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zhongrin · 6 months

Text

caution: these toys aren’t kids-friendly

◇ characters ◇ zhongli, wriothesley, al haitham, kaeya

◇ tags ◇ minors dni, afab!reader, fem!reader, toys (duh), improper use of geo (thanks crys), dragon!li (because..... are you even surprised?), edging (zhongli, wriothesley), 'little one' used (zhongli), handcuffs & collar (wriothesley), 'puppy' and 'slut' used (wriothesley), shibari (al haitham), sex machine (kaeya)

◇ a/n ◇ an offering before wrio's banner drops. was debating on releasing this today or the end of this week, but..... wrio come home please i am begging

𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ⬙ 𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡

the addition of toys in your bedroom was something you both had discussed beforehand. typical of zhongli, to draft a contract detailing all the things you were both comfortable and not comfortable doing in the bedroom, right after you mentioned that you were ready to be physically intimate with him.

you really should have read the fine print in that contract carefully.

“- my love?”

“h-huh?”

you dazedly looked up at your husband, feeling your already-warm cheeks getting warmer at the expectant look that he and another man were giving you.

was he talking to you? what was the question? where the hell were you again?

“hm, my apologies, it seems like my wife isn’t feeling well. perhaps we will revisit your establishment at a later date, mr. curator. i truly do apologize for the inconvenience.”

you were not even sure what the other party said. all you could hear was the smooth baritone of your husband’s voice. all you could think was how good he could make you feel with that eloquently speaking mouth and lithe tongue of his, those long slender fingers, the two girthy, veiny, deliciously ridged shape of his-

that same voice was now whispering just slightly above your ears, and to others it must have looked like you were both a very loving couple; a husband hunched over his wife, supporting her and bringing her to the nearest shade in this hot weather while lovingly murmuring sweet nothings into her ears - because what else would the gentlemanly mr. zhongli whisper into his dearest spouse?

literal filth, that’s what.

“my my, the amount of slick running down your thighs, darling,” he chuckled as he let you rest against the cooling shades by the side of a building, his gloved fingers trailing up your inner thigh behind your skirt to gather the essence of your drooling cunt, “how scandalous. had i were just a second too late, people would have noticed the suspicious trail of wetness on your leg despite the lack of rain or anything of sort-”

“want you,” you babbled, brain stuffed full of cotton as you tried to press yourself against him, “n-not enough, want more!!”

“was the toy i personally created just for you not enough, hmm? how greedy,” he was fully taunting you now, amused by the sparks of arousal in your voice and in the short bursts of your breathing, “didn’t you say you could wait until we get home, dear? i’m afraid our abode isn’t some decrepit back alley, now, is it?”

“no, no, now, now,” you whimpered like a saddened puppy, trying to grind on his thigh, the soft vibration of the little geo construct within your walls providing pleasure which made your insides clench, but they fell short of pushing you over that precipice.

“you’re so impatient.”

you gasped as the object inside you suddenly whirred into life, pressing against the right spots and pulsing with a powerful energy you couldn't describe. your cunt clamped around it, more slick pouring down and dripping onto zhongli’s slacks, your cries muffled by your lover who had locked his lips onto yours, tongue inviting you to a sensual dance as your senses were drowning in mind-bending pleasure. his scent engulfed you and the tender fondles of his hand on your thigh contrasted with the passionate kiss you shared, and all you could think was how much better it would feel to have him inside you - oh, even just one of his cocks would do at this point. anything that could fill you up so nicely and bully onto your sweetest spots as your husband’s growls echo right beside your ear - as he marked, mated, and bred you full of his-

and then suddenly he pulled away, shattering your daydream completely. the vibrations returned into an annoying hum, and tears threatened to spill from your eyes as zhongli fixed his tie and your rumpled clothes, his touch sending electric jolts whenever it brushed against your heated bare skin. he gave you a deceivingly kind and patient smile, amber eyes drooping in dark lust yet his movements were as refined as ever.

“come on then, little one. let us go home so i can take care of you properly, yes?”

wriothesley hummed as the metals clicked into place. the view before him was making his cock twitch and throb; the way your face was smushed against the pillow, the dip of your bare back and the roundness of your rear, the way your legs spread open and wrists cuffed with his signature handcuffs… and most of all, your bare cunt in all its drooling mess, completely exposed to him as he rubbed his leaking tip on the sodden slit.

whines and pleas and begs escaped your lips but he paid them no mind. you gave him full control when you agreed to be restrained in this position with the new cuffs he had gotten you. the leather looked ethereal against your wrists, and the way it matched so well with the collar on your neck, embellished with his insignia? truly the most divine sight.

the pleased noise escaping his throat was akin to a growl as he slowly pushed into your heat, his smirk widening as he felt you tighten and tremble. the slow drag of his girth against your walls was driving you insane, but the man refused to acknowledge your desperate ‘more’s. instead, his hand crawled down your stomach from behind, and you felt a cold finger press onto your swollen, burning-hot clit, ripping a surprised and needy squeal from you.

the appendage circled slowly, the cold of cryo making his action feel even more pronounced, as the blunt tip of his shaft slowly kissed the deepest part of you with sensual and rough snaps of his hips. the wet sounds coming from the minimal movements were a testament to how aroused and desperate you were for release.

“look at you, puppy… so wet you’re leaking. how dirty,” he drawled as he continued to stimulate both of your sensitivity, watching intently as your ass and thighs rippled with how your body shook and from his hard but short thrusts, “you feel so good, though… i can fuck this tight pussy for hours on end. would you like that, puppy? will that finally satiate my needy little slut? will you finally learn to behave when you’re so overstimulated, all you can do is cry for my cock and beg for my cum?”

the duke smirked when your cunt clenched at his words. even without seeing how you were nodding frantically, it was enough of an answer to him.

“guess we’ll have to find out… but don’t worry - i don’t expect you to learn your lesson in one session.”

‘it’s not like you’re losing anything by doing this’ he said. ‘shouldn’t take that long’ he said. ‘just enough to sate my curiosity’ he said.

well, firstly, al haitham was, as always, correct. but apparently he was also a liar, and you had severely underestimated the curiosity of an esteemed scholar of one of the akademiya’s bests. maybe you should start paying attention to the books he read. how in the world had you failed to notice that your boyfriend had been reading books upon books regarding the art of shibari?

and of course, like the scholar that he was, he wished to do some 'hands-on practice' now that he had committed the theory to heart. and who would be a better partner than you? a personal curiosity should be sated by personally trusted individuals, and you were perfect for the job.

“you said- you said it’s not gonna take l-long…”

he blinked up at your tied form through those pretty lashes with a hungry gaze which was far from being satiated. intricate knots and green ropes pressed against your skin, some digging insistently as you consciously struggled against the bindings. predatory eyes gazed upon you - a delicious prey willingly caught in a trap.

“time is a construct. it seems like our definitions of ‘long’ are vastly different. an unfortunate miscalculation i should have foresighted; my mistake.”

if the monotonous words weren’t enough indication of how he was clearly not feeling bad about his actions, his next action showed it. fingers lightly brushed against your chest, rubbing against the pebbled nipples as he admired the way your breasts looked against the bindings. your beloved raised his eyebrows when the slightest touch made you shiver and moan in anticipation, a smirk tugging at the edge of his lips.

“ah, i see. i suppose it’s quite boring on your part to just stay there and be restrained like this. my apologies, it seems i have neglected to put myself in your shoes,” al haitham’s eyes soften and he presses a gentle kiss onto your forehead, his bare hands slowly inching towards the section of the rope which was particularly drenched with your arousal.

“let me make it up to you.”

“ready?”

“mm…”

“oh, snowflake,” kaeya chuckled and placed a reassuring kiss on your jawline, thumb caressing your chin comfortingly, “don’t you worry, it’s going to feel really good, and we can stop anytime. you know i would never do anything you wouldn’t like.”

“i know,” you mumbled and replied to your lover’s reassurance with a peck on his lips.

with an approving hum, the cavalry captain fiddled with the remote in his hand. the resounding beep was followed by a soft whirr of the engine turning on, and you gasped as the lubricated toy slowly entered you, before it retracted at the same speed and repeated the motion. a warm hand that contrasted against the cold mechanical motion reached under you to continue his ministrations from before, caressing your inner thigh sensually before feathering across your lower lips.

“mmhm- f-feels good…!”

“yeah?” your boyfriend chuckled as he continues to circle your clit with his experienced fingers, “think you can take more?”

you shivered and nodded. kaeya rewarded you with a kiss to your temple and soon enough you felt the machine speeding up a notch, thrusting into you moderately fast now, the sound of your wet arousal vivid in your ears and resonating within your shared bedroom, causing more warmth to explode on your face.

“ooh, look at that, you’re taking it so well. feels good, doesn’t it, baby?”

with an agreeing whimper, you slumped against kaeya’s body, surrendering to his flighty touches which added warmth to the pleasurable but coldly mechanical toy.

“archons, you look so pretty like this…,” he crooned against your heated skin, eyes twinkling with mirth and mischief, “now, let’s see how long you’ll last before you start begging for my cock.”

#minors dni #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #afab!reader #fem!reader #genshin smut #zhongli #zhongli x reader #wriothesley #wriothesley x reader #al haitham #al haitham x reader #kaeya #kaeya x reader #rin writes

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munson-blurbs · 9 months

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Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12

Summary: After you attend Harris's birthday party, Eddie's forced to confront some big feelings, and a Valentine's date has the two of you navigating a much different type of big feeling.

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), oral (f! receiving), fingering, protected p in v, slight breeding kink, very fluffy smut, brief mention of parental abandonment

WC: 8.6k

Chapter 12/20

Eddie's card credit to @girlwiththerubyslippers Mixtape credit to @lofaewrites Divider credit to @saradika

The mingled scents of wood polisher, stale cigarette smoke, and old frying oil invade your nostrils the second you step into Hawkins Lanes. Bowling balls thud as they make contact with the fiberglass lanes, subsequently crashing into the waiting pins. You offer a smile at the exasperated teenager clearly nursing a hangover, holding back a dry heave as he sprays a pair of red and blue shoes with a can of deodorizer that, given the undertones of pungent sweat permeating the air, is likely well past expired.

“I’m here for Harris Munson’s birthday party?” It comes out like a question rather than a definitive statement, and you hold up the gift bag in your hand like it’s some kind of evidence.

The teenager jerks a thumb towards the back left of the building, not bothering to look up. “Party room’s down there,” he mumbles, and you thank him as you walk along the pink and purple carpet.

You’ve arrived a little early, hoping to steal a few moments with Eddie before the chaos of the day begins. Wayne is the only one in the small room, stretching to hang up a sign proudly declaring ‘Happy Birthday,’ each letter a different color of the rainbow. He grins when he sees you approaching, and you hold one end of the sign in place as he adheres it to the door frame with Scotch tape.

“Good to see y’again, darlin’.” Wayne greets you with a grin, taping your side of the banner.

You put your arm down and return his smile. “You, too!” you chirp, glancing around the room. “Where can I put Harris’s present?”

The older man points to an empty table off to the side. “Right over there should be good,” he figures aloud. “Ed just took Harris to the little boys’ room, but they’ll letcha know otherwise.”

You nod, gently placing the bright yellow bag atop a table covered with a Hot Wheels-themed cloth. Amusement dances on your lips at the realization that Eddie must have splurged on decorations; it’s far better quality than one from the local 99-cent store.

“Ms. Sweetheart! You’re at my birthday party!” Harris’s enthusiastic voice captures your attention, and you spin around just as he’s launching himself into your arms. A tiny human rocketship.

“I am!” You laugh, motioning towards the gift table, “and I left your present over there.”

Harris’s face lights up and he starts towards it, arms outstretched and ready to tear through the tissue paper, but the sound of his dad clearing his throat stops him in his tracks.

“Remember,” Eddie says, keeping his tone calm but firm, “we’re gonna open everything once all your friends are here, after we eat cake.”

Harris juts out his lower lip in a pout. “But Daddy,” he protests, “I wanna open it now!” He stomps his foot indignantly, and you have to suppress a laugh at how silly it looks with the clown-esque bowling shoe on.

“Harris, can you wait until you open the ones from your friends?” You phrase it like a favor, hoping to appeal to him that way. “I’m really excited about what I got you and I want them to see you open it, too.” Of course, you couldn’t care less about what a bunch of random four- and five-year-olds think about your gift, but you had to think quickly before the whine escalated to a tantrum.

He releases a sigh of exasperation but ultimately concedes. “Okay, I guess I can wait.”

Eddie mouths thank you and winks as the four of you walk out to the lanes to wait for Harris’s friends. You feel a hand slip into yours, too small to be Eddie’s, and beam when Harris looks up at you with pure joy.

“Daddy! Grampa Wayne! I’m holding Ms. Sweetheart’s hand!” he exclaims, baby teeth on full display

Eddie ruffles Harris's hair. “I’m jealous.” If prompted, he’ll claim that he’s envious that his son chose to hold your hand instead of his. But you and him–and Wayne, let’s be real–know the real meaning behind his statement.

As Harris’s friends arrive and the birthday boy greets each of them with a hug, you and Eddie spring into action and line them up to get fitted for shoes. There are five kids, three boys and two girls, and though you recognize them as Ms. Marion’s students, you don’t know any of them by name. The bowling shoe laces are flimsy, and a few of them struggle with the fine motor skills necessary to tie them.

“Can I help you with that?” you ask one boy, who nods and extends his leg towards you. You crouch down and rest his foot on your knee as you double-knot the laces. When you finish, you look up to see that the rest of the kids have formed a line for your shoe-tying expertise.

Eddie returns from dropping off the guests’ gifts in the party room, laughing when he stumbles upon the queue of children. “You don’t have to do all that, Sweetheart,” he tells you, using his hands to assess the weight of different bowling balls before distributing them to the kids.

You shrug as you finish tying the last shoes. “I don’t mind.”

Eddie has reserved two lanes for the party, and before anyone can figure out who will be bowling where, Harris is tugging on his Black Sabbath t-shirt.

“We wanna play in teams,” he reports matter-of-factly. You’re not sure who ‘we’ refers to, since you didn’t see him corroborating with any of his friends, but you don’t question it aloud. “Team Harris and Team Daddy.”

Eddie gasps with feigned offense, bringing his palm to his heart. “What? You don’t want me on your team?”

“Nope.” Harris shakes his head, curls swaying back and forth. “I want Ms. Sweetheart on my team.” He pauses as he glances around the group, eyes brightening when his gaze lands on the eldest Munson. “You can have Grampa Wayne.”

“Old man’s probably gonna break a hip.” Eddie grumbles teasingly, picking up a red marbled bowling ball and hoisting it up to his chest.

Wayne scratches the top of his head. “And yet I can still kick your ass.” He keeps his voice low so that little ears can’t hear, but you and Eddie can, and you tuck your lips into your mouth so none of the kids catch on.

Harris is up first, squatting down and using two hands to roll the ball down the lane. His method proves to be somewhat effective when he knocks down a few pins, and the scoreboard screen flashes a giant number 5.

“That’s how many years I am!” Harris proudly announces, skipping back to where the rest of his team is standing. He cocks his head at the ball return’s open mouth for the neon green ball that Eddie had handed him earlier, eagerly scooping it up when he spots it. Assuming the same stance, he once again rolls the ball and successfully topples two more pins.

Eddie raises his brows incredulously. “Hmm, let me try that strategy.”

“I don’t think there’s enough pins for all of your years,” you quip, and Eddie sticks out his tongue in your direction before mimicking Harris’s approach, knees aligned with his toes. He draws the ball back between his legs and releases it a few inches ahead of him, smirking as it cascades down the lane.

His cockiness is apparently earned, since he gets a strike. He attempts a victory moonwalk, clumsily dragging one foot behind the other in a manner that would make Michael Jackson regret ever making the move popular. The heel of his shoe catches on the floor and he stumbles backwards, landing on his ass.

The kids burst out into peals of laughter, and you and Wayne join in once it is evident that Eddie’s not hurt, only embarrassed. You stoop down, clutching your ball between your palms as you grin. “That’s what you get for gloating,” you whisper in his ear, a joking lilt in your voice. “Try setting a good example for the kids next time.”

Unbeknownst to you, one of the kids, Kelly, strikes up a conversation with Harris while you’re up to bowl. “Is that your mommy?” she asks him, strawberry blonde pigtails softly swishing as she looks over at you.

“No, but she’s gonna be my mommy soon!” Harris replies happily. “She and my daddy are gonna fall in love and then she’ll be my mommy.” His voice lowers as concern mars his words. “But don’t tell anyone, okay? Because it’s my birthday cake wish and I need it to come true.”

Kelly nods, taking this obligation seriously, and she averts her gaze when she spots you walking back to the ball return. Since you’d only knocked down eight pins, you take another turn, slipping your thumb, middle, and ring fingers into the holes, frowning when you don’t get the spare you’d hoped for.

Harris’s chipperness brings a smile back to your face. “Ms. Sweetheart, can you teach me how to bowl like a grown-up?” He blinks a few times, hammering in his naturally docile nature.

“Of course!”

When it’s Harris’s turn again, Eddie watches you go up with him. It’s noisy, but he zeros in on your sweet tone among the clattering of bowling pins and cacophonous conversations.

“See, you put your middle finger and ring finger here, and your thumb here,” you’re gently explaining. “And then you lift the ball back just a bit, bring it forward, and let it go.” You go through all of the motions without actually letting go of the ball, Harris’s eyes glued to your every move. “You try.”

Harris follows your instructions, pink tongue poking from his mouth in sheer concentration, and knocks down a single pin. Eddie braces himself for his disappointment, maybe even escalation to a tantrum, so he’s pleased when his son spins back with a wide, toothy smile.

“I did it! I knocked it down!”

“You’re amazing! I’m so proud of you, Harris.” Eddie’s posture softens as Harris runs into your arms and gives you a giant hug, tiny fingers digging into your biceps as he squishes the side of his face just below your collarbones. When he does this, Eddie notices that Harris’s cheeks have lost some of their chubbiness; his son’s baby-like features subtly disappearing to make way for attributes of the older child he’s growing into. It brings a slight pang to his heart, and he swallows the emotion and focuses instead on the bonding moment between you and the not-so-little boy.

There’s a shared love; more than that, there’s trust. Harris knows he can rely on you to teach him with kindness and patience, that you won’t berate him or yell at him for doing something incorrectly. You’re his Ms. Sweetheart.

Wayne takes note of the goofy smile adorning his nephew’s face, nudging him before he drops the bowling ball on his foot. “I know you’re in love with her, but she ain’t worth losing your toes over.”

Eddie’s face flushes pink, the tips of his ears burning now that he's been caught. “I’m not in love with her, Wayne.” At least, I didn’t think I was yet, but now I might be.

“Whatever you say,” Wayne mutters under his breath, taking careful steps towards the lane. “You, uh, might wanna wipe the drool from your chin before you take your turn, though.”

Team Harris ultimately wins, mostly because Wayne throws the game so the birthday boy can have a victorious moment. You, Eddie, and Wayne quickly corral the kids into the party room, seating them at a large rectangular table for cake and presents before anyone can take offense over the game results. The three of you breathe silent sighs of relief when you easily shift their focus to the next activity.

Eddie pulls his lighter from his back pocket, flicking it on and lighting the five thin blue and white striped candles unevenly jabbed through the chocolate frosted homemade cake. He picks up the plate, supporting it from the bottom as he leads the group in a hilariously off-key rendition of Happy Birthday.

Harris squeezes his eyes shut before blowing out the flames with gusto, a big grin on his face when he opens them again.

Feeling a hand clap on his shoulder, Eddie swivels his body to see his uncle armed with a disposable Kodak camera. “Let me get a picture of you and the birthday boy,” Wayne insists, peering through the little viewfinder and snapping a photo. Eddie’s crouched down, right arm slung over Harris’s shoulders. Both of them wear matching smiles; the only difference is that Harris is still sporting his baby teeth.

“Now Ms. Sweetheart!” the little Munson declares. Eddie goes to leave, pressing his palms to his knees and standing up, but Harris grabs his wrist and pulls him back. “No, Daddy. You and me and Ms. Sweetheart together!”

You shuffle over to stand on Harris’s other side. When you place your hand on his upper back, Eddie’s slides over yours, the two of you and Harris chiming “cheese!” in enthusiastic unison.

Blinking from the brightness of the flash, you extend your arm and make a ‘gimme’ motion with your hand. “Let me get one of the three of you,” you say to Wayne, who begrudgingly places the camera in your outstretched palm.

Eddie pulls him in closer. “Alright, Munson men. Flex those muscles!” You giggle as the three of them bend their arms to show off whatever biceps they have.

“Ms. Sweetheart, who’s got the biggest muscles?” Harris asks as you lower the camera.

You scrunch up your nose as though seriously contemplating the question. “Um, me, obviously!” You smack your own bicep, sending Harris into hysterics.

“That’s so silly!” he cackles, glancing up at Eddie. “Daddy, isn’t Ms. Sweetheart so silly?”

You expect him to agree with his son, but he just puts his hands on his shoulders and gives a quick squeeze as he says, “Nah, she’s the strongest person I know.” Your stomach flip-flops when he peers at you through his impossibly long lashes. He picks up the plate and brings it over to the smaller, empty table. “Let’s cut this cake before the kids start revolting.”

The two of you use plastic knives and forks to divide the cake into slivers and toss them onto paper plates. Once all of the kids have their slices, Eddie licks the excess frosting from his fingers and hands you a plate.

“Havin’ fun?” He carefully wraps the question in a joking tone, but you can tell that he’s genuinely curious about whether you’re enjoying yourself.

You spear a piece of your slice with the plastic fork. “I am, actually.” The chocolate melts in your mouth, and your tongue glides over your lips to catch any crumbs. “I haven’t been bowling since I was a kid.”

“And it shows,” he teases, wincing when you flick his cheek. “Hey, now—violence is never the answer. What values are you instilling in these impressionable young minds?”

Harris pops up from his seat, waving an empty plate. Whatever cake bits were left on it have tumbled to the floor. “Daddy, I’m done! Can I open my presents now?”

“Jesus, did you inhale that thing?” Eddie wonders aloud, but ultimately agrees. He grabs a bunch of thin napkins and wipes Harris’s hands and face, laughing when the boy sputters as the paper presses against his lips. “Har Bear, you don’t wanna get your presents all messy.”

Once he’s all cleaned up, Harris grabs each of the gifts and brings them to his seat at the head of the table. He tears through brightly colored wrapping paper at lightning speed. Eddie tries to keep track of who gave what as his son unveils a Hot Wheels track from Charlie and his brother Brendan, a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figure from Kelly, a G.I. Joe from Emma, and—regrettably—a tub of Gak from Zachary. He makes a mental note to pick up a harmonica or a kazoo or something else noisy when that kid’s birthday rolls around.

The last gift left is from you, and you twiddle your thumbs as you await Harris’s reaction. Should I have gotten him a toy?

“It’s a stencil kit,” you feel the need to explain, as though you wouldn’t be able to handle the embarrassment of him asking what it is. “So you can trace shapes for your art. It’s got all different ones: food, animals, holidays…” You clamp your mouth shut, willing yourself to stop talking.

Your panic is short-lived; Harris’s brown eyes light up as he runs to you and wraps his arms around your legs in another giant hug. “I’m gonna draw you so much things!” he promises, gazing up at you excitedly.

“I can’t wait to see what you make me.” A drawing from Harris holds a deeper meaning than you ever realized. It’s more than a simple display of creativity; it’s a symbol of love and acceptance into his life.

He looks at his dad now with pleading eyes. “Can Ms. Sweetheart come to our house after the party so I can draw her a picture? Please?” He stretches out the last word so that it has at least five syllables.

Eddie looks at you expectantly, a timid smile on his lips. “Well?”

“I think that’s a great idea.” Your response earns you another quick squeeze from Harris before he darts back to his seat to further inspect his gifts.

Eddie’s warm voice is low in your ear, his fingertips ghosting the small of your back in a manner that lets you—and only you—know how starved he is for touch. “And you can help me get rid of that slime thing, too.”

