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hoseoksluna · 12 days

Text

ROSÉ | jjk

pairing: boyfriend!jungkook x wine!oc

genre: smut

word count: 5.7k

summary: on your first dinner date, your boyfriend brings you a small gift—too bad you're too horny to appreciate it.

pinterest board: wine

warnings: a bit of drunkenness, a mention of inner child healing, oc teases jungkook and oc is horny as fuck, dom/sub dynamics, wine!jk, provider jk..., daddy issues, punishment, spanking, food used during intercourse, oral sex (f. and m. receiving), dirty talk, a mention of a sex toy & a mention of a plushie in a sexual context, raw sex, brattiness, jk and oc smoke together

note: OH GOD—IT'S FINALLY HERE. SLFJSLDFJS. A REQUESTED DRABBLE about wine!oc and jungkook. this was so fucking fun to write and i was so hot and bothered from this that i had to take a break............ yeah uhm anyways, I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS. ENJOY READING AND LEMME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK ANONYMOUSLY IN MY INBOX. I NEED YOUR THOUGHTS. PLS AND THANK YOU. ₊˚⊹♡

side note: jk in the first pic made me fucking die. and other things....

The rosy pink nectar has, undeniably, gone to your head.

Your empty wine glass is illuminated by the setting sunlight spilling past your shoulder, reaching its yellow, warm fingers to the tips of your boyfriend’s that rest lazily on the white cloth of the table. You’re woozy, in a lighthearted mood—so much that even the world has lost its heft and all you can sense is the sluggish process of your absorption. You’re engrossed in the way the spring coalesces with the beginning of summer—in the warm evening wind ruffling your curls, tickling your bare shoulders, in the darkening hues of the sky, pinks and violets, in the gray smoke of Jungkook’s cigarette interlacing with the slightly sultry air. You can see it in his eyes, the unfolding of it all. And perhaps you’re tipsy or perhaps you’re just brazenly and foolishly falling in love, because you’re aware that if the man weren’t sitting in front of you, none of these things wouldn’t have caught your attention in such a devastatingly profound way.

He has made you feel so safe. By simply and beautifully laying his feelings bare. To you and for you. Created a haven for you to dwell in, for you to grow in and explore all the dark and light corners of you that have merely seldom seen the face of the sun. How could you not indulge in a little bit of alcohol, when you’re protected in that place of security? Let your girlishness swim a little, refresh herself, enjoy herself?

You’re glowing. You always had been, but your shimmers have gained a new intensity to their twinkles, keeping Jungkook’s liquid stars warm and taken care of inside of you. Their blunt points have carved you into someone else entirely, too. Joyous, cool-headed and absolutely and irrevocably self-assured. Fearless. And his hands have reached deep within and caressed the head of your inner child, healing her and washing her clean, giving her everything she ever lacked. Love, attention, care and validation. Whenever you remember that you never wanted him to get a glimpse of your soul, bile rises in your throat and your stomach hurts.

He saved you. Healed you. Through and through. Gave you his control.

It stirs your never-ending awe that he has managed to do this in a month, and you want to celebrate it. You think now is quite the perfect occasion for it as it’s your first dinner date since you’ve become exclusive. Having spent most of your time at each other’s places fucking, partying and fucking some more, it’s nice to be out, alone with him, that is—and it’s nice as fuck to be out with your boyfriend. The sex has become so different with the label and the rawness of his feelings. And the thing about Jungkook that gets you the most, that strengthens the realm he invented for you, is that once his emotions overflow, the stream of its wine doesn’t stop pouring. The moment he confessed his love for you, ever since then you sense it expressed in everything he does—in the way he greets you in the day, in his tight, burning embrace, in the tenderness with which he holds your hand or kisses it, the relentless, great thought and consideration he puts in the choices he makes for you on the daily. Whether it’s the fatuous things he buys you that mean the world to you, the way he never neglects bunny and incorporates her in everything you do together or… the sex.

Fuck, the sex alone has taken over your life so vividly and drastically that it consumes your brain. There, in that environment, is where the wine of his emotions is the raciest. He’s not ashamed to cry, letting those liquid pearls trickle down your collarbones, quenching the thirst of his liquid stars as he fucks you dumb and enjoys every second of it. He’s not afraid to be loud either. To talk you through your orgasm with even more care and detail than you were accustomed to in the past.

He’s become boundless. And it’s the most attractive thing you’ve ever seen in your life.

God, you’d be crazy not to let yourself fall for him—

“I got you dessert,” Jungkook husks, digging his fingers into the pocket of his pants while his other digits draw close to his mouth. He takes a drag of his cigarette, crinkling his eyes so the smoke wouldn’t get into them and you beam at him with a fire that’s more scorching than the sun’s ever been in centuries, heart doing somersaults at the thought of him thinking of you and spending money on you again. And, also, at how hot he looks while he smokes.

Your love language must be gift-giving. You don’t know what else to connect it to, the joy that envelops your entire being whenever he gives you something. It doesn’t even have to be expensive, nor does he have to pay for it at all. Drawings have become your favorite keepsakes—drawings of his Miffy bunny, drawings of flowers, of you. You’ve hidden them away in a box along with everything he’s ever brought you, except the white bunny ring because you wear it daily and one small, particular drawing that you’ve put inside your glittery phone case.

A cutesy marker sketch of him and you. His arm around your shoulders. Bunny sitting on your laps in the middle, as if she were your own child. Cheeks big and bubbly, pink and twinkling. Your curls the way you wear them; his mullet. A perfect depiction of the pair of you. You gaze at it every single day—prefer to now put your phone face down because of it.

You’re tracing it now with the pad of your finger as you wait for him to reveal your mystery gift to you. The bulby heads, the cheeks, Miffy’s ears. Jungkook puts out his cigarette, puffing out the smoke, away from you, and once he’s done, he taps the back of your hand. Turns it over and spreads out your fingers, inserting, at a snail's pace, something round but slender at the same time, smiling adoringly at you.

What a sight to behold. It steals, fleetingly, your attention away from his hand.

Slicked back mullet, twinkles taking laps in his soft eyes, blushed cheekbones and stretched, pouty mouth, shiny with his liquid love. Long neck that you’d like to devour now, the broadness of his shoulders and chest that could come second as a plain, dark beige shirt accentuates his hard work at the gym.

Oh, fuck. Your nipples pebble against your carmine tube top.

Jungkook withdraws his hand and with blurry eyes, you look at the thing he placed in your palm.

Chupa Chups. Strawberry and cream.

Your mouth parts and it’s a concoction of a gasp and a sound of endearment when the realization that he got you a lollipop sinks in. Your heart flips and does a head stand. Lips round into a pout, drunk eyes softening, its twinkles growing in size and light. It’s like he gave you something golden, when in fact it costs a few wons, but to you it’s exactly that. Something so precious.

You give him an air kiss, bouncing in your seat in joy, fingers already destroying the wrapper. “Thank you so…”

Your brows furrow as the wrapper remains intact. You do a bad, bad job of picking at the tape around the slender stick, your long manicured hands absolutely useless—and the cause of your frustration. You puff out an angry gust of breath, trying harder to get to the sweet delight and it’s at that moment that your boyfriend takes it from your hands with a deep chuckle.

“You silly boo, this is how you do it.” Jungkook pinches the wrapper around the stick and he merely, in a few swift motions, twists the ball until it lets go. He scrunches it in his fists and throws it away in the ashtray. Smirks smugly, leans his elbows on the table, draws close to you. You mirror his position, get to him almost nose to nose, and his smirk deepens, tongue darting out to lick across his lips. You do the same, eyeing the round pinkness in his hand, the sexual attraction and its tension soaring high between you.

Without your hands, you could put it in your mouth, mimic the way you do it on his own tip and make him lose his mind a little bit. It’s right here, an inch away and you dip your head towards it, a magnetic pulling drawing you naturally to it. Sense his gaze on you, sense his delight, sense the flashback glimmering across the wholeness of him. But before you could wrap your lips around it, he moves it out of your reach.

“No,” Jungkook murmurs, breath slightly ragged, holds it up in front of your face, watches as you go cross-eyed a little bit. Hums at the sight, quietly enough for only you to hear. “If you want it, ask for it nicely.”

His puffy lips being so close to you, you desire to kiss him—cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink, his oh-so-loved dominance fucking with your drunkenness and your brain, body altogether. You tip your head to the side, flutter your lashes, make your eyes big and smile at him as sweetly as you can.

He coos, validating you, and it is a force that makes you feel safe enough to submit to him like a small animal to its father. Safe enough to want to get under the table and make him feel really, really good, too.

“Can I have the lollipop, please?”

He groans, still quietly, and your panties drench immediately. You widen your eyes at him, feeling your slick, pursing your lips to scold him silently. He just laughs, amused by it all, and the sound of his joy fills you with elation.

One that darkens, when he asks, “Where?”

You lick your lips, taking in the question, struck by it. Letting your mind wander, the places where you want it, except your mouth, is on your nipples and your clit. Nicely sweet and sticky—for him to clean up, for him to enjoy. Your dewiness soaks the material of your panties and your body begins to yearn for any kind of friction. You’re not sure whether you’re able to stick around in your chair, acting as if nothing’s wrong—acting as if you’re not stupendously horny.

“In my mouth.”

Jungkook makes a noise of appreciation and you’re so frustrated by all those sounds he makes that you want to dig your nails in his arms and make him pay for it. Even more so, when he plunges the lollipop into his mouth and his lips pucker around it, inciting the butterflies in your tummy to go absolutely fucking berserk. You place your hand on his bicep, nails ready to attack, but then he pulls out the treat with a pop, angling it at your mouth.

“Open.”

You thought he stole it from you, but he did no such thing. He wetted it for you, like a father for its child. You’re stupefied to the point that you don't even realize that you’re leaving a mark on the linen material of your seat.

You do open your mouth for him, however.

He twists the ball on your tongue, expecting you to close your mouth around the stick, but you don’t. No, you swirl that muscle around the candy, deepening your gaze, smirking. Jungkook stills, clenches his strong jaw. Darkness flicks across his eyes and he narrows them. First warning.

You pretend you don’t see it.

Closing your mouth and encasing your hand around his, you move the lollipop to the side of your cheek, acting as if it were his dick. And when you bob your head once, Jungkook tugs on the stick, wanting to pull it out, but you don’t let him, keeping it caged between your teeth. It only drives you to bob your head again.

“Stop,” he says, voice calm, deep and serious—terribly deadly. Withdraws his hand and leans back, watching you with a predatory gaze, one that makes you even wetter. “Or we’re going home.”

That’s exactly what you want. Instructions clear.

You open your mouth and do a show of swirling your tongue around the ball, only this time you flick the muscle against it. Jungkook grips the table, knuckles white, and you laugh, which you soon realize was a grave mistake.

“You think it’s funny?” he questions you, staring you down with a look that should frighten you, but it merely turns you on. You suck on the lollipop, the dulciness of strawberries suffusing your senses. “I’ll bend you over this fucking table, lift up that slutty little skirt and spank you in front of everyone.”

You pull out the candy with an exaggerated pop. Scowl at him. As though his words didn’t affect you the way that they did—as though you’re not squeezing your thighs together, trying to gain that friction you so desperately need. “Why are you so angry?”

He looks away for a moment, laughing silently. Nods his head at your wine glass. “You finished with your wine, baby?”

It’s this pleasantness that you hear in this voice that spreads goosebumps across your skin. Feigned sugariness—the sunlight right before the clouds come in and thunder strikes; the calm before the storm.

Good thing you’re dressed for the rain and ready to sing in it.

You nod your head and Jungkook clicks his tongue, grabs you by your hand whilst he pulls out his wallet. You accompany him as he walks over to the bar, black card ready between his fingers. Waits to be noticed. Gives you a look over and fixes your skirt, pulling the hem down.

Pays for you. Smiles down at you as he pockets his wallet.

And then, he drags you to his car.

Perhaps it’s the fresh air, perhaps it’s the briskness in his walk and the tight hold around your hand, but all intoxication evaporates from your body, leaving only your stained elation and neediness. You can’t help your smile. Think it must be sewn in at this point. By his own diligent fingers.

A wind blows in, pulling your hair to your front and Jungkook pins you against his car. Tits squished against the passenger side, elbows pressed together. Eyes wide, you check your surroundings and find no one in sight. Only swaying trees, buildings of apartments, lamps illuminating the dark street. You relax right away, trusting Jungkook that he’s on the lookout and knows what he’s doing.

He grinds his hips against your backside and you moan at the feeling of his hard length. With his free hand, he brushes your hair to one side and begins to pepper kisses along the curve of your neck, nuzzling his face in. Hovers his lips above your ear when he says, “You feel how hard you made me with your little show?” You nod, quickly, wanting more of him, wanting him inside of you. Push your hips back; twirl them in slow circles. Jungkook hisses. “I guess you really do want that spanking. Where’s your lollipop?” You show him your hand, where your treat remains uneaten and dry. He takes it from you and you turn your head in time to see him sink it into his mouth, placing it on the side of his mouth like you did. “Get inside the car.”

Jungkook opens the door for you and forces you in, closing it with a harsh thud. As he rounds the vehicle, he makes eye contact with you and your tummy flips in response.

Fuck.

Nothing happens in a millisecond once he’s seated, but then he grabs your cheeks, squishing them in the way he likes, and kisses you hard, lollipop in hand. Moving his mouth against yours, his tongue only briefly greets you before he pulls away. “Naughty fucking girl. You’re lucky that I love you because otherwise…” He doesn’t finish his sentence with words, but with another kiss, breathing against you, grunting when it’s you this time that slips the tongue inside, playing with him the same way you played with the dessert he got you. “Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me. I’m gonna put you in your fucking place, make you remember how to behave in public. You’ve forgotten, haven't you?”

You don’t have time to react, you merely bite your lip so hard that it aches. Jungkook pushes you back and yanks your leg between his, lifting your skirt. Then, he hovers his palm above your ass, the other forearm resting on the top of the seat, lollipop dangling near your head. He hides his smirk behind his effort to flatten his lips.

And when he spanks you, you don’t roll your eyes back and rasp like your body naturally wants you to. No, you hold the eye contact and you take the pain, letting it course through your body, reveling in it. He doesn’t say anything as he keeps going, alternating between slapping your now reddened cheeks and the back of your thigh. Doesn’t even stroke the skin to alleviate the burn. He solely bores his gaze into yours, his cock rock hard against your leg. Another set of words are exchanged, silently, deeply, teaching you your lesson in tandem with the hits, burying it to a great depth inside you.

And then he finishes with a nasty kiss, but his hand resumes causing you pain. You’ve lost count of how many spanks you’ve taken.

It’s like you’ve woken up from a trance. It reverberates throughout your entire body and it’s now that you allow your body to vocally react. You whine, rounding your mouth in a pout, so different from the one on the dinner date. And you remember your manners—perceive how wrong it was to tease him, even though a good half of you still takes delight in it.

“It hurts,” you whisper, nudging your lips against him and he gives you your last spank—the hardest of them all. The infliction makes you flutter your eyes shut and Jungkook brings them back to him by caressing his knuckles down your flushed cheek.

“Good, you remember how to behave now?” he asks, halting his movement, such piercing intensity in his irises that drive you to nod your head. “That’s my good little girl.” Taps the side of your thigh. “Let Daddy make it better now.”

You open your legs for him and Jungkook pushes your soaked panties to the side, revealing your little bedewed seashell. He hums at the sight of her, pops the lollipop back inside his mouth. Collects your arousal by swirling the pads of his middle and ring finger around your hole, eyes flicking from your pussy to your own, groaning when he comes into contact with your swollen clit, rubbing slow circles. You whimper, bucking your hips, needing him to go faster, needing to come.

Jungkook shakes his head, disapproving. “You take what I give you or I’ll stop.” Lifts his hand to express the gravity of his threat and you help, wrapping both hands around his and putting it back on your bundle of nerves. He chuckles at your desperation, giving you the same circles, though now firmer.

