned back on your elbows. His dirty words sounded native on his tongue, in that gruff, Manchester accent of his, the same one that had you dizzy when he was barking commands over the comms device in your ear.

You couldn’t have been more attracted to him than you were at that moment. You always admired his maturity, the experience he had over you, so you could only learn from the best. His strength and confidence in the field had you head over heels, and seeing it carried over to the bedroom, his prioritization and utter devotion to you, was a sight for the history books. While he saw his age as a flaw, you knew he’d be the only one to treat you right, and you wanted nothing more than for it to be mutual.

“Please, Sir.”

“Please, what?”

“Just- eat me out, please,” you whined. “Taste me.”

His lips pulled tight and curved at one corner. “Atta girl.”

He left messy kisses all up and down your inner thighs that encased his head, some leaving behind marks that would be there the next morning, as a reminder. His heavy palms, cold against your natural warmth and with bruised knuckles, massaged at the plush fat of your hips and below, and he finally landed his lips on your soaked-through panties.

You gasped at the first contact of his mouth with your clothed cunt, followed by the sweet moans and swears spilling from your swollen lips and slack jaw from the feeling of his rough tongue and the heat of his mouth painfully close to your center. The bump of his nose relentlessly teased your clit, and after one-too-many pleas from your breath, he wasted no time in slipping your panties down your legs and to the floor next to him, and shoving his tongue where you needed him the most. You watched on with dazed eyes, utterly drunk on the sight, while his couldn’t decide on what to focus on, your pretty sex-face or the messy cunt in front of him, wanting both engraved in his mind forever.

You tasted better than what would be described as heaven, and he could be like this for hours if he wasn’t so badly off, further straining his jeans with every noise you made, every second his eyes were on you. He had to take care of you first, warm you up for his taking, because he actually cared.

His tongue worked at your core like any task given to him; effective and efficient, and with the same rigorous aptitude he carried through the most important parts of life. You came apart under his mouth and grasp, the air filled with a mix of your pointless begging and sweet praises as to how well he made you feel, along with his occasional groans and hums from your taste and attempted grinding in search of more. He fed you everything you needed, but you couldn’t help but want more. More of him, his touch, the feel of being his.

As if he could read you, he granted your wish by bringing a hand to your cunt, and he slid two of his fingers in you without warning, maximizing your pleasure and overwhelming your every sense. Unable to hold yourself up anymore, you fully leaned back on the mattress, hands coming up to your chest to grope yourself through and under the fabric of your shirt. A heavy, tattooed arm on your lower belly weighed you down as you fought to arch your back, to find more within his mouth, cum faster, anything, as his two fingers slid in and out of your tight cunt, matching the pace of his tongue.

“You think any’ve those mutts could do this to you?” he mumbled, about the soldiers back at the bar, vibrations of his voice having you feeling more depraved than ever.

“No. Never,” you panted. “Only you, Sir. It’s only you- shit…I’m your girl.”

Your hand flew to the back of his head, the other finding his on your belly. He laced his fingers with yours, squeezing tight as those beautiful, soft moans spilled from your lips, uncontrollable and needy.

“That’s right, Love…you’re mine, and I’ll be yours here soon enough…just cum on my fingers for me, yeah? Can you do that, Sweetheart?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, nodding an “mhm” as you rolled your head back against the mattress, attempting to find solace with the pressure in your head growing stronger by the minute. With labored breathing speeding up, the thick rope in your lower belly finally tore, and you came hard on his fingers like he asked you to, pleasure intensified by the heavy weight of his hand on your gut. Your nails clawed at the nape of his neck, the pain combined with the warmth of your cunt pulling guttural moans from his throat as he helped you through your high. You whined when his tongue left you, a smug look on his face you couldn’t even see, and again when he pulled his fingers from your cunt, humming in satisfaction.

“Look at that, Love.” He stood from his position on the ground, eyes scanning over your body, height towering over your form. “Fuckin brilliant. You want t’taste yourself?”

You sat up and leaned back on your palms with straight elbows, a wave of dizziness hitting you despite your leniency as you moved, and you nodded, with big eyes and a fucked-out expression from just his fingers and tongue alone.

He brought his soaked hand to your face and shoved the digits between your lips. You opened graciously for him, and he pressed the pads of his fingers down against your tongue, your lips tightening around him. You moaned around him at the tangy taste of your messy arousal, and the overbearing space just his fingers took up in your mouth.

“You like it?” he asked, almost mocking you. He pulled them out of your mouth once your tongue had sufficiently cleaned them, and a short-lived string of your drool followed.

You stood from the edge of the bed, a stupidly-bright smile on your lips. “Mhm. And I like you.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Your fists locked onto the front of his sweater, leaning into his frame and spinning him one-eighty.

“How much?”

“Can I show you?”

You pushed him to sit on the edge of the bed, and he more than complied.

“You may.”

You gave him a sweet grin and climbed onto his lap, thighs encasing his much larger ones as best you could. His palms immediately found your waist, and he hummed. You littered his face and jaw with kisses as you reached for the bottom of his sweater, pulling it up and over his head and discarding it to the floor, leaving him shirtless and you speechless. Broad shoulders and frame built of muscle naturally obtained through his line of work, scars ranging from all sizes and causes scattered across his torso. Abs still prominent even when slightly slouched and not flexing, and the squishy pectorals you knew you’d be falling asleep on tonight, wrapped in the blanket of his big arms.

You engulfed each other in another kiss—deep, sensual, and downright desperate—as your hands trailed down his neck and chest, finding the buckle of his belt and pulling the leather apart. The sounds of metal clashing together rang heavily in your ears, and his breathing was jagged. You eagerly undid his jeans and finally pulled his boxers down far enough to pull out his hard cock, shamelessly gawking at the size. His desperation showed through his sighs and strengthened grip on your waist as you wrapped your smaller fingers around his thickness, his brows knitting together and eyes prying shut at the limited touch. You swiped your thumb over the wet, swollen tip of him, and he just about lost it right there, grumbling a quiet swear and tensing his shoulders.