Once the party has ended and you, Eddie, and Harris are back at their apartment, the cherubic boy takes the stenciling kit into his room.

“I’m gonna do art in here so you can’t peek,” he declares, clutching the kit to his chest as though there’s already something to hide.

Eddie chuckles, raking a hand through his curls. “Okay, bud. We’ll be out here, watching TV. You go be a little artíst.”

Once he hears the bedroom door click shut, Eddie puts the TV on a random channel and plops on the couch with a soft oof. You sit down next to him and he puts his arm around you, allowing you to snuggle in closer. The shirt fabric against his underarms is slightly damp with the day’s sweat, but you’re far too comfortable to even consider it an issue.

Your unsuccessful attempt at stifling a yawn has Eddie grinning. “Can’t hang with the kids anymore?” he goads, lips flush against your scalp.

“It’s exhausting being on the winning team,” you playfully retort, adding in an over-the -top fake yawn to drive home your point. “Not that you would know.”

“Oh, yeah?” He pulls you closer to pepper kisses across your neck and cheek until you’re a giggling mess. Satisfied with his handiwork, he allows himself to sink deeper into the cushions and lets out a yawn of his own.

You rest your head on his shoulder, gently brushing his curls back so they’re not in your eyes. A hum of contentment escapes you as you fully relax for the first time today.

You feel a slight nudge on your chin as Eddie tilts it upwards and kisses your lips. The gloss you’d applied before the party is long gone, a casualty of conversation and cake consumption, but he has no complaints.

“Been wanting to do this all day,” he murmurs, shooting shivers down your spine. “And when I saw you helping Harris? Baby, I just…” he searches for accurate words. Nothing he can think of seems to fully convey the depth of his feelings, but he tries his best. “I’m so fucking lucky. We’re so fucking lucky.”

The feeling of your body against his relaxes him further; a marvelous white noise replaces the plethora of overanalyzed problems constantly buzzing through his brain. The heaviness of sleep falls over both of you, and you shift your body even closer to his in a primitive quest for the safety his presence brings. Whatever show is on the fuzzy TV set is now a dull hum until it’s muted by the dreams your subconscious brings.

Eddie only stirs fifteen minutes later when the bedroom door hinges give a soft squeak, ears trained to pick up on Harris’s innocuous noises that often precede chaos. Grogginess overpowers attentiveness, so he misses the smile on his son’s face and the way he whispers, “my birthday wish is coming true.”

Gray clouds cover Hawkins the next day, drenching the small town in cold rain. And while Eddie is certainly grateful that it’s not snowing, this means that he has to find indoor activities to keep his endlessly energetic son occupied.

Luckily, Harris is still enamored with his birthday gifts, particularly the stenciling kit you’d given him. He sits at the kitchen table now, tracing an outline of a cow on a Valentine for his classmate. Eddie’s not quite sure of the correlation between the animal and the holiday, but he’s learned that some battles are best left unfought.

“That looks great, Har Bear.”

“I know.” Harris agrees, not looking up from his drawing as he says, “Daddy, you should make a Valentime for Ms. Sweetheart.” Before Eddie can answer, Harris slides over a piece of red paper and a black marker.

“I should, huh?” Remembering a trick he learned back in elementary school, Eddie folds the paper and draws half of a heart against the crease. He has to use Harris’s blunted safety scissors, much too small for his fingers, to cut the paper. Pleased when he sees that it actually resembles a heart, Eddie taps the marker against his dimpled chin as he contemplates what to write. “You really like Ms. Sweetheart, don’t you?”

Harris nods, putting down the blue marker he’s using and reaching for an orange one. “Mhm. I love her, Daddy.”

Eddie’s heart soars at the confirmation of Harris’s adoration of you, but he tries not to make it obvious. “That’s, uh, that’s good.” He finally decides on a simple message: Be Mine, and he signs his name underneath with a dash. It feels a little less impersonal than “from,” but isn’t as strong as “love.” Do I love her? He wonders. No, it’s only been one date. He can’t fall in love this quickly. It’s not possible. “How’s this? Be mine,” he reads aloud, underlining each word with his finger.

“Oh, I like that.” Harris picks up a green marker and writes the same two words on a pink sheet of paper. The letters are a little too big for the paper’s limited space, and he ends up squishing the “e” in “mine” very close to the edge. “How do you spell ‘mommy’?”

Eddie’s throat goes bone-dry. “You wanna make a card for your mom?” Harris has never wanted to make anything for his mom before; never brought her up, really, but maybe that was changing now that he was in school and surrounded by children with present mothers.

But Harris shakes his head. “No, it’s for Ms. Sweetheart. I wanna write ‘Be Mine Mommy.’”

It takes Eddie a second to realize that Harris means “be my mommy,” and he massages the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Um, Har, you can’t just ask her to be your mom.”

“Why not?”

He doesn’t want to tell Harris that wants to make sure you’ll stick around, nor does he want to make a promise neither one of you can keep. “Because you…you just can’t, okay?” It comes out harshly, and he sputters to fix his tone when he sees Harris’s lower lip quiver.

“But it’s not fair! You didn’t have a daddy, so you got Grampa Wayne as your daddy. I don’t have a mommy, so I want Ms. Sweetheart as my mommy!”

Eddie flash backs to their zoo trip, when Harris had innocently asked him if Wayne had taken him out on father-son days. There’s no child-friendly way to articulate that Wayne had initially been legally obligated to act as his guardian. “I know, bud. I know you do–”

“Then why can’t I ask her?” His expression shifts from anger to confusion, brows pinching together.

Because she could say no, Eddie thinks. Because the responsibility of being a mommy was too much for your biological mother to handle; why would Ms. Sweetheart take it on? What if she doesn’t have a problem being your mommy, but she finds issue with the idea of being connected to me?

He takes a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. “Look, Har. I know you want her to be your mommy. And between you and me, I’d love for her to be your mommy, too.”

“But–”

“But, grown up feelings are weird sometimes,” he presses on, borrowing your verbiage from Thanksgiving, “and feelings like love take time. But I’m gonna make you a promise right now.” He sticks out his pinky finger. “I promise that if me and Ms. Sweetheart fall in love, I’ll tell you, and I’ll let you ask her to be your mommy. Is that a deal?”

Harris looks dubious, but ultimately hooks his pinky around his dad’s. Eddie breathes a sigh of relief that the crisis has been averted for now.

“Before we can ask her to be your mommy,” Eddie continues, “I need to figure out the perfect Valentine’s Day date to impress her. Wanna help?”

Harris purses his lips in concentration, resting his chin in his hand. “How about McDonald’s? They have a ball pit!”

Eddie has to tuck his lips into his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. “A definite contender,” he finally manages. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Friday night. Valentine’s Day.

You had been unsure whether Eddie wanted to do anything for the holiday; your relationship was still so fresh, and you didn’t want him to feel pressured. When he crept into your classroom Monday morning with a coffee and a heart-shaped note—far more conspicuous than he’d intended to be—you couldn’t hide the excitement on your face.

The card reads Be Mine and currently resides under a magnet on your fridge, finding a home among the plethora of drawings from Harris. It’s got some creases in it that Eddie had explained were the result of Harris shoving it into his backpack that morning. You thought it was perfect as is.

“Are you free on Friday? For Valentine’s Day?” he’d asked, shoving his hands in his jean pockets. When you answered in the affirmative, he visibly relaxed. “Great. I’m taking you out.” His smile lights up his face. “Wear something that you don’t mind getting messy, and I’ll pick you up at 6.”

You’d wanted to try and pry more information from him, but Carol Perkins and her son Frankie walked in just then, and you’d put away the heart as quickly as you could as Eddie scrambles from the classroom.

You stand in your bedroom now in your Levis 501s and a fuzzy red sweater, taking one last look at your makeup in the mirror reflection. You scrape your fingernail along the bottom of your lip to wipe off any excess gloss. Underneath your outfit is a special surprise, wishful thinking if the night goes well.

At 5:55, you sling your pocketbook over your shoulder and make your way down to the lobby. You spot Eddie the moment you step out from the elevator. He’s pacing, hands shoved in his dark wash denim pockets and lower lip pinched between his teeth.

Your voice draws him from his thoughts. “Happy Valentine’s Day, baby,” you say, wrapping your arms around his waist and pulling him so your stomachs touch. “You look really, really handsome.”

“You’re…you’re beautiful.” He’s almost breathless as he says it, eyes roaming down your body and taking in the view. The way your sweater drapes the slope of your breasts has his heart leaping into his throat. He kisses you slowly before proclaiming, “My beautiful Valentine.”

You reach into your purse and pull out a tiny red gift bag, letting it sway and dangle from your fingertips. “I got you a little something.”

The tissue paper crinkles as Eddie rifles through it to pull out a silver lighter, much heavier in his palm than the usual plastic Bic he uses. “Sweetheart, this is…” He takes a closer look and reads aloud the engraved words etched on the front. “Fill my heart with song…”

“It’s from Fly Me to the Moon. Because of Thanksgiving, when you played the record, and Grandma…” you trail off, not wanting to get choked up, “and because you’re a rockstar. My rockstar.” You kiss his lips again, feeling his palm softly cup your cheek.

“I have something for you, too. Um, I didn’t get to wrap it, but I hope you like it.” He unzips his jacket, exposing the gray t-shirt clinging to his pecs. He digs into the inner pocket and clutches a cassette tape, handwritten label stating,“Ms. Sweetheart’s Mix.”

“‘S nothin’ crazy, just some songs that remind me of you.” There’s an array of genres and artists on there. Guns ‘N Roses, of course, as well as Frank Sinatra. There’s Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar on Me, Un-Break My Heart by Toni Braxton, and a plethora of songs with ‘sweetheart’ in the title: Bob Dylan’s Sweetheart Like You, Bing Crosby’s Let Me Call You Sweetheart, The Spaniels’ Goodnight Sweetheart Goodnight.

Tears prickle along your lash line, and you blink them away before you smudge your mascara. “Thank you, Eddie. I love it.” You hold the gift in two hands, giving it a small shake to emphasize your excitement.

A small pang in his chest has Eddie realizing that he wishes you’d ended that statement with you instead of it, but he tries to shove the thought down by kissing you, tongue parting your lips, hand traveling up your side. His hands aren’t even touching skin, only your sweater, yet it’s so electrifying that you feel your thighs clench in wanting.

“C’mon,” you urge him gently, “let’s go on this date before we end up making out in the lobby all night.”

Eddie cocks his head. “Would that be such a bad thing?”

“Eddie…” Truthfully, you’re thinking the same thing, but your desire for a romantic Valentine’s Day date with him propels you towards the door. You take his hand so he dutifully follows.

“Fine,” he relents with an exaggerated sigh, smile showing off the soft dimples in his cheeks. “But only because you’ve got me wrapped around your little finger, y’know that?”

“Oh, I know.”

Twenty minutes later, Eddie’s car pulls up to The Novice Chef. You’ve never been–taking care of Grandma didn’t allot you much time for hobbies–but Jess has told you about their incredible cooking classes. She and Robin went to one right before Thanksgiving and insisted that they’d perfected the art of turkey basting.

“Figured we could learn how to make pizza since we’re basically funding the local Surfer Boy,” Eddie grins, turning the key in the ignition. The car stills and the two of you unbuckle your seatbelts, pushing open the car doors. “Just, uh, no olives on my half.”

You find an unoccupied cooking station with two aprons on it, the venue’s cursive logo displayed on the front in an eager advertisement. You slip one over your head and Eddie does the same, twirling his finger in a turn around motion. You feel the brush of his fingers on the small of your back as he ties the strings in a bow. After returning the favor for him, you squeeze his waist, giggling when he yelps in surprise.

“What was that for?”

“I dunno; you’re just really squeezable.”

Eddie just shakes his head, already missing your touch after that brief moment. He slides a rubber band down his wrist and ties his hair in a bun at the nape of his neck before slipping his rings off of his fingers. He flexes his hands, almost taken aback by their nakedness, and you suppress a heaving sigh when you catch sight of the protruding veins, dark purple snakes that disappear amongst soft arm hair.

“All right everyone, let’s get started.” The unfamiliar voice brings your attention to the front of the room, where the instructor is standing behind his own station. “My name’s Argyle, and I’ll be your tour guide on our journey through Flavortown.” He claps his hands and rubs them together. “First thing we’re gonna do is knead the dough.” He gives a demonstration and then invites the class to try on their own.

“Damn, that dude has some badass hair,” Eddie muses, noting the man’s long raven locks that are pulled back into a waist-length ponytail. He nods approvingly and flips the silver bowl of dough onto the table. A small puff of flour rises as it hits the surface with a thwack, and you’re very glad you’d heeded his warning not to wear something new.

Eddie presses the heel of his palm into the dough, kneading it with precision. Flatten, stretch, flatten, stretch, until he’s satisfied with the consistency. He shapes it into a thin circle, fingertips digging into the edges to form the crust. The movements are hypnotizing, and it’s not until he clears his throat that you bashfully realize you’ve been staring.

“Y’good, Sweetheart?” A sly, knowing grin stretches from one cheek to the other; now you’re certain that he’s caught you.

“Y-Yeah.”

The next step is to spread the sauce onto the dough, Argyle explains, and Eddie places the crust onto the pan and steps aside so you can take over. You dip the ladle into the pot, filling it to the brim. Bits of dried basil and oregano swim in a red tomato sea as you use the ladle’s base to evenly distribute it across the crust.

“Y’got a little somethin’ on your face.” Eddie whispers in your ear, making you stop mid-swirl.

“Huh? Where?” You use the back of your free hand to wipe at your cheeks and chin for any sauce that may have splattered, but a close inspection shows nothing.

Eddie leans over you, his chest flush against your back. You fight the urge to press the curve of your ass to the seam of his jeans, wiping a sweat-slick palm on your apron. “Right…” he swipes his finger down the ladle’s curved side, catching some sauce and dotting it on the tip of your nose, “here.”

“Eddie!”

“Don’t worry; I’ve got it.” He leans over and licks the sauce off, a quick lap of his tongue on your skin. The unexpected sensation makes you giggle louder than you’d intended. You clap a hand over your mouth, surely smudging the gloss, but you’ve already drawn the instructor’s unwanted attention.

“Lovebirds, are we here to flirt or to make pizza?” Argyle punctuates his rhetorical question with an exasperated sigh. You duck your head in shame and Eddie just coughs to stifle his own mischievous laughter.

“All right, now for the cheese,” Argyle continues, dipping a hand into a glass bowl and retrieving the ingredient. “Some people think that ya just pile it on; the more cheese, the better, but there’s an art to–hey, not cool, man!” He’s looking right at Eddie, and you glance over to see your date drop a handful of shredded mozzarella into his open mouth.

“Sorry,” he mumbles through a mouthful of cheese, but you’re willing to bet that his apology is anything but sincere.

Argyle rolls his eyes, not even attempting to hide his irritation. “You got one more strike, and then you’re out.” He points one finger at Eddie and then jerks his thumb backwards to emphasize his point.

“Yes, sir,” Eddie salutes, and you elbow him in the ribs.

Once the cheese has been sprinkled across the sauce–whatever remains after Eddie’s impromptu snack, anyway–you reach for the mushrooms. Eddie’s sharp gasp makes you freeze up before you can grasp any.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demands, placing his flour-coated hands on his hips.

You flick your gaze from the bowl of mushrooms to his impatient face. “Um, putting toppings on the pizza?”

“Not that one, you’re not,” he argues with a disapproving shake of his head. “Vegetables don’t belong on pizza.” He picks up the bowl of pepperoni and starts layering the slices on top, either unaware or indifferent to the fact that some of them stick together in a double layer of cured meat. “This is more like it.”

You nudge him, triumphantly layering mushrooms around where he’s placed the pepperoni slices. “It’s called compromise, Eddie. It’s how relationships work.”

His jaw drops and he places his hand over his heart like a southern belle who’s just been presented with extraordinary gossip. “Oh, this is a relationship?” He snickers when you give him a small shove. “I had no idea. I just thought we were two friends who make out sometimes.”

“God, I hate you.”

“I hate you, too.”

An hour later, stomachs filled with pizza that might rival Surfer Boy’s, you and Eddie return to your apartment. A tense stillness fills the air when he walks you to your door, daring either of you to speak your mutual desire into existence.

You’re the one to break the silence. “I had an amazing time tonight, Eddie.”

“Yeah?” he asks almost incredulously, as though he doubts the truthfulness behind your words. He pushes the insecurity aside with a joke. “Even though I almost got us kicked out?”

The memory brings a smile to your face, though you would imagine that the annoyed instructor would not share the same sentiment. “I still need to get you back for that.” You lick his nose and giggle, knocking his hand away when he lifts it to his face. “Don’t wipe it off!”

“And what if I do?” Eddie takes a step closer, resting one hand on the small of your back and putting the other on your cheek. He kisses you and you lean into it, pressing your body against his. His tongue parts your lips, and you hook a finger into his belt loop as you melt into each other.

“Do you wanna come in? Or do you have to get back home to Harris?” You’ve pulled the trigger. There’s no turning back now, and though you’re certainly in a healthier place than the last time you’d made this suggestion, the fear of a similar reaction has your heart in your chest.

He shakes his head, nose rubbing against yours. “Wayne’s staying with him tonight.” He omits the fact that his uncle was the one who’d offered to babysit overnight, a not-so-subtle hint at his expectations of Eddie’s evening plans.

“All night?”

“All,” he kisses you again, “night.”

You fumble with your keys and unlock the door, Eddie wrapping his arms around your waist from the back as though he never wants to let go. As soon as you get it open, its grimacing creak mere background noise to the pounding in your ears, you’re kicking off your shoes and pulling Eddie into the bedroom.

Your hands on his shoulders pin him against the door, only moving them to the hem of his shirt to begin tugging it over his head. It proves to be a difficult task as you try keeping your lips on his neck, but he wraps his fingers around your wrists and stops you.

“Been dreamin’ about worshiping this body…you,” he clarifies, pupils blown so wide that they overtake his chocolate irises. “Please,” he adds, a slight break in his voice. His begging starkly contrasts the bravado that dominated his personality the night you’d met. There was no patience or tenderness, just teeth clashing and hands searching for the fastest and easiest way to bring pleasure.

You nod. “I have a surprise for you first.” You take off your sweater, drawing it slowly up your torso to build up the anticipation, and toss it to the side.

Eddie goes slack jawed at the sheer mesh bra that leaves nothing to the imagination, just as you’d expected him to. He quickly snaps his mouth shut and swallows, a last-ditch attempt to salvage his machismo before he fully loses his mind.

“It’s a matching set, if you wanna see.”

“Uh-huh.” Eddie walks over, pressing kisses to your collarbones that leave your knees weak. His thumbs graze your breasts, slipping the bra straps down and unhooking the clasp. It falls to the ground and he stoops a bit, bringing his mouth to one hardening nipple and sucking it before moving onto the other. “Perfect.” He trails kisses down your stomach, dropping to his knees as he does. “Perfect.” He lifts one hand, kissing each individual finger right on the first knuckle. “So perfect.”

He remains on his knees as his nimble fingers, still cold from the brief walk to your building, unbutton your jeans, and you shimmy out of them eagerly. His eyes widen when he sees that your panties do, in fact, match your bra: a red-tinted mesh thong that has everything on display.

“Baby,” he moans, grabbing one ass cheek in each of his big hands and pressing soft kisses to your clothed pussy. “Baby…f’me?”

“All for you, Eddie.” Your breath hitches when you feel his lips graze your most sensitive spot. He’s not intentionally teasing you, but logic has no place in your current state.

He kisses down your thighs. “Lay down f’me, yeah?” You do as he asks, laying your head down on the pillow as your body sinks into the mattress. Eddie climbs on top of you, slotting one knee between your slightly open legs. He brings his lips to your ear, gently biting your earlobe and singing in a low murmur, “got it bad, got it bad, got it bad…”

You giggle, the breath from his whisper tickling the shell of your ear, and you tilt your head slightly so you can see his face. “Can I undress you now?” He nods, and you wrestle with his shirt to expose the pale expanse of skin. There’s a dusting of curls across his chest, thicker in the middle and thinner around his nipples. You plant a kiss on his left bicep and drag your palm down his tummy, practically concave during his teenage years but now has a slight softness to it, stopping when you reach the bulge in his pants. He groans at your touch, and you feel his cock twitch slightly. Eager to alleviate his pent-up energy, you undo the button and tug down his zipper, cupping his erection through his navy blue boxers.

“Not yet,” Eddie mumbles, “not done showing you how much I l–care about you. How much you mean to me.” With a burning in his cheeks from what he’d nearly admitted, he drags your thong, a wet patch formed on it, down your thighs and past your calves until it drops to the ground unceremoniously. He balances your legs on top of his shoulders and pulls himself in closer, nudging your clit with his nose as he licks a stripe up your folds. His lips wrap around your sensitive bud, brushing it with his tongue. Soft brown eyes peer up at you, desperately seeking your approval.

“F-Feels good,” you manage, words caught in your throat as pleasure seeps into your body. “Please keep going.”

Eddie needs no further convincing, reveling in your growing wetness against his face while slipping his middle finger into your pussy. You whimper at the feeling of him inside you, bracing yourself for a comment about how needy you are, but he just continues to draw you closer to your orgasm. His finger glides in and out, in and out, rhythmic but not too slow. The bed shifts ever-so-slightly, and you realize he’s rutting his hips against the mattress, desperate for relief.

Your hand finds purchase in the curls adorning his scalp, digging your fingers into them and giving a small tug. Eddie lets a second finger into your tight hole, curling them upwards and hitting your sweet spot over and over.

“Right there, th-that’s it, please, Eddie,” you beg, your moans barely audible over the sounds of him fervently fingering you and lapping at your cunt. “Fuck, Eddie, ‘m gonna cum!”

Eddie just lets out an “mmm,” in acknowledgment, the vibrations shooting through your core and bringing you right to the edge. Your release overtakes you and your thighs instinctively squeeze against either side of his head. He makes a mental note to ask you not to do that because he absolutely needs to hear every noise you make while you cum.

“Y’good?” he asks as you drift down from the high, still perched between your legs. He wipes his slick-glistened lips with the back of his hand before licking the taste of you from his fingers. “I can keep going, trust me.”

“Need you closer.” You try to sit up, but your legs fail you, and you flop back onto the bed. “I have condoms in the top drawer–”

“Brought my own,” he grins, reaching into his back pocket–now positioned just under his ass from the way he’d dry humped the bed–and pulls out three connected foil packages. “Ribbed, for her pleasure.”

“Such a gentleman,” you tease, but it’s the truth. The way he took care of you, made sure you were okay after, offered to continue eating you out despite the raging hard-on he’s sporting…his chivalry isn't lost on you. You watch as he strips down until his body is rid of any clothing, tearing one wrapper and rolling the rubber down his cock, and you bite your lip in anticipation of its delicious stretch.

There’s an unspoken disappointment at the addition of the barrier, regardless of its practicality. You want to be as close as you possibly can without anything in the way, but neither of you are in any rush to give Harris a sibling.

Imagine it, though, Eddie can’t stop himself from thinking. Imagine the intimacy of filling her up every night until she’s carrying my baby. Taking any little bit that drips out and stuffing it back inside to make sure it takes. Imagine kissing her growing bump every morning to greet her and our unborn child.

He puts one thigh on either side of yours, looking into your eyes as he asks, “Yes?”

“Yes.”

Eddie lines up with your entrance, pushing in gently and keeping his gaze trained on the way you take him in. Inch by inch, he disappears into your wanting hole until he bottoms out. He holds your hips while he finds a steady pace, and as soon as you arch your back, he’s slipping his hands around your waist just above the curve of your ass. “I can’t believe you’re mine,” he whispers. “You make me so fucking happy.”

Your hands grasp at his shoulder blades and you kiss him, tongues intertwining while you moan into each other’s mouths. “I’m always yours, if that’s what you want,” you promise, wrapping your legs around his.