Waves the lollipop near your lips. You open your mouth, instinctively, and he plunges it into your mouth for a mere second before he pulls away, growling at the sound that comes out. He does it again, fucking you with it in a way, just to hear that pop and he’s so pleased with it that he sinks those two fingers inside your heat, fully, in one ego. Keeps them there. Teases you. Hovers the lollipop out of your reach and you decide to fuck with him back. Darting out your tongue, you whirl it around the flat side and he swears, moaning, giving to you at last.

He latches his mouth onto your neck, starting the drill of his fingers. “Fuck, you’re so hot.”

He picks up the speed so rapidly that you scream, squeezing your eyes shut, the pleasure permeating your body so vastly that you quiver all over. Grab a hold of his hair, pulling on it and then—

Then, he withdraws his fingers. Ruins your orgasm.

You pant, trying to catch your breath. “Please, Jungkook, please—”

He nudges his nose against yours. “What, baby?”

“I need to come, please.”

Jungkook tuts, kissing you once. “I thought we could play.” Plunges the lollipop into your mouth to wet it. Shows it to you, just to see you go cross-eyed again. Moans. “Where do you want it, hm?”

Ever the angel that makes your fantasies come to life. You wrap your fingers around his hand, butterflies swarming in your tummy. Lead him towards your still clothed breasts. “Here.” Take him to your drooling pussy. “And here.”

Jungkook makes a sound of approval. Descends his fingers a little lower, to your other hole, circles it. “What about here?”

You giggle, but you shake your head. The idea may be intoxicating, however reality is much different. There’s a risk to putting any sweetened food inside, one you don’t want to deal with.

Jungkook smiles at you, pushes your seat back and slides it in the same direction. Crawls over you and you feel so feminine, so sexy underneath him. Nipples perked under your top, breasts full and spilling. You arch your back towards him and Jungkook drags his thumb from your bottom lip, to your chin, neck, the dip of your collarbones until he reaches the hem of your Tom and he tugs it down so harshly that you can’t contain your very own concoction of a gasp and moan.

Lollipop in mouth, one hand propped by your head, the other squeezes your breast hard, nearing it, fingers pinching your nipple. Makes the flesh as red as your ass. You can tell he likes the view by the way he coos, but then he wipes all your thoughts away, when he sucks hard on the candy and swirls it around your stiffened nub, gaze flicked to yours to watch your reaction.

The pleasure is so vivid, so dizzying—and for him, you let it paint your face in all its colors. Brows scrunched, bedroom eyes, mouth parted, puffing out desperate breaths. Jungkook sucks it again and smears his saliva around your other nipple, taking his time, slapping the ball once against it, making you hiss.

“It feels so good,” you murmur, sinking your fingers into the longer length on the back of his hair, bringing his mouth to yours. You kiss him with a verve that causes him to groan. You swallow that sound, satisfied.

He grins at you. “I bet.”

Dips his head and envelops that sugar-coated nub with his warm lips, sucking it hard. His groan spreads there, deepens there and you arch your back even more, pulling his head to your other nipple so he can do the same thing. Join your other hand to his hair and do whatever you please—turn his head side to side, from one nub to the other—and he lets you, giving you, momentarily, his control. You feel your essence soaking the seat beneath you and you thank the heavens that the fabric is one of leather. You lift his head and try to push it down, but he won’t budge. Stares you down instead, lustfully.

“Where do you want me?” he asks, a wrinkle between brows. “Be a good girl and tell me.” Pops the lollipop back in his mouth.

You sigh, kissing him once on the side of his neck, using your tongue. Make sure you’re looking at him as you reply, “On my clit.”

He moans, eyes woozy, finger on the stick as he sucks the candy, clefts of dimples on either side of his cheeks. You palm his length, your own digits rounding across his tight balls and he whisks his irises back, grinding into your hand. “You want a lickie?”

“Yes, so bad, please.”

He hums and kneels before you, kissing your clit once in greeting. Then, he flattens his tongue and licks a fat stripe across your whole femininity—from your slit, to your swollenness. Hands on your hips, index curled around the lollipop, he holds you steady, prevents you from meeting him, as he stimulates you like this. Up and down, tongue rolling, eyes fixed on you, devouring you. And when he stops to suck your clit, he taps your mouth once with the ball of the lollipop. The act of sucking on something while you’re getting pleasured like this almost throws you over the edge, your body coated in a layer of sweat, but Jungkook withdraws in time. Presses the delight in the middle and rubs small circles, just to prepare you for the big thing. You become so whiny, so loud that his eyes grow in size, watching you in awe.

To reward you for such beauty, he rapidly strums it from side to side, causing you to nearly levitate, but he pins you down. Wetting it and placing it back down, grunting at the aftertaste of you mixed with the sweetness.

And he can’t resist. Can’t hold back. The wrinkle between his brows deepens when he tastes you, licking you all over, tongue stopping occasionally its feast to flick at your clit before he swallows you whole. Grunts, sucks, licks. Eyes closed to savor the taste. The pressure in your core heightens, even more so when he lifts your legs, greedy for the side dish in the form of your other hole. You’re so close that you might burst.

“You taste so fucking good, baby. So sweet. Come on my tongue, please, I want more of you.”

He wants more of your taste.

You come so hard that your orgasm takes you to an open sea, your body floating on calm waves, to and fro, eyes rolled to the sky—to the sunroof—seeing nothing but the elegance of the twinkling stars and deep purple clouds.

“That’s it, baby, so good. That’s my little girl.” He slaps the side of your thigh, bringing you back to him. “Listening so well, learning her lesson, coming so hard. I’m proud.”

His words alone could make you come again, but you’re distracted.

Jungkook unbuttons his pants and pulls out his manhood. Stroking himself, he lines his tip at your mouth. He doesn’t even have to tell you to open up—you do it yourself. Holding it at the base, he stuffs your throat right away, a guttural chuckle emitting out of his mouth when you gag. He pulls out to where you’re comfortable having him and you begin to bob your head, like you did with the lollipop.

“Yes, suck it like that, my love. Daddy loves it when you do that.”

His precum on your tongue, the way he’s holding himself, the position and his words—you moan around him, so out of your mind, so fucked out. And when he fucks your mouth, it turns you on so much that you go cross-eyed.

Jungkook pulls out quickly, as if the sight of it alone was about to make him come. A string of your saliva from his tip drips onto your chest and he slides into your mouth again just to poke your cheek, just to mimic what you did with the lollipop. You whine, liking it so much, to the point that he drills this tender place of yours until he can’t take it enough.

“Turn around.” You try to, but your legs are jelly. He manhandles you to the position he wants—on your knees, tits against the leather, arms around the headrest, the formerly abused cheek against it. “Hold onto it. Too bad we left bunny at home, huh?”

Jungkook runs his cock across your pussy and you grind against it, needing the friction after the way he used you. You whimper for him. “She’s probably wondering where we are right now and why we’re taking so long.”

“I’ll make it up to her.” He presses his length against your clit, encouraging you to use him back. “Rub your pussy like that on me, fuck.” He moves so it’s his tip that stimulates you. You ride him harder, moaning loudly against the leather. “You can make it up to her, too. Can ride her like I know you can. With a vibrator between your legs and hers, hm? How you like the sound of that?”

You’re so close you could come in a second, but you don’t want it like this. You need him inside of you. “Shut up, I’m literally gonna come like this. Fuck me.”

He fists your hair. Pain shoots up your scalp and he ruts into your heat. Fully. Until his pelvis collides with your ass. You scream.

Lips by your ear. “Is this how you talk to your Daddy?” He begins to pump into your little tight hole. Mercilessly. The leather squeaks, a horrible, rapid sound that you can only faintly hear because all that your senses can focus on is his cock. “Your Daddy that loves you so much?”

You come, pathetically. Sea and waves, palm trees that sway. Your legs tremble, but he keeps going, mouthing the shape of your ear.

He tsks. “I’m gonna tell bunny on you. Maybe I’ll be the one who gets to fuck her while you watch.” He gives you a hard stroke, one that is followed by rapid thrusts that scramble your brain. “She’ll be so disappointed to hear how bad you’ve been, but I’ll make sure to tell her how hard I fucked it out of you.”

Lifting you from the leather, he kneads your breasts, placing the lollipop in between and holding it up by squishing them.

“Come on, get your lollipop.” He bounces your tits in his hands, signalizing you that he wants you to do it with your mouth.

But you can’t do it. You come, majestically, your senses leaving you and wafting in the stuffed air of the car. Boneless, you sag in his arms.

Jungkook coos. “You come so well around me that I’ll be good to you. You’re just a cockslut, aren’t you, baby? You just can’t help it, hm?” He puts the lollipop inside your mouth, chasing his so-needed release.

It doesn’t take long for him to find the footsteps into that bliss that you left in your wake. He holds you like this, against him, tits spilling over his forearms as he jackhammers into you so hard that your whole body bounces, shakes and reacts to each grunt, to each whimper, to each kiss he presses onto your skin.

With the little of the brain you have left, you decide to talk him through it—because he fucks you so good.

“Come for me, Daddy, yes, please, fuck. Fill me up with your cum. I want it so bad, I want to feel you—” His cock twitches in you, but he continues, sloppily. “Yes, so good. That’s it. Come for your little girl, Jungkook.” A loud groan. A tight hold. A spurt of his cum inside your walls. You whimper and he fucks it deeper into you, giving you more of his liquid stars. “Jungkook, oh fuck, Jungkook, oh yes.”

And it’s that never-ending litany of his name that helps him chase his high to the fullest. He kisses your neck hard in gratitude for helping him come, marking you, marking this memory.

You stay like this for a little while. Sweaty, sticky, spent, breathing hard—lungs synced.

A warm announcement sneaks to your heart, one that screams it into the drowsy skies once Jungkook pulls out of you, turns you around and, stealing your candy, kisses you.

An announcement that you’re deeply and irrevocably in love with him.

“You sounded just like me.” He finishes your lollipop for you, chewing the small bulby head as he dresses you and his cum spills onto your panties.

Your smile is dopey, satisfied and you’re ready for sleep to take you, but Jungkook gets out of the car for a smoke. You think you need one, too, after what you’ve experienced together, and so you follow him out into the night on wobbly legs.

He leans against his car, a cigarette in his mouth, one hand cupping the fire as he flicks his lighter to life. You wait until he puffs out the smoke into the air before you fold into the side of his body, stealing his cigarette and inhaling it, giving it back to him.

Jungkook pats your head, rubbing your scalp, chin propped on it. “I didn’t mean what I said. You were perfect. I’m not telling shit to bunny, I promise.”

You smile, fondly. Didn’t take his words seriously, not at all, but you’re grateful for the reassurement regardless. It’s just role-play, nothing else.

“I know, baby,” you say, softly, massaging his stomach, going as far as under his shirt to feel his bare skin—ever so innocently.

“I wanted to fuck you the moment you sat down. You’re just my little helper and because of that I’m glad we’re going home with my cum in your panties,” he whispers, placing the cigarette on your lips, so you can take a drag. “You deserve every drop.”

You feel that familiar ache rooting in your core again, but you don’t think you can take another round. Jungkook lifts your chin, making you look at him. Twinkles, bigger than the ones of the stars up above, living in his soft eyes. That cute nose. Those pouty lips. His silky, dreamy heart that looks out for you and puts you first.

The three words that you’ve never told him before rise up your body and you think now is the perfect occasion to say them.

“I love you.”

Wetness coats his eyes and the twinkles broaden, saturating them with an unfathomable, fulging light. He flicks his cigarette away, presses you closer to him and with his now free hand, he cups your face. Kisses you. For a long, long time.

“I love you.”

BACK to masterlist

#jungkook x oc #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook smut #bts smut #bts imagine #jungkook imagine #jeon jungkook #bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #jungkook fluff #btscreatorscorner #kpop smut #jungkook one shot

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scrupulosity-comics · 8 months

Note

hey is racism one of your obsessions? also white and ocd. if it is, how u cope with it? i'm really afraid all the time to hurt my loved ones who are black people, and they're the majority of my loved ones. and how do u identify whats racism from whats an intrusive thought?

Most of my race-related OCD is abstract stuff like “if I move out of my parents’ house and try to live my own life outside of their control, I will have to find somewhere I can afford to pay rent, which will probably mean moving into a low-income neighborhood, which would mean inadvertently helping to gentrify the community, which would gradually push the original residents out of their homes and disrupt community ties and support systems and creating housing insecurity, so therefore I can’t move out or move on”.

I think that’s just part of a larger existential terror that I can only ever make the world worse by living in it—a net harm to the universe, molecule by misspent molecule.

I have been letting this ask sit in my inbox for weeks now because I’m convinced that anything I say will be destructive. What if my answer enables or excuses racism? What if my answer fuels the anguish of the mentally ill?

The rational and compassionate part of my mind insists that your loved ones (and mine!) understand that you (and I) are white, and have likely dealt with white peoples all their lives, and are capable of judging for themselves whether you are good to them and deserving of their intimacy. It is impossible to go through life without hurting and being hurt by people you care about—always you will have blindspots and miscommunications and competing needs. That’s just part of the curse of consciousness and being a social species. We all get a little blood on our hands eventually, one way or another… friendship involves knowing this, accepting this, and committing to avoid it and then, that failed, to make things right.

Again: your friends know you’re white. They have reason to expect the best of you or they wouldn’t be your friends. They choose to have you in their lives; trust them to trust you, and to recognize the difference between a beloved friend struggling with a treacherous and unkind brain and doing their best in an inescapably racist society, and a racist who whose bigotry makes them unworthy of their time and affection.

I do think racism obsessions are a particularly difficult manifestation of OCD to cope with because they’re hard to discuss at all without feeling like you’re implicitly asking for absolution. With other types of OCD, it’s common to seek reassurance that what you’re obsessively afraid of isn’t true—but what feels more racist than asking someone to reassure you that you’re not racist…? LMAO.

They say the “cure” to OCD, such as it is, is just to learn how to embrace the existential horror of uncertainty. Tall fucking order. Hell on Earth! But in a bizarre way I have found the rhetoric that “everyone is unconsciously and incurably racist” to be unexpectedly helpful… there is no total psychological purging and mental purification we can undergo, no amount of ritual self-flagellation that will drive the demons out, no pristine state we can aspire to and hate ourselves for soiling. Only mundane everyday commitments to compassion and empathy and solidarity and cleaning up our messes. But even then, a thought isn’t a mess. A thought I’d not a thing that happened or a choice you made. It doesn’t represent an alternate timeline branching off into a parallel universe where you have acted on it and hurt people.

Earlier this year I was playing a video game—during my lunch break I got to wondering what happened if you failed a skill check that I had passed in my own playthough, so I looked up a clip on YouTube and was so triggered by the answer (the player character calls his companion a racial slur in the heat of the moment, without meaning to, even if you’ve played him as a committed anti-racist) that I immediately spiraled and was close to throwing up in the broom closet, and when I got home I opened my own save and tried to make the player character kill himself as catharsis. It was an incredibly unreasonable guilt response to a completely fictional scenario that I hadn’t even gotten in my own playthrough, but in retrospect it was a safe way to explore fear of my own internalized racism hurting somebody and what might happen if my intrusive thoughts came true. It sucked and it was terrible and I was angry at myself for being crazy about it, but it ended up being a small dose of exposure therapy and practice at not repenting for nonexistent through self-abuse.

I dunno. This has been a long uncomfortably personal ramble but I hope it’s helpful. I don’t know if your friends know you have OCD (or how it manifests) and I don’t know whether telling them would help. But allowing yourself to trust others to trust you is far more useful than beating yourself up for thoughts you don’t want. I have on occasion warned people that I am cautious about doing certain things with them—particularly drinking—because there is a risk that I may spiral and show symptoms humiliating and uncomfortable to both of us, and I don’t want to put them in a position where they witness or feel like they have to help me manage the white guilt elements of my disorder. These conversations have usually gone well, and the mutual understanding to boundaries takes some of the tension out, which seems to reduce the triggers. It’s messy and awkward and maybe it limits who is willing to be friends with me, but IMHO it’s better than surprising someone.