A distraction, or his downfall, he curled his fingers under the hem of your sweater. He asked with his eyes, and you answered by raising your arms and letting him take it off, his cock falling against his stomach. You sat perched on his lap, in nothing but your bra, and for once, taller than him. His lips connected with the flat area of your chest above your breasts as you held the back of his head, and he looked up through his eyebrows. He didn’t have to ask for you to reach behind yourself and undo your bra, and it fell and you pulled it to the side, allowing it to join the shirts on the floor. His mouth was immediately on your sensitive bud and after a moment, the other, and you felt the phantom of cool liquid pour down your back once the cold air of the room made contact with where his hot mouth was. You held him close, something of a motherly instinct washing over you for this behemoth of a man, dominating killer and all suddenly gone. You had Simon Riley, rather than the Ghost you were familiar with.

You took his cock in your hand and raised your hips, sinking onto him, letting him feel you in full, pulling a long and loud moan from each of you. You adjusted to his size for a moment, catching your breath, and he latched his lips onto your neck when you started to move, marking you as his. The stretch burned wonderfully; you had never had anyone even close to his size, and your belly fluttered fiercely because you knew he could tell.

You rode him sweetly, like you were the one taking care of him this time - the insatiable feeling of being on top of a man of his making, the same man you’ve seen snap bones and necks like they were twigs, ruthlessly torture an unfortunate accomplice with no complaint, and end the lives of helpless soldiers of the opposition with no remorse. Nothing could beat looking down at his agape lips and furrowed brows, twisted in the pleasure that only you were giving him; you relished in the explicitly nurturing power, and you’d do it til the day you dropped, if he would allow you.

He consumed every inch of you with his eyes and hands what his lips couldn’t reach, enthralled by your entire being, on him, with him, after knowing you for so long. He wondered if you’ve wanted this for as long as he did, and for a moment, he had completely forgotten about his responsibilities, his soul focused entirely on you, and your needs only. Those needs of yours, being to fulfill his, and just finally be his.

You took his right wrist in your hands, dragging it up your waist and chest, and brought it to your neck. He rested his calloused fingers on your skin, loosely wrapped just under your jaw, and you urged him to be harsher, to squeeze. A craving look in your eyes, virtually screaming at him, ‘go on, punish me.’

punish me for misbehaving at the bar, disrespecting your wishes even if they were unfair and selfish. punish me for not seeing it earlier, for thinking anyone else could have me in any way. show me whose girl I am, and will always be.

He would never turn you down, nor would he deny that he wanted it just as much, despite the gut feeling of guilt clawing at him through skin and muscle. He tightened his grip, feeling the throaty vibrations of your moans amongst the pads of his fingers, and you smiled with the small victory over him.

“Fuckin Christ, Sweetheart. You enjoyin’ this?” he taunted, panted, almost, and you saw right through his words; he enjoyed it, too, supported by his flexing muscles, labored breathing, and willingness to comply with the dynamic in the first place. You nodded feverishly, whimpering under his weakening gaze.

The sight had him crumbling; his hand dwarfing your neck, rough skin and veins and all, having yours appear to be the silkiest, most fragile object one could lay their hands on. While he wouldn’t, he could, so easily squeeze tighter, strip you completely of your breath and blood flow, crush you, and the idea had him lightheaded, hungrier, and you squirming around him. Needy, and desperate to redeem yourself.

He wanted to gain his control back, be the strong mentor you always knew him to be, the one to never give a second thought to his actions, think too long or get attached, compromised. But by God, did it feel good to let you take him, take care of him, and the needs he tried so hard to suppress. Deep whimpers faltered in his throat, unruly in their attempted and, only partially failed, escape.

“This is what you wanted, right, Sir?” you nearly pouted, small hands doing their best in grasping onto and clawing at the thick arm that led to your throat. You felt your thighs becoming weaker, shaking as you tried your best to keep going, make him proud. “Make sure I’m yours for good? Fuck some sense into me I needed so bad? ‘Cause it’s working…I’ll be yours for however long you’ll have me, Sir,” you devoted, eyes big and innocent.

“Fuckin hell, Darling,” was all he could muster up, stuttering slightly as your cunt took him so well, squeezing vigorously in addition to your already there tightness.

With his hand at the base of your throat, his other arm wrapped tightly around your waist, continuing to aid you in riding his heavy cock, back and forth with the lazy raising of your hips a mere inch or two from his lap. He brought you down and his lips engulfed your swollen ones, tongue bullying yours as the hand on your neck kept you in place to his liking. Rougher, meaner than before. Ravenous, desirous and aching, and you fed into his craving like the good girl you were, wanting nothing more but to please him.

He pulled away to rest his forehead on your shoulder, eyes glued shut and hot breaths fanning your skin as he could no longer control the groans emitting from deep in his throat. You were so good, your small body on top of him, riding him, and he knew he wouldn’t be lasting much longer.

He twisted his body, and yours with his, held tight to his chest, and he laid you down on the bed, pushing you further up and situating himself above you; like you were not but a featherweight toy, made to be molded into any position of his liking. He hungrily slid his cock back in your cunt with a groan, you a moaning mess, and he buried his head in the crook of your neck, hot breath having you struggling and failing to keep still. Your hands found his back, nails digging into the skin encapsulating pure muscle, moans amplified with the new angle at which he was rutting into you. His hand had abandoned your throat to grope at your breast, momentarily pinching the painfully sore bud between his rough fingertips.

Your moans became more unraveled by the second, blindly nearing your second high of the night as he continued to hit the deepest point in your womb, the friction of the stretch of his cock and pelvis against your cunt driving you up the wall in ways you never had experienced before. The tightening of your cunt around him, combined with the dragging of your nails down and between the blades of his shoulders, had him seeing galaxies, with you at the center of each of them. He twitched inside you, leaving you drunk on him, and him only.

“Cum inside me, please, Baby- whatever you do, don’t stop. Please, wanna feel you,” you whined, and he raised his head slightly to look you in the eyes, hips slowing.

‘Baby,’ you had called him, unintentional but undoubtedly sounding right in your voice, and it sealed the case of your dynamic, future and present. He was so used to Sir, Lieutenant, Ghost…he’d forgotten what it was like to be addressed as an actual person - a lover, with whatever names you would assign him. And to let him cum inside you? He would’ve never imagined it, actually being able to claim you as his own, or allowing himself to do something so risky. Funny, considering his job.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, just trust me, Baby- fuck, m’so close!”