“Of course, that’s what I want. Most beautiful girl in the world, asking me if I want her to be mine.” He grins cheekily, burying his head in the crook of your neck and sucking on it lightly before asking, “do you want me to be yours?”

“Yeah,” you exhale as his cock presses against your walls. “Yeah, I want you to be mine.” You smile, moving your hands to the nape of his neck and deepening the kiss. You want to be the only one he touches like this, the one who goes to bed next to him every night and wakes up next to him every morning. The one who celebrates his wins with him and brings comfort during the losses. You want everything that comes with belonging to each other.

Eddie thrusts into you, pulling wanton moans from your lips. “Say my name,” he pleads. “Need to hear you say it.”

“Eddie,” you pant, not able to fathom a single thought beyond the pleasure you’re feeling and who’s bringing it to you. “Eddie, ‘m so close. You feel too…too good.” Good is an understatement; perhaps a more accurate adjective would be euphoric, but finding a more elaborate term is low on your priority list.

Eddie’s peak is not far behind, with the feeling of your warmth around him bringing him closer every second. “Always wanna make y’feel good, baby,” he says. His face hovers just above yours, a bead of sweat sliding down the bridge of his nose onto the tip of yours. “I gotta–”

“Cum for me, Eddie,” you tell him, and with your permission, he pistons his hips a final time and spills into the condom. Your walls contract around his length as you finish with him.

Eddie stays inside you as the two of you catch your breath, smiling and stealing kisses from each other. He’s never felt anything like this before; for him, the thrill of sex is typically fueled purely by the primal instinct to get laid, but he’s in no rush to let you go. His cock begins to soften and he slowly pulls out, chuckling when you whine at the loss of fullness.

“Gotta toss this,” he says, removing the condom with a soft hiss and tying a knot. “Then I’m gonna hold you, mmkay?” Part of him is waiting for the post-sex adrenaline to wear off and the inevitable crash down when he realizes he’s mistaken lust for passion, urgency for belonging, but that doesn’t happen. As much as he’d love to be inside you again, hearing and feeling your satisfaction as you unravel for him, what he wants more than anything is to lay next to you and keep you safe. Safe from what, exactly, he’s not sure, but something compels him to protect you.

He takes you in his arms, the two of you a tangled, sweaty mess of naked limbs. Perspiration mats his sparse chest hair to his skin, but you press your cheek to it anyway and breathe in his scent. Your body grows heavier as sleep overtakes you, but Eddie’s low voice pulls you back for just a second.

“Baby?”

“Hmm?”

I love you. The words want to flow freely but come to a screeching halt on the tip of his tongue. It’s only your second date, and his mind is clouded with the sappiness of Valentine’s Day and oxytocin; what if he just thinks he loves you? Or what if he truly does, but you don’t feel the same way? Would you tell him, or would you pretend to reciprocate to spare him the hurt? Which is worse?

I love you. But it’s too soon to feel that, to know it for certain. And if he rushes things, he’ll get Harris’s hopes up–get his own hopes up–only to be met with heartbreak and disappointment.

I love you. And what would that admission accomplish, anyway? Where would you go from there? What would it change?

“Get some rest,” is what he settles on, biting the inside of his lower lip in shame. He kisses your forehead and watches you drift off, grateful when the exhaustion of the evening hits him and he follows suit.

I love you, is his last thought before he falls asleep, but he convinces himself that he’s not ready to speak it into existence.

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narumi-gens · 10 months

Text

Platonic

Miya Osamu x f!Reader

summary: Osamu knows that there’s nothing going on between you and his brother. And yet, he still can’t help but be jealous.

warnings: minors/ageless/blank blogs dni, don't let the summary fool you – this is basically just 4k words of fluff, jealous!osamu, slightly insecure!osamu, married!osamu, dad!osamu, very normal relationship problems, the importance of communication, kita is always the voice of wisdom, osamu is really just a simp for you, reader and osamu are #CoupleGoals

notes: whenever I’m trying to get back into writing, stealing plots from sitcoms is always a guarantee so everything from the title to the banner to the plot is at least 80% lifted from platonic (which is such a wonderful show).

words: 4k

part of the Meet the Miyas series

Osamu is jealous. And he hates it. He hates the word. He hates the feeling. He hates what it says about him. He really hates how irrational it is.

But what he hates most is that the person that he's jealous of is his own brother (that scrub).

But maybe he's the scrub. Because it's dumb. You've been together for years. You trust him. You love him. You're committed to him. You're married to him. You’re the mother of his child. You're happy with the life that you've built together.

And he knows that Atsumu is your best friend. You were Atsumu's friend before he even met you. Atsumu is the one who introduced the two of you, who set you up — which he'll never stop taking credit for if his speech at your wedding was anything to go by. So of course you spend a significant amount of time with his twin.

It’s never really bothered him before. If anything, he’s typically relieved that you’re so close with Atsumu. The more you occupy the setter’s time, the less time he has to annoy Osamu.

And you’re allowed to have friends and a life outside of being a wife and mother. He wants you to have fun and to be your own person outside of your relationship with him. He doesn’t expect you to go from home to work and back to repeat the cycle all over again the next day. Not that you would ever allow it.

It wasn’t easy and it took a lot of hard work, but over the years, the two of you have built a happy balance between him running the restaurant, you pursuing your own thriving career, being doting parents to a three-year-old son, and still managing to keep your marriage healthy. So this gross feeling of jealousy has no place in his life, especially where Atsumu is concerned.

But it creeps up on him slowly, needling its way into him before he even has a chance to stop it. He first feels it over something so small that it embarrasses him.

He asks you if you want to go see a new movie that’s been advertised for months. His mom and yours are always eager to babysit — sometimes eager to the point of forcing you both out of the house for what’s declared “much-needed grandparent time.”

“Oh, I promised Atsumu that I’d see it with him,” you reply with a slight tilt of your head before picking up your phone. “Let me check with him about us all going together.”

It’s a simple and obvious solution. You’ve already sent your message to Atsumu and are looking up showtimes for that weekend. But there’s a small voice in the back of Osamu’s head insisting that you should be asking him if Atsumu can come with the two of you, not the other way around. The unfamiliar thought makes him feel uncomfortable and he quickly shoves it away.

But just that small, intrusive voice is like a spark and it isn’t long before he finds himself hearing it again, fanning the pathetic, weak flame into something stronger.

One morning, he’s pulled from sleep by the blankets lifting and the mattress dipping. When he cracks open a bleary eye, he sees you doing your best to slip into bed without disturbing him. He can’t check the time on his phone without giving away that you’ve already woken him up. But from the pale grey light of early morning that’s already beginning to brighten the bedroom and the fact that Reiji isn’t already awake, Osamu guesses that it’s between five and six.

He knows that you had plans with Atsumu last night. You told him that you would probably be back late. But “back late” feels like an understatement considering the joys of parenthood usually have both of you up in about an hour whether it’s a workday or not.

When you come down a few hours later, the bags under your eyes and unkempt hair point to your inability to sleep in even after what he can only assume was an all-night rager. You pepper your son’s cheeks with exaggerated kisses that have him giggling over his breakfast as Osamu pours you a cup of what he’s sure is much-needed coffee.

“Ya got home late last night,” he comments as you take the mug that he passes you.

“Ah, yeah. Just ended up going a little harder than I meant to,” you reply and something close to embarrassment seems to cross your features. You glance at Reiji, making sure his attention is on his food before you lower to voice to a furtive whisper. “I threw up in a karaoke room and had to sleep it off at Atsumu’s.”

His immediate instinct is to laugh in your face and he has to bite his lips and quickly look away from you to keep from doing so. You weakly punch his shoulder in response before sitting down at the table.

But the amusement at your misfortune slowly starts to fade, replaced instead by that same voice, which is growing steadily more familiar. He can’t remember the last time that the two of you had a night like that together. He tries to think back on if it was before or after Reiji was born. And while you certainly don’t make vomiting in karaoke rooms a habit, it’s not at all rare for you and his brother to have a wild night out.

When the voice asks why you’re having them with Atsumu but not with him, the only thing he can focus on is the knot in the pit of his stomach and how it only seems to grow tighter.

He hears it again when he’s with Atsumu one day and he asks Osamu what he thinks about you rejecting a new job offer. The question is offhanded — he’s looking at his phone when asks it, barely even giving Osamu a fraction of his attention.

But Osamu freezes. This is the first that he’s heard about any job offer. He didn’t even know that you were interviewing somewhere else.

“What job offer?” His voice sounds thin and Atsumu seems to realize that he’s unintentionally stumbled into something much bigger because his thumb stops scrolling and there’s a line of tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there only moments ago.

“Uh, it’s nothin’ big,” he quickly tries to assure his brother as he puts down his phone and turns to face him fully. “It just happened this week. Some new place made her an offer and she turned it down.”

Osamu merely hums, his expression betraying nothing, but his twin brother knows him too well.

“Look, I’m sure she just hasn’t gotten ‘round to telling ya,” he offers and Osamu can see the slight panic in his eyes. “She had that big meeting. And she’s been lookin’ after Reiji-kun since he’s been sick, right? Things’ve probably just been too crazy fer her to even think about it.”

Every excuse only digs the hole deeper. It’s not just this apparent job that you’ve been pursuing only to turn down that Atsumu knows about. It’s also your hectic work week and how you’ve been taking care of Reiji since the restaurant’s been too shorthanded for Osamu to stay home.

What’s next? Is he going to mention that you’ve also been so busy the two of you haven’t had sex in almost three weeks? From the guilty look in his twin’s eyes, Osamu would bet good money that he’s already aware.

On his way home, he tries to think about the best way to raise the subject with you and ultimately decides that there’s no good way to ask, “Hey. Why are ya tellin’ Tsumu things but not yer husband?”

(He knows that’s definitely the wrong way to phrase it, but that little voice won’t say it any other way.)

But when he enters your bedroom he finds you slouched against the headboard, fully passed out with Reiji sprawled on top of you as he clings to you even in his sleep. The light and tv are both still on. You’re obviously exhausted and stretched thin, while Osamu is looking to pick a fight. The guilt he feels is almost crippling.

It probably hasn’t even occurred to you to mention the job offer with everything else going on. Atsumu is right, which only makes him feel worse.

He comes toward the both of you and carefully tries to pick Reiji up out of your arms without waking either of you. But he’s only just managed to pry the sick toddler loose when your eyelids flutter open.

It takes you a moment to register what’s happening, still feeling the dregs of sleep, but when you do, you give him the softest smile and it makes him feel like an even bigger piece of shit.

“Did you just get home?” you whisper as you help him lift Reiji off of you. But before he can take your son too far away, you shift over and gesture for Osamu to place him in the middle of the bed. “He’ll cry if he wakes up in his room alone.”

“He doin’ any better?” Osamu quietly asks and does as you ask, gently putting him down before sitting down on your other side on the edge of the mattress.

“His fever broke a couple of hours ago, so he should be back to normal in a day or two.” The news is a visible relief to you. It’s not just the amount of effort a sick child takes, but also the worry that’s been weighing you down.

“Wish I coulda been ‘round more to help ya,” he tells you, his guilt about both doubting you and leaving you to take care of Reiji by yourself beginning to peek through.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” you assure him, lifting a hand to run your fingers through his hat hair. “I know that you’re in a bind since Kimura-san quit. I’m the one with the flexible hours and schedule. I really don’t mind. We’re a team.”

He doesn’t deserve you.

“Well, the new part-timer starts next week so things’ll finally calm down,” he offers and something mischievous sparkles in your tired eyes.

“Good. Because when you can finally take some time off, we’re gonna pawn Reiji off on the grandparents. Then you’re gonna make it up to me by spending the entire night making me cum so hard I see stars,” you tell him, your tone leaving no room for argument, as if he would ever want to.

“I can do that,” he agrees with a grin.

“We haven’t fucked in weeks,” you pout and Osamu can’t hold in his laughter, only for you to slap a hand over his mouth to keep him from waking up Reiji.

Your own quiet giggles are able to momentarily drown out the small voice reminding him about the job offer that you’ve yet to tell him about.

But a few weeks later, even after having the house to yourselves for an entire weekend and spending it fucking on every surface that you could like you used to do before Reiji came along, those embarrassing feelings of jealousy are still as present as ever.

You post a series of photos of you and Atsumu at a restaurant. The first picture is of your happy, smiling faces and the matching pair of five-pound gyoza on the table, one in front of each of you. As he swipes through the series, you both look worse and worse as you try to finish your gyoza. When he gets to the final one, you’re proudly holding a certificate from the restaurant for having finished yours in an hour, while Atsumu looks like he’s on death’s doorstep.

He’s so preoccupied swiping back and forth through the photos that when the restaurant door slides open, it startles him so badly that he almost drops his phone entirely. He doesn’t know whether or not to be relieved that it’s Kita coming to drop off a new order of rice rather than a customer who didn’t read the closed sign.

On one hand, he doesn’t want to deal with a customer while he’s in the midst of indulging that voice that’s slowly becoming a companion. But on the other, dealing with Kita when he’s in a jealousy spiral is even worse.

“Is everything alright? Ya look like ya just got some bad news,” Kita observes with a small frown of concern.

As Osamu assures him that nothing’s wrong, he tries to hurriedly shove his phone into the pocket of his apron. However, it slips from his sweaty hands and skids across the floor of the restaurant where it comes face-up to a perfect stop right in front of Kita’s feet.

He picks it up and when he sees the final picture of you and Atsumu on the screen, he shakes his head in amusement.

“Atsumu only sent me the picture of them at the start of the challenge,” he wryly says as he slides the restaurant door shut behind him and joins Osamu at the counter. He takes a moment to swipe through the rest of the photos in your post before passing the phone back. “I’m surprised ya didn’t go with ‘em.”

“I wasn’t invited,” he mumbled, vocalizing the bitter thought that’s been taking up so much space in his mind ever since you and Atsumu originally made the plans. But as soon as the words leave his lips, he knows he’s given himself away because he can feel Kita’s heavy gaze on him.

“Did ya ask if ya could join ‘em?” is Kita’s annoyingly reasonable response. After a few moments, Osamu gives the smallest shake of his head, confirming that no, he didn’t ask if he could go with you and his brother.

“Y’know, yer wife is an amazing woman,” he finally says when it’s clear Osamu has nothing else to offer. “But fer all of her talents, she’s not a mind reader. Just talk to her.”

Osamu groans loudly at how rational Kita is being. He drops his head down to rest his forehead on the countertop, his Onigiri Miya hat flopping off in the process. While he agrees that it’s good advice, there’s still one problem.

“Kita-san…it’s embarrassing,” he protests childishly and he turns his head to the side to look up at his old team captain. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Stop spendin’ so much time with that scrub!’ I’ll sound like an idiot.”

“Just talk to her,” Kita repeats calmly and Osamu can only sigh. “Why don’t ya tell me how Reiji-kun’s been?”

For the rest of the day, Osamu finds himself trapped in an internal debate over whether or not he should take Kita’s advice. The ugly voice in his head insists that he shouldn’t have to say anything at all. If you really love him then you should already know. The more self-conscious part of him keeps warning him of how embarrassed he’ll be when he tells his wife, the mother of his child, the love of his life, that he’s jealous of how much time she spends with his brother.

But a new voice, one that sounds exactly like Kita, simply asks him if he’s tired of feeling like this. Does he really want to keep harboring this resentment? It’ll only continue to fester and grow until it explodes, hurting everyone he loves.

So that night, after he’s put Reiji to bed and the dishes are done and the laundry is folded and he has no more excuses left to procrastinate, he collapses next to you on the couch with an exaggerated sigh. You look up at him from your phone with an amused smile, only for it to slightly fall when you see how troubled he looks.

“What’s going on? Did something happen at work?” you ask, turning to give him your full attention and scooting closer to him so that you can rest a gentle hand on his thigh.

He shuts his eyes and gives himself a single moment to steel himself before finally letting out the poison that’s slowly been building inside of him for the last few months.

“I have somethin’ to tell ya and it’s gonna make it seem like I’m fifteen or somethin’,” he says and he knows that if he didn’t sound so serious then you would be making a joke about him having some sort of wet dream and ruining the sheets. Instead, you give his thigh a reassuring squeeze.

“Lately…fer the last few months…I’ve been feelin’ kinda…jealous.”

There. The words are out there in the world. You’ve heard them. He can go crawl into a hole and wait for the embarrassment to kill him.

“Jealous? Of what?”

He hates how concerned you sound. You’re not making light of his admission. You’re not confused. You’re being patient. You’re gentle. You’re so much better than him and his childish pettiness and resentment and jealousy.

“You and stupid Tsumu,” he grumbles, slouching down even further into the couch. He glances over at you from the corner of his eye and sees the look of surprise on your face. He shuts his eyes again, balling his hands into fists, and tells himself to man the fuck up.

With his nerves now steeled, he takes a deep breath, sits up straight, and turns to fully face you.

“Look, I know that ya got this weird friendship with Tsumu and that he’s yer best friend. And it’s never been a big deal before, but lately, I dunno…,” he trails off, his gaze darting down before he forces it back up to meet yours. “I’ve just been feelin’ a little…cut out.”

“Osamu,” you murmur, lifting a hand to his face but he quickly takes it between both of his so that he can hold it tight and keep himself steady.

“I love you and our family and the life we’ve built together. I wouldn’t change any of it fer anything,” he’s quick to assure you, needing you to know that you make him happier than he ever thought he could be. “But sometimes I see ya hangin’ out with Tsumu and havin’ fun and it sounds dumb but, I wish I could see more of that part of yer life.”

You softly repeat his name before you climb into his lap. You wrap an arm around his shoulders to hold him close and pull your other hand from his grasp so that you can cup his cheek with a loving touch.

“I’m so sorry that I’ve made you feel that way,” you tell him. “You’re always gonna come first. I don’t ever want you to feel excluded or like I’m trying to keep the different pieces of my life compartmentalized.”

Just hearing your apology and acknowledgment of the irrational jealousy that’s been plaguing him soothes his insecurities and embarrassment.

“I want ya to be able to go do things on yer own and do things with Tsumu without feelin’ like ya gotta bring me along every time. But ya just look like yer havin’ fun when yer gettin’ up to stupid things together and I guess, I just wanna have fun with ya too,” he shrugs. Despite how true it is, he hates how cheesy he sounds. But from the way that you’re looking at him with so much affection, you clearly find it touching.

“I love having fun with you, Osamu,” you smile back at him and his cheeks start to feel warm. “I’d love to do more stupid things with you.”

“Even if that stupid thing is spendin’ 20,000 yen at an arcade to beat a bunch of teens for the high score?” he asks and it comes out shyer than he intended. “Or buyin’ out every flavor of chips and every type of snack from the konbini just to rank ‘em?”

“Even then,” you nod with a grin. “Even if it’s needing to make a cab pull over to throw up after a night of drinking.”

“I thought it was the karaoke room?” he frowns in confusion.

“It was the karaoke room for me. The cab was Atsumu,” you tell him with a laugh and he snorts in response.

But then, since this is a time for honesty, he decides to bring up the question that’s been weighing heavily on his mind for the last few weeks.

“Why didn’t ya tell me about the job offer?” he gently asks, the question curious rather than accusatory.

“Job offer?” The line of your mouth twists down and your eyebrows knit together as you try to understand what he’s referring to.

“Tsumu said ya turned down a job offer. It was around when Reiji was sick,” he explains and his tone turns slightly hesitant. “Did ya feel like ya couldn’t tell me?”

Your eyes spark with recognition before you roll them in annoyance.

“Atsumu’s an idiot. He never listens,” you begin to rant and he’s not too proud to admit that hearing your irritation directed towards his twin extinguishes the last remaining embers of his jealousy. “It wasn’t a job offer. A recruiter reached out about a job opening for a position that involves more work for less pay. I didn’t even reply.”

He feels an odd mixture of relief, guilt, and frustration. He’s relieved that this was just some misunderstanding, but he feels just as guilty for jumping to the worst conclusion and thinking that you were something big from him. The frustration will be dealt with when he next sees his twin and gives him an earful and delivers a slap to the back of his head.

“I’m sorry fer not just askin’ ya ‘bout it sooner,” he says and you just give him a look of understanding.

“You and me, we’re only human. There are just gonna be times when I forget to tell you something or just don’t think to bother with it. But I’ll always do my best to make sure you know when there’s something going on. We’re a team, remember?” You run your fingers caringly through his hair with a soft smile and he leans eagerly into your touch.

“We’re a team,” he repeats quietly, finding the words comforting. He then gives you a slightly embarrassed look. “Hey, don’t tell Tsumu, okay? He’ll just call me a scrub.”

You place a reassuring kiss on his lips before nodding.

“Don’t worry. You’re a scrub, but you’re my scrub and I love you.” He can’t help but laugh as he wraps his arms around your middle and hugs you close. “But, you wanna do something crazy, huh?”

When he looks up at you, it’s to find a hint of wildness creeping into your expression. It’s the same wildness he used to see when you first started dating — before you both became adults and spouses and parents with real responsibilities.

The next day, Atsumu stops by the restaurant in the late afternoon during a lull. His appearance is unannounced, meaning that Osamu hasn’t had a chance to prepare himself for what he knows is to come. It’s as bad as he imagined because as soon as the setter walks in, he freezes, his expression going slack in shock at the sight of Osamu.

Or more correctly, at the sight of Osamu’s hair, which has been amateurishly dyed to be the same shade of grey that he used to wear in high school.

“Don’t even start,” he warns but doing so is pointless because Atsumu immediately bursts into laughter, finding it so funny that he has to clutch his stomach as he bends over.

“Who’s idea was this?” he manages to ask in between his gasps for air and his cackles. “Ya look so stupid!”

Osamu just stares at him blankly, not bringing up the fact that Atsumu is the one who’s been wearing the exact same hairstyle since they were sixteen, and isn’t that even more pathetic?

Because for all of the mocking that he receives, he knows it was worth it for the time he spent joking and laughing with you into the late hours of the night in your tiny bathroom as you did your best to dye his hair without burning his scalp.

#first thing I've written in months 🙀#miya osamu x reader #miya osamu #osamu miya x reader #osamu x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #miya osamu fluff #osamu fluff #platonic #mel writes

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daechwitatamic · 3 months

Text

Of Ruin: Chapter 9 || KTH

(banner by @itaeewon)

Of Ruin (Masterpost)

Rating: NSFW - minors dni Genre: vampire!au magic!au royalty!au, s2l, slow burn, eventual smut, angst and fluff

Summary: Taehyung of House Rune, Prince of Infracticus has been cursed. You’re the human world’s leading curse-breaker. It should be simple. But unraveling the curse becomes the least of your problems in the face of a world on the brink of civil war… and the love you start to feel for the prince.

A/N: Thank you endlessly to @sailoryooons for betaing!!! 💕

Section Warnings: magical near-death experience, language, confrontation wc: 4.3k

Back in your rooms, you and Namjoon stand, each processing quietly and a bit lost in thought.

“You should try to get a little more sleep,” he finally suggests. “You need to be at your sharpest.”

You nod absently, but your mind is flying through everything you’d uncovered in the ritual.

“I need to write down what I found,” you say, but your eyes are closed and you feel yourself swaying a little. “Before I forget.”

“Sit down,” Namjoon instructs, moving to the table to find paper and a pen in the mess you’d left strewn there. “Tell me what you found and I’ll write it.”

You do as you’re told and then head to your room for a few hours to sleep, making sure to keep the lamp - which has been replaced already since your mishap this morning - lit as you do.

Not that light does anything to keep an Infracti away. But it helps your mind to not create monsters out of shadows.

You emerge hours later, a bit groggy but certainly steadier on your feet. Namjoon isn’t in the main rooms and his door is closed, so you leave him be.

You check the time - it’s late afternoon, the seconds ticking you closer to early evening - and settle onto a cushion near the papers you and Namjoon had been writing on.

You’re almost through writing a more organized document of what you’ve discerned since the beginning - the threads you’re absolutely certain of, the counters you think most likely to be fruitful - when Namjoon emerges from his room, eyes squinting against the light and one hand raking through messy bedhead.