As for determining whether something is an intrusive thought or actual racism, I guess my answer is: does it matter? Would you manage them differently? Intrusive thoughts may be an evil voice in your brain, but racism is an evil voice in society’s brain.

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taffybear · 3 months

Text

random list of my bay Leo headcanons ❤

working on Raph next! let's see how many ideas i get lol

also opening my inbox for writing (and perhaps even drawing) requests! feel free to drop me an ask <3

literally loves mitski and mac demarco. he likes very indie hopeless romantic type music, it's literally hilarious to catch him just vibing in his feels

SECRETLY HAS PINTEREST BAHAHAHAHA but just for finding poetry and looking at bonsai trees. Mikey found out (like he doesn't have pinterest too??) and they all ended up making fun of him for it to the point where Leo debated deleting the app but ended up forgetting about it.

very specific but he has this unique type of love language where he'll ask you something and without any further questions he will go get or accomplish whatever he hinted at. for example, y'all will just be hanging out, and he'll go, "are you hungry?" and if you just as much nod your head hesitantly he will run to the kitchen and make you a 3 course meal. or, he'll just ask you if you're cold, and if you say yes he brings you a heater and a blanket. he doesn't ask things like, "can i get you a water?" he'll just ask if you're thirsty and go from there.

has the most gorgeous handwriting on the planet. this beautiful cursive print that is lowkey unreadable but so aesthetically pleasing. at first you were shocked but as you got to know him it made lots of sense, literally probably his biggest hobby is just remembering some random thing and then spending weeks straight perfecting it until it's natural for him. he loves to challenge himself to be perfect at literally anything, and his hand writing is one of those instances.

HE'S LITERALLY A VIRGO GUYS HE IS THE DEFINITION OF A VIRGO OH MY GOD

speaks fluent japanese OF COURSE but his brothers don't know it as well as he does (they all know a little at least) and he'll curse them out quietly in japanese behind their backs.

Leo wouldn't say he had a favorite brother of course but he definitely prefers Don's presense over the others. they always go to each other first when they have a problem or just want to rant, and they have a bunch of inside jokes.

after Donnie, Leo's the biggest insomniac. he gets nightmares a lot unfortunately, and most times when he wakes up he physically can't go back to sleep. literally Mikey will get up for a glass of water at 5:37 in the morning and Leo is up doing flips.

very random, but Leo is AWFUL at math. he meant to learn at some point but the time passed and he missed the boat. ofc math is Don's second language and Mikey and Raph couldn't care less (but somehow Mikey always guesses the right answers without doing the correct work??) but Leo is lowkey embarrassed that he struggles with it so much. he can do basic math and most things that come up in daily life like practical equations, but anything past times tables and division he is cannot understand. if you come over and need help on your math homework he will try his HARDEST to help you but ultimately he's completely clueless.

always takes bugs outside. if the creepy crawly is creepy enough or makes you screech, he'll whip it with his katana but normally he'll take the time to scoop it up in his hands (literally no fear) and walk it outside calmly.

literally LOVES doing chores. it's like a form of self care for him. folding laundry, sweeping, mopping, washing the dishes, organizing the dojo, he'll literally put on some music and go to town. when he visits you he will literally just start straightening things up and picking things off of the floor. he hates having nothing to do so he'll just ask for something he can clean while y'all chit chat.

incredibly flexible. he can bend every which way, sit comfortably in a split for hours, can bend over IN HALF and grab the back of his legs--he's literally maxed out on flexibility. but splits training is his private time so unless you sneak you won't catch a glance. but when you do, in between of sliding dojo doors, it is... something. like excuse me sir how tf doesn't that hurt your bAWLLS

smells like lavender. dead serious his signature scent is lavender. it's not like he wears cologne or anything, he just lights a lot of lavender incense and candles to the point where if someone even steps foot in his room they walk out aroma-fied.

everyone in the fandom has their personal opinion of who's the best cook and who's the worst cook of the four, and it is finally time for my hot take of the century. i think Leo is by far the best chef, and Raph is the one who can't even make toast right. a lot of people say Mikey is the chef of the family, which i agree with, he enjoys cooking and baking very much, but this doesn't mean the food he makes is good 💀💀💀 he trusts himself over any recipe and so he just throws in whatever he feels like. Leo can't stand being in the kitchen while Mikey is cooking, his ocd can't stand it. this said, you'd think this would mean the guys prefer Leo's cooking over Mikey's but fact is Leo is such a perfectionist he will spend hours working on a meal it's past 11 by the time he's done. and he doesn't take requests, he only makes what he wants and then on top of that the healthnut version. he makes sushi a lot and goes crazy when you bring him salmon.

IS SUCH A DORK BAHAHAHA if you even so much MENTION a book or a show he likes he will blabber for HOURS about it. he knows every single fact there is to know about star trek it is insane. you amuse him not because you're interested of course but he is just so damn adorable when he's talking about something he enjoys (which he rarely gets the chance to without being made fun of LMAO)

#tmnt #bayverse leo #tmnt leo #tmnt leonardo #bayverse leonardo #tmnt headcanons #tmnt bayverse #leonardo #bayverse tmnt

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mostlymarvelsstuff · 1 year

Text

Requested by: @romanoffsbish #6 “Are you really so oblivious?” ; WandaNat•Tony says it to R who’s currently “googly” eyeing the couple from across the room with a sad smile, and Tony’s had enough of the dancing around each other nonsense.

Authors note: requests are still closed. I’m trying to clear my inbox before opening them again. Thank you for your patience 💖

Word count: 2898 WandaNat Masterlist Marvel Masterlist

Wanda giggles as Natasha playfully spins her around the kitchen, the ingredients for their pancakes quickly forgotten as the spy initiates an impromptu dance session to the music that plays from the Sokovians phone.

They don’t even notice the attention paid to them by the few of their teammates over at the table. Sam smiles at the scene before returning to his oatmeal and Tony pretends to gag at the display of affection before he sits down with his omelet.

“Let them be Stark” Thor chastises with a mouth full of poptart, “Love is special, and it deserves to be celebrated”

“I know that goldilocks” he retorts with an eyeroll, “Besides, I doubt they even heard my teasing."

Clints brow quirks as he drops his banana peel on the table and his eyes meet yours as you glance up from your plate. You both share a knowing look before smirks spread on both your faces.

“Oh yeah” the archer agrees, “No way the super spy with super senses heard you. Ridiculous notion”

You chuckle at the nervous expression that crosses the billionaires face only to earn a glare from him in turn, “At least I let my feelings be known”

Mistaking his jab at your not so hidden feelings for more teasing you simply toll your eyes and grumble, “Whatever Tony”

“Is he bothering you malysh(baby)?” Wanda voice suddenly rings out through the dining room and Sam has to suppress his laughter at the way Tony's complexion pales slightly

“Oh. Uh, no. No, he's just being his normal, annoying self” you tell her, smiling over where she stands with her girlfriend at the kitchen island.

“Good” Natasha says, her tone sending a chill through both you and Tony but for different reasons, “Otherwise I’d have to punch him”

“I’m right here you know” the man says, waving his fork in the air

“Oh I know. I just don’t care.” she replies, sending a wink your way

You try your best to ignore the warmth that spreads across your cheeks at the action, instead focusing back on the man next to you again. He purses his lips, letting out a small huff in annoyance and you laugh at the Russians ability to get under his skin so easily. You completely miss the way Natasha beams at Wanda for being able to make you produce the sound they both adore so much.

“Y/n?”

You turn to look at the brunette again, “Yeah Wans?”

“Tasha and I were going to go into the city today. Do some shopping, go to lunch, sit in the park for a little bit and maybe get some ice cream. Then we were gonna watch a movie when we got home. Would you like to join us?”

“I’m sorry guys, I have a briefing to attend in like half an hour. I think I’m being sent on an impromptu mission.” you tell them as you stand and walk back to the kitchen with your dirty plate to clean, “I hope the two of you guys have fun though”

“Oh, ok” the witch responds, her shoulders deflating at both the missed opportunity and the distance you’ve created. Truthfully both she and Nat have noticed you being a bit more distant with them lately and it was worrying them, "Maybe next time then"

Though you feel nervous about spending that much alone time with the women you nod, "Yeah next free day I have we can definitely do something"

Natasha doesn't like the knot of discomfort she feels in her gut. She doesn't know what other team members are going with you on this sudden mission but she desperately wishes that she or Wanda was on the chosen team. She feels better when one of them is there to watch over you. What if something happens to you today?

The look her girlfriend gives her indicates she feels the same way about this situation and Nat wishes there was something she could do to change things, but there isn’t. So she settles for doing something that both shows she cares and helps slightly settle her nerves.

“Just be careful out there, ok kotenok(kitten)?”

You smile at her, “Always Nat. I’ll see you guys later.”

The two continue to stand there a few minutes after you leave. The worry for your fate on this mission and the disappointment for your lack of presence in their lives of late might as well shine over their heads like neon signs in Vegas. So Tony decides to do his best to reassure them.

“Try not to worry too much” he says, placing a hand on each woman's shoulder, “T’Challa and I are going with her. Hill will be there too so she's in good hands. I can’t promise no harm will come to her because you know how hectic these things can get, but I can promise that I’ll bring her back in one piece.”

“Thanks Tony. I just wish we could go with her.” Wanda tells him, a sad smile on her face, “We like being able to see that she's safe”

“I know. Which is why I will do my best to stick to her like glue, and have her home in time for your movie”

Nat turns to him with a smirk, “You know, don’t you?”

He chuckles, “You may be a spy, Romanoff but there's no hiding that look. Plus witchy here doesn’t know what it means to have a poker face”

“Hey! I can keep a straight face” she huffs, crossing her arms.

Natasha quirks a brow at her girlfriend, earning a glare that makes her chuckle, “I didn’t even say anything”

“You didn't have to, I heard your thoughts” she replies, making the redhead smirk

“Good luck Romanoff” Tony cuts in, “I’m off to the briefing”

Several hours later the quinjet lands back down at the compound and you and your team tiredly shuffle around, gathering your things as you prepare to disembark and head inside.

“It’s been a long day. Head inside and get some rest everyone. Turn your paperwork into me tomorrow morning and I’ll get it to Fury” Hill states before heading off

T’Challa is the next to move, he has a jet to Wakanda to catch tomorrow afternoon and needs extra rest to get that paperwork done beforehand, “Goodnight Tony, Y/n. Good work today, and if I don’t see you before my flight, it was good to see you”

“Goodnight” you and Tony say in unison before heading inside yourselves.

As the two of you walk through the hall you're stuck by the fact that the tv and light are still on in the living room, something which is unusual for this time of night. You both wordlessly decide to take a peek at what's going on and stop in the doorway.

Over on the sofa, curled up with each other under a blanket sit Natasha and Wanda. A Bond movie plays on the tv and even at your distance you can tell by the way the Russians lips move that she's softly quoting every line. Wanda looks up at her with a fondness before linking one of her hands with Nats and her attention returns to the screen. You smile at their cute interaction, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

A deep ache fills your chest as you watch them, and you sigh. You’d give anything to be able to join them, but you can’t. Not in the way you want to at least. And you’re tired of pretending that you don’t want more with them. You've had to withdraw because only being their friend while they held your heart, it hurt. You know it's nothing personal, nor is it their fault, but you couldn’t continue to do that to yourself. You hope one day, when your heart has righted itself, that they’ll understand. But until then, solitude is best.

“Well” you whisper, “Glad to see Nat still likes Bond. Goodnight Tony”

You go to turn away but his firm hand stops you, “Are you really so oblivious?”

Your brows furrow, “What are you talking about?”

“Kid, it's past midnight and they're in the living room. They have a tv in their room, and you and I both know that's where they always watch their movies.”

You shrug, “Maybe they just wanted a change of scenery”

He exasperatedly runs a hand through his hair, “Christ sake kid, they waited there for you.”

“Huh? Why would they do that?”

He sighs, “Because they miss you, and they didn’t get to spend the day with you, so they at least wanted to be here to greet you once you got home. They wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt.”

“Oh.” you pause, feeling guilty for hurting them with your absence while also feeling grateful for their care, “I better not keep them waiting then. Goodnight Tony”

“Night Y/n” he says, with the hope that finally everyone's confessions would come to light tonight

You slowly approach the couple, feeling guilty you were about to disrupt their movie despite knowing they waited up for you. In the end you don’t need to interrupt them as your movements end up catching the Sokovians attention and her eyes light up.

“Malysh(baby), you're back!”

Nats head quickly turns in your direction, but her smile fades slightly as she notices the dirt and small scrapes that adorn your forearms and face, “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head, “No. Just some normal bumps and bruises is all.”

They both frown at your statement and Wanda quickly untangles herself from her girlfriend in order to approach you. Her hand gently trails across a bruise on your cheek before grabbing onto your hand and she looks back to Nat to receive a nod.

“Let's get you cleaned up, ok?” You're too tired to say no so you dumbly nod and follow her to the couples bedroom, with Natasha right behind you.

“Sit down kotenok(kitten)” she instructs, her tone softer than what you're used to

You do as you're told, relaxing into the small sofa in their room as Wanda heads into the bathroom and Natasha rifles through their closet. You unintentionally doze off as you wait and the two women briefly contemplate allowing you a small nap before they decide that you’d be better off and more comfortable once cleaned up and out of your uniform.

“Y/n…Wake up sweet girl” Wanda coos, as she gently shakes you

Your eyes strain to open, “Sorry guys”

“It’s alright. You've had a long day.” Wanda says, sitting down beside you, “Let's get you clean.”

She brings the washcloth up to your face first and Nat smiles as she watches you practically melt at the feeling. The brunette softly scrubs your face, careful to not agitate any of the small scrapes as she rubs the sweat and dirt from your face.

“There we go. I knew your beautiful face was under all that grime”

You blush slightly, and you know with as close as both women are that they've seen it, yet neither tease you for it, “Thanks Wans”

She smiles and nods, “Give me your arm”

You do so, watching with sleepy eyes as she cleans your left forearm before moving onto your right one. Youd been so focused on her movements that you hadn’t realized Nat had momentarily left in order to prepare the bed for them.

“She all clean, detka(baby)?”

Wanda nods, “Yup. Clean and ready for bed.”

You assume that's your queue to leave and shuffle as you prepare to stand but the redhead is quick to stop you, “Woah, easy there. We haven't gotten our Y/n time for what feels like ages, so we’re claiming now while you're too tired to protest. Here, go change”

You look down to see that she's handing you an extra pair of her pajamas and your stomach erupts with butterflies, “Thanks Nat.”

The two share a smile as you head off to their bathroom to change and Nat helps the younger girl off the sofa, “Go ahead and get into bed detka(baby)”

When you emerge from the bathroom you find Wanda suggled into her side of the bed while Nat sits on the edge of her side. The Russian can’t help the smile that spreads across her face, seeing you in her clothes has her heart speeding up in her chest.

“Well, goodnight guys” you tell them, taking a step forward only to be stopped by Nats hands grabbing yours

“Where do you think you're going, pretty girl?”

“I- I uh, the couch?” you stutter out, mentally slapping yourself for becoming so flustered by her words

Wandda frowns as she sits up, you never used to mind sleeping in their bed with them on movie nights, when had that changed? Why are you so distant now?

“Y/n?” she hesitates, “Have Tasha and I upset you?”

“What? No. No, of course not. Everything is fine” you stress, but Nat defeatedly drops your hands as her expression turns sad

“Everythings not fine, Y/n. This is the first time we’ve been able to spend any time alone with you in nearly a month. You've been avoiding us, and it hurts”

“Just please tell us what we did so we can fix it.” Wanda practically begs, “We miss having you around. We miss you.”

“You guys haven’t done anything. I promise.”