“Fuck- call me that again, Love,” he unwinded, damn-near begged. He resumed his pace, wanting nothing more than to please you, gut feeling dizzier than ever.

say it again, please, say it again. i’m yours, i’m your baby- christ, how the fuck are you doing this to me?

You smiled at the request; the older man, stronger than the meanest bull on riding day, wants to be babied by his junior. Simon Riley — possessive and deadly, was actually a man who wanted nothing more but to be held, be had, by the willing girl he knew so well.

You would’ve started much earlier if you knew.

“Of course, Baby, making me feel so good,” you said through shaky moans, and he groaned against your shoulder, movements becoming sloppier. “Gonna make me,” you choked, “…cum on your cock, Sir…and I want you to cum with me, please? Give me everything you have, Baby- fuck!, you’re so good for me.”

Your hands moved to cradle his head as you spoke, his groans uncontrolled against your soft skin, almost whimpering, and your whines erratic as he hastily rutted into you with shambolic thrusts, refusing to cease. The zipper of his jeans grinding against your inner thighs drew to you pain, but you couldn’t be bothered whatsoever, so consumed with him, and reaching both of your highs, and nothing more - you’d be lying if you said a part of you wasn't enjoying the pain, and wanted more, as long as he was at the other end to deliver. He mumbled incoherently in your ear, back muscles flexing and his cock twitching inside you every time you squeezed around him, until the coil in your stomach finally snapped, washing over and you came quickly on his cock with a pornographic moan. His arms and pace weakened, the tightness of your overworked cunt and voice sending him spiraling into his own high of the night, and he spilled his warm cum deep in your pussy, there to stay. Nails clawing down the sides of his torso only making it all the more pleasurable, shown through the choked moan directly against your ear, having your entire body shivering under him. It all hit you without a moment to think, leaving you both winded, catching your breath, actually smiling, as he could barely hold himself up on his forearms above you.

He kissed from behind your ear and down to your collarbone, soothing each of the red, swollen marks he peppered your skin with. You giggled lightly when his lips grazed the most sensitive parts between your shoulder and jaw, arms coming up to wrap around his neck. He swore if a laugh, or face, could save lives, prevent bloodshed, it’d be yours.

“Can we stay like this for a bit?” you asked, almost in a whisper for the close proximity.

He muttered back, “I’d crush you if I let my arms up.”

“Wouldn’t be such a bad way to go,” you joked. His heart swelled, uncomfortably, and somewhat painfully.

He adjusted to his knees and pulled his cock from your cunt, the loss of his size making you whine into the sex-filled air, and he groaned lightly. The sight of his hot cum spilling to your thighs already had him hard again, and he fought his desires for another round with the sense that you both needed to rest. After a moment, he shoved his cock back in his boxers and zipped his jeans, standing from the bed.

You, too, sat up, bringing your legs together as you leaned on your elbows, shivering with his cum seeping out and staining your thighs. “Will you at least lay with me?”

Oddly, your words struck him like a dagger; something he hadn’t prepared himself for, both the concept and the impact of it.

“Need t’check on the boys at the bar.” He reached for his sweater on the floor, and you frowned. “Y’know what happened last time I left them to make it home on their own.”

You smiled as you recounted the memory; the drive to the police station and back, the relentless teasing and cleaning duties that followed as they clung to their foreheads in hopes of relieving the nasty hangover they endured.

“They’re grown men, Sir. I’m sure they can handle crossing the street and finding their rooms on a few pints,” you quipped.

He spun his sweater in his hands, and you could tell that, deep down, he didn’t want to leave in the first place.

“...I suppose you’re right,” he admitted, ditching the sweater once more.

You smiled giddily as you watched him return to the bed, around the side you were closest to. “I am about a lot of things.”

He got on the bed, slotting himself on his knees in front of yours. His hands on your knees, pushing them apart, just a bit. “Don’t get cocky, little girl.”

“I learned from the -mph- best-! Fuck, Simon!” Your sentence is strangled by your giggles when his fingers are suddenly between your upper thighs, unapologetically teasing your sensitive nerves as he collected his cum on the tips of his middle and ring fingers.

He brought them up as he taunted, “Is that right?” and he shoved his two fingers in your mouth without warning, watching your body jolt and eyes light up in shock. He quite enjoyed the view of you taking in his fingers, a little too much. “Where’s all that bite gone now, Darling?”

You savored the taste of him, paying no heed to his jeering, and instead your doe eyes returned a bashful, surprised look as you moaned audaciously around his thick fingers.

He pulled them from your lips with a pop, smirking at the expression on your face. he’s so pretty when he’s happy.

“You’re an asshole,” you laughed, failing to keep yourself in a serious, scornful manner.

“Is that any way to talk to your superior?” he jokingly ridiculed, and you rolled your eyes. An assertive hand on your jaw pulled you in for a gentle kiss, plump and pinkened lips meeting his.

“Is it protocol to fuck your Sergeant whenever you’re feeling a bit jealous?”

“Only when she doesn’t listen.”

He moved to be next to you, and you naturally gravitated to half-laying on him, head on his shoulder and a palm flat on his chest as he wrapped an arm around you. Softly, as to not break you, or himself, despite you holding him so tightly, trying to be as close to him as you possibly could without actually cracking open his ribs and crawling inside.

“Maybe I should do it more often, then.”

He scoffed. “You’re annoying, y’know that?”

“Yeah, well. You’d hate me if I wasn’t. You like the challenge.”

“That’s true.”

You’d settle for listening to his breathing, and him the same for you, attempting to not think about what was to come next, and instead actually be in the moment, and what just was. An impossible feat, of course, but it wouldn’t change what had happened. And neither of you would want to, ever.

His eyes landed on the balaclava at the corner of the foot-end of the bed, flat and straight and almost like it was placed with the intent to taunt him. Remind him of what he had abandoned, to be with his Sergeant. His Sergeant, who was far too young, and naive for him. His Sergeant, who, unrealistically, wanted him just as bad as he wanted her.

#cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x female reader #simon riley x female reader #simon riley smut #ghost smut

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seoafin · 1 year

Text

And I know it's hard enough to love me (But I woke up in a safe house)

pairing: vash the stampede x fem!reader warnings/tags: babygirl vash, Depressing Pillow Talk, slighty nsfw towards the end, sharing one bed trope, title taken from let's get married (MITSKI VERS) word count: ~4.2k

“My husband and I would like a room,” you say with a smile as you wrap your arms around Vash’s and lean into him. You feel his body startle at your touch, his gaze on top of your head as you play the part of the excited bride. You think he might pass out on you if you don’t get him to room, and fast. “We’re on our honeymoon.”

“In this shithole of a town?” The innkeeper asks with a raised eyebrow, looking from you to Vash, who only lets out a sheepish chuckle as he scratches the back of his head. Despite his sluggish breaths, his slow blinking gaze, and the red slowly staining his shirt.

You shrug, trying hard not to be impatient. “There are worse places.”

There are. You’ve survived them. Compared to the slums of December or September, this shabby, worn inn is paradise.

“Yer right ‘bout that,” he laughs, acquiescing, as he tosses a ring of keys into your hand and takes your pouch of money. Vash is slumped into you now, and you can tell he’s trying his hardest not to place the full weight of his body on you. To anyone else, it would look as if he was clinging to you, the picture of a loving couple.

“Cheers to the happy couple!” the man calls out, tipping his hat down as the two of you move to the stairs in front of you.

Vash grins brightly, and manages a cheery, polite, “Thank you!” as the two of you pass.

You can’t resist the huff of a laugh that escapes your lips as you make your way up the stairs, and then into the small, modest dust lined room.

Vash collapses on the bed with a sharp exhale, and you immediately move to take off his shirt but his hand stops you by the wrist before you can.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, eyelashes fluttering. His fingers tightens, just imperceptibly, (even on the brink of sleep, he’s overly conscious about his strength, you think). In a way, it feels like he’s wordlessly imploring you to stay. “Jus’ need sleep. Not gonn’ take long.”

You blink. His fingers loosen, and in a few seconds his breathing has evened out into steady breaths. You’re relieved. He’s already stopped bleeding. From the months you’ve traveled with him, known him, he’s healed quickly enough that any other person wouldn’t understand. You still don’t. Not fully. But you’ve never asked questions. And as long as he never asked you any questions, that was fine with you.

You stay on the bed, by his side for a few minutes, watching him. You take off his sunglasses and put them on the nightstand after wiping the blood off them. He’s an unusually pretty man. Too pretty for No Man’s Land. You trace his face with your eyes. The beauty mark right under his right eye to his parted pink lips. Then down to the rise and fall of his chest to the plates of the cybernetic prosthesis of his left arm.

Lost technology. Not many people had access to that kind of technology. Or the knowledge to build that arm, let alone repair it.

Standing, you give him one last glance, reload your revolver and tuck it into the holster at your side, before you leave in search of medical supplies to patch him up when he wakes. You scope out the town while at it. It’s small; a handful of residents armed to the teeth with guns, and even less children. There are pipes that run through the town that you assume are fed fresh water by a nearby plant. You locate a medical shop at the center of town.

You buy antiseptic, gauze, and a few other things, before making your way back to the inn. The innkeeper gives you a wink.

When you open the door to the room, Vash is awake.

The sound of his harsh breathing fills the air. His metal hand fisted into the sheets so tightly you think it might tear. You meet his frantic gaze, and almost immediately, he slumps in relief, eyes dropping to his lap.

You quietly shut the door. “Nightmare?”

Sometimes, in his sleep, you hear him call out for a woman named Rem.

He lets out a loud laugh. You pretend not to notice the shaky undertone of it. “I slept for longer than I thought!” His metallic hand curls and unfurls, catching on the dull light of the room. “I thought you…” he trails off, suddenly embarrassed. He looks away.

“I brought supplies.” You place the bag on the table, next to Vash’s nickel revolver. You turn back to him: “Strip.”

His arms immediately make a cross on his chest, as if he’s already stripped, face bright red.

“I can do it myself—!”

Vash the Stampede. The humanoid Typhoon. The Sixty Billion Double Dollar Man. The man you originally only followed after to collect the criminals who swarmed to him, like flies to corpses. The man who leaves a trail of calamity and disaster in his wake. The man who continuously, everyday, without fail, begged you to leave the criminals you captured alive. A constant enigma and a headache. A walking contradiction.

“I’ll leave the room,” you say. “Don’t take too long.”

You leave the room, leaning against the wall, and wait two minutes.

You open the door, and Vash jumps with a yelp, stripped to the waist, arms covering whatever he can manage.

Scars cover his entire torso, running all the way down his flesh arm to his hand. Deep scars, shallow scars, scars that have never entirely healed, leaving the skin dark pink and the flesh caved in. There are more scars than there is unblemished skin, missing chunks of skin replaced with metal plates and seams.

It's not a pretty sight, but you’ve never much cared for pretty.

His face is flushed. “I thought—”

“I lied.”

“!?”

You shut the door with your heel, and then grab the gauze and antiseptic. “Turn around.”

Wordlessly, he turns, ears reddening. You direct him to sit on the bed, and then you begin to apply the antiseptic. The two of you sit in silence. You, disinfecting his fresh wounds and wrapping his back, while you also ignore the way his body tenses at your touch, his pointedly straight gaze, the constant bob of his throat, as if he’s looking for the right words to say.

He reluctantly speaks up. “You’re…not hurt, are you?”

“I’m fine,” you reply. Just a few scrapes and a bruised arm from where you had landed wrong after trying to dodge multiple rounds of bullets from the latest batch of criminals that had schemed to capture the humanoid typhoon. After hauling them to the police, Vash hiding away, you had gained yourself a hefty paycheck before being run out of the city, a bleeding Vash in tow.

You’re nearly done. The wounds aren’t nearly as severe as they had been only a couple of hours ago. The skin has healed enough that it’s already forming a scar. You don’t know much about Vash the Stampede, but you know enough to understand that he isn’t human. Not completely.