“What time is it?” he mutters, making his way towards one of the couches.

You glance at the clock and realize that dinnertime has come and gone. “Late,” you say. “I forgot to eat. Are you hungry?”

You send for dinner and start to go over what you were working on while Namjoon slept.

“With the ritual done, I’m more confident that we’ve identified every thread,” you muse, eyes scanning the pages spread out before you. “So now it’s really a matter of finding the correct counters.”

“That’s a relief,” Namjoon says.

You run a finger down the page, looking for a note you’d made. “I was thinking about the end of life thing,” you tell him. “Weren’t you saying, back when we got here, that life and death magic can be used to weave other threads? Do you think the person who cast the curse used the end of life thread to… make it cleaner - simpler to cast?”

Namjoon doesn’t answer this right away, but keeps tapping his finger on the table, a sign that he’s thinking hard about this.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, eyes still on the paper. “Definitely a possibility. So then, would they not have meant that they wanted him to die? Was that choice simply for casting purposes?”

It’s clear that Namjoon is simply thinking out loud, but you answer, “You’re the death magic expert. You tell me.”

He shakes his head. “There are dozens of other ways. It had to be deliberate.”

“Does it matter? In terms of the countercurse?”

He grimaces. “If they intended the end of life, we have to directly counter that. If it was chosen for casting only, we could work around it.”

He slides to the floor to sit opposite you, and you look together at the papers, and for a while you work like this - pointing at certain lines of text, jotting notes, crossing others out, drawing arrows connecting ideas - until the paper looks like a complete disaster. But it makes sense to the two of you, and that’s what matters.

You’re just about to wrap it up for the night when there’s a knock at the main door. Before you can rise, Satuel opens it and tells you, “The Prince would like a word.”

Prince Taehyung steps around her, and she retreats into the corridor, closing the door behind her. He looks drawn, troubled, but you’re struck - as usual - by his otherworldly beauty.

“I wanted to speak to the two of you,” he says quietly. He perches on the arm of the closest couch, long legs stretched out before him. “About what happened today.”

You and Namjoon exchange an uneasy look.

“My father sent a diplomatic team to the Scores,” he reports. “Their directive was to express that there was some sort of magical attack on the royal family, and to gauge the reaction. But it is not a direct accusation.”

You nod slowly, listening.

Prince Taehyung takes a deep breath and continues. “He also sent a team of spies,” he says carefully. “To see what they can uncover. The diplomats… their information may be useful, it may not. But if we are knocking on their front door to make inquiries, it will hopefully distract them from who is climbing through the window. So to speak.”

“Do you really think it was them?” you ask, hushed.

Prince Taehyung twists his mouth. “They do seem to be the most likely,” he admits. “But my personal feelings are more complicated. At any rate, I wanted to make sure you knew what was going on. An accusation was not made… but it would appear that they read it as one anyway. None of the families from the Scores attended our dinner tonight.”

You and Namjoon look at him in silence. You’re not sure you’re understanding - is it such a big deal that a few families didn’t show up for dinner?

“Invited guests haven’t just not shown without at least communicating in… my entire life, so over six hundred years,” Prince Taehyung clarifies.

“Oh,” you utter, feeling your stomach sink a little. “That’s… pretty bad, right?”

Suddenly the prince’s grim demeanor makes sense.

“It’s certainly a sign of trouble brewing,” the prince admits. “I wanted to let you know just… I don’t want you to be more frightened, and I promise you’re safe in these rooms… but you should know what’s going on.”

You take this in silently, glancing sideways at Namjoon. He looks just how you feel - nervous, on edge, but trying to keep a blank face in front of the prince.

“I’m sorry,” Prince Taehyung says emphatically, and you turn back to him. “I know you were already uneasy here. I don’t want to make it worse. But I felt very strongly that you should be kept informed.”

“No, I appreciate it,” you assure him. "We’ll be… even more careful. I guess this means no more trips to visit Potato?”

He smiles at this, a bit wryly. “I’m afraid not. At least for a few days. Let’s see how this shakes out. Maybe they’ll let tonight’s insult speak for itself, and we can all move on.”

“You don’t sound very optimistic about that possibility,” Namjoon remarks.

Prince Taehyung shrugs. “I wasn’t alive for any of the wars for power,” he admits. “But my parents, and those older than them - they remember. Thousands of years of bitter fighting, all for the throne.”

He sighs. “It was foolish of us, I’m sure, to think this peace would last - that one little pebble wouldn’t send the whole pile toppling. But it isn’t your problem. Where do we stand with the curse, after this morning’s ritual?”

You hurry to fill him in - that you’re feeling more confident that everything has been identified, and that your task now is to determine all the proper counters.

“How soon do you think you could make a reasonable attempt?” he asks, seeming to grasp without being told that the countercurses will come through trial and error.

You look down at your papers, as if they might provide an answer to this. It stings a little, that he’s hurrying you along. But you know how ridiculous it is for you to feel that way - of course he wants you to hurry. He wants the curse to end, he wants his life back, he wants to send you home to safety as tensions rise between the Infracti families.

“A day or two?” you guess finally.

Prince Taehyung nods. “Very well. I’ll be quite busy tomorrow, but I’ll make sure to check in.”

He wishes you both goodnight and departs through the main door, leaving you and Namjoon in tense silence.

“We do need to hurry,” he says quietly after a minute or two. “I have a feeling things are only going to get worse, here.”

“We can’t rush the process,” you argue, though at the heart of the issue you know you agree. “Sloppy magic equals death.”

“I’m not suggesting we do it sloppily,” Namjoon clarifies slowly, as if he is speaking a second language to you and needs to mentally translate each word first. And, in a way, that might be exactly what’s happening. “I’m not saying we have to be ready to go tomorrow. But things are becoming less safe, and that’s me saying that - not the team member who currently can’t sleep with the lights off.”

You feel your face heat. He’s right - of course he’s right. Things weren’t safe to begin with.

“I’m just saying that we need to keep trying to make forward progress,” he says seriously. “We can’t just spin our wheels.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, still embarrassed. “So… come on. Let’s figure out what we’ll try first.”

You settle back at the table, grabbing a pen, refusing to look up at Namjoon, who still watches you from where he’s standing. Eventually he joins you, and you work until near midnight, not stopping until you have three potential countercurses to try.

And then, when Namjoon disappears into his rooms, you slink into your own and practice defensive spells until you’re tired enough to curl up and try for sleep.

—

When you wake, late morning, you ask Satuel to inform the prince that you have countercurses you’re willing to try.

She comes back with your breakfast and news.

“The royal family will allow you to conduct an attempt at a countercurse in about an hour,” she tells you. “I’ll escort you when it’s time. They’re a bit wrapped up right now.”

You latch onto this, looking at her sharply. You don’t expect her to divulge anything, and you’re surprised when she glances over her shoulder and then lowers her voice as she sets down your breakfast tray.

“The Scores’ diplomatic team returned early this morning with a message,” she whispers. “Essentially, publicly objecting to any implication that they would, or did, orchestrate any kind of attack against the Runes.”

“Of course they object,” you say, reaching for the pot of coffee before she’s even placed the tray down. “Why would they admit it, even if it was them? They aren’t that stupid.”

“Maybe they are,” she mutters, voice even quieter. You strain to hear her. “They also made a public statement against the King.”

You sit back, coffee pot forgotten, looking at her with wide eyes. “They what?”

She nods, her own black eyes wide like yours. It seems this news has rattled her - something that’s shocking to see.

“What kind of statement?” you ask.

She glances towards the door again, and then smiles sheepishly when she notices you clocking this. “It isn’t a secret,” she explains. “I just don’t want to be misunderstood as gossiping. You are living here, for now. This affects you, too.”

She takes a deep breath and tells you, “The Scores, backed by the Cleaves and two other powerful families, have sent a joint statement accusing the crown of conspiracy, corruption, and the unlawful murder of humans.”

Your blood runs cold, and you press your palms to the tabletop to ground yourself. “Could… Do you think there’s truth to it?”

Satuel presses her lips together. “I am loyal to the crown,” she says, which is not an answer at all.

Or maybe it is.

You’re thinking, suddenly, of those videos your students had been watching back home, how they had been explaining a newsroom theory that there were orchestrated attacks happening.

You’re thinking of Prince Taehyung telling you his family had covered up his murders, wiped memories and erased entire lives from the world’s history.

You’re thinking that such accusations could not possibly be lightly made.

You’re thinking of Namjoon, back in Dr. Kim’s office on campus, saying the words Infracti Civil War.

Your skin crawls.

Satuel seems to understand.

“You’re safe as long as you’re in your rooms,” she promises. “As long as you’re with me, or Dansoo, or the prince - you’re safe.”

You note that she doesn’t list the King or Queen.

An hour later, you and Namjoon follow her through the palace, with Dansoo bringing up the rear. They take you back to the room where you’d tried the first cure, less than a week ago, when Prince Taehyung had been very nearly knocked out.

It feels different this time. You feel the weight of expectation as the King and Queen watch you impassively. You’re sure they’re remembering the last attempt - their son’s legs giving out, your own meager attempts to explain why it hadn’t been a complete failure.

That’s fine - you don’t care if they trust you. You don’t trust them - you barely did to begin with, and that sliver has only gotten smaller and smaller in the time you’ve been here.

The last time you’d tried a countercurse, you’d known that the chances were very slim that it would work - the best you’d been hoping for had been more information.

This time, it could work. It could.

Prince Taehyung faces you, frowning slightly.

“It won’t hurt you this time,” you promise him quietly, and a corner of his mouth quirks, amused at being read correctly.

Do you trust him? The question pops into your head unbidden.

You flatten your hands over the paper in front of you, scanning the list of incantations meant to call forth his magic, his healing, his life and twist them into a weapon. You double-check that each thread is accounted for. You repeat the trickier phrases, letting your tongue get accustomed to them.

You watch the prince shift nervously, still frowning slightly, his hands defensively shoved into his pockets. When he notices you still watching him, he gives a tiny, sheepish smile, something almost shy in it.

Yeah, you think. Maybe it will be your undoing, maybe it will be your downfall. But you do.

You wish you could talk to him before this - alone, without the audience of his parents and Namjoon. You want to ask him about the Scores, you want to reassure him that he’s going to be okay.

“Are you ready, Maiesti?” you ask gently, doing your best to pretend it’s only you and him.

He licks his lips nervously and nods, stepping closer.

You glance at Namjoon, suddenly nervous, and he gives you a reassuring nod. You ignore the King and Queen, wishing they weren’t there at all.

“Okay,” you whisper, holding up a hand. Taehyung presses his palm to yours, cool and solid. “Okay, let’s go.”

You begin the series of spells a bit unsteadily, your voice small and nervous. But it takes less than two minutes for your magic to rise up, filling you with warmth and purpose and confidence. You continue, emboldened.

You feel your magic touch Taehyung’s, a bit hesitantly at first, and then entwining itself easily and happily, as if they fit perfectly together and only needed to settle in.

You continue chanting, eyes scanning the words slowly so you don’t mess up. You can feel it working, can feel the curse resisting - but your choices seem to be correct, and you can feel the curse unraveling, weakening, thread by thread as the countercurse peels them away.

You feel a thrill within you as you recognize success, and you struggle to remain calm, lest you slip on a word and let it all go to waste. Taehyung’s hand twitches against yours, and you wonder if he can feel it too - the curse loosening its grip, bit by bit. You want to watch his face, want to watch him realize it, want to see him the second he’s set free.

You want to smile at him, victorious, proud, so happy to give him what he needs.

You cannot take your eyes off the paper. You cannot miss a syllable.

Something tugs low in your stomach, and the thrill vanishes faster than light. You continue speaking, following the words on the page, but you feel your eyes widen.

The tug comes again.

The curse is fighting back. The unraveling you could feel suddenly feels stuck, snagged. Something isn’t right. Something isn’t right.

You’ve made a mistake, you’ve missed something.

You hear your voice catch and freeze as your limbs go rigid. The curse crawls into your magic, digs its claws in. You cry out in pain, eyes squeezing shut.

You think you hear someone call your name - you can’t tell. You’re trying to unravel your magic from Taehyung’s, to get distance between yourself and the curse, to wiggle free from those claws of ill-intent.

You can’t seem to. You can feel it taking over and you try to force your eyes open, to ask for help, but you can’t see anymore - the room is black, and all you hear now is the roar of static in your ears.

You feel the room shift, a pain in your shoulder. You may have fallen - you can’t see so you can’t be sure. You gasp for breath, but you’re finding it harder. You’re not sure it’s working, you can’t tell if you’re inhaling, you can’t feel the exhale.

Then, the pain stops, the panic stops, the static goes quiet.

You can’t feel anything anymore, good nor bad.

All you can hear is crashing ocean waves, the wild whinnies of amarisca as they gallop into the sea.

—

Taehyung sits at your bedside - the side of his bed, technically - your fragile, mortal hand in his.

Mostly, you seem to be sleeping peacefully, and Taehyung tries to have faith in his own healing abilities, in Namjoon’s promises that he’d severed the magical connection in time. But every now and then your body shudders, as if working hard to expel a poison, and it makes Taehyung’s chest clench every time. He hunches over, smoothing back your hair, listening to your heart thump faster and then quiet again as your body stills.

All he can do is listen to your heart.

–

It was a year ago, when he’d found everything out. He’d been nauseous, damn near dizzy from the knowledge: his own father, orchestrating attacks on the human world. Covering the tracks. Framing other families.

How many innocent lives had he allowed to be lost? Knowingly - purposely?

The better question was why. And Taehyung hated unanswered questions.

He’d found his father in his wing, luckily alone.

King Sunjae had raised his brows, surprised to see his son, unannounced.

“What brings you here?” he’d asked.

Taehyung had felt hollow, heavy. This truth was too terrible to bear. He didn’t want to lay this accusation at his father’s feet. He didn’t want to argue against denials. He didn’t want to demand answers, reasons.

He wanted to be able to turn back time, to never let this happen at all. He wanted to sleep comfortably at night knowing his own negligence wasn’t to blame, that his inattention hadn’t let this come to pass without his knowledge, for who knows how long.

He couldn’t make himself speak, couldn’t force the words off of his tongue. In the time he was silent, the King seemed to piece it together, his expression darkening.

“Don’t make trouble, Taehyung,” he’d warned.

Taehyung had closed his eyes, shook his head. He’d wondered if ghosts were real, if his father could be haunted by the humans he had lowered into prey.

“I want to know the reason,” he’d finally said, his voice effectless.

His father had seemed thrown off that Taehyung had bygone any actual accusation. It wasn’t necessary, Taehyung thought. They both knew what they knew.

The King laughed once, sardonically. “You’ve always been innocent,” he’d scoffed. “That’s why I never involved you in this. Go back to your rooms, Taehyung, go back to playing piano and riding amarisca and whatever else it is you concern yourself with. I’ll handle the matters of state, as I always have.”

Taehyung swallowed against the assaulting words, the weight of their truth. He shook his head. “I need to know the reason.”

The King was silent for a long time. Then, finally, he turned away from his son, pacing closer to the window, which overlooked much of the valley below.

“For us,” he’d answered, and Taehyung had stared at his back, trying desperately to understand. “For the throne.”

“That’s bullshit,” Taehyung had said, nearly gagging over the word, stomach twisting with disgust and regret and horror and devastation. “Our power is not in danger. Our throne is not in danger.”

“You’re naive. It’s not your fault - you’re young. You weren’t alive for the wars - thousands of years of war, Taehyung, the crown bouncing from Cleave, to Score, to Rune, around and around - but I was. They were bloody, they were unending. Humans died for our wars as much as Infracti. The throne is always in danger, my son. It will always be in danger.”

“How can you think that?” Taehyung demanded hotly. “The law is written entirely in our favor - the crown stays in our bloodline. There’s no wiggle room, there’s no loophole. And our bloodline is fine.”

“Is it?” the King retorted. “After me, the crown is yours. Then, what? You’re over six hundred years old, Taehyung, and you’ve never brought forth a serious consideration for your queen.”

“Is that what this is about?” Taehyung had cried, even more aghast than he’d started. “I’ll marry - is that what you want? I’ll marry tomorrow if it means you’ll stop.”

The King had scoffed again, finally turning to face him, his expression radiating disappointment. Well, Taehyung was no stranger to that - not after six hundred years. “You aren’t serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life,” Taehyung had said, and meant every word. He’d beg if he had to beg, he’d cheat if he had to cheat, he’d marry if he had to marry - anything to stop his father. “It has to stop. This can’t be what we stand for. You can end it, or I will end it - and I don’t care how that happens.”

“Quit talking nonsense,” the King had snapped, eyes narrowed.

“I mean every word,” Taehyung had said, his undead heart galloping in his chest. “Our people were once only animals. Time and time again through history we have wavered, flirting with becoming simply the animal again. You want to secure the Runes’ hold on the throne? I want to secure the Runes’ humanity. If you need me to marry, I’ll marry. You have to stop this. Swear it.”

The King had looked at him for a long time, appraising, evaluating. Finally, very seriously he said, “If you’ll start looking for a wife - seriously looking - then I’ll put a stop to it today. But I have to see you trying.”

Taehyung had spent the next year courting the girls his father picked out. He’d meant his promise, but none of them touched him, none of them spoke to his soul.

Then you had shown up - braver than anyone he’d ever meant, so powerful it was scary, humble, and mouthy, and foolish, and alive - and when his father had suggested he keep you around… he hadn’t hated the idea.

He could see you as queen. He could see you by his side.

He just had to keep you alive long enough to see how you’d feel about the idea.

It was proving to be harder than he’d thought.

—

You come back bit by bit.

You can feel again first. Your shoulder throbs, and your head is splitting. You feel unbearable thirst, like you haven’t had water in days.

You feel someone’s hand clutching yours, feel their grasp tighten when you wiggle your fingers in theirs.

Then, you can hear again - the ocean waves are still breaking, distantly. The murmur of low, familiar voices. You hear someone say your name, deep and sweet, like your own little song.

Then, not much later, your sight returns - blurry, coming into focus as you blink against the sudden brightness.

At first, all you can see is purple sky. You turn your head to see your hand resting on top of the heavy comforter.

It occurs to you that this is not your bed. It is large, comfortable, facing a wall of windows - this is how you could see so much sky.

The hand holding yours retreats, and you follow the movement as you flex your now-empty fingers.

Prince Taehyung peers at you, face drawn. There is no one else in the room with you.

For a moment, just for a second, you feel like you are looking at each other simply person to person - your roles, your duties, your prejudices, your wants and needs, your fears… all the things that you each carry every time you spend time together, they seem to be held at bay. Just for now.

“Is it true?” you ask him. You’re not sure why this is the question you ask. “Is any of it true?”

His eyes - humanlike, as always, although it is a lie - stay on yours as he slowly nods. “Yes,” he whispers. “But don’t worry. I’ve been trying to fix it since before you came. I’m going to make it better.”

You’d said almost the same words to him, about his curse.

He takes your hand again, and you inhale sharply.

He lets out a huff of a quiet laugh. “I really thought we’d lost you,” he murmurs. Then, he brings your hand to his mouth and presses his lips gently to the back of your hand.

For one terrifying, lightning-quick second, you thought he was going to bite you.

This is your last thought before things go dark once again.

<;- Prev | Next ->

thanks so much for reading!!! the next few chapters are among my faves :') looking forward to posting!

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dootdootwriting · 11 months

Text

♡ PRIDE with the HSR cast ♡

featuring: jing yuan; bronya; dan heng; gepard landau; himeko; march 7th; natasha; sampo; seele; serval landau; welt yang tw: none type: fluff, pride month, hcs, a lil bit silly pronouns used: none a/n: cishets dni with this post <3 it's not for you <3 (normally you are welcome on my blog! just not this post) queer ppl PLEASE interact. idc what ur identity is if you're lgbtq+ in some way this post is for you <3 i love you (YES this includes trans straight people and bi people with crushes on characters of the opposite gender. you are loved and included)

ERM sorry this is a day late i got really tired and had to finish it today!! utc for length as usual

DAN HENG

kind of forgets about it until it's june first and he goes "oh wait. it's the gay month now isnt it"

anyway he's happy he gets to celebrate it with you. otherwise he wouldn't really see the point in doing anything special

probably gets you some kind of gift with your flag on it <3 whether it be a plushie or a banner or just a flag!

if you like going to the parades and celebrations, he'll go with you. he's not a huge fan of all the crowds of people there, but it doesn't bother him too much and he likes seeing you happy, so the net value is positive

buys something for himself if the two of you go shopping this month

he'll see a t-shirt with a little rainbow on the chest and he smiles a bit and buys it to sleep in

you also get him obnoxiously rainbow sweatpants. at first he is incredibly offended, but eventually they grow on him and he starts wearing them around the astral express. march lives for them and was visibly upset that she did not get a pair.

MARCH 7TH

WOW!!! ALL GAY PEOPLES' BIRTHDAY!!! NO WAY!!!

march is the most excited for pride month out of everyone on the astral express. she stays up until midnight on june 1st like it's new year's eve

AGGRESSIVE with all her pride merch. she gets you so much shit too. pride shirt. pride sweatshirt. pride socks. a million pride bracelets.

if the two of you go out together in june, she makes sure you're also dressed to the nines in various flags and rainbow colors

drags you to the pride parades. march convinces the crew of the express to let her make a train float for the parade of whatever planet you're on and she goes TO THE MAX with it.

speaking of the express, when everyone wakes up and enters the main train car, they find march putting up streamers and blasting lady gaga at full volume

tldr she's fucking excited

HIMEKO

ohh pride month! so blowing homophobes up is legal this month?

well, i wish. sorry himeko

she's one for more subtle pride merch. maybe a hair-tie or a bracelet, but she has at least one little flag on her at all times.

also has some pride pajamas. hey, they're comfy.

if you're comfortable, she'll take you to the pride parades. if not, no problem, the two of you can celebrate from home.

also probably gifts you something! she gets matching pins for the two of you so you can be proud... together!!

if any of the other express crew comments on her little pride ornaments, she goes "yeah? and what about it?" like a queen. this is completely ineffective however because the entire crew is queer in some way

WELT YANG

oh, it's june again. alright.

doesn't really see the need to celebrate, but will allow you to adorn him with various pride baubles if you so desire

thinks it's very cute if you get excited about pride... like yeah, yeah you should be proud.

while he doesn't outwardly show much excitement about the occasion, you notice welt gets more affectionate with you

there are more little forehead kisses when he passes you, more reaching for your hand when he walks beside you, and you swear you can feel him hold you just a little bit tighter when you go to sleep

when march proposes the idea of decorating the express, he gives a slight but genuine smile and shoots you a knowing look.

even though he could celebrate himself this month if he chose to, for welt, it's more about celebrating you and the relationship he has with you.

he's more proud of that than anything else.

BRONYA

exhausted by pride month before it even begins LOL

being the head of the city, she's in charge of sanctioning and scheduling and planning all the official pride parades and celebrations happening around belobog, and, well... wow, are people in belobog really fucking gay

also deigns to go give some speeches at a couple of the rallies. she's a cool supreme guardian

cocolia allowed pride parades during her reign, but she never encouraged them. both to celebrate her own identity and yours and completely spite her mother, bronya encourages the people of belobog to go all out

and they do!

she gets a couple of gifts for you. not anything super huge or out there, but a flag or a shirt or a hair pin to match with one of hers.

bronya also gets premium seats to any pride parade she goes to, and she definitely takes advantage of this. kind of the best dates ever.

and when she's exhausted by the day's events and the two of you lay down to bed, you can hear her quietly wish you happy pride.