“It doesn’t feel that way” the Russian mumbles, and your guilt returns ten fold

“Ok. I probably should have said something sooner, but i didn't know how” you sigh, “I still don’t, but you guys don’t deserve to be left wondering”

You stand there for a moment, nervously picking at your fingers as you try to figure out what words are best to use to explain everything. But your anxiety is getting the better of you, and you can’t blame it. I mean how are you supposed to tell your two best friends, who are a couple, that you love them.

Wandas eyes widened as unbeknownst to you, your thoughts had become incredibly loud. But she doesn’t want you to panic, and your anxiety is already quite high, so she decides to not let it be known that she’d heard you. Instead she gets out of bed and slowly approaches you, grasping your hands with hers once she's close enough.

“Whatever it is Y/n, you can tell us. I promise it’ll be ok” she assures, squeezing your hands for added emphasis.

Heat rushes to your cheeks as you think about the prospect of saying the words out loud, but the way Wanda reassures you gives you some courage, “I um, I- I love you both. In a more than friends kind of way.”

“Oh kotenok(kitten)” Natasha coos as you glue your eyes to the floor, and she quickly gets to her feet to join the two of you. She grabs your chin and tilts it up so you're looking at her, “That's something you never had to hide from us. Because we feel the same, don’t we detka(baby)?”

Your eyes widen in disbelief and you look to the other woman for confirmation, “You guys love me?”

“We do, we love you Y/n” Wanda admits, smiling wide

“So very much” Natasha adds, wearing a matching smile of her own and she can wait no longer, “Can we kiss you?”

You eagerly nod and she brings her lips to yours. It's everything you thought it would be, fierce and full of passion and it quickly takes your breath away. As soon as she pulls away from you Wanda replaces her on your lips. Her kiss too is just as you expected, tender and full of love. Once it ends the brunette pulls you into a hug, which Nat joins.

You let out a happy relieved laugh as their arms wrap around your body and you easily sink into them. They can feel just how exhausted you are, so despite the wonderful discovery the three of you have made, they know that their first priority is letting you get your needed rest.

“Come on malysh(baby)” Wanda says, breaking up the group hug, “It’s very late and you need sleep”

“She's right. We can talk more about this tomorrow” Nat adds, ushering you over to the bed

This time you don’t argue, you climb right in and get settled in your spot in the middle of the bed so you can be between the two of them. Wanda happily joins you, snuggling closely as she pulls you against her. Nat smiles as she joins you but instead of snuggling close she leans on her elbow, her other hand cupping your face.

She gives you another kiss, “Love you”

“Love you too Natty” you sleepily mumble, making her heart swell. You then turn to Wanda to let her have a kiss, “Love you Wans”

“Love you too, sweetheart” she whispers, brushing a hand through your hair, “Sleep well”

You end up falling asleep before they even finish pulling the covers up over you. They both scoot closer, each wrapping an arm across your midsection to ensure you remain close.

“Our pretty girl” Nat mumbles as she nuzzles her face against your neck

Wanda does the same on your other side, “All ours”

Taglist: @wandaromamoff69 @when-wolves-howl @danveration @sheneonromanoff @sayah13 @likefirenrain @nighttime-dreaming @just-a-torn-up-masterpiece @chaoticevilbakugo @crystalstark02 @wackymcstupid @lovelyy-moonlight @blackwidow-3 @mistressofinsomnia @that-one-gay-mosquito @yomamagf @yourfavdummy @justarandomreaderxoxo @scoutlp23-blog @whoischanelle15 @lissaaaa145 @eline03 @wizardofstories@imthenatynat @marvelonmymind @fluffyblanketgecko @bitch-616 @dakotastormm @zoomdeathknight

#wanda x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x y/n #natasha x y/n #natasha romanoff #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #wandanat #wanda x natasha #wandanat x reader #wandanat x y/n #wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff #marvel #fanfic #marvel fanfiction

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hangmanssunnies · 1 year

Text

Bones, Hearts, & Marriages

Summary: You and Javy "Coyote" Machado did not get married for the right reasons. Now, three years later, you are going to make sure that you two at least get divorced for the right reasons to make up for it. However, per usual, things don't always seem to go to plan when Coyote is involved.

(Thank you @bradshawsbitch for this stunning gif 🫶)

Pairings: Javy "Coyote" Machado x AFAB! Reader

Word count: 11k

AO3 link

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, Marriage of convenice, PinV, Realistic intimacy conversations, implied plus size reader, insecurity, self image issues, Valentine's Day.

Please let me know if I missed any.

Authors Note: Oh gosh, I have been working on this for a while now. It was supposed to be posted for Valentie's Day, but then life happened. I love Coyote soo much, and I actually NEED him to be my husband or I will perish. Coyote Hangman BFF supremacy implied. As always, apologies for any mistakes.

Thank you so much if you take a chance to read this work. I hope you enjoy it. My inbox is always open if you want to let me know your thoughts. Reblogs with your thoughts, opinions, and tags are gold to me. I love reading through them.

There was no question in your mind that your husband, Javy "Coyote" Machado, was your dream man, and most people would think that it is very lucky to be married to your dream man. Most people also wouldn't think falling in love with your husband was a terrible mistake. However, most people's husbands were in love with them back. You hadn't married Coyote because you loved him, and he certainly didn't marry you out of affection, either. The truth was, it was just a very convenient arrangement for the two of you. Javy hadn't wanted to live on base anymore, plus the benefits and pay for married men were better. Also, he was so tired of being bottom of the totem pole for vacations and holidays off to the aviators and sailors who were married or had families. For you, being married would change your financial aid status to receive almost three times more money each term. Having a clean, financially stable roommate was the cherry on top of the deal. You and Javy had really only known each other a few weeks when you had jokingly mentioned your need to get married. After several conversations where Coyote was deadly serious, you found yourself at the courthouse with him signing licenses and throwing a small party with your friends. Even now, nearly three years later, you would still catch yourself thinking about the sweet kiss he had bestowed on you.

To say you were unhappy with your marriage or your husband wouldn't be true. You were happy, and Javy was good, almost too good and kind to you. That itself could be an issue because it was so easy to slip into being his wife, being Mrs. Machado. Nowadays, it was second nature to snuggle up on the couch with him, celebrate your wins together, and seek him out for comfort with your losses. You would try anything new he would whip up in the kitchen and offer a detailed critique. It was natural to want to make Javy happy. You worry and care about him. Though you try not to make comparisons, you were pretty sure you missed him just as much as any other military spouses missed their partners anytime Coyote was gone. You never allowed yourself to consider the possibility of your marriage being more with Javy. It didn't take much for you to deter those thoughts; typically, just some extended longing looks at Javy paired with a glance in the mirror to remind you that Coyote was out of your league. No matter how often he would compliment or say that you were beautiful. Three years into this marriage, you two still had separate rooms and hadn't fallen in love or bed even once, despite your secret hopes, which was telling enough.

You and Javy were friends first, no matter what the other circumstances were. So, picking Coyote up from the bar certainly wasn't something unusual. This evening his texts, where most things were misspelled and littered with random emojis, made you thankful that he shared his location with you because they were borderline incomprehensible. He wasn't actually answering any of the questions you were asking either. It was there at the bar picking him up that you started to realize maybe the benefits of this marriage weren't enough anymore.

"Howdy, Mrs. Machado," Jake says affectionately when you enter the bar and found the group of familiar aviators that made up your husband's friends. You kiss his cheek in greeting, taking stock of his well-being, pleased to find Jake mostly sober.

"Hey, Hangman," You verbally answer, looking around for Coyote, wanting to get home and into bed as quickly as possible. His tall form isn't around the table with the other aviators, so you look back to Jake expectantly. "And where is Coyote?"

"Aw, little M&M, you don't even care about me anymore," Hangman says in a fake whine while pouting.

"That just isn't true," you say, rolling your eyes at the blond while continuing to look around the honestly concerningly dark bar.

"He's at the bartop," Jake finally supplies. You try hard to contain your frown, but you aren't fully successful. Javy had already been very drunk when he texted you earlier. Sighing, you turn to the bar, finally spotting the tall and broad shoulders you were looking for. He is on the back side, furthest away from you. It takes conscious effort not to let your eyes linger too long, lest you get caught up in just how tall, broad, and what a great ass your husband has. You wave a hand towards Hangman and the rest of the group in a half thanks and beeline to the bar.

Coyote is laughing with the bartender when you get there. You slide in close next to him, leaning in against the bar top. Javy's eyes flash a glance at you, away, and then back towards you as he turns to face you completely.

"Oh my god Mark, my wife is here!" Coyote says enthusiastically and at least two times louder than he needs to, considering how close you are standing.

"It's nice to meet you," Mark says, smiling at you. Javy wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you close to him in a half hug so that he doesn't let you go after. His lips press to the side of your head that is lingering. You ignore how he nuzzles you and how warm and strong his arms feel, reminding yourself that Coyote is just a very affectionate drunk.

"Hi Coyote," You greet him, trying not to let the wide smile he gives you go straight to your heart. However, when his eyes crinkle, it was a fool's errand. You see that smile nearly every day, and it still manages to make heat blossom in your chest. Finally managing to tear your eyes off him again, you focus back on the conversation.

"It's nice to meet you, Mark. Has Lieutenant Machado paid his tab yet, or should I?" You ask, nudging Javy's side playfully. It has the opposite effect than you intended as Javy pulls you even closer and tighter into his side.

"He hasn't. In fact, he was just ordering another Shirley temple," Mark informs you. Shooting a halfhearted glare at Javy for ordering another drink this late, his grin hasn't dimmed once. Sloppily he raises the drink to his mouth, taking three attempts to finally find the straw and slurp up a large gulp. When he sees your frown, Javy sets the drink back down on the bar.

"It's a virgin," Coyote reassures you with a small laugh, no better than a schoolboy with what he finds funny sometimes. Once he manages to contain the giggle, he continues on, "I know better than to drink after 12:30."

That answer placates you as you start rummaging in your purse for a card to pay. However, when you go to hand over the card, it is smacked out of your hand. There wasn't any real force or aggression to the action, but it certainly was surprising, causing the metal rectangle to clank against the bar top.

"Javy!" You gasp in surprise, turning to see him glaring at you.

"You're not paying for anything when I'm around," he all but growls. His arm that is snug around your shoulder hasn't moved one bit, but his free hand is digging around his pocket, clearly looking for a wallet.

"Javy, sweetheart. It's okay. I know how you feel about this." You pick up the card from where it fell on the bar and show it to him. As you explain, the Navy Federal Credit Union logo is clearly visible for him now, "This is the card for our joint account."

Halting the digging in his pocket, he narrows his eyes to fully observe the card. Once he is convinced it's the card attached to his account, he weakly apologizes, "Oh. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, " you say as you pass over his soda and then nudge his side again. "Why don't you say goodbye to the boys. I will close your tab."

"You're not going to leave, right?" He asks you worriedly. His thumb brushes a broad stroke against your arm while he asks the question.

"Not without you, handsome." You reassure him, ignoring the small butterflies he still inspires in you.

"Promise?" Javy asks you in a small voice.

"I promise," you say. You squeeze his hand gently and then peel his arm off you.

"Pinky promise?"

"Pinky promise," you guarantee, hooking your pinky with his. A wide grin splits Javy's face again, and he kisses your forehead. Walking away, mostly steady on his feet, to say goodbye to his friends. Once you're sure he made it alright, you turn back to Mark.

"I'll grab his tab, and we might as well grab Seresin's Tab also. The blonde one over there," you request, gesturing back their direction.

"Sure thing," Mark says, offering you an easy smile and taking your card to run through the POS system. It's in that quiet moment in-between while paying when your whole night shifts. You hear a group of men a bit farther down the bar, but there weren't even any people between you and their gabbing. You were sure they were all drunk enough to think that the conversation wasn't one that could be overheard.

"That's Coyote's wife?" One asks in disbelief catching your attention.

"Yeah, I'm shocked every time," someone else confirms. You resist the urge to look over at the group and see which one of them had met you before or if they just knew because of Javy's previous yelling. It's not like you exactly played the part of trophy officer's wife very often like someone married to Javy should be.

"I don't understand," the first man says like he is trying to solve a very complex math problem. It's not an uncommon reconciliation someone might have to make seeing you and Javy together.

"There is no way Coyote settled for that," One of them says in disbelief. Their conversation is a dagger to your heart and self-esteem. While you knew that Coyote was out of your league, confirmation from someone outside yourself doesn't make it hurt less.

"Maybe she looked different when they first got together. You know a lot of women let themselves go after marriage."

"Well, she is kinda pretty… If that's what you're into." Gritting your teeth to keep from crying, you wish you could just disappear or that Mark would hurry up with your card so you can collect Javy and leave.

"Fair enough, but Coyote is a ten dude." Maybe it was more offensive that they thought you weren't aware of your husband's attractiveness than their opinions on your own looks. As if you weren't aware, like you didn't see Coyote shirtless daily or when he got home from his run and the gym. The 5-inch inseam shorts he wore on your last beach vacation and just how great his thighs looked haunted your dreams for months. As if you hadn't seen him in his dress whites, dress blues, and the Tuxedo he wore to his cousin's wedding last summer. You were very conscious, hyper-aware even, of how attractive Coyote is.

"You know who else has an ugly wife?" Someone interjects, and their conversation moves on. You wish it was as easy for you to move on. Of course, it's not the first time you have heard similar comments, but they still nearly bring you to tears every time. It's not fair so much importance is put on physical looks, on something you can't even fully control, despite what most people think.

You make eye contact with Mark, who is looking at you with something much too close to pity, while your card is processing. How he looks at you makes the pit in your stomach fall a bit lower like he agrees with them but would never say it. As if he is embarrassed that you were forced to endure hearing the truth on this matter. You manage to give him a smile, but it clearly is forced. Anyone thinking you weren't painfully aware of the discrepancies of attractiveness between you and your husband must also believe you are blind. When Mark gives you the receipt to sign, you quickly scribble a tip and your signature, wanting to escape as quickly as possible. As you shove your card into your purse, you finally look over to the group who made the comments trying to remember their faces in the din of the bar so that if you meet them again, you can avoid them at all costs.

You go back to Coyote, who is laughing so hard his shoulders are shaking, and his eyes are crinkled. You know that he isn't laughing at what you just heard. Javy's sense of duty regarding you and your sham of a marriage is boundless, and he hasn't hesitated to play the part of a protective husband before. However, you feel so sensitive now that part of you thinks he must be laughing at you. Despite how irrational it is, you can't fully push the thought away. Coyote must find it funny that he has gotten you to come pick him up. It's funny that people always view the discrepancies in your marriage in his favor.

As your feelings and thoughts start to spiral darker, your nails bite into your palms. The looming cloud over you is shoved to the side because Javy is making grabby hands at you. As a human embodiment of sunshine, something magnified by how carefree and open he is while drunk, it only takes that and a smile for the dread hanging over you to significantly lessen. Even though you don't feel quite as low as you did when leaving the bartop, you still aren't in high enough spirits to settle into Javy's welcoming embrace. His strong arms fall back to his side at your denial, which also dims his smile as he comes close to you.

"Are you ready to go, Coyote?" You ask, trying and failing to achieve the upbeat tone you were shooting for.

"No," he answers petulantly.

"No?"

"I want to dance before we go." He pouts, opening his arms wide again. You try to ignore all his friends' eyes on you and Hangman's amused sniggering. Javy is very affectionate when drunk, and it wouldn't shock you that Jake had been on the receiving end of that affection in the time it took you to get here to pick your husband up.

"We aren't dancing. We are going home," you respond, maybe a bit too curtly because all the joy in Javy's face is sucked away. Watching his grin become a frown and the mirth in his eyes drop just serves to add to the heavyweight you feel coiled up in your chest. The one that is always there but was aggravated by the conversation you overheard and will be as sensitive as an open wound for several days to come.

"Bye guys," Javy says halfheartedly, waving to his friends and now quickly striding to the door, not even waiting for you or checking if you are following. You look over to Hangman and shrug quickly, telling him that you got his tab too.

"Little M&M, you do care!" Jake gasps, pressing a hand to his heart.

"And don't you forget it," You say, while accepting his side hug.