But he smiles. He laughs. He detests the very violence that nurtured you. He likes pizza and donuts. He’s moved to tears almost as easily as he seems to get hurt. He’s good with children. They trust him. Children love him in a way they don’t you: pulling him down to their height, climbing him, leading him and all his long limbs along. The way he takes their words seriously, nodding with all the gravity of a legal proceeding as they talk about the weather, their favorite foods, the silly argument they got into with a sibling. He smiles, and when he turns that smile onto you, it makes you think of everything warm and how you had forgotten what it meant to be happy.

He may not be human, but he is. Everything good about humanity that had been lost and forsaken when mankind crashed onto this unforgiving, harsh planet.

You pull away, resisting the urge to press your fingers down on his skin, to trace the map of his scars and feel him shudder underneath you. He’s as warm as a furnace. The heat of his body stays with you. “How do you feel?”

He beams at you, one hand on his upper arm as he swings his arm around. “Perfect!”

You sigh. “Don’t push yourself now. Let me finish wrapping you.”

He retreats back to his original position, still smiling, all reservations about his partial nudity forgotten as he waits for you to finish.

Vash speaks. “You didn’t kill them.”

You glance up. You can only partially see his expression from your position behind him, but the pull of his lips is unmistakable. He’s smiling. And you don’t need to look at him to see it. That sweet smile of his that pulls at his eyes and softens his entire face.

Your hands still. You hadn’t killed them. The Archie Brothers, the two brothers infamous for targeting banks and other commercial properties, who had gotten wind of Vash being in the city and emptied hundreds of rounds into the bar the two of you had momentarily settled in for a quick drink. It’s not as if you could’ve killed them in the first place. Vash was nothing if not easygoing, but keeping the criminals you turned in for a paycheck alive was the one thing he firmly enforced. Going as far to shield their bodies with his own.

He’s so troublesome sometimes.

You want to ask if he would’ve let you in the first place. If you had a choice.

You force yourself to wind the bandage over his arm. “You must be rubbing off on me.”

Vash turns, faster than you anticipate, eyes wide. You can see the pale irises of his eyes. He’s delighted. “Really!?”

You blink, staring at him in silence. He goes red, jerking back, scuttling backwards with his hands like a crab until he reaches the end of the bed and then air. He falls back first, legs raised up in the air.

He sits up with a sheepish chuckle, rubbing the back of his head. “I…I guess I got a little ahead of myself…”

“...pffft.”

He straightens just as you dissolve into full blown laughter. And when your laughter dies down he’s looking at you, eyes wide, like he’s seeing you for the first time. You clear your throat and look away, embarrassed. You don’t think you’ve ever laughed in front of him.

“...Something on my face?”

He jumps, frantically waving. “No, no. I just thought,” he hesitates. “You should laugh more.”

Something in your chest gives. You can’t stand it. Not when he looks at you like that. Eyes shining, lips curved softly, face animated like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

People like him aren’t supposed to survive No Man’s Land. They aren’t built to. But you’ve seen with your own eyes how capable Vash is. It didn’t take much to kill a man in these lawless lands, but you had never seen him miss his target. Your didn't need to take pride in your aim to know it was excellent. You just didn’t have the same consideration for criminals Vash did. A life or two wasn’t something you lost sleep over. Casualties happened. And if it was a criminal, then it was simply divine judgment.

You stand from the bed and walk towards the desk. You take a doughnut out of a brown paper bag and throw it to him.

“For me?” He exclaims, easily catching it, even though you had thrown it to him.

You don’t respond. He enthusiastically tears it in half, and offers you the bigger piece.

You shake your head, the quirk of your lips, fond. “I don’t like sweet things.”

“I see…” he says thoughtfully, as if he’s digesting the information. “That makes sense. You don’t normally eat…”

It strikes you that this is the most you’ve ever talked about yourself. You’re unusually talkative today, and he notices. You find that you don’t mind. It’s alarmingly easy to talk to him now.

In the handful of months you’ve been traveling together, you’ve learned that all the crimes attributed to him had been the work of his twin, a man called Million Knives. A man you had managed to steal a glimpse of only once before Vash had locked you in a closet before rushing away. You were still sore over that. Even though he retrieved you soon after, apologizing profusely, accepting your cold shoulder with grace. Until you couldn’t bear the way he trailed after you with a pathetically sad expression on his face, and told him to stop.

You never asked him for details. Of why his brother was terrorizing towns and cities, stealing plants and lives along the way. You’ve never pushed. You weren’t following the man to learn his life story. You were in it for the money.

Until one day, you realized he knew your exact bar order by heart. The kinds of alcohol you’d drink, and the kinds you wouldn’t touch. It was a small thing. But he looked so pleased when he placed the glass down, as he waited for you to drink it.

You knew his fear of you becoming potential collateral damage, but somewhere along the way you think you had grown on him. Somewhere along the nights listening to him cry out in his sleep for a woman named Rem, somewhere along watching the sliver of light heralding sunrise on the horizon together, somewhere in the silence in the dark of nights shared.

You think he’s grown on you too.

“Have you eaten?” He asks.

“Not hungry,” you reply, glancing out the window. Pitch black other than the glow of a single lone street lamp nearly a block down. “I’m going to sleep.” It wasn’t often you got to sleep on a bed, and you planned to make full use of it.

You go to the bathroom to wash up. When you walk out, Vash enters the room with a load of blankets. You look at him curiously.

“I asked the innkeeper for some blankets.” He laughs, recalling the conversation. “I said that my…” he trails off. “My…ah…wife…” Red paints his cheeks, and he looks away, raising the mound in his arms a bit higher to cover his face.

“...”

You watch as he makes his way to the other side of the room, keeping his gaze pointedly straight, and places the pile down.

“You’re sleeping on the floor?”

“That’s right!” Vash pats the floor a little too vigorously for your liking. “Just like usual!”

You look at the bed. It’s big enough for the two of you so you had assumed you’d be sharing it… You’ve never shared a bed together before, but you had no problems with it, not with Vash.

He darts into the bathroom quickly enough that you don’t have time to say anything else. You hear the water run, turn off the lights, and get underneath the covers.