GEPARD LANDAU

gets really excited about pride, but doesn't really know what to do with it

and also, as captain of the silvermane guards, he's tasked with making sure all the official belobog pride parades are safe and orderly

this is quite the task given how passionate belobog's gay community is

on days where he doesn't bring you, he comes back covered in fans and stickers and streamers and confetti in the colors of pretty much any queer flag you can think of.

he has you deck out his armor for him. you grab your paint and stickers and washi tape and decorate the hell out of him

he's so happy when you do this. it's a very sweet moment full of fun and laughter and intimacy

no cops at pride! only gepard landau and his exuberant rainbow armor

SERVAL LANDAU

YOU LOOK AT HER AND TELL ME SHE DOESN'T BOOK SO MANY PRIDE PARADE GIGS

lord. it's so sexy. she performs her music on as many pride floats as she can, and every single time, she either takes you with her or looks at you in the crowd and blows you a kiss after her big number

SERVAL CAN I HAVE A KISSIE KISS PLS <3333

also aggressively proud. she paints her cheeks with her flag(s) and roams around yelling happy pride at anyone she sees in the streets wearing rainbows

the two of you go to a café and the guy taking your order is wearing a trans wristband and she gets so excited she starts yelling by accident and ends up giving him a 30% tip and a free concert ticket

you stare at her and shes like what??? it's pride month

girl get a grip.....?

probably takes you to a couple of raves too

you paint so many flags on each other that it looks like your skin is rainbow and stay out until the early hours of the morning

SEELE

only knows what pride month is because you explain it to her

while there's a normal sized lgbtq+ population in the underground, chances are pride celebrations every year are short and not very big

she learns about it and is so excited

seele wants to go to a pride parade in the overworld with you, but even more than that she wants to set up a parade for the people in the underground so they can really celebrate themselves

it takes a few weeks of planning and execution, but it's successful and it pays off. it's a huge amount of fun for everyone in the underground who wants to participate, and a welcome distration from the lingering effects of the stellaron

part of the planning for this of course involves taking out to attend pride parades up in belobog

the first few minutes of being in the crowd, seele is a little nervous about all the people and the fact she can't move around too easily. but she gets used to it pretty quickly

she has the best reflexes out of everyone in the crowd and manages to catch every single freebie thrown off of the floats. she brings them back to distribute among the kids in the underground.

NATASHA

natasha is reasonably excited for pride month

possibly the most normal out of everyone on jarilo VI

she puts little rainbow flag posters up on the walls of her clinic to make sure that queer kids know they're safe there year round, but they double during june

YOU CANNOT convince me natasha isn't the biggest giver of hrt treatment on jarilo VI you cannot

she wishes all her trans and otherwise queer patients happy pride when they come in, and hands out little rainbow stickers to kids she has to give shots to

her work takes up most of her day, and she regrets this during this month the most because she can't spend time with you

she's able to take the day off for your birthday and other important occasions, but patients need care

to make it up to you, the month of june is full of extra late-night dates once she's gotten home from the clinic and candlelit dinners.

SAMPO

i've said it before and i'll say it again: sampo runs an overpriced pride merch stall

and you look sooooo cute modeling all those pins and buttons and shirts and socks and hats and

has you stand around waving your flags decked out in all things rainbow, to attract customers

a couple of people rightfully accuse him of ripping them off, but sampo just blinks up at them innocently. they'd really accuse him of such a thing? during pride month of all times? have they no shame?

sampo has no shame. those customers were reacting reasonably.

when he's not conducting business, he's even more affectionate than usual, which, frankly, is difficult to do since he's usually glued to your side

"it's pride month!! we should kiss all the time obnoxiously in public to show people what queer love and joy look like"

babe....

JING YUAN

the general... has almost no time to spare for pride month

which, honestly, is such a disappointment to him. he was so looking forward to june and spending extra time with you

so instead, he has you accompany him to his work and keep him company and chat with him and sit on his lap on occasion and give him kisses when he's tired and

his coworkers are staring.

"do i detect homophobia in the room? during pride month? get back to work." (he's joking)

the lion gets a RAINBOW BOW TIE COLLAR and he is WORKING IT!!

he looks so dapper. he struts around like he's the handsomest man in the world

and he is, second to your jing yuan, of course

to show support for his community, the general flies a rainbow flag from the building

the gay is visible throughout the entire luofu

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swiftispunk · 9 months

Text

folklore - a collection of joel miller stories

peace

folklore series masterlist

pairing: joel miller x gn!reader rating: 18+ minors dni word count: ~2k warnings etc: angst and fluff, discussions of death and dying, discussions of sex but nothing too explicit, age difference implied but not specified (joel is older than you but the number of years is not relevant), established relationship. NO USE OF Y/N.

summary: jackson era, post-tlou. you and joel discuss what it means to die.

A/N: this was something i had rattling around in my brain for a while. sorry. i would call this a.........far more loose interpretation of the song, but idk this is just what came to me when i heard it - besides wanting to point at the lyrics and scream, "look it's joel" lmao as always, a reminder to read the other works in this anthology by the talented crew: @tieronecrush, @beskarandblasters, @jksprincess10 and @pr0ximamidnight

"Do you ever think about how it doesn't matter if we die anymore?"

Joel glances down at you with mild shock, brows knitted together in confusion.

"Start over," he says, his usual banner whenever he's struggling to keep up with whatever train of thought you've hopped on to without warning. Your mind often works too quickly, intrusive thoughts moving in faster than Joel can trace their source.

He's rightfully confused, you think, considering he'd just finished making you his own three perfect times, your naked bodies still sticky with sweat where you're connected at the hip. Afternoon sunshine streams across your bedroom, dancing off your bare skin, flecks of dust dancing in its hazy glow.

You twirl his thick fingers in yours and sit back into his chest.

"When I was little, before the outbreak, I went to my grandmother's funeral," you muse lightly. "I don't really remember her. But I remember her funeral. All these people came. Friends and family and people who loved her. Her death...I guess meant something to them."

The arm he has around your shoulder squeezes you in tighter but he doesn't speak. Just stares down at you with sympathy in his eyes. Maybe he thinks it makes you sad to talk about, but it doesn't. The memory belongs to someone else, a different person. A different life.

"I just can't stop thinking about how when I die...who's gonna come? Who's gonna care? Everyone's already dead so it won't be special at all."

"Does it need to be special?" Joel asks.

"I'd like to feel special," you admit.

"You're special to me."

His other arm loops around you then and he pulls you into a solid embrace. You sigh into him, breathing in his scent and hooking your legs over one of his.

"Well, at least you'll care when I die, then."

At that, Joel stiffens and when he next speaks, he does so through gritted teeth.

"I'll be long dead before you go, sweetheart."

"You don't know that," you argue.

"I damn well better be," he bites back sternly.

You chance a glance up at him to find his mouth turned down in a hard line, brows set into a familiar disapproving crease.

"I hope not."

Joel sighs.

"I do. S'how it should be." His eyes slip closed and he leans back into the headboard.

"Just 'cause you're older?" you press him.

"That," he nods. "And 'cause I'm pretty sure I don't know how the hell to live without you."

He says it matter-of-factly, with his eyes still shut tight. You notice the twitch in his jaw and the tight purse of his lips though - quiet hints that he means it. Still, something about the implication makes your skin burn with momentary ire.

"You think I know how to live without you?" you contend, sitting up and dislodging yourself from his constricting grasp. Joel's eyes peek open and he crosses his arms over his chest.

"You're tough enough t'handle it," he insists simply, closing his eyes again as though the thought of his own mortality is nothing to get worked up about.

"And you're not?"

Joel actually smirks, just the tiniest pull of his lips upward, otherwise totally stoic when he replies,

"Hell no."

You sigh, doing your best to let his nonchalance wash over you, basking in the rather morbid truth of his confession. Joel doesn't know how to live without you. Your heart swells at the sentiment. Of course, you feel the same way, but you have to admit, after all he's been through and all he's lost, that maybe he's right. Maybe you'd stand a better chance at it than he would.

Not that you're any stranger to death yourself, the two of you as friendly of bedfellows as the man you're sitting beside now but...you think you could survive. Not happily perhaps, but you could survive.

You settle back into his side and feel him unfurl his arms to pull you back into him. It's quiet for a moment as your steady, harmonized breaths ease the heaviness of your conversation.

"Can I hold a funeral for you?" you whisper eventually.

A beat, as Joel once again catches up with your line of thinking and then -

"F'you want," he shrugs. You hum lightly, imagining it. You're surprised to find the thought makes you smile; celebrating Joel's life, something you've come to hold with such regard. How it would feel to share that. To remember him.

"Nothing crazy," you ponder. "Something intimate."

"Think that's a given, sweetheart," he says sardonically.

"Don't say that. I bet lots of people would come."

"Yeah, right."

His eyes are still closed, but you imagine if they were open, he'd be rolling them.

"It's true," you tell him. "Still, just family is better, maybe. Tommy, Maria. Ellie. Don't you think?"

Joel hums, nodding evenly. He looks so at peace.

"Funerals're all just for show, anyways," he breathes.

Your chest pangs as a new thought comes to you.

"Would it be okay if I spoke?" you ask.

"At my funeral?"

"Yeah."

Joel just chuckles, not seeming to hear the emotion bubbling under your words. "Won't exactly be around to stop ya."

"Joel," you say firmly then, gazing up at him until he opens his eyes to meet yours. "I'm actually being serious."

He finally seems to clue in to your change in tone. He sighs, gently cupping your face and stroking one of his calloused thumbpads across your cheekbone.

"Sorry, darlin', yeah. 'Course you can speak." He grins then, lop-sided and self-effacing. "Not sure what ya'd say, though."

"Hmmm," you think out loud, letting seriousness go for a moment as you smirk and run your fingers over his soft belly. "I'd say...Joel was the best sex I ever had."

The roll of his eyes is practically audible.

"Shut up," he grumbles.

Your smile widens. It's easier to talk about it this way, to joke instead. And it's always fun to pester Joel with praise.

"He always made me come so hard - and even though he was the most impatient man in the whole wide world, he always took his time when he was going down on me."

"Seriously, shut up now."

"He also had the biggest co - "

"Alright," he grunts before yanking you around to situate your body underneath his, pinning your arms above your head and silencing you with a bruising kiss. Pretty lithe, for him, you think. Damn.

"You done?" he asks after a moment, when your head is spinning and he's swallowed every last one of your stunned giggles.

"Yes," you concede but he doesn't free your arms, his grip on your wrists unrelenting.

"How come I don't believe you?"

"Okay, fine. Not done. Don't you wanna hear what I'd actually say?"

Joel groans, ducking forward to nip at your earlobe.

"No," he grumbles humidly into the crook of your neck.

"It was gonna be really nice," you pout, threading your fingers through his salt-and-pepper curls.

"Don't see how that's possible," he smirks as he plants a toothy kiss under your jaw and finally releases one of your wrists to trail a hand over your chest distractingly.

Your breath stutters when his fingers graze your nipples, sending goosebumps down your arms and shivers up your spine.

"Ugh, yeah, you're right, I take it all back," you groan breathlessly when he drags his lips lower to lick lightly at one of the pebbled nubs. "You're mean."

Joel just hums menacingly, raking his fingers down, down, down over your stomach to rest on your hip.

You use the brief pause to take the upper hand, swinging your free arm up to push him off you, down into the mattress, quickly straddling him and clumsily holding him in place with two hands on his broad shoulders.

"Sneaky," he grants you derisively.

"Will you shut up and let me eulogize you now?"

Joel sighs - a recognizable sound of defeat, and accepts his fate. He softens beneath you, slackening his arms at his sides and raising his eyebrows - waiting.

"Go on."

You smirk triumphantly and sit back on his thighs.

"Joel Miller was..." you begin, then stop, staring down at him and assessing his expectant face, trying to think of what to say next.

You hadn't actually thought this far ahead. Like, right this second or in general - you try not to think about Joel's death if you can help it. Today's the most you've ever talked about it, the closest you've ever come to acknowledging the reality that he probably will die before you. All lightness fades as you take a deep breath and trace your fingertips along his hairline.

"...so beautiful," you continue. Joel scoffs quietly but even he can hear the way your voice has changed from cutting to canonizing. You find yourself working to swallow back a sudden wave of emotion.

"He was an excellent father," you say tightly and any trace of a smile disappears as Joel "tsk"s quietly before pointedly clearing his throat. You watch him avert his gaze downward with a small shake of his head. Maybe you shouldn't have said it, but it's true.

"Not the best cook," you smile softly, attempting to ease some of the weightiness of your words, for his sake and yours. "And a little messy. Bit of a temper, but he was getting better." Joel's lips twitch but the smile doesn't quite touch his eyes. You take another breath and splay your hands out on his chest, a steadying ballast against him as you carry on, "He was loyal. He cared. And if he cared about you - whew - you never had to worry about a thing a day in your life. He was a good man to have in your corner. You were so lucky if he loved you."

Joel's face screws up, eyes tightening as his hands once again find your wrists and clutch tightly, stabilizing and solid.

"He took care of me," you say as unwitting wetness pricks at your eyes, throat constricting around a hot lump of ardency. So much for lightness. "And Ellie. He took care of everyone. And he never asked for anything in return, even though he deserved so much. To be loved...and protected...and..."

Salt cascades from your eyes before you can stop it and Joel pulls you down into him, crushing you into his chest and running a soothing palm over your back, up and down in long, gentle strokes. His hand finally settles on the back of your head, holding you in place against him.

"He was good," you sniff into his collarbone. "He was good."

"Shhh," Joel breathes against your shoulder, tightening his grip around you when your tears collide with his skin. "You can stop now, s'alright. That's all real nice, sweetheart. Little too nice. Gonna give people the wrong idea."

"No, it's all true," you protest, voice still thick with sadness.

"The cookin' part's true."

You share a breathy laugh but when you tilt your head upwards, you find his sweet, brown eyes are glassy too.

"I'm probably just going to cry through the whole thing anyway," you joke, drawing circles over his bicep with your fingertips, a tethering motion that seems to pull you off the ledge of overwhelming, anticipatory grief. "Just wasting your honour."

He rolls his eyes, quiet, "Honour," scoffed under his breath at the notion.

"What's so funny about that?"

He just shakes his head. "Nothin', baby. You wanna remember me as honourable? Go for it."

"Fine, I will. What are you gonna do about it?"

"Not a damn thing."

The sunlight fades and your room goes dark as clouds begin to take over the sky outside your window. It's not long after that pellets of rain begin to patter against the glass, a late-spring downpour cutting through the calm.

END.

lyrics that offered inspiration:

iIm a fire and I'll keep your brittle heart warm, if your cascade ocean waves blues come

our coming of age has come and gone

it's just around the corner darling, 'cause it lives in me

all these people think love's for show, but I would die for you in secret

it's like I'm wasting your honour

family that I chose now that I see your brother as my brother

I'd give you my sunshine, give you my best

but the rain is always gonna come, if you're standing with me

folkelore anthology taglist:

@wannab-urs @atinylittlepain @bearsbeetsbeskar @serenaxpedro @casa-boiardi @rav3n-pascal22 @dinsdjrn @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @johnwatsn @amanitacowboy @leeeesahhh @isitmelookin4u @javiscigarette @mrsyixingunicorn10 @sugarspiceanthrax @orphanbird95 @space-cowboy-like-me @tuquoquebrute @rsquared31 @morning-star-joy @canseethebrushstrokes @atremises @sstarboy777 @undrthelights @butiknewyoudlinger @dayrdreaming @disassociation-daydreams @joelsversion @ginger-swag-rapunzel @mydailyhyperfixations @diamndx mingiast @kdogreads @blxsphemy7 @marchai @littlevenicebitch69 @ghostofbrock @iwrotethissky @ladynightingale @sam-010902

#joel miller x reader #folklore anthology #joel miller angst #joel miller x gn!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fluff

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cherrycola27 · 1 year

Text

Red, White, and Rooster

Series Warnings: Language, alcohol consumption. Frenemies to lovers, relationship of convenience. Political situations. Allegations of affairs, military and political inaccuracies. Smut. 18+ Minors DNI. Banner Credit: @thedroneranger

Masterlist Previous Part Next Part

...........................................

Chapter 13: What's In a Name?

After the holidays, you and Bradley fell into a comfortable rhythm. You'd decided to stop taking your birth control, and whatever happens, well, happens.

After the New Year, it's Valentine's Day, and soon, you're celebrating another birthday. Bradley's gift to you is a weekend away at Camp David, just the two of you. He jokes that it's because he has run out of oval shaped diamond jewelry to give you. You throughly enjoy your uninterrupted time with him.

During the first weekend of May, you host a two day camp for teen girls who are interested in STEM careers. You bring in women who are experts in their field to teach classes, host demonstrations, and answer questions. It ends with a gala for all the attendees and volunteers.

The Tuesday after, E! News tweeted a photo of you with some of the girls from the camp with the caption "First Lady Y/N Bradshaw host first annual 'Girls in STEM' gala at the White House." You click the link and read the article about your gala.

You decide to retweet it, but make a subtle correction. You type out your response. "Thank you for the wonderful coverage, E! News, but it is First Lady Y/N Wiseman."

You tap the button and send it out into the digital universe before returning your attention to some logistical things you were working on in your office.

Across the White House, Bradley's phone dings with an alert that you've posted something. He sees that you've tweeted about your gala from this weekend. He smiles at the photo and article, but his smile quickly drops when he sees the caption you've added. "What the hell?" He mumbles.

He immediately stands up from his desk, putting off his work for another time. He needs to talk to you— now.

After a quick conversation with your assistant, he learns that you are in your office. He bursts through the door without knocking. "Bradley!" You shriek as you jump in your chair.

"What the hell is this?" He asks as he points to his phone.

"Your cellphone?" You say skeptically.

"I know that, I mean this!" He huffs as he makes his way over to your desk and shows it to you.

"Oh, the E! article. You should read it. I thought it was great." You tell him.

"Not that, the damn article, woman! I meant what you tweeted about it. First Lady Y/N Wiseman? You're Y/N Bradshaw. Why would you go by your maiden name?" He asks you with an annoyed tone.

"Actually, I never changed my name when we got married. Legally, I'm still Wiseman." You reply nonchalantly.

"Wha—why? Why didn't you change it?" He sputters.

"Beacause, Bradley, when we got married, I was planning on divorcing you in four years. I didn't see the point." You shrug.

"Is that still your plan?" Bradley asks with an edge of anger. "No. It's not. I have no plans on divorcing you, Dearest." You tell him with a smile.

"Then why haven't you changed it? We've been married for over eighteen months." He states.

"There's no law that says I have to. It's the twenty-first century. Why is it such a big deal? You ask him.

"It's a big deal because I've always called you Mrs. Bradshaw. That's who you are to me. If we don't have the same last name, it's like we aren't a —united front. It means—I don't know how to explain it." He says, frazzled.

"It's just a name, Bradley. It doesn't matter." You say before turning back to your work.

Bradley's jaw ticks. "It doesn't matter?" He says as he stalks over to your desk. He stands in front of it and plants his hands firmly on the wood. You can tell he's tense. You get up and slide in front of him and wrap your arms around his neck. "Don't get yourself all worked up, Mr. President. I mean, what's in a name, really?" You ask as you thread your fingers through his hair.

"I want you to change your name." He gruffs.

"I'll think about it." You tell him.

"You've had time to think about it. I want you to change it. He states, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Bradley, it's not a big deal. Chill out." You sigh. You move to slip out from in front of him, but he locks you in place with his arms.

"You're my wife. You're going to change your name, so that way everyone knows you're mine." He growls. You narrow your eyes at him before saying those two faithful words. "Make me."

You stood in front of your desk, your eyes locked with Bradley's silently daring him to say something back. He had half a mind to throw you over his shoulder and take you to the bedroom and fuck the brat out of you. Instead, he spun you around and pushed you flush with the top of your desk. He hiked your skirt up and tugged the lace of your underwear down your thighs before delivering a harsh smack to your ass.

"Bradley!" You gasp from pain and pleasure. "You wanna act like a brat. I'll treat you like one." He breaths in your ear before delivering another smack.

"Fuck!" You groan as you arch your back to him. He chuckles and spanks you again before sinking to his knees and burying his face in your already dripping cunt.

Your fingers grip onto the edge of your desk as he fucks his tongue into you and sucks your clit into his mouth. It's hot and fast and dirty, and you're already about to tip over the edge. "I'm going to cum!" You warn him. But right before you fall, he stops.

You whine in protest. "Bradley! I was so close." You tell him.

"I know." He responds back with a smirk. He slaps your rear again before gathering up your wetness on his digits and sinking them into you. He has no trouble finding your gspot, and he strokes it over and over again while his thumb toys with your clit.

"Fuck! Feels so good, Bradley. Please!" You gasped as you feel your release approach. Bradley can feel you clenching around his fingers but before you can cum, he pulls them out and wipes them on the back of your skirt.

"What the fuck!" You scold him. "Brats don't get to cum." He tells you. "Now, I'm going to fuck you, and you don't get to cum until you decide to be a good girl for me." He growls before slamming into you.

He doesn't give you any time to adjust to his size before his hips are roughly smacking yours. He has one hand gripped on the back of your neck. The other his holding both of your arms behind your back. This gives him the leverage he needs to hold you in place or pull you back against him while he fucks you.

He's so deep you can feel the head of his cock kissing your cervix with every thrust. Within minutes, you're already close to the edge, after being denied twice.

"Fuck—please. Bradley, I'm so close!" You practically cry. "Are you going to be a good girl for me?" He grunts out. "Yes—yes. Please." You moan. "Tell me who you are then." He commands.

"I'm you're good girl." You pant.

"Nope. Not right." He moans.

"I'm you're little brat." You preen. You're so close that you feel like your body is on fire.

"Still wrong." He groans.

"Fuck. I'm the fucking First Lady!" You whale.

"Close but still not it." He hisses as he tries to hold off his own finish.

"Mrs. Bradshaw. I'm Mrs. Bradshaw!" You scream.

"Yeah you fucking are. Now cum for me Mrs. Bradshaw." Bradley moans. He doesn't have to tell you twice. Your orgasm crashes over you in waves as tears stain your cheeks. Bradley grunts as he finishes deep inside of you. Painting your walls white with his release.

He collapses on top of you. The room is filled with your gasps for breath and the scent of sex.

"I want you to change your name because you're my family now. You're the only family I really have. I'm the last Bradshaw if you don't." Bradley admits to you. As you both come down from your highs.

"Okay." You breathe out. "Okay?" He clarifies. "Okay, I'll if it means that much to you, I'll make it Mrs. Bradshaw, officially." You tell him.

He smiles and kisses the top of your head before slowly pulling out of you. He grabs some tissues to help clean you up before sliding your underwear back into place. He spins you around and kisses you deeply before exiting your office.

He walks down the hallway whistling and greets Jaycee as he passes her. She rolls her eyes and has a knowing smirk on her face.

She strolls into your office moments later.

"I was going to see if you were free for lunch, but it looks like you've already had some afternoon delight." Jaycee snickers as she plops onto your couch.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." You blush as you try to deny her.

"Oh, so it's just a happy accident that Bradley just so happened to be walking down the hall with his suit crumpled, and you just have thst freshly fucked look on your face because it's a Tuesday?" She prods. You try to come up with a witty remark, but you know you've been caught.

"Hey, I'm not judging you one bit. Lord knows what Jake and I have gotten up to in the middle of the day in his office." She laughs.

"Oh, trust me. I know. I've seen it." You shudder at the memory.

"Alright, enough talking about office sex-capades, or I'm going to end up having a vice president for lunch. The new secretary service agent, Alex, I think, is downstairs waiting for us." Jaycee says as she hops up to take your arm to escort you out.

......................

A few weeks later, you wake up early. You have a very busy day. You spend a few extra minutes cuddling your husband before both of you get up. You enjoy breakfast together. Bradley asks about your day, and you tell him that you have some errands to run, but you'll be home in time for dinner.

He briefs you on his day full of meetings and budget proposals, and there are two new bills on his desk that he had to take a look at.

You promised you'd help him look over them tonight, and you let him know you had a surprise for him this evening.

You kissed him before heading out to the garage with your new secret service agent, Alex.

Bradley finished his breakfast before heading to the bedroom to get ready. He was eager to get this day over with, because the quicker this day was over with, the quicker he was able to find out what your surprise for him was. He was praying that it was that little black number he saw you sneaking into the closet last week.

..................