"Thank you, honest. And you get my wingman home safe, please." Jake says, letting you go and shooting you a stellar smile. The rest of the group calls their well wishes, and You give one last wave before hustling after your husband. Coyote is standing, waiting near the door outside. You immediately start to walk to the car but turn around when you realize Javy hasn't moved.

"Can still hear the music out here," Javy mumbles.

"True, they must have an outside speaker." You say while backtracking to him again. Javy lifts a hand, settling it on your shoulder, then running it down your arm until his fingers tangle together with yours.

"Dance with me? Please." He requests again, and you can't say no with the way he is looking at you.

Setting down your purse on top of one of the outside tables, you hesitantly step closer into Javy's waiting arms. He hums contently the moment you are there. Singing along with the music into your ear, he holds you close. The dancing is little more than swaying together almost in time with the music. That doesn't really matter to you, though, because Javy is warm, and being this close to him makes you feel safe. Two songs pass that way. However, when a more upbeat tune comes on Coyote tries to spin you, nearly falling in the process, and you think it's probably time to get home.

He doesn't make any complaint getting into the car, except for insisting on carrying your purse and then holding it in his lap once his seatbelt is secured. While driving home, Javy is staring at you instead out of the window. He was so quiet at first you thought he had fallen asleep. However, when you cut your eyes over to him at a stop light, you are trapped in the deep brown of his gaze. You're lucky the roads are mostly abandoned because you nearly miss the green light you are so caught up in him.

"Do you ever wonder?" Javy eventually asks you.

"Wonder what?"

"About us. About this," He says, spinning and twisting his wedding ring. Javy had surprised you when he had come home one day with the matching bands only a few short weeks after you got married. There had hardly been an occasion since that he could be found not wearing it.

"I don't know. What is there to wonder about Javy?"

He blows out a long sigh through his nose, and your stomach clenches with anxiety. Javy had always been so resolute, so committed to this deal you two had. His steadfastness is what you would desperately cling to on the days that you felt like you conned him. Javy questioning your union suddenly shakes everything in you. Maybe he had heard what those men in the bar were saying after all. Perhaps after all this time, it was going to click for him that he shouldn't waste away in a loveless marriage, that he could do so much better than you.

"I suppose so. 'S Not like we could go back and change anything."

"Do you regret what we did?" You ask him, barely above a whisper. The quietness following your question is heavy, and the dark of the car makes it nearly suffocating. Javy's left hand peels your right hand away from the steering wheel, and he threads your fingers together tightly.

"No. I never regret," he says firmly. Neither of you utters another word on the way home, but Javy doesn't let go of your hand either.

The men's comments from the bar hang over you all night as you fitfully toss and turn, trying to sleep. You consider them beyond just the comments about your looks, but more about Javy and what he deserves. How he deserves something more than you. You want to keep him, but the more you think about it, the more wrong that seems. While meditating on your husband, you come to the decision there is nothing, not even your own comfort, that you care about more than seeing Javy "Coyote" Machado happy and in love. Something he will never be with you. You rationalize it's like a bone that had been allowed to heal the wrong way; the only way to remedy it and set it on the right path is to break it first. Bones, hearts, and marriages all practically the same thing.

You are buzzing with this revelation, and when you wake up the next morning, you know you can't wait. The sooner you get it over with, the better it would be for both of you. Still wearing pajamas, you go straight to the kitchen after waking up. You can hear Javy there making noise.

"Javy, I want a divorce," you declare more confidently than you feel. The words leave your mouth before you have even fully gone through the kitchen doorway. There is a clattering and your eyes are instantly drawn up from the floor near your feet where you had been focusing. Javy is standing by the counter wearing his Kiss the Cook apron and drops a knife he was holding.

He opens and closes his mouth twice before he finally says something. It sounds directed more toward himself than you. "I can't believe you just asked me for a divorce on Valentine's day."

"Is it Valentine's Day?" You ask him, shocked. Quickly pulling out your phone to check the date, the device confirms that it is absolutely February 14th. You can't believe you woke up and let the holiday sneak up on you.

"It is," he reaffirms, a deep frown marring his handsome features.

Guilt immediately floods through you because Javy loves Valentine's Day. He had openly admitted on your first anniversary that it was one of his favorite unexpected benefits of being married. He loved having someone to do all the typical Valentine's Day things with. Someone he was guaranteed to spend the day with. He wouldn't admit it, though you suspected he also liked that it was a day you were guaranteed to think of him. An added day to the calendar that he knew he wouldn't be forgotten.

There are not one or two, but three large bouquets of flowers scattered in the room. The table is all set up with a cloth covered in pink and white hearts. With a glance at the pan, you see the potato pancakes Javy is cooking as well as the sweet crepes arranged with strawberries he had cut to be heart-shaped. All of this on top of the various decorations littered around the room. The room is littered with evidence of Javy's joy for the holiday, almost decorated to the point of tackiness. Every part is thoughtful as well as endearing, and you hadn't even realized the day. Tears prick at your eyes while taking the whole thing in. He leads you to rest at your small round dining table his palm warm on your arm as he guides you.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't realize. I can ask again tomorrow, I guess." You say with a wobbly voice.

"No sweetheart, I don't want you to ask again." He says tightly. Javy isn't even sitting in the other chair. Instead, he kneels in front of you while holding your hands, looking so earnest. "Why do you want a divorce?"

"Well, the reasons we got married don't really apply to us anymore. You will still live off base now no matter what, at your rank, and I'm finally graduating." Javy's thumb is still swiping across the back of yours. You recognize it's wrong to take comfort from him right now, but you also can't help how you relax slightly which each stroke.

"Okay," he says slowly. Staring at you intently, you can see how hard Javy's brain is working to process the information you just threw at him. He traces over your face, then falls down to look at your joined hands. Javy squeezes your hands and drops them, sitting back on his heels, and you feel the dread seep in again, not having his steadying warmth so close anymore. "Can we dissect this together, please? You want a divorce?"

"Yes," you answer. He blows out a long heavy sigh, scrubbing his hands across his face as he sits in the chair on the other side of the table. Silence starts to stretch before Javy breaks it again.

"Have I been making you unhappy?"

"No. Not directly at least," You answer quickly, and it's not a lie. Javy himself is rarely the cause of your unhappiness.

"Indirectly then. And you have been unhappy?"

You think over his question and then start to think of a lie. You don't want to detail your feelings about this. Honesty would certainly lead to both your feelings being hurt more than necessary. You have been unhappy but in ways only of your own making. Wanting that which you could not have, fancying yourself a sort of Icarus.

"As much truth as you can spare me, please. Don't want to hear whatever lie you were just cooking up."

"It's more about the happiness we are cutting ourselves off from. The opportunities that we are missing."

The hold on the very neutral look Javy has been wearing slips, and he clenches his jaw hard. You are momentarily distracted by the flexing muscle, nearly forgetting the conversation at hand. The deep frown that pulls Javy's lips reorients your priorities, and you really wish this was a conversation that didn't have to happen face to handsome-distracting-gorgeous face.

"Is there someone else? Has Mrs. Machado's eye finally been caught after all these years?" Javy asks the questions more casually, curious than you are expecting. It does make you feel foolish to look for jealousy in his words. However, the idea of there being someone else is so funny you can't contain your dry chuckle.

"Our divorce is not a laughing matter!" Javy cries so indignantly it just makes you laugh harder. Then a few breaths later, his deep laugh intertwines with yours. It is not long until you are both breathless after the chuckles turned giggles turned howling. Javy is actively pushing away stray tears, and you are clutching your side, feeling a small stitch. Leaning back in his chair, he blows out a breath, sniffing in hard and breathing the air out in a measured way.

"Okay, well. This isn't something that can really happen today, is it?" Javy asks you.

"No. I guess not," you agree.

The corner of his right mouth quirks up then, and some of the severity eases on his face. "It's still valentines day then, and you're still my wife, so —" He trails off and reaches across the table, picking up an envelope that was sitting in the center, handing it to you. With shaky fingers, you open it. The card inside is almost more beautiful than any card Javy has ever given you. The front is covered in tasteful pastel hearts, gold foil, and your name. It's just as high quality as you knew it would be. You aren't sure where he has been buying these over the years but every card you have ever gotten from him is stunning. Seeing the inside filled with Javy's cramped writing with an extra sheet included almost moves you to tears, and you shove the card back in its envelope.

"I'll read that later," you mutter with a watery smile. Javy doesn't push you, which you are thankful for. Instead, he just holds out a hand, and you immediately grab it threading your fingers together.

"Will you be my valentine?" Javy asks you hopefully.

"Yes, of course, I will."

He grins, but it's not as wide as you would hope. There is still a clear air of somberness to him. "If you don't want to spend the day with me now I understand."

"Oh Javy, I'm so sorry. I should have thought through bringing this up to you much more than I did, including factoring in relevant holidays. Of course, I want to spend the day with you."

"No sweat, my Valentine. How about I finish cooking us breakfast then? I have the whole day planned, you know."

"Yes, I know," you say affectionately.

"Today's menu and itinerary can be found to your left," Javy informs you. His free hand gesturing to a small decorated chalkboard propped on the table. Then he lifts your joined hands up to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of your palms. When he tries to detangle your fingers and stand from the table, but you stop him.

"Hold on. I have to go grab something."

"You already had papers drawn up?" He asks in a strained voice.

"No, I haven't. Let's set the divorce aside for the day okay?"

"That's a good idea," he agrees.

"I didn't completely forget about Valentine's Day. I just didn't remember this morning. Do you really think I would miss all the heart decorations all over the place? Or the 14 hearts you drew on the calendar." You ask him teasingly.

"Well, I don't want you to think you have to do anything."

"Javy," you sigh affectionately. Then telling him to stay put, you rush to your room and grab the wrapped gift youpicked out only days after new years. Coming back down, you excitedly plop the box in front of him on the table.

"This is so kind you didn't have to."

"I never mind doing anything for you Javy. Now stop delaying and opening it."

Obeying your command, he excitedly rips at the paper and into the box, searching for the gift. When he pulls it out, he smiles so wide his eyes crinkle, and everything is right again. "A candle of the month subscription?"

"I thought you might like it," you admit.

"With a wood wick," he sighs, opening the candle to smell it.

"And they let me put a list of all our no-no scents," you say.

"I love this, really. Thank you so much, sweetheart." Javy says while he reads over the little brochure that had been sent with the first candle.

"I'm so pleased you like it."

After that you finally allow Javy to finish cooking breakfast, making surprisingly easy conversation. It almost seems as if he truly has taken the temporary tabling of your divorce to heart. The day preceding light hearted and upbeat the rest of the morning, following the same patterns as years past.

You and Javy do have Valentine's traditions at this point, gifts, and the day spent together. The first Valentine’s you spent together he had made reservations at the fanciest restaurant in town weeks in advance. Only for the meal and service to be subpar, both of you agreeing Javy could have made something just as good if not better at home. In the years following, you two have still dressed up, but Javy makes the meal. Valentine's day is also one of the two days a year you are guaranteed kisses from Javy. He will drink too much wine, becoming affectionate and playful. Then he will pout about all the work he put into cooking, never in a way that makes you feel guilty. Huffing until you ask what he wants in repayment. Then Javy will always request the same thing. Each of the last four Valentine's days and all three of your wedding anniversaries, a kiss. It never stays at one kiss, but it has never been more than a heated make out session. It's something that neither of you ever brings up the next day.

You think it seems odd that you should make an exception to that tradition just because it's the last one. You hope that your foolishness of suggesting a divorcee on today of all days won't make an impact, but the more rational part of you knows it already has. Regardless, you still dress as nicely as you always do that evening for dinner.

The hallway into the kitchen and the kitchen itself are decorated with way too many mini candles to be considered wholly safe. The soft lighting is accented by the heavy aromas of Javy's cooking, making your mouth water slightly. Javy has a dress shirt on with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and has a towel thrown over his shoulder as he puts the final touches on some of the dishes. Glancing up as you enter the kitchen he freezes into place before straightening to his full height.

"You look beautiful," he utters, throwing the towel on a rack and striding across the kitchen to you.

"Oh come on Javy, don't make fun."

"I ain't making fun," Javy says, catching your hands and holding them tightly in his large warm palms. When he sees your disbelief, he repeats the words again, squeezing your hands urging you to believe him. With a breath, you accept his words the best you can. You had spent a lot of time deciding what to wear and were pleased with how the overall styling went.

"Thank you. You look very handsome. Are you an aviator or a model? We may never know."

"Why can't I be both?"

"Don't worry Coyote. I'm sure the day the Navy decides to do a shirtless Naval Aviator calendar you will be number one on their speed dial." Which makes him laugh as he pushes in your chair for you at the table. Then pressing a kiss to your forehead, he goes back to the kitchen.

"Callsigns at home, on Valentine's Day. Sweetheart, you are trying to break my heart." Javy teases, bringing over your plates. Paying him all his compliments due, You had only had the first few bites when Javy asks you a question that catches you off guard.

"What about health insurance?"

"What?" You splutter.

"What are you going to do for health insurance when we are divorced? You need that insurance, sweetheart."

"Javy, I thought we were leaving it."

"I can't leave it. I don't want a divorce. So, I'm sorry, but I can't leave it. Who's going to take you to your doctor's appointments? Where are you going to live? Am I moving, or you, or both of us? Are we selling the house?"

"I don't have it all figured out yet. It's something that we are going to have to do as we go along."

"I just don't understand what we would gain from this," Javy says, frustrated.

"Freedom!" You cry out, wishing you could find it in you to explain the twisting feeling, the dark and sad thoughts you had to endure in this marriage. Knowing you not only would never be enough but that you were less than. Your words make Javy stiffen like a board.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize I had entrapped you into this relationship," The words are biting, and you wish a conversation could ever go the way you were hoping.

"It's not like that," You tell him quickly. "Don't you want the freedom to choose to be with who you want? Don't you want to date and not have to awkwardly explain that you're married to your roommate?"

"So there is someone else?"

"No, just you Javy."

"Can you tell me what it is about me that you don't love?" He asks you in a quiet way. Javy's eyes drop down to his plate and you feel his knee bouncing quickly. Your mouth goes completely dry, and you scramble to sip some water from the glass set out. After a big gulp you still aren't sure how to answer. But then Javy's shoulders slump slightly, you see part of him crumble, and you crumble with it. He deserves honesty, maybe more than anyone else you know, because Javy is straightforward, ambitious, loyal, funny, kind, and you love him.

"That's the problem. There isn't anything about you that I don't love Javy. And god, you would think after nearly four years married to you, I would have found something not to love. I honestly think you are more wonderful now than when we first met."

Javy's eyebrows draw together, and he clearly is struggling to process your confession. Then he lets out a sigh of relief, "Thank god, this is wonderful news. I love you too."

"Javy you could do so much better than me. You should be with someone who is on your level."

He laughs. Javy laughs, and you wish you could manifest yourself out of existence. But then he is out of his chair and crowding in close to you, hooking a finger under your chin lifting it so that you can no longer avoid his gaze. "Sweetheart, there is no one better than you."

Then slowly, so slowly, he leans in and catches your lips in a gentle kiss. A kiss before wine, and before a drawn out preamble. It was a kiss because Javy loved you with no other pretenses involved. He pulls away, and you suck in a heaving breath. His eyes study yours intently, and he leans in for another kiss. Meeting him halfway you wrap your arms around his neck, awkwardly pulling him closer while deepening the kiss.

Javy looms over you, and the angle makes your chair squeak shifting backward, trying to take the shifted weight. You are saved from falling completely thanks to your arms and his that instinctually wrapped around your waist. Once you are both steady on your feet and the danger of falling has passed, you meet Javy's eyes while biting your lip to keep the giggles in. He looks in a similar state of mirth, not able to stop smiling even as he presses kisses to your face.

"Do you know how hard it's been? Blissful torture every day of our marriage. Able to have you here, to see you, but not allowed to touch. And I have wanted to touch you for so long."