Then you wait.

When he leaves the bathroom, he gingerly folds his red jacket and sets it down on the chair. You wait until he passes the bed to strike, grabbing him by the shirt, and hauling him down onto the bed.

He yelps, a surprised, high pitched, noise that tears out of his throat.

“We can share,” you say to him, his face inches apart from you. You can see his wide eyes, the bob of his throat working, pink lips parted as he stares at you, but your gaze is resolute.

And that’s that.

You figure that it might be easier for him to sleep if you aren’t facing him, so you turn to face the wall. You stare at the wall for ten minutes, waiting for him to settle into his side of the bed. Not even a faint rustle of the sheets. You wait a little longer. You can’t even hear him breathing.

You turn back around to face him and immediately he draws back even farther from his original position, on the tip of the bed where he’s precariously close to falling off.

A nervous chuckle. “I…”

“Sleep. I won’t say it again.” You study him, his slightly panicked expression, the grip of his metal hand fisted into the sheets. Oh. “Is it me?”

“N-nothing like that—!” He inches forward, just a little bit (still keeping his distance), puts his hand underneath the pillow, and squeezes his eyes tight. You watch him for a few seconds longer, specifically at the bead of sweat forming on the side of his temples. Your gaze drifts down, from the delicate slope of his nose to his lips.

You turn back around.

Silence settles in the room like a muffled blanket. You still can’t tell if he’s breathing or not, and for some reason, sleep doesn’t come to you as easily as it usually does. The bed is too soft.

You don’t know why you say it. Maybe it’s because you’re awake. Maybe it’s because you know Vash isn’t asleep.

“When I was a child, a plant saved me.”

A few heartbeats pass.

Vash’s voice is softly hesitant. It feels like something gentle and your stomach coils tight, as if in preparation for the inevitable recoil that always follows. “Were you sick?”

“I was.” The darkness reveals patterns in the wall, and your eyes go blurry with them. “The entire town was sick. Children were dying.” Religious fervor had taken ahold. Daily ritual acts of praying and calling out for salvation.

Taking you to your town’s plant when you were on the brink of death had been your mother’s first and final act of love. Afterwards, your mother often recounted in a drunken stupor that she was sure you were going to die. That it may have even been a mercy if you had. The plant cured you. Your mother was sure of it, the plant worshiping denizens of the town were sure of it. Nobody knew how. Nothing except for the fact that shortly after—

“The plant died the day after. I’ve never forgotten it.” You killed it. It was the first life you took.

It changed you. On a fundamental level. Something had happened to you on that day you can’t even remember. But that’s something you don’t think you can share. How sometimes, you don’t even need to dodge bullets.

That plant died, and now you are here, sharing a bed with a self proclaimed pacifist who refused to kill under any circumstances. A man who defied all logic and reasoning. A good man anyone would call misguided. A fool. An idealist.

In the end, lives would always demand sacrifice. It was either you, or them. It was kill, or be killed.

You don’t know what face he’s making behind you. Is he horrified to know that your life had ended before it started? That you were responsible for taking away the source of life for hundreds of people? That your existence was predicated on sacrifice and death before you even learned how to walk? You were at inherent odds with the idealism of pacifism. With him. Not out of choice, but because of circumstances out of your control.

Maybe a part of you wants him to hate you. Maybe a part of you is looking to be understood. But you thought that part of you had died long ago.

You shut your eyes, prepared to go to sleep.

Vash exhales. “I don’t…”

You open your eyes.

There’s a conviction in his voice you don’t understand. “You didn’t kill it.” You wonder how he can be so confident. “The plant saved you.” I know it did.

You face him once more. He’s closer than he was before, close enough to easily touch. “Sometimes,” you start, hating the way he’s smiling at you in a way that touches his eyes, framed in the pale moonlight. “You really make me mad.”

His jaw comically drops open. You watch as panic instantly overtakes his face until he realizes the lack of heat in your words. His lips push back together to form a pout. He says your name.

“Why is your brother stealing plants?”

Money. Power. Recognition. Those would seem to be the most likely answers, but you’ve seen the wreckage that Million Knives leaves in the wake of his destruction. It’s cruelty. It’s too calculated to be careless. It’s pure hatred. You can’t fathom a man like as Vash's brother. Twin brother.

But then that voice inside you speaks. Are you really any different?

Vash blinks, and then his face falls, gaze downcast. It feels odd to see him like this. You rarely catch him without a big, sheepish smile on his face nowadays, especially when he catches you looking at him, but you had seen him with a forlorn expression, shoulders slumped, in your early days of traveling together. When there were no children to demand a ride on his back, when the two of you momentarily passed an overcast shadow, in the darkness of the night when he thought nobody was looking.

You almost regret asking him in the first place. But he’s so close you can count his pale eyelashes, and you lose your train of thought.

“You could say it’s…” his mouth twists, “revenge.”

Revenge.

He’s not the first misanthrope in these lands. You think the occasional mass murderous thought, and you resist acting on it more often than you didn’t, the days before you met a blonde pacifist gunman. There’s only so much a human being can take.

You think of the kaleidoscope of scars that line his body. You only saw the ones on his upper body, but you don’t doubt the existence of countless others everywhere else.

It must’ve hurt. It must’ve been other people. People intent on capturing him. People who wanted to hurt him. You hate them all. Every single person that has permanently marked him a way that wasn’t theirs to do in the first place. You hate whoever severed his arm, whoever had repaid his kindness with violence.

Desire strikes you, hot and sudden. You want to count them all, trail your fingers over the heat of his body, the uneven layers of skin, and feel his breaths underneath you. You look at him, as his gaze lifts, remeeting your eyes, pleading for your understanding. Ball and chain to his brother. Shouldering the sins of family. You don’t understand it. Why he’s looking to you for acceptance, as if it’d even make a difference.

He is the only good thing in this harsh world, and you’ve found him.

“Maybe,” you tell him, as he hangs onto your every word. “We deserve it.”

You see the split second sadness weighing in his eyes, at your words, right before you curl your fingers into his shirt and pull him to your lips.