It was getting close to five in the afternoon and Bradley was just finishing up his last look over for this new bill. He was anxious because he knew it was almost time for you to be home, but suddenly, an eerie feeling washed over him. Something felt—off.

He ignored it before continuing to work.

He was just about to wrap up for the day when Dante burst into his office with wide eyes and a heaving chest.

"Dante? What's wrong?" Bradley asked as he abruptly stood up. Several other members of the security team and Jake filed in behind him. Bradley's heart dropped.

"Dante—" He began as he gripped the side of his desk, terrified his legs would give out.

"Sir, the First Lady has been taken."

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#cherrycola27 #top gun maverick #top gun #rooster bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster top gun #bradley bradshaw #rooster smut #tgm #rooster x reader #top gun rooster #top gun smut #top gun 2 #tgm fanfiction #tgm fic #tgm smut #red white and rooster

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ellethespaceunicorn · 8 months

Text

Touch and Go: A Detective's Romance

Rating: Explicit, 18+, Minors - DNI

Pairing: Walter Marshall x Detective!Female!Reader

Fandom: Night Hunter

Word Count: 3.3K

Summary: What happens when a touch-starved detective who isn’t well-versed in human interaction meets their match?

Warnings: touch starvation, awkward conversation, unprotected p-in-v sex, creampie, crying during sex

A/N: It’s apparently winter in this story, damn Minnesota weather. Honestly, I was watching the movie while writing so it ended up being snowy. Unbeta’d, we die like people who tried their best.

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics

Support/Reblog banner by me

Cover Art by me

My Masterlist

It’s not like you never noticed your fellow officer. Of course, your attention has been pulled to Detective Walter Marshall once or twice, or several times throughout your time working together. Damn, ok the man was a presence. His very existence should have a warning label on it.

Not that he’s a bad person. Far from it, in fact. You thought the world of him. Not that you’d admit it, but you found his grumpiness endearing. His monosyllabic responses to questions made it a bit hard to get to know him. You weren’t exactly an open book yourself. But you forced yourself to try and get to know him.

You didn’t make it a habit to get to know people very often. You had trust issues, and rightfully so after what your ex-partner left you with. A broken heart and a fractured view of your self-worth. You hadn’t even let anyone touch you in so long. A handshake here or there, maybe a pat on the shoulder but nothing more.

And now here you were, a touch-starved mess who had grown to be a bit more than interested in another detective. You wanted to make him smile and that was a foreign feeling to you. So, you started with an olive branch.

Asking if he wanted a coffee on your way to the break room. After the fifth time, he relents, requesting a cup of black coffee with three sugars. While you’re there, you pick up a granola bar from the cabinet. Handing him the paper cup of coffee, you also pull the treat from your back pocket and toss it on his desk.

He tilts his head like a giant puppy at the snack.

“Humor me and eat something. I’m curious if you’re eating enough if I’m being honest.” You bite your bottom lip unconsciously, and the beginnings of a smile appear on his face as he rips open the bar and takes a bite.

Chewing slowly and staring at you, he seems to look right through to your soul. You look down at your feet to break eye contact and he clears his throat, getting your attention back.

“You know, I actually love food. I love to cook almost every night.” As the words come out of his mouth, it’s like they’re fighting their way out. As if each syllable is a punch to the gut.

“I love food, too. But I hate cooking,” You suddenly had a very dry throat, so you sip a bit of coffee before speaking again, “I’m not inviting myself over or anything, but if you’d be up for it sometime...I, uh...yeah.” You look everywhere but him as you trail off.

“Yeah, that’d be nice. I normally eat alone. Be nice to have someone...there...to eat with.” It’s like speaking makes him physically nauseous, the way his jaw tenses like that.

“Well, I’m free most nights, so...just let me know.” You move to turn and leave his office, but he stops you with an offering.

“You wouldn’t happen to be free tonight?” He’s even surprised by his question but plays it off by folding his hands on his desk and maintaining eye contact.

“Yes. I’m free.” You know you sound desperate but at this point, this is the most contact you’ve had with the man since you’ve been here so who cares? Well, you do, but you can worry about that later.

“Good. Yeah. So, uh, I guess come and grab me when you’re ready to go. You can follow me to my place. Sound good?”

“Yeah, that sounds great. Um, I’m gonna leave so I don’t say something embarrassing. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. I just—”

Walter cuts you off, saving you from yourself. “Don’t do this a lot?”

“No, I don’t. Been a long time and I don’t want to fuck this up, ya know? Not that playing it cool was ever my style. Why start now, right?” You surprise Walter by laughing at your self-deprecating joke and he follows suit.

The little duck of his head doesn’t stop you from seeing the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. When he picks his head up again, a broad smile is painted on that normally glum face. If you had 1% less control over your face, you would have drooled.

This man should smile more.

And you know you hate being told to put on a smile but fuck, his face was made for it. You realize you’re still looking at him and a faint rose-tinted blush dusts across his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

You should not be allowed to be that adorable.

“What?” Walter’s question brings you back to where you just said that sentence out loud.

“I think I just called you adorable. So, I’m gonna see myself out and try not to throw myself into traffic on the way to my desk. I’ll be back when I’ve calmed my brain down a bit.” You wave awkwardly and exit his office before you can notice the smile inching back over his features.

You spend the next two and a half hours hoping you didn’t make a complete ass out of yourself in front of the only man you’ve talked to in the last few months that wasn’t a delivery driver or your boss. The only person who you’ve talked to for more than a few minutes about something other than work.

When 5:30 p.m. comes around, you gather your things and drag your feet to Walter’s office. He’s already standing, putting away some files in his desk drawer, looking up when he hears your polite throat clearing.

“How do you feel about Spaghetti Bolognese? I have a recipe from Jamie Oliver that I’ve been meaning to try out.” He says, putting on his parka and moving toward you where you stand in his doorway.

“Um, pasta is life. Pasta with meat sauce? Even better.” You brighten at the mention of a familiar dish, your previous nerves all but forgotten.

“Great. Shall I help you with your coat?” He hinted once he realized you weren’t moving toward the exit.

“Uh, yeah. Thank you.” You set down your purse and handed over your fluffy overcoat.

Walter holds it out for you as you back your arms into the sleeves. As it comes to rest on your shoulders comfortably, his hands smooth over the fabric that covers your forearms, your hands ending up in his for a moment.

You freeze at the sudden contact but if Walter notices, he doesn't make a big deal out of it. He just squeezes your hand quickly and hands you your purse so you can walk out together. You are grateful to be among the stragglers leaving the office so that you don’t draw too much attention.

Walter walks you to your car and has you put in his address to your GPS, ‘just in case you get lost’ he jests before heading to his truck. As you watch him walk away, one thought comes to your mind.

Is this a date?

You park behind Walter’s truck in his driveway, climb out of your car, and crunch through the snow behind him. In your clumsy state, your foot slips, and strong arms catch you so that you don’t completely bust your ass on the unforgiving ice below.

This time when he touches your arms, you are beyond grateful to be able to pull yourself upright again. Once you’re stable, Walter keeps one of your hands in his until you make it to his front door. He lets you walk in first, turning on the light to the short hallway after you chuckle in the darkness.

Walter takes your coat and hangs it up with his, your wet boots left by the door. Walking into the kitchen, he pulls out a bottle of red wine and two glasses. Opening the wine, he pours each glass and brings them out to where you are standing in the living room. Handing you a glass, he raises his own.

“Shall we toast to something?” Walter smiles softly, expectantly waiting for you to suggest what to salute.

“To...being pleasantly surprised that you still wanted to cook for me despite every awkward moment I’ve had since earlier today. You are a gentleman and a scholar and I'm gonna shut my mouth and drink this wine before I just...keep talking.” You cringe inwardly before looking back up at Walter.

He is watching you with rapt fascination, a slow smile forming. “Let’s toast to practicing human interaction. I’d say we could both use some assistance in that area. We’ll help each other, deal?”

“Deal.” You tap your glass to his and take a sip of the now-aerated wine. Your cheeks warm at the blackberry finish of the cabernet sauvignon.

Maybe there is something to the whole liquid courage thing.

Dinner turned out lovely. You were pleasantly surprised that Walter could cook. There were moments watching him cook where he didn’t have to measure things, or he added a little extra of this or that. He didn’t use a recipe while making the garlic toast like it’s a staple of his repertoire or something.

Sitting on his couch with your feet tucked up under you, you look around the living room at the lack of family photos or little touches that scream Walter Marshall. Not that you would have any idea of what those little touches would be. It just doesn’t feel like a home. It feels like a house, just a house that someone lives in.

When he comes back to the couch with freshly poured wine, you accept your glass with a smile, and he returns it.

“It is a Friday night. We are enjoying our second bottle of wine. You made me a delicious dinner. And I still can’t figure out if this is a date, Walter.” You fiddled with the glass in your hand, looking into it as if the answer was inside the wine.

Walter’s thumb and forefinger on your chin have you looking up at his face. “I’ve used almost every excuse to touch you tonight. I kept talking to you earlier when you thought you’d lost me. I feed off your awkwardness because you say what’s on your mind without a filter. I’m not exactly one to speak a lot but I enjoy talking to you. Because you make me feel like I’m not alone.”

Unshed tears gather at the corner of your eyes. You swallow the lump in your throat, clearing it loudly before you speak. “Can you tell I’m touch-starved because you are too?”

At his quiet nod, you take his wine glass and set both of your glasses on the coffee table. You lean forward, your elbows on your knees. He watches as you have a silent moment with yourself, going over different scenarios before you reach a consensus with yourself. You look back up to him and your face softens.

Reaching out your hand, you intertwine your fingers in his curls. As he turns his head to push it further into your hand, his breathing picks up. He grabs your fingers as they migrate to his jawline.

“I want...I need more than this. I'd like to say I could wait, but all I can think about is kissing you until you can barely breathe.” Walter forces the words out, his breathing in time with yours. Erratic.

You climb into his lap, one hand still in his, the other hand fisting his wool jumper. “Then kiss me until I can barely breathe. Fuck breathing. I just need you.”

No sooner are the words out of your mouth, than Walter’s lips are on yours. It’s like he was starving and the breath from your lungs was the only meal he’d had in weeks. You could feel his hunger as he licked the seam of your lips, letting him in was the only option.

As your tongues fought for dominance, he took the lead in a way you couldn’t ignore. His arms wrapped around you, pulling your torso flush to his. You felt so small yet so special as he held you. So new yet so treasured as you broke the kiss and rested your forehead against his to calm your nerves and catch your breath.

A moment passes between you where you both just breathe. Until you lean your head back, locking eyes with Walter again, and you nod. He understands your non-verbal request, picking you up and walking toward his bedroom. Kicking the door behind him, he lays you down in bed and gets to work undressing you.

You lift your hips as he pulls your jeans and underwear down your legs. You remove your top and bra, and he watches as your body is exposed to him. He stands to make quick work of his jumper, and you salivate at the sight of his hardness through his boxers when his jeans are pushed down his legs. His hefty dick springs up against his abdomen as his boxers are removed.

Your hands roam over his hairy chest as he climbs onto the bed. With a hand under each knee, he pushes your legs back as far as they will go. He admires the shiny wetness that your pussy leaks. Shifting closer, he pushes the head of his dick through your folds and groans.

He looks up into your eyes and asks silently if he can continue. When you nod, he enters you and your body accepts him fully. Allowing you to get adjusted to his size, he wraps your legs around his waist and pulls out until just the tip remains inside you before he slams back into you. This time you both groan, you at the fullness, him at the tight squeeze.

“Fuck, you feel amazing. But please, keep moving.” Your words are all he needed to begin an all-out assault on your cunt.

If it had been a while for him, you’d be none the wiser with the stamina this man possessed. He held your legs open while he fucked into you. He allowed you to just take it as he did most of the work. You could hardly keep up with his thrusts as you melted beneath him.

“You’re so fucking close, just let go for me. I can feel you squeezing my fucking cock. Be a good girl and come for me.” While he whispered in your ear, he ground his pelvis into you to stimulate your clit and G-spot at the same time.

When your resolve finally breaks, you try and hide your face in Walter’s neck to no avail. He tangles a hand in your hair and pulls you back so he can watch your orgasm play out on your face.

“Don’t hide from me when I’m making you come. I want to watch you fall apart under my hands. You are so fucking gorgeous when you come for me, girl.” He talks as you come down from your orgasm and the warmth that spreads over your body is palpable.

“Thank you,” You blurt out before you can stop yourself.

Walter all but runs with it. “Fuck yes, you fucking thank me for your orgasm. That’s my good girl.” He pulls out, turning you on your side and sliding in behind you. Entering you again, he reaches a hand around to play with your clit. Circling your nub, then flicking it to keep you stimulated enough to come all over his fingers.

You come for a second time within a few minutes, and he fucks you through it. Your words are clipped while you try to thank him once more and it just comes out as breathy whispers.

Your moans are music to his ears and he pistons in and out of you. As your walls massage his cock, he starts to falter in his movements. You reach back to grab his hand, lacing your fingers together before pulling your hands to your chest.

Getting the message, Walter wraps his other arm around you to pull you even more impossibly close to him. He slows down his pace, dragging out your moans as he unhurriedly moves inside you. He leans into your ear and speaks softly.

“You have no idea how much I needed this. How much I wanted you. I didn’t know how to talk to you. Fuck, you feel amazing. Need you every day, girl. Just like this, wrapped up in you. I won’t last much longer. So perfect.” He babbles near the end, whimpering your name. He latches onto your neck as he stills inside you.

His teeth nip at you and his tongue soothes your skin as you feel his cock twitch and paint your walls with his spend. You can hear him groan in your ear as his arms hold you tight. You haven’t felt this safe in someone’s arms since you were little. You don’t notice you’re crying until Walter wipes away the tears that fall down your face.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“If you’re about to apologize for crying in front of me, please don’t. You deserve to express your emotions no matter who is around. Least of all, me.” He places a kiss on your neck, attempting to soothe you.

“Fair. I haven’t been held or even touched in so long and it’s a little embarrassing that my first reaction is to cry.” You sniff, rolling your eyes at yourself.

“Don’t be embarrassed. I know that’s easier said than done. But trust me, we just experienced some intense sex. And it was emotional for both of us. Trust me. Can’t you feel how fucking hard I am still inside you?” He moves his hips just slightly and is rewarded with a shiver going down your spine.

“Walter...please.” You let your whimpers be heard and you get what you want.

He moves to his knees while keeping you on your side. He pushes your leg up to a 90-degree angle and leans forward to fuck into you. The sound of slapping flesh fills the room as well as Walter’s grunts as he buries himself deeper inside you than before.

“I’m gonna...please, don’t stop!” You reach up to hold his cheek in one hand and he shuts his eyes at the contact. When they open again, his pupils are blown wide.

“Not stopping until you come again for me, girl.” The hand on his cheek migrates to his forehead to wipe away sweat-slick curls from his brow.

“Come with me, Walter!”

“Ugh, fuck!”

The hold you have on your orgasm falters and your walls flutter around him, his hands curl around your thigh as his hips pound into you one last time. As his cock spurts inside you, your cunt continues to milk him until he softens and is released from your hold on him.

He collapses next to you, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close. You reach an arm across his chest and settle in to catch your breath. Looking up one last time to Walter’s face, you’re pleasantly surprised to see a smile on his normally grumpy face. His eyes are closed, and you feel at peace knowing you are the cause of that serene expression.

“Stay with me tonight.” You’re startled by his words, but you can’t deny the smile that crosses your face.

Leaning up to kiss his stubbled neck, you revel in the grunt that follows. “Good night, Walter.”

You feel him kiss the top of your head, nosing at your hair. “Night.”

You fall asleep with your hand in his chest hair, your legs tangled together. You are held, you are safe, and you couldn’t be happier. Talking about what all this means could wait until the morning. For now, you bask in the feeling of warmth that this man and this moment give you.

Touch and Go: The Morning After

A/N: Shout out to @sillyrabbit81 for her Detective Grumpypants Spotify playlist which helped me so much in writing this.

**Tag List**

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Let me know if you wanna be added (or removed) 😁

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abiiors · 9 months

Text

haunt // bed - epilogue

a note about the banner: the photo in it is only meant to describe the dress, not the race, body type, hair colour, etc of the reader <3

a/n: i genuinely hope this is a suitable ending, i really do.

minors dni!! part 1, part 2, part 3

wc: 1.8k

what now? the first words to echo in your head as soon as matty pulls away.

your dress is still pooled around your feet, on the floor of the dusty closet. he’s barely undressed, only dishevelled but you’re completely naked and covered in red marks. vulnerable in front of your ex once again.

none of you know what to say. do you tell him this was a mistake? was it? your chest feels hollow and your body stings now that the overwhelming feelings of desire have worn away. everything feels warped and out of place.

matty bends down to pick up the dress and holds it in front of you.

“we should…” he trails off, sounding like he’s speaking from another room. “you should get dressed.”

you look at the dress like it’s a foreign object but take it out of his hands quickly. putting it back on is just as easy as it was to slip out of it. but the zipper at the back… your arms twist at an awkward angle, fingers straining to reach the damned thing.

“turn around,” matty says, guessing your predicament within seconds. it surprises you that there are no feelings of hesitation, nothing telling you to defy him just to piss him off.

it’s a long zipper, starting at the base of your spine. and his hands are warm as they ghost over the sensitive skin. he takes his own sweet time, swiping your hair to one side, warm fingers brushing the nape of your neck so tenderly that you almost feel a shiver go down your spine. his breath fans over your ear.

the sound echoes in the quiet room. after all the moans and grunts and cries, the sound of a zipper should not be deafening. but it lingers in the room far longer than it should, refuses to leave like an unwelcomed guest, making a home for itself in the awkward little crevices.

all in all, zipping up the dress takes two seconds but you almost find yourself relishing the tenderness of his actions, closing your eyes involuntarily so that your mind focuses only on him, his closeness.

“now what?” you ask. it slips out really, almost a helpless question. his hand stills in place, the other coming up to your waist. your voice is desperate to your own ears, pathetic and small. your brain screams at you to amend it. “i can’t go out looking like this. everyone will know—”

“i’ll get you your bag,” he interrupts, already moving towards the door “tell me where it is.”

it’s still in the bridal suite and one of the bridesmaids would have the keys. but what happens when matty steps out and you are left here alone? you know the second one of you leaves the room, the spell will be broken. he will step out into the real world and you will be forgotten like a child’s dream. it’s a silly thought, yet it worms its way in and lodges itself firmly in your brain, makes panic surge up all over your body.

“don’t…” the word spills out of you, a desperate little whisper. you immediately scrunch your eyes shut looking away. anywhere but at him.

don’t what… you have no idea how that sentence is supposed to end. don’t go? don’t get my bag?

matty’s hand stills on the doorknob, his shoulders tensing up. this is it, you realise, the big fight, the last one. the last fuck just happened…why not the last fight?

“so now what?” he repeats your question back to you and raises an eyebrow when you shrug. matty laughs drily. “you don’t want me to go but you don’t want me to stay? is that it?”

“why did we do this?” it’s an abrupt question, one that seems to take him back. “why…fuck. matty, you’ve got a girlfriend out—”

“grace is not my girlfriend,” he interrupts sternly. “she’s my date. sometimes we fuck.”

it’s crude, to the point. and instead of jealousy or disgust, it makes a warmth spread in your stomach.

grace is not my girlfriend.

“you didn’t bring a date,” he points out.

“i thought…i thought it would be cruel.” the words are bubbling up at the surface, fighting to come out all at once.

“why?” his hand slips away from the doorknob, his feet seem to move of their own accord. he’s walking towards you, you realise. almost in a daze, like a moth to a flame. “you knew i was bringing one. charli would have told you.”

“she did,” you retort. “turns out i’m not the bitch you thought i was, huh…”

he’s standing in front of you now, back where he was at the beginning of all of this. even in the dimly lit room, his eyes seem bright, full of an emotion you can’t place. or rather, don’t want to place. because you know what it is. you know how he still feels. you think back to that day in his car, the day you told him never to contact you again and threw your lawyer’s information in his face.

he seems to be thinking along those exact same lines.

“punch me if it makes you feel better,” he laughs, reaching for your hand again. his grip is softer this time, a caress. his laugh sounds heavy, like there are tears clogging up his throat. and you feel something damp on your face.

this can’t be happening right now. this was supposed to be a quick fuck. you can’t be giving into old feelings right now. still, you can’t resist lifting your hand up to his face. a small chuckle slips out—his stubble feels exactly how you’d imagined it. he turns his face slightly, lips pressing against your palm. it’s his habit, you remember it. a year’s worth of time hasn’t made it go away.

“can i still hit you, break your nose, beat you black and blue?” it surprises you that you can joke about it now. even more so when matty laughs along. it makes a tear slip out the corner of his eyes, landing right on your palm.

he closes his eyes tightly, causing more tears to leak out.

“there’s so much, matty…so much we’ve both done and said to each other. this won’t make it go away.”

“i know,” he nods.

“it feels like a chasm.”

his chest heaves, trying to stifle the sob, failing at it anyway. this is happening, like it or not, you’re in a dusty closet, crying and confessing your feelings to your ex-husband. this is a mess, all of it. how did you even get here in the first place?

“even if we start all over again…”

“we’d still end up right here.” he finishes. “maybe in another ten years,” he laughs weakly, “maybe at ross’ wedding.”

matty’s arms come around you, encasing you in them. it’s a hug, a simple and sweet hug, but it makes the dam break. sobs wrack your body, pathetic and childlike; sobs that you stifle in his chest.

“i used to have dreams you know?” he says, softly rubbing your back, “after the divorce. for months. dreams where you were still my wife. all we did was held hands and sat tangled up on the sofa. nothing more, ever.” he pauses, almost as if he’s letting the memory of those dreams wash over him. all the while, his arms stay around you, letting you cry in them.

“but i always woke up alone. the first few times, i looked for you all over the house. spent ten minutes searching all over, before remembering…”

you can picture it so clearly—him sleepily trudging down the stairs, calling out your name, softly at first and then with increasing intensity until it finally clicks in his brain while he’s standing in the dark living room, looking at nothing. or maybe when he’s mid-step, at the bottom of the stairs.

“and what did you do?” you ask “after you remembered.”

he shrugs. “i’d go back to bed and hope that i dreamt of you again.”

it’s a simple answer. you know there’s more he isn’t telling you, more that he doesn’t need to. because you can fill in the blanks on your own and it only makes you sob harder.

matty buries his face in your hair and you can hear his soft sniffles. “come back…”

two words that are heavy enough to make your heart stop.

“you said we’d end up here again,” you point out helplessly.

“i’d do it all over again if it’s with you.”

it’s such a grand romantic notion, a stupid notion.

“i can’t go through this again, matty. i can’t…i–it would kill me.”

he grabs your chin, gingerly tilting it until you’re looking into his eyes. they’re red-rimmed, glassy. you see the pain in them, the hope, the love, and everything in between. you see him trying to smile and failing.

he reaches for your mouth. it’s a soft kiss, full of every unsaid thing between the two of you. a kiss full of longing and begging. you can taste his tears on his lips, and the lingering taste of you still.

“we can start slow,” he offers and a pleading note enters his voice, “just as friends.”

a sardonic, hopeless laugh bubbles up in your chest. “i can’t be friends with you, love.” you speak against his mouth, foreheads touching each other’s.

“so what now,” he breathes softly. you’ve asked each other the same question three times and yet there’s no answer to it.

“now i leave,” you say, “i text charli that i’m not feeling well, and then i go home…”

“or you could stay,” he contradicts, “we could—we could stay here. or—or leave together. we could—”

“and then what?”

“come home to me, just one more time,” matty pleads. “just once. we don’t have to do anything, just…we can just sleep. one night.”

it’s so easy for him to say. fuck, he makes it sound like the most natural thing in the world. the logical next step. go home to him like you’ve done a million times before, and maybe you could do it one more time. what’s one more…

you mull it over.

just one night.

what happens when one night turns into one more day, then just one more time, the real last time, and then another one. what happens when you can’t stop the cycle?

matty smiles. there’s no fallen angel there any more, only a man. someone you once loved, someone you still love. and deep down you know, he’s someone you’ll always love.

just one night. that’s the offer.