"Where do you want to touch Javy?"

"Oh everywhere sweetheart," he says roughly. His hands drifting from your waist over your ass and then starting to trace the shape of your thighs in slow appreciation. Just when you are finally getting to appreciate Javy's tongue against yours, his phone rings. He pulls away from you with a pained groan, glaring across the room. His phone is set on the furthest away counter that it can be practically tucked away. You know Javy would have had the phone turned off and tucked away if he was allowed. Pressing a kiss to your forehead, he strides quickly across the room and picks up the phone.

"This is Lieutenant Machado," The tone is stark and official. His eyes haven't moved from you, though. Then a tick forms in his jaw, and he grits out, "Hangman, are you serious? It's Valentine's Day. I care about you, but unless this is life or death, I'm spending the night in bed with my wife." Hearing who it was that called, you follow Javy into the kitchen. Sliding up to him, you slot yourself into his side, draping an arm around your shoulder, pulling you even closer.

"In bed with M&M?!" You hear Jake start to yell, but you are taking the phone from Javy.

"Seresin, don't call back through do not disturb unless it's a real emergency," you mutter into the receiver before hanging up. Javy's lips are tracing your neck less than a breath later.

"What was this you mentioned about bed?" You ask Javy.

"Do you want to get in one with me, like right now?"

"Yes, please," you agree breathily. You hand Javy his phone, and he tucks it in his pocket, clearly displeased by the device's proximity.

"I hate being on call."

You are pulling him in the direction of his room just because it is closer before you can let any further idea of work enter his head. Entering the room, you both practically scramble to undress each other. Javy whines while reminding you that his shirt is Armani, and he wants to keep all the buttons when you fumble opening them. You roll your eyes but slow down and take care not to ruin one of your husband's favorite shirts.

"I think about these pretty lips every single day," Javy tells you. He kisses you again, but it's more tender than you expect. When he pulls away, he smiles.

"I think about how pretty they are when you smile and all the ways that they could touch me. What they feel like against my lips. How they would feel wrapped around my cock." Javy's thumb starts to trace your lower lip, and you suck it into your mouth, gliding the tip of your tongue against the pad. Inhaling sharply, he pulls his thumb out of your mouth, to your disappointment.

"I think about touching your tits all the time." Javy pivots while grabbing a handful of your breast and squeezing, taking the opportunity to unhook your bra. You help him slide the straps off your shoulders, and he takes a moment to admire your breasts. Then dipping down to kiss them as well. Urging you to lay back on the bed, once you are lying down with Javy's eyes raking over your form, you start to feel self-conscious. Even as he pulls your panties off and starts kissing your legs. You cross your legs and do your best to cover yourself. His intense gaze nearly making want to reach for the throw blanket that is on the end of the bed. The sight of Javy's chiseled chest and cut edges reminds you of your soft edges and curves, the thought that you are ill matched flooding your brain.

"Now Mrs. Machdo. That is not how things go in this bedroom. But don't you worry, I'm here to teach you." Javy tsks at you. Javy grabs an ankle in each large hand, pulling you toward the end of the bed. Then completely unabashed, he stares at your pussy. You try to close your legs again, but Javy's hands on your ankles prevent you from doing so. Kneeling down, he presses soft kisses to your legs and the inside of your thighs.

"I'm going to take my time with you," he tells you, kissing up your legs. He bypasses your sex, instead kissing your stomach. As he is teasing one of your nipples, you dare to touch him back, letting your fingers dance over the shape of his arms and then across his strong shoulders. It's an exploration you have dreamed of many times, but the soft smoothness of his skin is better. When Javy has paid attention to both nipples and leaves a mark you know will blossom into a hickey near your collar bone he is kissing you again. With one of his strong thighs in between your legs, you push against it trying to seek some friction and relief from your burning arousal. Pulling your lips away from his.

"Javy, I want you now," you gasp, pouting. Squirming against his thigh, you trace your hands down his back with the full intention of pushing down his briefs. Instead though, he is easing himself back down your body and kneeling on the side of the bed.

"No Ma'am. I'm going to do everything I wanted to on our wedding night when we should have consummated this marriage." Javy starts tracing your skin again, peppering kisses where he sees fit. You jump slightly at the feeling but quickly relax. Even though you two have not ever been intimate, that doesn't mean that you aren't comfortable with him in almost every other way. It feels surprisingly easy to take this new step, to be pressed together. You had always thought it might not be there, a physical spark, that maybe you were compatible with Javy in every other way. However, the moment Javy's tongue meets your clit, and he is the one who moans first, the doubt largely vanishes from your mind; it's so evident he desires you too.

While licking your clit Javy traces a finger along your lips, occasionally dipping into you, but the whole action is teasing. Just when he edges the length of his finger inside you, he kisses your thighs. When he licks your clit in firm strokes, he starts to edge his finger out of you. It's building you up but also making you feel like there is no end in sight.

"Javy, I need you now," you beg again.

"It's too soon." He tells you, lifting his head and pulling his mouth off you, and you nearly cry at the loss. "I have to warm you up baby, or it will hurt."

It will hurt, Javy claims, and the thought of his dick being big enough that is something he worries about sends another wave of arousal rushing through you. Married three years, you had seen the delicious outline of it in boxers, briefs, grey sweatpants, and towels, and even now, you still haven't seen all of him.

"Now, please," you whine.

"Prove you can take my fingers, and then we will see," Javy tells you, attempting to compromise with a teasing lit. He only has one finger in you, and you buck against it, seeking more. When he teases another at your entrance, you shift taking that finger as far as your position will allow. Sighing contently when with the stretch, feeling more full. As you clench around his thick fingers, Javy grunts out a low moan, speeding his digits and occasionally scissoring you wider open.

"What about a third?" He asks eventually. The idea sends another wave of arousal through you. As you clench around his fingers, Javy hums against your clit. Gasping desperately, you fist your hands in his forest green quilt. Javy doesn't actually indulge you in a third finger but continues to tease your entrance like he might. His tongue drags against your clit, and the wet sounds of the whole act making you clench harder around his fingers.

"Please, just fuck me. Please, Javy."

"You think I'm going to fuck you before you cum on my tongue? You're so silly, sweetheart. I'm taking my sweet time with you. I have so much to make up for," Javy nips playfully at your inner thigh. You hum at the contact spreading your knees and legs a little wider to accommodate Javy's broad shoulders. Flattening his tongue to give you a broader stroke and occasionally licking around his fingers. You feel dripping at the combination of your own juices and his spit. It's teasing and playful, a pattern you're starting to notice with him.

Nearing an orgasm, you try to grind harder on Javy's tongue, but when you do he teases a third finger again. The push for new fullness drags you back from the edge. Teetering there, you try to figure out if another one of his fingers will enter you. When he curls it away, you groan lowly. Javy stops sucking at your clit and turns his face back to pillow on your thigh. You can feel his smirk against your skin. You weren't prepared for this kind of edging, and the desperation feels nearly raw and beyond just needy.

"Please, Javy. Do I need to beg more? Do you want me to cry? Or—" you trail off, hoping that he will fill the blank for you. You are willing to give him whatever he wants; you just don't know what that is yet. Navigating sex is always something a little awkward with a new partner. It feels an extra layer of odd because you know Javy, and have known him for years. You know that the smallest glance with a squeeze of your hand means he wants to leave a party. You know when he spends too long at the gym by the slightly slower pace he walks. You know the soup to make him when he has a cold and tries to hide it from you. You know Javy. Suddenly having a situation where you are unsure feels foreign and uncomfortable.

Javy sits back more on his calves so he can better gauge your reactions. "I want to rock your world. I want to ruin every other man for you. I want my name to be the only one you know. I want you to be mine and only mine. Sweetheart, you are all I want."

"You already have all those things," you reassure him. Propping yourself on your elbows so you can meet his gaze. Even heavy with lust, his eyes still make you feel warm and safe. A small genuine smile lifts on his lips, then grows into a splitting grin that makes his eyes crinkle.

"You've been so good and giving for me Mrs. Machado. About time I give back to you ain't it?" He asks, peppering more kisses all over your legs. His fingers resume pumping into you steadily, and he is purposeful in how he drags them along your inner walls. "I want one more thing, though."

"Anything Javy. Anything."

"I want you to cum for me whenever you're ready. I'll give it to you. I'll give you anything you want, baby." Javy isn't teasing this time. He starts to work you over again with his lips sealed around your clit. He sucks while also tracing hard twisting strokes of his tongue. His digits maintain a steady speed, but they are fucking into you harder, and he continues to curl them, occasionally dragging over your walls. Arching further to the edge of the bed, Javy's arm lays across your hips, holding you down so he can grind his tongue against you harder.

"Don't stop," you beg, and this time he listens. It takes a few more pumps of his fingers, and you are tumbling over the edge. Your pussy spasming around his fingers. Javy moans, and the vibrations travel right through you, extending your orgasm and making your hips stutter before falling all the way down to the bed. Closing your eyes tightly with short breaths, it takes you several moments to come back to your body. When you finally feel yourself, you find Javy on the bed with you resting with his head on your tummy. As your brain starts working, you try to push Javy's head away, but he resists snuggling further into you.

"Javy," you start to say, not sure how to explain to him your insecurities.

"Thank you, baby. That was so good. You are so beautiful," he says, mouthing little kisses near your belly button and up your chest.

"I love that you're so soft," he mutters, almost in awe. One of his hands squeezes your side, and the other graces over your lower belly. Javy presses his lips to your breasts and sucks a nipple. You keen under him. Using your knees to urge him that much further up your body so you can kiss Javy, tasting the hint of yourself on his tongue still. Once he knows that you don't mind your own taste he deepens the kiss and rolls you both to be less perilously positioned on the end of the bed.

"Will you fuck me now?" Javy is nodding, but not as enthusiastically as you expect him to. So you ask him hesitantly, "Or we can do other stuff?"

"I really want to make love to you, but."

"But?" You ask. Groaning, Javy slides to lay next to you, hiding his face in your chest. You run your fingers across the shaved prickly skin at the base of his skull, patiently waiting.

"I'm worried I'll cum too fast. I don't want you to get the wrong idea."

You make no attempt to stop the burst of tenderness and love you feel at his small confession sharing vulnerability. Then in the kindest voice, you say, "that's okay. It doesn't really matter to me. As long as you enjoy yourself, that's what matters."

Lifting his face from your chest, the look Javy gives you is horrified and a little offended. Immediately he starts jumping into explanation, "To start, fuck no. That is not what matters. Like I said, I don't want you to think that I'm always quick to cum. I've just wanted this for so long, and I spent so much time putting everything together today that I didn't even jack off in the shower. My second round of the day is always so much longer, I promise."

"Javy, thank you. I promise this isn't going to change my thoughts or feelings about you. Okay? And a second round sounds great to me. We have to get through the first, though."

"Okay," he says with a sigh. Javy stands off the bed again, and you take the opportunity to scooch further back against the headboard. You watch, entranced, as he finally peels his briefs off; Coyote’s cock is mouthwatering. You aren't at all ashamed of the small gasping moan that falls from your throat.

"How do you want me?" You ask him as he crawls back up the bed. You stare at his body, suddenly overcome with the urge to trace over every single inch of him with your tongue.

"How do you want me, beautiful?" He fires back in an easy tone.

"Missionary?" You suggest. Nodding his head enthusiastically to your suggestion. Settling in between your thighs and you have to widen your knees to accommodate his broad frame.

"Fuck yes, I want to be in this pretty pussy and able to see your pretty face too."

He wasn't lying when he told you that he was big, and as he starts to push in, you are appreciative that he took his time with foreplay. Being stuffed so full of him leaves you gasping, and your mind keeps repeating better. This is better than you ever thought it would be. He is better than you always knew he would be.

"How are you doing, sweetheart?"

"So good. I'm so full of you Javy. I want more."

Taking your permission, he starts rocking into you at a steady pace. With one arm, he anchors himself against the headboard gripping it tightly, then his free hand traces your face. You can tell Javy is trying to hold himself back and take things slow for the sake of his ego. You start to meet his thrusts lifting your hips a bit more to get a better angle. Javy's hand falls from your face to your ass, helping support you. The steady pace starts to increase to a hot frantic tempo. He moans your name brokenly, and you grab his ass, trying to urge him even closer to chase his pleasure. His hips start to stutter, and panting he slips out of you. His hand lets you go to give his cock a few harsh jerks, and Javy cums on your chest. He is frozen like that for a moment before rolling to your side with a wide grin on his face.

"You could have cum inside. We are married, you know." You tease Javy. He stops breathing momentarily, and you turn your head to see him better. Despite having just cum, his eyes are still heavy with lust, and when he does take a breath again, it's a little ragged.

"We've never really discussed that and should have used protection anyways. I'm sorry." Javy hasn't even finished the apology when you drag your finger across some of the cum on your chest. Delicately you swipe your tongue across your finger, tasting him. Javy groans low in his chest, turning to lie flat on his back and his face in the crook of his elbow. You hum happily, the power you have over him intoxicating to a degree.

"You're right. That's definitely something we need to talk about, but next time…" You wait for Javy' to remove his elbow and look at you again. He does peek at you a few seconds later. "I want you to come inside me. I want to feel you dripping down my thighs. I want you to fill me up."

Javy's mouth falls open, and his eyes are so dark you feel like you could get lost in them. He is surging forward then and kissing you. It's a dirty and quick tangle of tongues. Then he pulls away and starts mouthing at your throat. "Do you want to be stuffed with my cum, baby?"

"Yes, Lieutenant Machado," you say cheekily.

"Fuck. You drive me a little crazy," he warns you lowly as you move to straddle him. You can tell he is still sensitive, but his dick is already starting to thicken again. You settle on his thigh instead, deciding that you could be patient waiting for him. You rock against his thighs for the smallest bit of stimulation just to start you going again. Javy watches you, completely captivated.

"You being a good girl and waiting for me? Just give me a few minutes."

"I've been waiting three years. I can wait a little while longer to be full of your cum," you tell him, but it comes out as a whine like you're trying to convince yourself that's true. Javy settles a hand on your hip, giving you a small bit of encouragement to grind against him harder.

"I'm sorry I kept you waiting, sweetheart. No more though. I've got you now. I promise. I've got you." He repeats gently. His sweet and caring tone only makes the desperation in you burn higher. Shaking your head at him, unable to form the words explaining how you are feeling. Instead, you drop your eyes down to look at your chest again. You thought you would feel a little more peeved at the feeling of his cum drying against your skin. Rather, you just find more you can scoop into your mouth. The fact that his dick isn't in your mouth feels criminal.

Taking a moment to not just admire him but also strategize. Javy has a long cock, and you know you wouldn't be able to take all of him down without practice and working your way up to it. Something that definitely wouldn't be happening tonight. However, then the taste of his cum isn't enough, and neither is just looking. You slide further down his thigh; your own pleasure is lost in the haze of this need.

It's a more burning type of relief to have your mouth on him. You give the head a few soft licks, vaguely wondering how different he will taste when he hasn't already been in you. Javy lets out another shuddering moan. You want to lift your head in order to take in his features, but you are too absorbed in the feeling of his cock in your mouth. Javy clearly doesn't mind as you set about tracing his length. After a thorough exploration, one of your hands joins the mix, appreciating his shape and how heavy his dick is in your hand.

Sucking Javy until he is fully hard again, you become braver, daring to take more of him in your mouth. Bobbing slightly and sucking, letting your hand make up for the rest. However, just as you start to feel pleased with your rhythm, Javy gently pulls you off him, cooing when you whine.

"Baby. Baby stop. It's okay. Take a breath. That was so amazing. You are so fucking amazing."

"I hope it was okay. I might be a little out of practice," you admit to him shyly. Your lusty haze ebbing, you trace the lines of his chest but don't want to meet his eyes. Surely he hadn't been expecting you to be this much during your first time together.

"You're doing so good, sweetheart. I love you, and I love this," he reassures you. You shimmy up to straddle him again, lightly dragging your dripping cunt over him. Javy's cock is pressed hotly between your thighs, spreading your lips while nudging against your clit. You rock along him, wanting that friction while bracing against his chest, leaning down to kiss him.