His eyes go wide, and something that sounds like a mixture of an exhale and gasp leaves his lips. You separate, your lips a hairbreadth away from his, as he stares at you.

“Is this okay?” You ask. If it wasn’t, you’d go back to sleep, and forget it ever happened in the first place. You made your move. It wasn’t reciprocated.

But then he nods, so vigorously that his blonde hair flops into his eyes.

You smile, and Vash lights up.

You kiss him again, drawing his face closer with your hand on his cheek. He complies with his entire body, closing the distance immediately, like if he can’t help himself. His lips are clumsy against yours, too eager, too desperate, wet and messy, as he pants into your mouth. Heat pools in your stomach, and you want more. You run your tongue over the seam of his lips, and he lets out a sigh of something that sounds reverently like your name against your mouth.

Then your tongue is in his mouth, and his flesh hand jumps. There’s a breathless, throaty whimper, the entire weight of his body pressing tight against you. So you can feel every part of him. How he’s willing to give you everything in the name of desire, of love. And when you pull away, his lips follow yours, spit slicked and swollen.

You easily lay him flat on his back as you move to straddle him. You kiss him again briefly, tenderly. Then you sit up and pull up his shirt, just enough to expose his torso. His metal fingers fist into the sheets when your finger goes to a scar of pink skin right about his hips, lightly following it to right below his chest.

He chokes with a shudder that wracks his body. You can feel him, heavy and hard pressing against you. The slight jump of his hips, barely restraining himself from rutting into you.

“It’s not…” Vash struggles with the words with heaving breaths, face bright red, embarrassment splayed out. He looks to the side. “A pretty sight.”

You think of heated irons and blistering pain. Thousands of blades slicing you open, needles penetrating flesh, blind white heat enveloping your body, and the mindless oblivion that would follow.

You realize you’ve been silent a beat too long when Vash looks like he’s preparing for your inevitable rejection.

“I’ve got scars too,” you say, finally. Quietly. You take his mechanical hand in yours and slowly slide him up underneath your shirt. “You want to see?”

#vash the stampede x reader #vash x reader #trigun stampede x reader #trigun x reader #vash imagines #m.trigun

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sunnie-writes · 6 months

Text

cupid's chokehold.

pairing: jax x cupid!gn!reader

tags & tropes: fluff, shameless flirting, fell first/fell harder

summary: you were absolutely confused because of two things: one, you got transported to a random dimension and became a totally different person, gaining the title of a cupid, and two, you had fallen in love at first sight with the most sarcastic purple rabbit man ever. well, at least you didn't felt like complaining on the second part.

tell me, sunnie!!: AAAAAAAAAAAAAA... anyways, hiiiii:3 i got a new fandom added to my brain, injected it into my veins and now i am addicted. so, this funky little guy didn't actually catch my attention at first but then i watched some edits and was like "HMMMMMM i mean yeah sure" and then i decided to check tumblr, stumbled on a fic of him and went "OH. OH." yk?? anyways, i hope you guys enjoy this bc i wrote it instead of sleeping and i have to wake up early tomorrow el oh el!!1!1!1!1

warnings?: kissing, suggestive(?) i mean it's just neck biting but idk........

first of all, you don't know how the hell you are... here, nor why you've been stuck in this place for two weeks already.

it's a colorful world, saturated to the maximum amount possible. you know, the type to burn your eyes if you stare at a specific spot for too long. it also looked like some kind of fever dream, with all the toys scattered and the way different people? characters? looked like.

not like you can say much, you have heart shaped pupils and you're wearing something that looks like an ancient greece tunic. also, sandals. you have these big feathered white wings that are a pinkish hue at the tip of every single feather. you tried pulling one out to see if it was actually real, resulting in a yelp from your mouth. it kinda hurts.

and that reaction caused a chuckle to come from someone who has your eyes dedicated to just admiring them.

frankly speaking, if you went back and told your past self that by putting those weird vr headset glasses on you would be signing up to falling for a tall and lanky purple rabbit with a yellow smile, you would probably just chuckle and still do it, but with even more determination than before. eh, what can you say? you've always been attracted to the weirdest characters anyways.

but this... this was real, he was real and he was talking to other real weird animated people. ragatha rambled next to you about... honestly, you didn't even know, too busy watching from afar a certain rabbit. this was the start to possibly one of your most frustrating crushes ever.

"[name]? are you okay? you seem more distracted today?" she worriedly asked, putting her hand on your shoulder, "you shouldn't think too much about trying to find an exit if that's what you're thinking about, you might get abs-"

"huh? no, i wasn't thinking about that!" you quickly hurried to give an explanation, trying to dismiss that idea from her, but your eyes darted again to the overall wearing guy and she followed your gaze.

she slowly moved her head back at you after seeing what you were so... distracted about. a smirk broke in her face.

"oooh, little [nickname] has a cruuush?" ragatha teased you.

"wha- no- that's not-" before you could continue, your flushed cheeks got even more red as you saw him approaching. you immediately shut your mouth and just looked at the floor, trying to quickly hide your face

"sup', what are you two gossiping about today?" jax spoke in a mocking, sultry tone that had melting down a drain... not literally though.

"oh, nothing. you know, just the usual!" ragatha quickly tried to hide that topic from him, trying to distract or something. play it cool!

"uh-huh, and why is little cupid over here heating up like a preheated oven?" you almost choked on spit before looking at him with furrowed eyebrows and slightly flushed cheeks.

"none of your business, jax, don't bring your teasing and mocking over to [name]!"

"aww, why not?" jax dropped his hand on your shoulder, "say, little cupid, i heard doll face over here mentioning a crush, who do ya' have the hots for?"

your mind instantly went to answer "you" internally z meanwhile, your lips just answered in an almost quiet sound.

"i'm not telling you."

"huh, and why is that?" he leaned in close, and suddenly you felt absurdly claustrophobic.

he looks so... absurdly attractive with that smirk. you wish you could wipe it off of his face.

"because..." it doesn't take too long to come up with an excuse, you're an overthinker who is always prepared for this kind of situation, "you would mock me for it, and i don't feel like getting bullied by a purple beanpole."