“one night…” you echo unsurely.

you feel his smile when he goes in for a second kiss, you feel his quiet, tentative joy. it’s a deep kiss that lingers on your lips for a long time after. even after he breaks away and leaves behind intoxicating sparks. even after he steps away to look at you properly.

“one last time,” matty says and offers you his hand.

seriously tho, thank you so much for reading it and sticking around and sending me all your comments, asks, reblogging with so many nice things. it means the world to me <33

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darsynia · 1 year

Text

Hand(s) Off | Ch 5: Chemistry

(Steve Rogers/f!Reader sex pollen-esque multichapter)

gif by @chrisevansedits

STORY MASTERLIST | STEVE MASTERLIST | PREV | NEXT

Summary: You and Steve have to navigate the aftermath of the overexposure to Mistress, and something tells you that your mood swings and inability to self-satisfy is directly related to the drug...

Length | Warnings: 3,880 | sexual situations MINORS DNI

Fill: Adoptable ‘Pheremones’ from @allcapsbingo

Tags (please request!): @starryeyes2000 @munstysmind @ronearoundblindly @chickensarentcheap @themaradaniels @tiny-anne @deepbatched @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @wolfstar-marvelsfan @icequeen1371 @chibijusstuff @nekoannie-chan @brooke0297 @caplanreads @mrsevans90 @hails270105 @venusfalling

Excerpt:

He’s wearing jeans that fit him like a second skin, a tight gray tee, and an unbuttoned long-sleeve blue flannel, which feels distinctly unfair. Somehow he looks every bit as handsome wearing this casual get-up as he had the night before in his suit pants and blue jacket.

“You, uh--” He sounds upset, and you glance up. “Bruce says we need to be looking more at each other than not,” Steve offers with a wince.

“Right. Twist my arm, right?” you joke.

His brows furrow. “If you’re--”

“Steve! You’re handsome as hell. Not a hardship, is my point,” you tell him.

“Ah,” he says in response, and oh. There’s a bit of joy there, not quite pride, but close. If you had to name it, you’d say Steve is deeply pleased, and yep, that’s a jump in arousal, there. “Right back at ya,” he says, almost too quiet to hear it.

“They’re going to have to burn those forms,” you muse aloud.

Chemistry

You wake up the morning after your 1940’s performance feeling more refreshed than you have for weeks. The constant, low-level irritation you’ve had to learn to live with is not entirely gone, but it’s lessened, and for that you’re very grateful.

The plan is to meet Bucky for… something, but he hasn’t made clear what. You opt for a skirt to swish around your legs, voluminous but not bulky. Restrictive or tight clothing has been a no-go lately, making you feel anxious and closed-in at worst and kind of turned on at best. It’s another data point in the line of ‘things that are different since Mistress,’ but you don’t really know what to make of them all. The worst out of everything is your mood, but is that worsened by your inability to come, or is it an actual after-effect?

When you get downstairs after getting Bucky’s text, you’re surprised when he opens the door of a taxi for you. The two of you usually walk everywhere.

“Where we going?” you ask.

“It’s a surprise.” He doesn’t elaborate, instead choosing to deflect in the most unfair way possible: “Steve liked the show last night.”

You keep your expression tightly controlled, but your anxious tone gives you away. “You could have warned me about that! I’m glad he enjoyed it, but--”

“I didn’t plan all that far ahead, okay? I did it because he said yes. To the thing you asked me about.”

Embarrassment blooms from your chest and across your body, and you dart your eyes over to the taxi driver. There’s no way he can know the context, but holding a conversation about impossible orgasms with Bucky had been embarrassing enough, so alluding to it around a stranger is pretty stressful.

“Uh, thank you, then.” Your mind skips past the awkwardness to the substance of the comment, and you slump back into your seat. “That means it’s definitely related.”

“Yeah.”

He looks out the window, and you smile down at your lap. Bucky isn’t the kind of person to smoothe over awkward things with platitudes (which often makes them worse). If he had, you’d never have had the courage to ask about Steve in the first place. You’d probably have rather withered away and died of sexual frustration instead. Not that dying isn’t still on the table.

“You uh, probably should go talk to Dr. Banner,” Bucky says, his voice overloud and uncomfortable. “He’s been running tests on Steve, thanks to his lousy mood and the--” He makes a gesture, but you deliberately look at his face, not his hands.

“He’s been having problems with that too?”

Bucky’s is the kind of expression that anyone who’s ever lived with a grumpy roommate would instantly recognize.

“Yeah, okay,” you sigh, pulling your phone from your pocket. “Give me some kind of contact number?”

The taxi stops, and he points out the window with his thumb. “How about instead, we just do it right now?”

The vehicle is stopped in front of the tower. The taxi driver is already grousing, so as the two of you get out, you hiss at your best friend, “I can't believe you set me up! I didn’t mean now! I need more mental fortitude! Banner’s an Avenger! He knows Steve personally!”

“So do I!” Bucky says, affronted.

The taxi drives off as you glare at each other, and then he sticks his left elbow out like a frustrated chaperone. It’s manipulative in a really brilliant way, because he trusts you with the knowledge that there’s a metal weapon of war under all that fabric. You swallow your pride and tuck your hand in the nook he’s created for you, and he walks you inside.

“I thought you usually went through the side door?” you ask quietly as the two of you wait in the short security line.

“I didn’t want you to have time to change your mind.” Buck grins at you, right as the two of you are guided past the checkpoint and toward the bank of elevators.

“You’re really unbelievable-- and the worst part is, you know it!”

He just settles against the back wall of the elevator and looks smug. It’s midday, so the others who file into the elevator car with the two of you are all in business wear, and you feel intensely out of place in your casual skirt and blouse. Bucky, who is out of place practically anywhere, never manages to look anything but cool.

You settle against the wall beside him, but you must look nervous, because he bumps your shoulder with his as some of the office workers from the lower floors file out. Eventually, you’re the only two left, and Bucky speaks aloud asking to be taken to the floor where Banner’s lab is.

Shall I inform Dr. Banner of your impending arrival? the AI asks drily.

“What’s the fun in that?”

The rest of the trip is short. A few seconds after the two of you step out, Bucky stops you with a hand, his lips twisting apologetically.

“I’m gonna head to the apartment. This is private, and I want to respect that-- but you didn’t volunteer for this whole mess, so if you need an advocate, some of that fortitude you mentioned, just text me.”

You’re touched by this unexpected speech, but you also feel kind of adrift; this wasn’t what you’d expected your day to be like. There’s no chance to respond though, because Bucky ducks back into the elevator after gesturing toward the correct lab.

A surprised-looking man with salt and pepper curls opens the door to your knock, so you blurt out your name, explaining that Bucky Barnes had suggested you drop by.

“Oh! Oh, that’s great, come in, come in,” the man says, offering his hand to shake. “Bruce Banner. I hope Barnes passed on my sincere regrets about what happened?”

He didn’t (you hadn’t wanted to talk about it at all until you’d realized you had to ask about The Issue), so you don’t know what to say. Luckily, Banner has already hurried off to bring over a second chair beside the lab table he’s clearly been using as a desk.

“Have a seat. I should warn you, I’ve already got--”

He breaks off as a woman in a lab coat walks over with purpose. “All blood tests are completed.” They continue talking, but the voice of Steve Rogers behind you derails your attention.

“Dee?”

You spin around in shock. “I’m sorry, I had no idea you’d be here! Not that I would, of course, but Bucky-- Oh, my God,” you realize aloud. “Did you… tell him you were coming to the lab today?”

“No, I haven’t seen him since last night.”

“Actually, this is good,” Banner says, walking over to stand between the two of you with a placating hand held toward each. “I have some theories I’d love to expand on with a few blood and proximity tests. If you’re willing, of course.”

Proximity. You’d noticed last night that being in the same large room as Steve Rogers had mitigated some of the lesser symptoms you haven’t been brave enough to mention to anybody. The same thing is happening now, with the added complication of a really bizarre desire to move closer to him. Somewhere there’s a magnetism joke just begging to be told, but not by you.

“Is this scientific curiosity, or will it help figure out how to regulate this stuff?” Steve asks.

“My own exposure took care of the curiosity part,” Banner says, rubbing a knuckle against the side of his cheek.

“Wow, Bruce, I guess I figured the Hulk’s biology would have cleared that out for you,” Steve says, his expression a mask of concern. “At least you had more data for a solo expos--” He breaks off, embarrassment flushing his face as he looks over with dawning horror at the other occupant of the room.

“No worries, I was whisked home to my husband. We were happy to be part of the ‘control’ group,” the woman in the lab coat says with a bright smile.

“In the interests of reassurance, I’ll tell you I’m in a relationship, and that person and I, ah, handled things,” Banner says, occupying himself by studiously cleaning his glasses. “So yes, there’s data, both from the mitigation of my healing factor as well as the reactions of a wholly un-exposed partner.”

“It’s not often that I get to be a hero, but I think I’ll step in and ask if you’d be willing to give some blood while these two awkward it out? Doctor Lynette Lyonne, nice to meet you.”

You smile gratefully at Dr. Lyonne and nod. She seems like exactly the sort of down-to-Earth person to keep Banner focused.

“That’s a mouthful! I feel like if my dad met you, he’d be asking you if your parents had a limited budget for letters when you were born,” you say as you sit in the chair Dr. Lyonne indicates.

“Ooh, I haven’t heard that one in six months!”

You’re pretty sure the tourniquet that Dr. Lyonne puts on after that is the regular tightness, but you hold very still and keep things polite, just in case.

Dr. Lyonne leaves you alone in that side room after the blood test for a half hour , explaining that they need to keep you and Steve separated as they come up with some proximity tests to perform. You get it: they want to gauge various reactions between the two of you, but the anxiety you feel about being shoved into yet another situation beyond your control is almost making you sick.

Finally, the door opens and Banner ushers you out and down the hall to a different room. There’s a second, smaller space inside it made up of transparent walls and a vinyl ‘roof’ thing above it, and Steve Rogers is standing in there.

“We’ve rigged the room with all kinds of monitors, and if you are okay with it, I’d like to put some heart monitors and such on you. Steve is already rigged up with a microphone in case I need to tell you two anything, but I won’t be able to hear anything the two of you say. Steve?” Banner calls out, turning around and making some gesture you can’t see. In response, Steve lifts his shirt, showing that he does indeed have a series of medical patches connected to wires placed in various places on his splendid chest.

“Dr. Banner, you’re contaminating our results!” Dr. Lyonne objects, shoving a file folder over to block your view. “I guarantee that her heart rate just went up.”

“Shit, I didn’t think of that. Uhh…”

Grabbing Banner’s lapel mic, Dr. Lyonne leans into it and says, “Banner and Rogers, cover your eyes!” She grabs the patches and comes over. With her help, you unbutton your blouse and the two of you place them in record time. Under her breath, the doctor mutters, “Blessed with two of the most ethical red-blooded men on the planet, thank fuck…”

Two minutes later you’re closing the door of the half-room-sized enclosure they’d constructed, standing closer to Steve Rogers than you’d been since you’d met, nearly three weeks ago.

“Hi,” he says, clearly the most awkward person in the building. It’s absurdly charming.

“Hi,” you whisper back.

You’re both holding a clipboard with a pencil, and Steve nods at the one in your hand. “We’re supposed to fill out our initial reactions.”

There are two chairs placed twelve feet away but facing each other. Instead of sitting down, you plant a foot on the closest one and brace the clipboard on your knee. The questions are… a bit much, asking what your arousal level is (which is not zero, but you try having a zero arousal level around a man who can fuck like that) , how calm you’ve been in the last week, last twenty-four hours, and last hour before coming in the lab, stuff like that. They only take a minute or two to fill out, and when you’re done, you realize that there’s a stack of questions underneath that seem to be directed toward some kind of escalation.

Just what are they about to ask the two of you to do??

“I think they should have fitted you with the earpiece,” Steve says. You straighten up to see that he’s walking to the middle of the room. “They want us to stand six feet apart. Bruce? I don’t want to tell her what to do, okay? That’s--” Steve breaks off and frowns. “Yeah, I understand that, but--” Another pause, and then he sighs. “Okay.” To you, in the most gentle voice you’ve ever heard, Steve says, “There’s no time to grab another one that will work. Please forgive me if anything I say sounds close to-- Inappropriate. I’m not ordering you around. You have every right to say no.”

“This is to help people who might get stuck in a similar situation, right?” you ask, dragging the chair over so you can stand the requested distance away without having to walk over to retrieve it for clipboard-steadying. He nods. “Then it’s worth a little discomfort.”

In truth, the questions on the clipboard are perceptive, because this is the most comfortable you’ve felt in weeks. There’s something calming, something wonderful about being close to Steve. It’s as if you’d been wound more and more tightly the past few weeks, and finally, finally, you can relax. You’re certain it’s related to the drug, and you’re a bit worried about how much of yourself you’re going to put on display when you’re forced to admit that.

The two of you stand looking anywhere but each other, and after a few minutes of darting your eyes over to Steve and back to the floor, he says, “Clipboard time.”

You’re glad to have something to focus on other than whether you should be stealing glances of Captain America-- but then you start writing down your answers to the questions.

How much has your arousal level risen since the previous series of questions? 5%

How much has your comfort level risen or fallen since the previous series of questions? Risen 10%

Privately, you feel like that one is going to have bad data, because what’s 10% of ‘almost as comfortable around another person as I could be, despite the entire circumstances of our acquaintance?’

Do you feel an urge or compulsion to engage in sexual activity? Not really?

“Bruce, these questions!” Steve chokes out. He listens for a few seconds, and then says to you, “He says, and I quote, ‘We’re flying by the seat of our pants, here.’ No kidding!” Nodding as though he’d just heard something else in his earpiece, he then says, “Banner’s asking us to stand a foot apart now. And Dr. Lyonne wants me to tell you they printed a bunch of cards, so there are way more than they need.”

You drag your chair again, nodding. Given that there are something like twenty pages in the stack, you’re mollified. A little. Shit. The arousal thing is… definitely happening. A thought occurs to you, and you’re pretty sure you have an obligation to mention it.

Double shit.

“All right, can Banner hear me at all?” you say cautiously, seeking the mental fortitude you’d mentioned to Bucky. At Steve’s negative response, you nod. “Ok, one more round and then maybe they’ll ask us to stand close enough for that.”

Steve swallows hard. Both of you will clearly have different answers to the next set of questions.

“A little closer,” he whispers to you.

You startle slightly before moving toward him. It feels much closer than a foot, because there’s almost nowhere to look but Steve. He’s wearing jeans that fit him like a second skin, a tight gray tee, and an unbuttoned long-sleeve blue flannel, which feels distinctly unfair. Somehow he looks every bit as handsome wearing this casual get-up as he had the night before in his suit pants and blue jacket.

“You, uh--” He sounds upset, and you glance up. “Bruce says we need to be looking more at each other than not,” Steve offers with a wince.

“Right. Twist my arm, right?” you joke.

His brows furrow. “If you’re--”

“Steve! You’re handsome as hell. Not a hardship, is my point,” you tell him.

“They’re going to have to burn those forms,” you muse aloud. “In fact, c’mere.”

With a bravery borne out of guilt at ruining the findings, you walk right up to Steve and tug at his collar. He doesn’t resist, but he rests a hand on your bare lower arm. It feels as much of a comfort as a warning, and in the strangest way, it reinforces your need to call a halt to this farce.

“Bruce?” you say, lifting up to speak as closely to Steve’s earpiece as you can. Using Banner’s first name is deliberate, a hint at urgency you hope he’ll heed.

“He can hear you,” Steve murmurs. His mouth is close to your ear, and fuck, you’ve made a serious tactical mistake.

“Steve showed up to the restaurant last night,” you say as clearly as you can, given how fully immersed you are in everything Steve Rogers right now. He smells good, of soap and a hint of cologne or shaving cream, and he’s right there, gorgeous and obviously as affected as you are. His grip on your arm is just this side of painful, but you doubt he even realizes. “There’s--” you stop and clear your throat, because that one word was dangerously breathy. Steve’s clenched jaw and tightened grip sends your heart racing.

“The data is corrupted, she’s saying,” Steve breaks in. “Just mark down a hundred percent increase on everything and give us some privacy, will you?”

This is as much permission to push off and away from him as you need. It takes him a second to let go-- the look you exchange as he realizes this is electric.

“Bruce, do it.” The undercurrent of angry urgency in Steve’s tone has you scrambling at the door of your enclosure, and to hell with the clipboard and everything else.

You catch a glimpse of Banner and Lyonne leaving as you rush over to the window and press your overwarm hands to the glass, pulling in huge breaths like you’ve just run a marathon. Nearby footsteps on the tiled floor signal that Steve’s also left the quarantined testing zone.

“I’m--” You stop yourself. “I was going to say ‘I’m sorry,’ but I’m not. The data was already hopelessly corrupted.”

“Yeah,” he says.

“God, this is so screwed up. Do you know, this is the best I’ve felt in weeks?”

“You should be angry with me.”

“Why? Because I got confused, got lost in your apartment and put us in this position? Don’t be absurd.”

“I broke protocol,” Steve says in a hoarse voice. You turn around to see him shaking his head, his jaw set in a miserable line. “I was supposed to head to a quarantine room to get checked out. We get cleared and then we leave. Those rules are set up to prevent--”

You're not having it. “Does it help at all? To feel bad about it?”

“Does it help you to blame yourself?” Steve asks, walking forward, forcing you to listen by sheer command authority.

“Stop being a fucking leader, Steve, and just be a man, would you?” you snap, furious to incandescence that he’s drawing on his Cap persona at a time like this.

“Fine!” he thunders, and reaches out, catching your waist in one large hand as his momentum crashes the two of you into the wall by the window. You’re pinned there, both by his hips and his desperate expression, but Steve gathers the last scraps of his will, holding his hand up and away from where he’d been about to touch you, and fisting it. He closes his eyes tightly and says, “This isn’t me, I’m not--”

“So let’s figure out how to be ourselves and still live through this, yeah?” you say, moving to tug his fist over so you can kiss his knuckles. The raw contact is a pale shade of your previous ferocity under Mistress, but it’s still powerfully erotic. Steve lets out a tiny noise, but you don’t know him well enough to guess whether it’s a sound of distress or lust.

Then his eyes pop open and you suck in a breath at the intensity in his gaze. He’s nodding, turning the hand you’re clutching so he can slide it along your cheek and around to cup the back of your head.

“May I?” he breathes. He’s trembling. So are you.

“Please,” you whisper-- and Steve surges forward, tilting his head to capture your lips in an open-mouthed kiss. Everything about this moment is overwhelming, and you can do nothing but feel. You cling to his flannel, caught up in the exquisite sweetness of his kiss, the way he’s dominating you with his body but drawing you out and teasing you with his tongue. The tension of the past weeks melt away with the heat of Steve’s hand holding you still for him, each sizzling brush of his lips against yours burning through every question of propriety.

His other hand falls to your hips, gathering the fabric of your skirt in a needy fist like he needs more of an anchor than the touch of his lips against yours. The rock of Steve’s hips against you is ruinous, incendiary, delightful, destructive. Inside you, a furnace-dam breaks, unleashing a firestorm of pleasure that rushes straight to your core.

“Oh!” you gasp, breaking the kiss as you recognize what’s about to happen. “Oh, God, oh, thank God,” you babble, even as Steve sucks a frantic kiss to your neck. “Are you --?” you manage to ask.

His incoherent noises of assent against your neck sound just as broken and relieved as yours. You clutch at any part of Steve you can reach as he hitches your leg up to angle himself just right to rut against you. Remembering that he’d needed a personal connection last time, you coax him back into a deep, desperate kiss with a gentle caress through his hair.

Steve pulls back after a few seconds and presses his forehead against yours. Something inside you drags your eyes open, and as soon as you make eye contact, your orgasm sweeps through you, arching your back and drawing a low, satisfied moan from your throat.

“Yes,” Steve crows, and his hips thrust against you multiple times in rapid succession as he is taken by a release of his own. His free hand comes up to cup your face as he pants for breath, but it’s the way Steve holds your gaze through it all that completely strips your soul bare.

Next chapter...

#allcapsbingo2023 #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #captain america x reader #captain america smut #captain america x f!reader #steve rogers x f!reader #captain america x you #marvel fanfiction #marvel smut #mcu smut #mcu fanfiction #sex pollen #humor #romance

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gingiesworld · 7 months

Text

Hunted

Jane Banner x GN! Reader

Summary: Agents Banner and Y/L/N have been assigned to a mass missing persons case. Within the area of Blackwater, there has been multiple disappearances but no signs of the victims. That is until Jane and Y/N come across an old house. The two splitting up to search before one of the two is captured leaving the other in the darkness to find the light in the case.

Warnings: Violence. Death. Not major character death. Angst. Fluffy ending.

Taglist: @ginnsbaker @lifespectator @louxbloom

18+ MINORS DNI

Within the town of Blackwater, there has been multiple missing persons claims. Even the county sheriff's department has struggled with even cracking the case. Well, they just don't have the capacity to delve deeper into the case. That was one of the reasons why the FBI had taken over the case, sending two of their best agents into the town to crack the case.

"So each victim had disappeared along the same stretch of road." Jane pointed out as she read the file as Y/N drove. "Other than that, the victims don't have anything else linking them together."

"What about the ages?" Y/N questioned as they glanced to the side.

"They range between 20 and 65 years old." She told them. "So there isn't really anything else other than they disappear along with their cars."

"Is there any traffic cams in the area?" They questioned as they pulled into in nearby motel.

"Not near the stretch of road." She told them. "Maybe we should check out the scene. Get an idea of things?"

"Yeah, let's just check in and we can get a feel for the town." They said as Jane nodded. Y/N went to book the room as Jane looked around the motel. It wasn't the cleaneat motel but it wasn't the worst either. She soon smiled as she followed Y/N to their room. "Ok. Did any of the previous investigation statements say anything about the road before we head out there?"

"No." Jane said as she looked over the Sheriff's reports. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Ok." She watched as Y/N checked their gun before holstering it and pulling their jacket on. Taking off one of their rings. "Put this on." They told her. "It has a tracker."

"What about you?" Jane questioned as they smirked.

"I have one." They wriggled their hand. "It's just a precaution. I like to make sure that both agents go home in one piece. Besides, Mouth is the one to call if you lose me."

"Please don't let that happen." She pleaded with them.

"I won't." They smiled at her. Although they never wanted anything to happen to her either. As much as the two would deny their feelings for the other, it would be obvious to anyone who had observed them long enough.

The two drove to the stretch of road where the disappearances had happened. The two parking just off the road before getting out and observing the area.

"There isn't really any turn offs." Jane pointed out as she looked up and down. "Nor any street lights."

"All of the disappearances happened at night right?" Y/N questioned as Jane nodded. "The last disappearance happened a couple of nights ago. So the only pattern is that it's one disappearance a week."

"It's happened for over a decade whether it'd be locals or people passing through." She stated as Y/N walked a little further ahead. Seeing a break within the treeline that stood on either side of the road. Jane followed them as they soon disappeared through the trees. "Y/N?"

"Here." They called out to her, she soon followed their voice and soon came across an old rusted gate and a dirt path. "I think we have something." They told her. The two walked silently down the path until it led to an old musty house, the wood was green with moss that had grown over time due to the lack of care. There was also an old tool shed which was falling apart, along with a barn. "I'm going to see if anyone is in, you look around."

Jane just nodded and started to do a perimeter check as Y/N approached the front door. Jane had noticed how there was a make shift road between the trees, so she disappeared through them.

Y/N waited patiently as they knocked on the door, trying to look through the dirty windows before a dirty looking woman answered the door.

"Hi, I'm Agent Y/L/N, I just wanted to ask a few questions about a case I'm working on." They asked her with a smile as she looked passed them but not seeing anything else.