"I love you too," you mutter against his lips. When Javy shifts his hips in tandem with yours, catching your entrance and then sliding past it, you're spurred into action. "I need you in me, Javy."

"I ain't stopping nothing, but are you sure you are okay?"

You don't answer him directly; instead, you reach between you to grab his cock and guide it to your entrance. Leaning back for a better angle, you slide down his whole length. You are taken aback, letting out a sharp almost pained gasp. Having already accommodated him inside once tonight, you didn't expect to still feel the slight burning stretch of his girth now. Once you adjust riding Javy is a dream. Praise spills out of his mouth along with the most delicious sounds. It's a great angle that makes you feel incredibly full. Your thighs start to burn when you stop the slow grinding and transition to you bouncing quickly on his dick. You hope the increased pace, paired with the snapping of Javy's hips, would get you there. However, it's still not enough. Not even when Javy brings his thumb up to circle your clit in strong consistent strokes. Although you are nearly in tears, Javy looks perfectly content like this is exactly what he wants.

"Javy," you cry high pitched, completely ceasing your movements. Even though you froze, he doesn't. Javy's hips continue lifting up fucking into you, and his thumb doesn't falter either. You take a moment to just feel it, and savor the moment. Then tiredly you slump down against his chest. A few thrusts later, you bite Javy's peck hard. He doesn't complain as he runs one of his hands down your back and squeezes your ass, chucking.

"What do you need, sweet girl?" He asks you. You bite him again, licking one at his nipple before nibbling it too. That rewards you with an extra hard thrust from Javy.

"I don't know," you admit, frustrated. The constant stimulation makes you burn hotter and is tantalizing, but it doesn't give you any push to the final release. Javy completely stops moving but stays hilted in you. His hands urge you to sit up, and he holds your gaze steadily.

"It's okay. We always figure things out together, don't we? This isn't any different."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, of course. Now tell me how you are feeling. Tell me what you like."

"I really like you. I love you Javy. And I've been thinking about this for so long."

"I've been dreaming about it too. I can't believe neither of us said anything sooner."

"I couldn't ever tell you."

"I wish you had. Why didn't you?"

"We both know you're out of my league, Javy. I never thought that you would want me back." He makes a pained sound hearing your admission.

"I'm not out of your league, and I've always wanted you back from the beginning. Okay?" You feel a little frustrated that he doesn't see or understand what you're saying, and if he wasn't literally still inside you, it might have been possible to press the issue. Right now, though, you know your insecurities could be tabled to another day.

"Okay."

"Good," Javy mutters, slipping out of you with a wet sound. "Let's try a different position. Does that sound okay, sweetheart?"

"Okay, we can try that," you say with a shrug.

Then with little effort, he gently manhandles you off him into a new position. Your front is pressed to the bed ass up for him, and Javy helps slide a pillow under you for better support. Kissing down the length of your spine. He asks twice if you're comfortable, taking his time pushing into you. It's a good position, allowing Javy to fuck into you harder than before. Your biggest complaint is the loss of being able to appreciate his handsome features.

In between telling you how good you are and just how wet and perfect your pussy is, Javy asks if he can spank you. It's a suggestion that has you biting your lip and agreeing hesitantly. It's not even a hard spank against your ass, just enough for a slight sting. The sharpness in contrast with how deliciously you're being filled, has your back arching. With a few more spanks, all of which you can tell Javy is holding back for, you feel close to an orgasm again.

"I'm getting close," you warn him.

"Going to give you every last drop, sweetheart. I'm going to make sure you're so full of me. I really want to feel you cum, though. Can you do that? Will you cum for me, Mrs. Machado?" Javy finally gives attention to your neglected clit again, and you know it's only a matter of time. Every time he bottoms out and gives your pulsating bundle of nerves a tweak, you feel yourself teetering.

"Call me that again," you request, relishing the way it falls off his lips more than nearly any of the other times he's said it in the past.

"Mrs. Machado," he repeats. "My wife, my girl, my love. Mrs. Machado, I want you to cum now."

With an extra hard press of his thumb, you're cumming. The heat that had been building in your abdomen bursts flooding bliss through your limbs. Crying out his name and fluttering around his cock, your legs start to spasm too. Coyote keeps fucking you, though, a little harder, a bit more selfishly chasing his own release.

"Javy, fill me up now," you demand, turning your head as much as you can to watch him. His pace falters at your request but immediately picks up again.

"Yes ma'am," Javy gasps. Speeding up so fast and hard, you feel a twinge against your cervix at the abuse. Just as you think you are going to have to tell him to be more gentle with you, Javys hips stutter. Holding himself entirely in you, his hands gripping your hips so hard you won't be shocked to find bruises later, he finally fills you up. You clench purposely around his length, wanting to help him milk his orgasm as long as possible. The warm spreading feel of his seed in you makes you sigh happily, and the boneless tired feeling after a good orgasm hits you like a truck.

Javy lays down on the bed, his breath still coming out in short pants. Immediately you cuddle closer to him, turning to lay your head on his shoulder. Wrapping his arms around you, he pulls you even closer to him. As his breaths even out, he starts kissing you slowly, hands cluching you tighter to his chest.

"Come closer, sweetheart," he requests quietly. Part of you wouldn't be surprised if Javy will ever think you are close enough to him again now that he's been inside you, but most of you relishes that concept. You scoot even closer, more than half laying on his chest, pressing as much of your skin together as feasible.

Later after one of the most tender intimate showers of your life, you are snuggled into Javy's bed with fresh sheets, trying to pick out a sappy Valentine's Day movie to watch. Javy had brought the extra pillows in your room, so you could make an extra area for movie cuddles. You are still scrolling when he comes back into the room with a plate of reheated dinner. Ravenous from skipping dinner and the following activities, you grin widely seeing the food.

"You are the most amazing man to ever walk this earth, Javy Machado." You tell him, patting the spot you left for him next to you.

"Sweetheart, you'll give me an ego if you keep talking to me like that." Javy expertly balances the plate and nestles in close. "Please tell me more," He says cheekily, pressing a kiss casually to your lips. You have to take a full minute to process that's a thing that can just happen now. So you lean a little more of your weight into him, and seek out Javy's lips again, simply because you want to and can.

'Well, no one cooks like you do."

"Yeah?"

"And no one gives as good cuddles as you do."

"I think that one's actually about you because you are the most comfortable and soothing person I have ever met. Of course it turns me into a snuggle monster." You laugh at him, and he casually throws an arm over your shoulder. He feeds you a small bite in off the plate before taking one himself. However, he doesn't seem overly invested in it like you expect.

"You ate a plate in the kitchen, didn't you?" You guess and feel Javy stop breathing.

"That maybe could have happened. I'm sorry sweetheart, I was so hungry." Javy adopts an exaggeratedly apologetic face sticking out his lower lip pleadingly.

"I guess, I could be convinced to forgive you."

"Oh, I'll do anything to earn your forgiveness."

"How about breakfast in bed tomorrow," you suggest casually.

"Absolutely, whatever you want. Quiche? Waffles? Omelettes? Croissants?"

"That all sounds good, but I was thinking of something else."

"Really? And what do you want to have, sweetheart?" He asks curiously.

"The only thing I had on the menu was you," You tell him cheekily. His eyes widen a little, and his teeth dig into his lower lip. He kisses your neck sweetly, nosing under your jaw. He closes his eyes and takes a deep, steadying breath.

"Marry me?"

Finding his joke funny, you laugh lightly, playfully tapping your elbow into his side. Javy remains quiet and serious, though. When he doesn't respond, you set the plate aside, so it has no danger of spilling and turn to face him more fully. You are sure that he is waiting for that to reveal his mirth, but his eyes are just as serious as his tone.

"Javy, we are already married." You say, chuckling again.

"Marry me, again." He requests earnestly. Taking your hand in his, he gently pulls off your wedding band, holding it out like an offering. You pluck the ring back from him, sliding it into place on your finger. A smile breaks out on his face following your movement. Then you place that same hand on his face, holding him so he wouldn't be able to avoid your eyes.

"No. We are not going to get remarried." Javy pouts, and before he can reach true sadness, you lean forward to kiss him again. "But we can throw a really nice party if you want."

And when you two do finally get around to throwing a big old party, most of the room is confused about why exactly you and Javy are exchanging vows. However, absolutely no one is surprised when Javy produces seven cramped front-to-back sheets of paper of written vows when it's his turn.

#javy machado x reader #coyote x reader #Javy coyote machado x reader #javy machado x you #coyote x you #top gun fanfiction #tgm fanfiction #carnal for coyote #hot hot hot!#hot 🥵#bones hearts and marriges

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cuckoo-on-a-string · 1 year

Text

Civilian Asset 2.

Polyamorous/femme/female reader x multiple

Summary: Things go from bad to worse.

Master List (coming soon) / Prev chapter

Warnings: Mild/brief self harm (over-washing hands), peril, violence, kidnapping, torture, corpses, gore, extremely brief threat of SA

Tagging: A couple folks have asked about tagging. Unfortunately tagging breaks my posts, so I don't keep lists. But I DO reply to each comment on each chapter when I post something new. So it's like a hand-written invitation delivered by butler to your inbox.

A/N: Thank you so much for the support! I hope you enjoy the ride!

When you remember how your legs work, you find your way to the bathroom. Away from the windows, it’s pitch black, and you have to flick on a light to see your hand in front of your face, but the yellow glow itches over your skin, and you work fast, turning the tap to cold and using the little bar of hand soap to attack the lingering rust red hiding in the creases where skin meets nail.

You wish for a big, bristly brush. Or some steel wool. You’d scrape the skin off and start over again if you could. Without so much as a washcloth, you’re forced to pick at yourself, scratching until your flesh is raw and fresh blood seeps up to hide the old.

Once you’re sure the handler’s blood is gone, you slurp a few handfuls of water, sure you’ll feel the affects of dehydration after so much vomiting soon if you don’t. Passing out is never fun, but in the current circumstances, a little dizziness at the wrong moment could be a death sentence.

A little voice whispers in the back of your head that everything tastes like iron as you sip, and you drown it by throwing the next scoop of water directly in your face.

The makeup you wore to the club has not faired well, and you’d rather be the idiot civilian in need of rescuing without mascara tracks streaking your face.

The cold water and hand soap leaves your skin flushed and red, but you’re clean. Maybe even a little refreshed.

Breathing comes easier.

It’s easy to pretend this is just an unplanned sleepover. This isn’t the first time you’ve spent an evening puking up your soul and washing your face without proper skincare products because your drunk ass never made it home.

This is okay.

This is livable.

All you have to do is sit tight and keep behind a locked door. Easy enough.

The light stays on. Even if it makes you uncomfortable, you can’t resign yourself to the total dark again. But you step out. Better to enjoy the illumination from a distance.

You wedge yourself into a corner between the empty living area and the hall to the bath and bedrooms, keeping away from the windows. No one said anything about snipers, but you have seen movies, and even if there isn’t a ghost out there with a gun, windows are an opportunity for the wrong person to see you moving around.

In the day, windows are eyes looking out. At night, the eyes turn in. It’s the kind of lesson you learned as a girl. Be aware, because someone wants to take a look without asking. Someone is hiding in the car beside yours, so be careful where you park. Don’t walk with headphones in. Kidnappers like to grab long hair and ponytails. There’s always someone who wants to hurt you, and they’re always going to be bigger and stronger, so the only way to win is to see them before they strike. This is definitely not the situation you grew up imagining, but you’ll take the intrinsic paranoia of being a woman in public as the gift it is in the moment.

Headlights from passing cars sweep the room from time to time, and you freeze like a deer as the LEDs paint the walls white. The beams cutting through the empty windows feels like a countdown, gears in a clock turning, and as the number of cars grows, you gradually notice some of the light stays behind, weakening the shadows where you hide. It’s closer to dawn than you realized, and soon this awful fucking night will end.

A knock shatters the silence, and your hand falls to your pocket, where your phone waits. Didn’t the woman say she would call? Could she have forgotten, or…?

Another series of knocks interrupts your train of thought, and you wrestle with the urge to leap towards the door the way you lunge to a ringing landline. Habit.

You get to your feet, backpack slung over one shoulder, trying to decide whether to approach the door or go hide deeper in the safehouse. It’s a Choose Your Own Adventure story from hell with no way to turn back to the previous page if you get shot.

In the end, someone else makes the choice for you.

A key rattles in the lock, and grey morning light floods the space as the door swings open to reveal three tall, clearly male silhouettes. They file through and shut the door quickly – too quickly? A smiling blond in the front approaches, hands up, trying to put you at ease.

“Hey, ready to go?” He talks like he knows you, but you most definitely do not know him. It tugs at your stranger danger trigger, and your hands flex against the urge to raise defensive fists. He’s American. The woman on the phone was American, too. Maybe that’s a good thing. “We’re here to get you somewhere secure, okay? Got a car out front.”

The other two sweep the room, move down the hall, clearing the rest of the safehouse with handguns easily hidden under their casual civilian clothing. The leader sounds like he’s from Boston. The other two have a bit of South in the mouth from what you catch of their brief commands and replies. It’s all very official. They’re professionals. There’s no reason to think they’re anything other than what they claim.

The smiling man knew where to find a key, so logically, someone in command told him. They knew where to look. They know you’re supposed to go somewhere with them.

So why do the hairs on the back of neck prickle?

Another lesson from your teen years pops to mind: If it feels wrong, it probably is.

Your phone jumps to life in your pocket, and you seize it with dread and hope as the man’s eyes dart to your hand, his smile suddenly and mysteriously missing.

“Don’t.” A flat command with a threat rippling under the surface like a riptide.

You hesitate, locking in place like he’s drawn a gun on you. “Why?”

He smiles again, more forced than before. “Because you don’t need to. We’re already here.”

His bullshit steams in the morning sun as it drops from his lips.

It feels wrong.

It is wrong.

You leap back and accept the call.

“Team’s five min – ”

You shout over her as the man lunges, talking faster than you realized you could. “Three men! Had a key! Americ-”

The blond tackles you, his shoulder in your diaphragm, and the air leaves you with a squeak as your back slams into the thin carpet. He’s heavy, and you hit the ground hard. As you blink away stars, you distantly hear the woman’s voice from where the phone has fallen a few feet away.

“Shut-up,” the man growls, driving his palm into your face.

His hand pushes over your mouth, and you don’t stop to think before sinking your teeth into the asshole’s skin. It isn’t the first time you’ve had reason to bite a bitch, and you hope it won’t be the last.

He jerks away with his own yelp.

You haven’t quite gotten your breath back, and you barely manage to bleat, “Help,” before the window of opportunity closes again.

A backhanded strike sends your vision spinning, leaving you discombobulated long enough for all three of the men – all shouting over each other – to roll you over and zip tie your hands behind your back. A heavy stomp and distinct crunch tell the fate of your phone.

You’ll tell the woman at the end of the line no more secrets. That tie is severed. You scream again anyway, because maybe someone is close enough to hear you. This is a residential neighborhood. Someone may wake up and feel heroic.

“Shut-up.” The leader smacks your head into the floor to make a point, and your teeth catch on the inside of your cheek. “We could’ve done this nice and easy. Painless. Quiet. But you wanna be a bitch? You wanna play games? Fuck it. Fine.”

You pull against your restraints, trying to get up on your knees as the blond addresses his friends, “We’ll do this at the warehouse. Grab her.”

Swearing, the other two heave you onto your feet and start dragging you out of the safehouse. One makes an attempt to fling you over his shoulder, but you kick and writhe until you tumble off, so they make due with hauling you by the arms as your heels scrabble across the carpet, the doorway, the concrete. You’re losing ground. They’re taking you away. And your mind is full of frantic thoughts about kidnappers and secondary locations and dropping survival rates.