"gasp, you wound me with your hateful words!" he dramatically posed, meanwhile ragatha chuckled in the background. "how can a cupid, made of pure love, be this mean?"

you just lightly punched him in the arm at that.

---

night time seemed like a blur to you in this world. sleep? never heard of that.

it's been a month already and your crush hasn't faltered. instead, it got bigger each day, but to be fair, it was impossible for it to not grow. jax decided that, for some reason, he liked teasing you a bit too much since he found out you might have a crush on someone.

playful flirting seemed to be his favorite to use on you, since you just tried your best to not show how it actually affected you. honestly, you felt like some kind of cliche teenager movie where you're about to write his name on a notebook with hearts all around it.

and that felt too cheesy, even for a cupid.

---

oh my stars, he wishes it's him.

you know, at first when you arrived at the digital circus, jax paid no mind to you. i mean, yeah, you were probably the cutest person in this digital purgatory, but he didn't think that he could fall for anyone in here, this isn't some weird sitcom episode. but it was starting to get difficult to not let him lose himself in a romantic trance when you were around.

he wonders if you used anything on him that could've possibly made him slowly fall for you, hard.

in the second week, he began noticing things about you. for example, you laughed at his jokes and sarcastic personality, got irritated for his pranks but never screamed at him, just shrugging it off like normally, you didn't even care when he stole something from your room.

it was mind breaking to just try and see what could get a reaction out of you towards him. until it was revealed that you had a crush on someone in that place.

jax isn't dumb, he already caught you looking at him from afar just to fastly change your gaze and get flustered, how your hands trembled when you were near him, heart eyes expanding when he talked to you. so, just to test if his theory was real, he decided to leave a subtle flirt for you. and that was checkmate.

he thought at first that it was weird, that maybe he could just play with you a little bit and entertain your little crush on him. but then, the spell turned against him. you flirted back once, and that made him feel awfully fuzzy minded. now, he was the one staring at you from afar sometimes.

that wasn't in his plans, falling for you even harder than you fell for him wasn't supposed to happen. yet, it did anyway.

and now the realization dawned on him that, at some point, he's going to have to either confess or simply hide that for forever, since that's the time they're gonna be stuck in the same dimension together. how fun, isn't it?

---

your feet took you outside of the tent, as everybody was now sleeping comfortably in their own rooms. well, at least you thought they were. stepping onto the grass and breathing in some fresh air, you looked up, waved at the sun and the moon, who smiled back at you contently. then you finally sat down and layed on the saturated green ground, looking up at the fake stars.

you sighed heavily, trying to distract your worried mind that screamed about wanting to get out and at the same time never wanting to leave. it was downright confusing, and left you with pent up energy that made your brain go 100/mph.

you heard footsteps behind you, looking up just to meet with a yellow smile and cartoonish eyes. you immediately gulped as his smirk grew.

"heyyy little cupid, what are you doing here so late?" he questioned you with a lower tone of voice before sitting down by your side. you immediately sat up too.

"just... thinking about some stuff." not losing any chance, you tried to start a conversation. "what about you?"

"meh, just bored and couldn't sleep." jax then looked at you in the eyes. "what could you possibly be thinking about?"

"ah, you know... just the usual!" you tried to quickly change topics, you didn't feel like traumadumping on anyone today nor did you feel like telling him that he's the reason you didn't abstract yet.

"and, does the usual involve your secret little crush?"

your breathe hitches, "why are you so curious about who i like?"

"i just am, it's interesting to see your reactions when i mention them." he leaned down, holding his head with his hand as he still stared at you. "why don't you tell me who it is? i'm starting to get the wrong idea that it's me since you refuse to speak about the mystery person to me."

you think you just felt your heart stop. your eyes go wide and you can feel the heat coursing through your body, blood rushing and flushing your cheeks. you know what? okay then, since there is no escape from this situation, might as well finish the night with a bang before you leave to sleep.

"that's... not the wrong idea at all." you confessed, watching as his eyes went wide in a millisecond.

"what." he spoke before sitting up and grabbing your shoulders. "you're not fucking with me, are ya?"

you shook your head while embarrassingly looking to the floor, feeling frustration pooling in your head.

"no, i'm not. i like you jax, i like your stupid pranks, your stupid jokes, your mischievous smile, your ey-" you were cut off by lips meeting with yours.

as your current situation settled in your mind, you got yourself comfortable and closes your eyes, lacing your arms around his neck and pulling him even closer before you two fell back again, you under him. your stomach was doing backflips, breaking down at the feeling of being reciprocated.

when you finally broke apart, your heart eyes were absurdly big, staring at him while you panted for air. he chuckled at your face, giving a big smile while himself was actually melting at finally having you in his arms. jax laid his head on between your neck and your shoulder. you petted his head, until you felt something.

he was biting your neck, leaving love bites and hickeys behind.

first of all, you didn't even knew if he could open his mouth, but apparently he could (?). you couldn't think much of it, too busy holding back an embarrassing whimper. you held his head and tried not to close your legs around his waist as he continued to bite.

he pulled back, looking at you with a smirk and raised eyebrows.

"well, look what a mess i've done, darlin'. how do ya' feel?"

you couldn't even answer, feeling absolutely overwhelmed by his hand on your waist, the knee resting between your legs and your mind slowly losing it's control. instead of an answer, you just pulled him down for another kiss.

yeah, you probably were enjoying that, but jax? ha! in his mind, he was melting down a drain, patting himself in the back for the idea of deciding to take a night walk and accidentally seeing you. he grinned into the french kiss, feeling absurdly high at the moment.

he wasn't sure how everyone would react to you finally being his, not that he cared about their opinion, but he thinks if would be funny to see their faces. he can't wait for it to happen, but now it's not time to think about that.

it's time for him to think on how to calm his rapidly beating heart that might give you the hint that he loves you way more than you love him.

tell me, sunnie!!: AAAAA i finished writing this only the next day, sorry if it's too short btw!! i know it missed a lot and should have more things but it was rlly rushed bc i want to write more of him <\33 but yeah, thank you for reading sunshine!!

#sunnie's fics!!#the amazing digital circus #tadc #tadc jax #jax x reader #tadc x reader #the amazing digital circus jax #jax imagine #jax

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