"My husband is the one who talks to people." She spoke in a southern accent before she called for him. A moment later, a man who was just as dirty as the woman stood beside her.

"How can I help you?" He questioned as Y/N observed the two before him.

"I am currently working on a case and the road just outside of your property has been the last place that these people have been seen." Y/N informed them. "I just wanted to know if you have seen or heard anything that might help us find them."

"No." He answered them. "We haven't heard a thing."

"Are you alone?" His wife questioned as Y/N just nodded.

"Yes." They lied easily with a small smile. "Thank you for your time." With that they had closed the door behind them, Y/N heading straight on the phone.

"Y/N?" Jane questioned.

"Car. Now." With that the door had opened as two men tackled them to the ground. "Run!!!" Jane just followed their order as she ran straight to the car, using the spare key to get inside before she drove to the motel. The sound of the struggle still fresh in her mind. She had also tried to call them again but she was getting no answer as she called up the director and Mouth.

As Mouth was tracking them, Jane was ordered to wait for back up to arrive before she could go in. Although she was worried about Y/N, she knew they would want her to follow their boss's orders.

As the hours went by, Y/N was just coming around. Everything had been taken from them, including the ring they had on their finger. When their eyes had finally adjusted, they noticed they were stuck in a cage with an electric lock.

"You're new." They heard someone say. "A little earlier than usual."

"Yeah, it's usually one a week. They keep us alive for four weeks before the hunt." Another spoke as Y/N tried to look through the bars.

"What happens on the hunt?" They questioned as the eldest spoke up.

"I am sure you know." He told them sadly. Y/N sat there and spoke with the other prisoners while Jane decided to go back to the property, knowing very well that Y/N would do the same if it was her.

Just as she was on the road, driving in the dark, Y/N's cell had opened. They looked around at the others who shrugged, all of them scared about the sudden change in the routine.

"I guess it's me." They whispered as they slowly crawled out of the cell. "I'm going to send help for you guys."

"That's what they all say." The old man scoffed as Y/N just sighed. Heading towards the exit. Soon seeing a room of weapons, most of the blades werw blunt, even with the hardest swing, they wouldn't draw blood. But they also saw a wall full of polaroids. The family standing above one of the victims like it was a game. Proud of the murder they've committed.

Jane started to walk through the woods instead of going through the dirt road towards the property. Flinching as she heard cackles coming from within the woods, making sure she had her pistol raised and torch off as she stepped further into the darkness.

Y/N just decided to run, hoping to bypass the family of hunters and head straight to the main road. That was until they felt a piercing in their back, knocking them forward to the brown earth.

"Did you really think you would get away." One of the men sneered as they groaned. Feeling the warmth as they all laughed as Y/N got back up and started to run as fast as they could. Their breathing was laboured as they stumbled through the trees, luckily Mouth had tracked Jane and there was already a team close by.

Jane turned abruptly at the sound of a twig snapping, her gun drawn ready to shoot if she needed. Remaining in her spot as she heard the slow footsteps on the earth. Soon her eyes noticed a hand on the tree, so she walked slowly towards it before she also heard laughing getting closer.

"Oh my god." She recognised Y/N as she grabbed their arm and held them up. She tried to get them away fast before the footsteps and laughing was close behind them.

"Look pa, they have a friend." One of them cheered.

"Let's get them both." Their father ordered. "The woman would be a nice trophy." He sneered as the three off them stepped closer. Jane flinched at the sound of an animalistic cry coming from Y/N as they had been stabbed in the back of the knee by a machete.

"Come on." She tried to get Y/N to leave with her as they approached.

"Just go." They told her as she shook her head no.

"I am not leaving without you." She reached for her gun and aimed it between the three of them.

"She's fiesty boys." The father teased as Jane snarled at them.

"I will pull this damn trigger if you take one more step." She told them.

"You're bluffing darling." The father spoke as one of his sons stepped forward. Jane was fast to pull the trigger and shoot before turning back to the father. "You killed my son you bitch." He sneered as he went to swing at her, before he could hit her there was shots fired, but not from Jane.

"I thought I told you to wait Banner." Director Stevens scolded her.

"Y/N would have done the same sir." She told him before she went to Y/N.

"There's a shed, just a mile back maybe." They whispered. "There's more people inside, in cages like animals. Also there is a wife at the house." They watched as half of the team walked in the direction Y/N had given as Jane approached them. "Thank you." They smiled at her as they were lifted onto a gurney.

"You would have done the same." She told them.

"Well, if you hadn't had come when you did I would be dead." They told her as she climbed in the ambulance with them.

"Well, I needed you alive." She told them shakily. "Because if you weren't, I wouldn't be able to do this." She whispered before she leaned down and captured their lips in her own, cupping their cheek softly.

"Have dinner with me." They asked her once she pulled away.

"Once you have recovered, you can make me some of your famous tacos." She told them as they nodded.

"It's a date." They smiled at the thought of a whole new chapter with the woman who had captured their heart.

#jane banner x gn! reader #jane banner x reader #my works

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nat-stimmy · 8 months

Text

so ive been seeing more and more uncredited / poorly credited stimboards in the stim tag and it's been bugging me, so i decided to put together a post about some things i think newer stim blogs should know!

CREDITING:

- DO NOT USE PINTEREST AS A SOURCE. DO NOT EVER USE PINTEREST AS A SOURCE. Pinterest is full of reposted gifs that other people have made (including my own!) that have been posted there without their permission. it's just not a good way to credit people, because you are using stolen gifs. Find your gifs on Tumblr. - DO NOT USE UNCREDITED STIMBOARDS AS A SOURCE. if you cannot find the gif ANYWHERE ELSE then either use a reverse image search engine like tineye to find the source or use another gif. sometimes posts just disappear and blogs delete and gifs get lost. it's sad but it happens and the next best thing is to figure out what video it was from and gif it yourself. - DO NOT POST YOUR STIMBOARD BEFORE YOU HAVE CREDITED THE GIFMAKERS. No, you can't say "dm for credit!" or "Lost the sources, sorry, but its too pretty not to post!". Credit your sources. Blogs like mine put effort into making sharable stim gifs for you and we would appreciate a "thank you" in the form of a link back to the post you found the gif from. Otherwise you're just stealing it. - DO NOT USE ART YOU HAVE NOT MADE FOR THE MIDDLE IMAGE, EVEN IF YOU CREDIT. While gifmakers' content is made to be shared and used in this way, general art is not. the artist will not appreciate their art being stolen. if you have express permission from the artist, then it's fine. but do not presume that Just Crediting Is Enough.

DNI BANNERS:

BE AWARE OF YOUR FONT + COLOR CHOICES AND TEXT SPACING. Certain fonts are harder for people to read and certain color combinations can cause eye strain and headaches, and with smaller banners with long DNI lists sometimes words get cut off or moved and make people read it wrong. Just a bad time all around. Don't have much advice for this, just don't use bright colors on bright colors, or pastels on pastels and use a plain text font instead of a fancy Aesthetic one.

DO NOT ADD YOUR DNI BANNER TO POSTS THAT ARE NOT YOURS. I can't believe I have to say this but if a post does not originate from your blog, you do not get to add your banner to a post by reblogging it to your blog. That is incredibly rude. What if the person you're reblogging from has different boundaries than you? Be considerate.

BE SPECIFIC. "weirdos / freaks dni" is not good because nobody knows what you're talking about, and also yknow. the word "freak" is ableist and maybe not the best choice of words here. You might as well just not use a banner at all at that point. There's a similar issue to "Basic DNI criteria" because there is no basic DNI criteria. it's different for everyone. List your boundaries plainly and accessibly. That's about all I can think of for now, but this post may be updated or added onto! Please spread this around!

#not stim #important #info #guide #crediting #stimblr #ok to reblog

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fluffyprettykitty · 2 years

Text

Party Tricks

Pairing: Tony Stark x female reader (no other specifications!)

(ft. Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanoff, Thor Odinson)

Word Count: 1020 words

Outline: Tony brings his friends over to observe his favorite party trick.

Author's Note: Had the scene on my mind one night and it all manifested from there.

Warnings: inspection kink, pet play, dom/sub, orgy shenanigans, finger fucking, finger sucking, oral sex (f receiving), oral fixation, degradation, humiliation, swearing, objectification, alcohol mention, smoking.

P.S: dividers by @firefly-graphics // banners by @maysdigitalarts

Main Masterlist ・❥・Tony Stark Masterlist

NSFW UNDERNEATH THE CUT. MINORS DNI.

Avengers Tower, midnight.

“You are not going to believe how easily wet she gets.”

The sound of your dom’s voice jolts you into action looking curiously in the direction of it. Tony is sitting in the middle of the group, above the staircase, holding a champagne glass in his hand and pointing at you.

“Is almost a joke.” He continues. “You just touch her neck or push her head and she's ready to moan, is almost pathetic. She's the neediest fucking slut I've ever seen." Tony says looking directly at you, and this gesture almost embarrasses you. He is moving towards, as a matter of fact, the whole group.

You were sitting on the nearby couch, close enough to hear his voice in the middle of the avenger's celebration party. You were in a room that overlooked the rest of the tower, music coming from the glass stairs. Twenty minutes ago Tony had informed you that people were leaving and the party would be over and he would require your services.

"Now, you don't believe me.” He chuckles placing his glass on the table and sitting down next to you. “But look.” He turns around and points at someone you don’t know. “Bruce go ahead and tear off her dress. "

"Oh, I don't think I should.”

"I'll go," Natasha, the red-haired woman claims and quickly comes toward you. She gives you a direct look before she grabs your dress from the neckline and pushes it down tearing it in the process. You whimper feeling yourself getting immediately wet. Natasha then grips your cotton panties by their cotton lines and forces them off, ripping them apart. The sudden moves and the exposition leaves you startled.

The sound of your loud moan filled the room and everybody stared at you intently. Tony is now leaning closer to you followed by Steve, Bucky, and Sam. You are vaguely aware of the figures surrounding you. Maria and Clint were sitting together on the other couch. Followed by Thor who is drinking his beer next to Rhodey, a bit further away from all of you.

“All good, love?" Tony smirks and places his hand on your thigh, immediately forcing your legs apart. His touch always domineered you and he never had any problem with you being ready for him. You knew a touch on your thigh was almost like a button for a pussy reveal as he told you.

"Had her suck on a glass dildo a while ago because she can't stand having her mouth empty." You look at him feeling both embarrassed and vulnerable sitting with your bare pussy open and wet like that while everyone now is having their attention on you.

"She doesn't even need instructions, look." Tony quickly shoves his dexter inside your mouth and you quickly suck on it shutting your eyes. You felt eased again, you desperately needed to feel his touch.

"Can we touch her?" Bucky asked bewilder at the sight.

"Yah come and see yourself how wet she is."

“Fuck yeah,” Bucky rushes closer to you, and without any further discussion, he brushes a finger over your pussy. "Shit."

“No way man.” Sam follows him, coming behind and touching your pussy with two fingers, tracing your lips and the shape.

"Fucking hell. Look at how she reacts."

"Isn't it stupid how wet she gets? The more attention you give to her, the more eager she gets. Just ready to exist like a stupid fuck doll." Tony pulls his finger from your mouth making you groan as Sam is scissoring a finger inside you while Bucky is tracing your clit, wet and aching for a touch.

Soon enough, everybody has a turn sticking a finger or two on you, some on your mouth. Natasha seems a little obsessed with dragging her rings around your tongue. Bucky especially forces your mouth apart to look at how wide it gets asking Tony if he could borrow you sometimes.

Steve and Sam shove two fingers together trying to see who can get deeper. Always a competition for these boys. Natasha then goes straight to your clit, forcefully playing with it.

"We got whores like her in Asgard, perfect for battle morale. Every champion deserves one.” Thor stuck two fingers inside and scissored them around till you were groaning almost ready to finish but he stopped right as he saw how badly you were riding his fingers which felt almost as big a dick.

“It’s much more fun when you don’t let cum. She knows her place so she would never dare to try it on her own.” Everybody seemed very pleased with you which made you feel proud, being the perfect pet was all you wanted. But if maybe someone allowed you some more pleasure, you wouldn’t mind.

"She's such a pathetic little slut. I'm thinking of making her a suit so she can hump it all day long." You whimpered at the thought, a smile forming on your lips as you dreamt about it.

Then they went back to the conversations leaving you wet, edged, and aching. Tony sometimes left his glass on you and other times his cigars. And soon enough more were encouraged to do so. Thor had you hold on to his full glass of beer and then worked his tongue onto your pussy warning you not to spill a drop which obediently you did.

You knew you couldn't touch yourself, fuck toys always know their place. Just prayed that someone anyone would want you to. You heard jokes and laughter and everything excited you. Some of the group hadn’t even paid any attention to you.

You sat and stare as people continued talking sometimes glancing at you, sometimes someone would stick a finger inside you again. You knew your place and you were more than happy to oblige.

Your pussy was not yours anyway and you knew that.

A few minutes later Tony finally fingered you until you cum demonstrating to everyone how beautiful you sound when you moan.

And you couldn’t feel prouder you executed your services so well.

for updates please follow @fluffyprettykittylibrary and turn on post notifications!

#tony stark #tony stark smut #tony stark x reader #iron man #the avengers #tony stark x y/n #tony stark x you #tony stark x fem!reader #tony stark fanfiction #iron man smut #avengers smut #iron man x y/n #iron man x reader #iron man x you #avengers fanfiction #tony stark imagine #selenewrites

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cherrycola27 · 11 months

Text

afterglow

Series Warnings: Language, alcohol and drinking. Military inaccuracies. Allusions to and smut. Friends to lovers. Mutual pining. Unrequited love. Minors DNI. 18+. Banner Credit: @thedroneranger

Masterlist Previous Part Next Part

...........................................

Chapter 3: I Don't Wanna Do This

When you woke up the next morning, you expected to feel the warm press of Jake against you. But you didn't. You kept your eyes closed, praying that he was just in the bathroom or downstairs.

But when you rolled over and felt the cold sheets and sat up to see that your room was empty, your worst fears had been confirmed.

Jake had left in the middle of the night.

He had told you he was going to stay and he didn't. As much as you wanted to, you couldn't will the tears away. You flopped back on your bed and buried your head in your pillow, and sobbed.

Jake had broken your heart.

He'd been splintering pieces off it off for over a year, but this time—this time was the final swing of the axe.

Really, you should have known this was coming. You should have known you were going to get hurt, but it still didn't make the heartbreak hurt any less.

You wanted to spend the day buried in your sheets and feeling sorry for yourself, but the longer you laid there, the more you realized Jake's scent surrounded you.

So, you stripped your bed and shoved your bedding into your washing machine and covered them with more soap and fabric softener than necessary. If that didn't get his scent off of them, you might just burn your sheets and get some new ones. You'd been looking for a reason to go to Target anyway.

Speaking of burning, when you flopped down on your naked bed and tried to relax, you realized that Jake's scent had permeated you pillows, too.

"Fuck!" You screamed as you threw each one of then off your bed and they hit the wall with a soft thud. As you flung the final pillow, you missed the wall and knocked the picture frame on your dresser off. It clattered to the floor and shattered.

You sighed and begrudgingly got up. You didn't want to step on broken glass later.

You knelt down and picked up the pieces of glass and grabbed the frame. More tears came to your eyes as you looked at the image.

Looking back at you was a picture of a slightly younger you and Jake, with big bright smiles. It was taken right after the two of you got your first confirmed air to air kill. You can still remember the anxiety you felt as you helped guide him in taking down that Cold War museum piece.

You can also remember the pride that you felt when everyone cheered for you when the two of you landed on the carrier.

That day and that night would change the relationship you and Jake had in more ways than one.

...................

Facing death together is a connection that can only be understood by a few.

But what changed even more was that you and Jake crossed the line that the two of you had been tip-toeing around for months.

That night, when everyone was asleep, Jake came to your bunk. You had been fortunate enough to not have a roommate.

When you heard the knock on your door, you weren't sure who it could be. You certainly weren't expecting to find Jake, shirtless, grey sweatpants slung low on his hip, still wet from his shower, standing there.

He stood there silently with wide eyes. You could feel the heat radiating off of him.

"Jake. Wha—" You weren't sure what to say.

"Glow— Y/N," He breathed out as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "Tell me to go. Tell me you don't feel what I feel. Tell me we shouldn't do this." He had whispered to you.

You'd stood there, taking him in. You knew that the two of you could never come back from this. That this was the point of no return.

If you'd known, then what you know now, you would have sent him packing. Instead, you'd reached out, looped your fingers around the chain of his dog tags, and pulled him against you.

The first time your lips met, you knew you were a goner. You knew that your relationship with him would never be the same.

That was the first night you had gotten a taste of him. It was the night that he ruined all other men for you. And, it was the first of many nights that he had loved you and then left your bed.

................

After cleaning, you threw on some clothes and went to Target to get new pillows and some, "I feel sorry for myself because I'm facing the consequences of my own actions," snacks and wine.

Around Saturday afternoon, Jake realized that he had fucked up. He had really fucked up. He realized that he should have stayed and that this morning he should have made you french toast and told you that he cared about you, that he loved you.

He should have brought his midnight confession into the light of day, but he didn't. Jake didn't because he was a coward, and because he could stand the thought of you not loving him back.

He got out his phone and tried to call you. You sent him to voice-mail after one ring. He deserved that. Jake tried over and over again and sent you text after text, begging for you to talk to him.

He was half tempted to drive to your house and bang on your door until you let him in, or he could just use the extra key you'd gifted him. But, he thought better of it.

Instead, he went to the Hard Deck with the rest of the squad.

When they asked about you, Jake lied and said that you weren't feeling well. Maybe it wasn't a whole lie. You probably did feel like shit right now, and it was his fault. He was the one that burned the two of you down.

He went through the night wearing a mask. He put on his million dollar grin and Texas sized ego and went through motions. Some blonde by the bar had tried to hit on him, but he turned her down.

She'd laughed at his jokes, twirled her hair, been a little too touchy feeling and gave him her best fuck me eyes, but it didn't matter. She wasn't you.

Jake ended up calling it an early night after that.

By Sunday night, Jake still hadn't heard from you, and he was worried. He threw logic out the window and drove to your house. He wanted to make sure you were alive at least.

When he turned onto your street, he parked across from your cottage. The lights in your bedroom were on. He so badly wanted to walk up and knock on your door, but before he could get the courage too, he saw the light turn off, casting your room into darkness.

Jake quietly drove back home to prepare himself to face you tomorrow.

On Monday morning, both you and Jake drug out your morning routine as long as possible.

When you entered the briefing room on base, you noticed Jake in his normal seat at the front of the room like the kiss-ass he'd always been that you had always teased him for.

You also noticed what appeared to be your favorite iced latte sitting on the table next to him. You deliberately sat in the very back of the classroom and blatantly ignored him when he turned to find you before Maverick got started. He'd silently gestured to the coffee and nodded his head for you to come sit next to him. You flipped him off.

As you approach the Super Hornet, you ignored Jake and his stupid perfect smile and his stupid perfect face and his stupid perfect hand outstretched to help you up.

"I don't need your help." You said to him coldly.

"Glow. Can I— can we please talk?" Jake asked you as he climbed into his set.

"No, I don't want to hear your stupid, half-assed excuse of an apology." You sneered at him.

"Glow—can you just let me explain." Jake tried to defend himself.

"There is literally no explanation that you can give me that would be good enough. Now, can we please just get through this exercise. The sooner we complete it, the sooner I can get away from you and can stop staring at the back of your big-ass head." You spat.

Jake took a deep breath.

He deserved that.

That day, the two of you flew the worst you had ever flown together. Once you were back on the ground, you quickly made a beeline for the locker room.

You slamed your things in, showered, and left.

For the rest of the week, you refused to talk to Jake, unless it was to give him directions, that he didn't follow, in the sky.

Jake could take you yelling and screaming at him. He could take you beating his chest while you cried angry tears and told him he was a son of a bitch. He could take any kind of verbal or physical spar you could dish out.

But what he couldn't take was the silent treatment. He hated that you were icing him out.

Everyone had noticed the tension.

Jake had gone back to his old ways of thinking he was God's gift to the Navy.

"Hey Hangman? Mind if I ask you a personal question? What's up with you and Glow? Trouble in paradise?" Rooster had asked him Friday in the locker room.

Jake slamed his locker. "It's none of your fucking business, Chicken Shit!" Jake yelled before storming out.

"Well, he hasn't changed a bit." Bob muttered under his breath. "Nope." Rooster replied.

Friday afternoon, you waited until everyone was gone before knocking on the door of Maverick's office.

"Lieutenant Briller? Is there something I can help you with?" Maverick asked when you walked in.

"Captain Mitchell, do you have a minute? I need to speak with you about something important." You said as you came in.

"Sure, come in, close the door. We can talk." Maverick said. You took a deep breath and closed the door behind you.

................

The weekend came, and went in a blur. It was the first weekend in a long time that you hadn't found yourself tangled up with Jake.

On Monday morning, you were nervous to walk into work, but Maverick had assured you that everything would be okay.

You took your seat at the back of the classroom and waited. Jake was still at the front, eyes forward and twirling a pen in his hand.

"Good morning, aviators." Maverick said as he greeted the group.

There were calls of good mornings around the room. A few moments later, Admiral Simpson and Admiral Bates entered the room. Everyone stood at attention until told to sit.

"Good morning, everyone. I'm sure you're wondering why Warlock and I are here today." Cyclone stared.

"Well, we've come to give some of you some new team assignments." He continued. Everyone sat up, eyes wide and filled with questions.

"These changes will not affect our single seat pilots, but due to extenuating circumstances, we are changing some of the pilot and weapons systems officer pairs." Cyclone stated.

"Lieutenant Bassett, you will no longer be flying with Omaha. You'll now be the WSO for Lieutenant Seresin." Simpson explained.

"Furthermore, Lieutenant Vikander, your new WSO will be Lieutenant Briller. These changes are effective immediately. That is all." Cyclone said before he and Warlock left the room.

Everyone was silent. You looked down at your boots. You could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on you.

Even though Cyclone didn't say that you were the one who had said something, they all knew.

"This is bullshit." Jake spat before getting up and slamming his hands on the table in front of you.

"This is fucking bullshit, Glow! You give me the silent treatment and then go running to the superiors because you got your feelings hurt? What do you have to say for yourself?!" Jake screams in your face.

"I can't fly with someone I can't trust." You tell him.

"Can't trust? You can't trust me? What the fuck! That's the lamest fucking excuse I've ever heard. If anything, you're the one we can trust!" Jake yells at you.

"Hey! That's enough!" Maverick tells him.

"I can't believe you. You went behind my back!" Jake screams. "You've got be fucking kidding me. Please tell me this is a mistake!"

"Lieutenant Seresin!" Maverick warns him.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Hangman. But no, this isn't a mistake. I will not longer be your backseater." You tell him, trying to stay calm.

"No, you're right. It isn't a mistake. The only mistake was me begging Simpson and Bates to get you transferred here." Jake shouts at you as he crowds your space.

"What?" You say, taken aback.

"I said that the only mistake was me asking Bates and Simpson to have you transferred here from Lemoore. What? You think that you were good enough to get them to do that on your own? Because newsflash, you weren't. I begged them to have you placed here. The only reason that you are here is because of me. And you think that you can just go and run to the Admirals on me because I hurt your feelings? Who do you think you are?" Jake sneers.

"Hangman!" Rooster yells as he pulls him back.

"I never asked you to get me transferred here, Jake. You did that for you, not for me." You tell him as you try to hold your composure.

"You know what, I'm glad I won't be flying with you anymore, Glow. Maybe Halo won't slow me down." He spits, driving the knife deeper into your chest.

That's the last straw for you. You leap over the table, ready to claw his eyes out. Coyote catches you around the waist while Bob and Phoenix hold both of your shoulders back. Rooster, Payback, and Fanboy hang onto Jake, pulling him away from you.

"I'm cool, I'm cool he says as he brushes them off.

"Fuck you, Bagman!" You shout.

"Oh, Sweetheart," Jake begins, "You already have."

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