One keeps a gloved hand over your mouth when it’s clear you won’t stop screaming no matter how many times they tell you to. Well-behaved women seldom make history, and well-behaved hostages rarely live to tell about it. There is no reason to go quietly into that good night, and fuck if you won’t fight them every inch of the way.

But they’re bigger, and stronger, and they get you to the car.

The blond leader waits by the trunk, holding it open with one hand while he cradles the one you bit near his chest. You get a glimpse of red teeth marks before his teammates literally toss you into the trunk and slam it shut.

It’s darker than the safehouse, and with your hands trapped, you can’t find any of the emergency pulls designed to help people in just this situation. One of the simplest horrors – losing control of your own body – tightens your throat. You can’t defend yourself. Can’t even put your arms over your face the next time one of the bastards takes a swing at you.

The engine rumbles to life, and your kidnappers peel away, flying over speedbumps and taking tight corners in their rush to leave before the real escorts arrived. You roll and slip at the mercy of inertia. Both fortunately and unfortunately, there’s nothing sliding around with you in the dark. While a crowbar or tire iron could’ve stabbed you or given you a concussion as you bounced and crashed around the narrow space, they might’ve helped free your hands. The best you can do is guess at where the taillights are and try to stomp through the corners.

You do not succeed.

But you keep trying as the coarse flooring scours a rug burn into your cheek.

This could be your last chance to get away, and if you can get the trunk open, you’ll gladly jump into the freeway. Tied hands and all. Living with one less limb or a broken spine is better than dying slowly in a warehouse. Right?

You don’t get to make that decision.

The road turns rough under the wheels, and you nearly vibrate to pieces, collecting bruises as you collide with the ceiling, floor, and walls.

You taste blood, probably from where you bit your cheek. Or maybe from the slap. Or any of the dozen times your head struck something during the ride.

It isn’t a big deal. It shouldn’t be, at least. But you’re bleeding. You just got the blood off your hands, and now it’s on your tongue. Your wrists sting where the plastic zip ties cut too tight. These men will kill you. They will hurt you until you’ve told them whatever they want to know, and then they’ll throw your body somewhere filthy for scavengers to tear apart.

You’re helpless.

The feeling sits like uneasy bile in your gut, churning with raw fear and howling anxiety as you fight back tears.

Shocky. Is that a word? You feel shocky.

The facts of your reality are a little too much right now, so your consciousness pulls back half a step. It’s happening to you, yes, but not in an immediate way. It could be a vivid thought experiment, or a dream you’ll realize is a nightmare when someone shoots you in the head and you don’t die. Your mind just lets all the feelings slip between open fingers to fall in a pile at your feet. The writhing miasma of panic and discomfort screams, trying to crawl back up your knees, but it doesn’t hurt so much down there.

You’re distancing yourself. That’s the word. Maybe it will help when they take you apart.

The car rolls to a stop. Your heart nearly stops with it. You hold your breath as the engine shuts off, listening to each shift the men make as they exit the car. The squeaks of old seats and aging suspension echoes through the trunk, and slamming doors send shockwaves through your bones as the men crunch over gravel to reach the back. The hatch pops open, and the fully-risen sun blinds you.

How long was the drive? Hours? Minutes? The sky is awfully bright.

As you squint, tears automatically beading in the corners of your eyes, the leader speaks up.

“We done playing games, or you gonna make this difficult?”

You lash out. Even if your hands are bound, your legs are still free, and you kick like a mule when the first man reaches for you. You miss him on the upswing, but he’s balancing with one hand on the trunk’s lip, and your heel slams down hard on his knuckles.

He wheels back, cursing, but you don’t have time to celebrate. Before you get your leg back into the deep, dark depths of the trunk, the leader grabs you by the ankle and yanks you out. The latch digs into your back, and you shriek as you go face-first into the gravel.

You’ve taken your pound of flesh from all three. The leader has your bite on his hand, you hopefully fucked up one goon’s fingers, and both of the supporting meatheads should have good bruises from your resistance on the way out of the safehouse.

None of them are well pleased.

“Fucking fine then.”

Still holding your ankle, the leader moves towards the decrepit building they’ve parked behind. He’s a bulky guy, but he’s got a bad case of vanity muscles. He can’t walk and pull at the same time. It’s step – drag – step – drag – step.

The little stones jab through your clothes, slicking into exposed skin and grinding deep bruises along your hips. Growling, you kick and wriggle, aiming for the asshole’s wrist and knee as you try to inch away like a worm.

He loses his grip, and for a blessed instant you think you’re free. Then meathead one and two each take an arm and haul you inside before their leader loses any more face. They don’t give you a chance to get on your feet, clearly frustrated with the whole ordeal. You aren’t a threat, but you’re a pain in the ass, so they treat you like the problem you are.

Spotty sunshine cuts through broken windows like dozens of spotlights in the wide storage room. The remaining glass is too filthy for anything but a muted glow to creep through. Still, there’s enough light for stubby grass to grow in the cracks. The place has seen better days, and rustling wings answer the thugs’ heavy steps as a flock of nesting pigeons take to the air. Everything smells like bird shit and mold.

The leader drags a rickety wooden stool to the center of the room, and the goons force you up to sit on it. Like most stools you’ve encountered, this one is a little too tall, and your toes don’t quite scrape the ground. The support rungs where you might’ve rested your feet for balance have rotted away to splintered stumps, and your sneakers paw the air, trying to balance, before you realize your escorts aren’t letting go.

Blondie steps in front of you, insincere smile back on his face. Clearly, he feels in control again, now that he has two grown men holding you down so you can’t run, can’t fight back.

“We know the hand-off didn’t happen,” he says, almost friendly. “We know you met with the handler, though, and he definitely had time to tell you something.” Leaning in, he lifts his brows, feigning an open expression as hands squeeze the blood from your bound arms. “I need you to tell me two things. I need you to tell me exactly what the handler said to you, and I need to know exactly how much you’ve told Laswell. That’s it. You can still make this easier on yourself. Just tell me the truth.”

Your jaw clenches shut. Your lips seal closed in a frown. It’s instinctive, almost defensive, like crossing your legs and leaning away when a man crowds you in a bar. He can’t have what he wants. You won’t give it to him.

You don’t even know who Laswell is, but you assume she’s the one who directed you to the safehouse.

A flicker of irritation warps the leader’s face again, and he says, saccharine sweet like fruit about to rot, “We could always do a cavity search to make sure you didn’t receive anything.”

You don’t take time to think. Following your gut, you sneer, giving the bastard elevator eyes even his goons will notice. Meeting his gaze again, you simply say “Gross.”

The following slap leaves your ears ringing. It jogs some of your disassociated mind back into your body, and you blink rapidly, searching for your equilibrium as you stare into the corner of the room, where his strike turned your head. Something wet wells over your upper lip, and when you try licking it away, you get a mouthful of copper.

“Fine. Fine!” The leader moves behind you, throwing up his hands. He rustles through something where you can’t see, muttering under his breath, and you wonder if he’s ever done this before.

Maybe he’ll give up. Maybe, if you keep quiet a little longer, they’ll just…

Rough hands force your left pinky straight, and something cold presses against your fingertip, pinching the nail.

Oh.

Fuck.

He’s gonna rip it off.

It doesn’t even hurt yet, but you can’t catch your breath. It’s evacuated your lungs before the screaming starts, and you go deathly still as you try to brace yourself.

The pliers lift and tug in a quick but ruthless motion, ripping the nail from the bed, and your vision goes white.

Pain too intense to stay in your finger crackles through your shattered nerves, and you struggle to fold in on yourself as every muscle tries to get away, to physically disconnect and run from your own hand. Your lungs won’t expand, and squeaky, stuttered cries punch out as you try to breathe.

“Just tell me what you know! It’s not that hard! Jesus!”

The pliers settle on the next nail, and you start hyperventilating. It’s just pain. It will pass. It’s just pain. It will pass. A friend once confided he’d studied torture-endurance tactics when he started running. You cling to them as the second nail lifts and whimper through a desperate inhale. The key is time. Nothing lasts forever. One way or another, it has to stop eventually. It isn’t as effective as it probably was for your friend, though, because his torture ended in a good shower and cool glass of water.

You aren’t ready to die.

But you don’t talk, either.

The asshole on your left jerks you hard to get you to quit shaking so his leader can grasp the next fingernail, but it’s not something you can voluntarily stop. “She’s not talking. Just shoot her so we can get out of here.”

The leader throws down the pliers, and they clatter across the brittle concrete. He paces behind you. Each step sounds like the second hand of a clock ticking away his patience, ticking away the minutes you have left to live. “He wants to know the extent of the breach. Our mess. We clean it up.”

His teammate scoffs, “Just because you want to impress him –”

“This isn’t about impression anyone, dumbass!” The leader’s voice pings around the empty warehouse, and you flinch, ready for that anger to turn on you. He marches back from the corner his pacing took him to, snapping at his associate over the top of your head. “What do you think happens if we don’t meet his expectations? If we don’t fucking exceed them? Think he’ll just shrug and call it a learning experience? Fucking – dumbass!”

“Bet he’d be angrier if we get caught because you wanted to exceed his expectations.”

Silence. A full thirty seconds. You count them in your head, like you’re playing hide and seek.

“We’re running out of time.”

The leader sighs. A rustle. Something clicks, something you imagine is the safety of a gun, and the men holding you in place lean away without letting go.

You struggle, jerking and swaying so you almost knock over the stool, but the men anticipated your fight against the end, and their bruising grips crush to the bone.

Something brushes the hair on the back of your head, gentle as a kiss. Oh, it’s definitely a gun.

“Last chance.” The leader still acts like he’s being reasonable, that his inconvenience is greater than your entire life. Like he ever could’ve been the hero in this scenario.

Now that he’s shown his hand, you have no reason to speak, even if you had planned to. Caving to his demands won’t buy back your life. It might not even win another hour. You didn’t get the message out, so you’ve already failed. And you’re going to die.

Doesn’t mean you aren’t terrified. Your face drips with tears and blood. The salty tracks sting what you assume is a cut on the side of your face, and every breath of wind stirs the naked nerves on the tips of your fingers to fresh agony.

You don’t want to cry, and you sure as hell won’t beg these assholes for anything. But you can’t bear to watch, so you close your eyes like a child, face screwed up as you wonder how much the bullet will hurt on its way through your brain, how much you’ll feel before it ends you.

The hands on your arms tense. The barrel of the gun presses firm and cool against your scalp.

A crack like thunder shatters the stillness, and it’s amazing that you can still hear the men holding you down yell and jump after you’ve been shot.

Another bang, and the man on your left lets go as something warm sprays your face.

Your eyes pop open.

That shouldn’t happen. You’re supposed to be dead.

The man to your right yanks you off the stool and pins you to his front with an arm across your throat. Using you as a human shield. Because.

He’s the one in danger.

You register the dead bodies of the blond leader and the one who argued for your execution on the floor. Blooming pools of red seep from wide holes in their skulls. Something greyish oozes from the hollow of the goon’s former expression.

The last surviving teammate has you facing some of the high, broken windows, and you recall your fears of a sniper when you cowered in the dark safehouse.

A new gun pushes into your temple, and you try to twist away only for the man to squeeze your neck so hard he cuts off your air. You aren’t sure if means to choke you, but you can’t fucking breathe. Unbalanced, with your hands still tied behind your back and a gun to your head, there’s nothing you can do but slip and stumble where he pulls you – presumably out of the sniper’s line of sight.

As he tries to drag you towards an exit, the door falls in with a boom, and two large men with much bigger guns than your kidnapper’s rush him.

“Drop it now! Get on your knees!”

Your kidnapper doesn’t comply. He whips back and forth, putting so much pressure on your throat your vision dances with black spots, and your feet drag, almost entirely limp, over the floor.

“I’ll do it! Back off! I’ll shoot her!”

The two men move in concert, orchestrated like a pack of wolves as they split up and gradually move on the hostage-taker. The man drifts back towards the stool and his dead friends without realizing, far too involved with the nearer guns to remember who’d killed the others.

He grinds the gun against your face, and you squeeze your eyes shut again. How many death threats can you survive in one day? If the approaching team doesn’t move faster, you’ll suffocate before you get shot.

Your shoe slips in blood, and as you feebly scramble to keep your feet under you, a third shot reverberates through the room, and you’re falling. The man holding you tumbles forward, pinning you under literal dead weight with his arm still twisted around your neck.

You only have a moment to panic, and then big hands are tugging the corpse away, and the light seems as bright as it did when your kidnappers opened the trunk. You can breathe, and the oxygen shudders into you like a punch to the sternum. Coughing, you try to remember how this breathing shit is supposed to work.

One of the men quickly but carefully rolls you onto your side so he can cut off the zip ties, and your hands ache with the rush of blood to your fingers. Including your mangled nailbeds. Ah, fuck. Those smart.

The second man kneels in front of you, pausing to speak into a radio while his partner gets you free.

“Good shot, LT. Target down. Securing the package now and moving to exfil.”

He is very Scottish, and that puts some little, anxious voice in your head at ease. The group who took you was American. This is not the same club. As if shooting the kidnappers wasn’t enough to prove that. But for whatever reason, the accent matters more to your rattled mind.

The man behind you helps you sit up, and as you flex your hands, as happy as you are hurt, he asks, “Are you seriously injured? Can you walk?” A nice, English accent. It has the same effect as the Scot’s voice. These are friends. They’re here to help. Even if they’re even scarier than the men who first took you.

“I’m… fine.” A lie. “I can walk.” In theory.

They hadn’t done anything directly to your legs, but everything feels shaky and unsteady, so you aren’t sure how well they’ll hold once the adrenaline drops.

“Okay.” The Scot pulls you the rest of the way to your feet with the same firm efficiency as his comrade as the Englishman turns with a raised gun to watch the room’s other exits. “I need you to hold onto the back of my vest.” He takes your undamaged hand and guides your grip over the heavy strap covering his shoulder. “Just like that. Very good. Just move when I move and we’ll get you out, yeah?”

You nod, feeling small and strange – he’s bigger than you initially thought, and you feel like a child hanging onto him like this. But you understand what he’s doing, and you’re slightly more confident in your ability to leave on your own two feet now that you have some physical support.

“Okay.” He lifts his gun and signals to the second man. “Let’s move.”

It’s a short, cautious trip back into daylight. The Scot checks corners as you progress, keeping himself between you and potential threats ahead while the Englishman guards the rear, ready for an ambush.

When you escape the shadows of the warehouse, a black SUV races up to meet your little band. You flinch back, but don’t let go of the Scot’s tactical vest, and the young man behind you rushes to assure you all is well before you bolt. “It’s our team. Don’t worry. You’re safe now.”

The Scot opens the door, hops in, and because you’re still holding onto him, you go, too. Behind you, the rearguard leaps in, and the vehicle takes off before he even wrangles the door shut.

It takes a moment and the Scottish gentleman clearing his throat before you realize you haven’t released him, and the hold leaves you kneeling awkwardly on the bench seat between the two… soldiers? Agents?

He does the hard work for you, unfolding your fingers the same way he brought them to the vest. “There you go, hen. You’re alright.”

Anxious, face burning, you slip down to sit like a functional adult with your ass on the leather and your feet on the floor. Two more men sit in the front, one with a rifle. One with a fucking fishing hat. That’s all you can see around the headrests. Nothing sticks in your head as you look around, and you can’t see out the tinted windows very well past the bulky men with their outsized guns.

You’re alive. You’ve been rescued. But every little sensation, every dawning thought and fact make you feel worse. Small. Trapped. Rushing somewhere out of your control.

You feel, once again, very terribly like a civilian caught in the wrong world.

#ghost x reader #captain price x reader #soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #x reader #poly!reader #cod mw fanfiction

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magicaloneandmystery · 1 year

Text

easy to love. (p.p. x reader)

pairing: TASM!Peter Parker x reader

summary: Peter is relentlessly there to help pick you up when you are too tired to do the same.

warnings: heavy negative self-talk, allusions to depression, please don't read this if you are not comfortable with either of these. additionally, my inbox and messages are always open if you ever want to vent about anything

word count: about 850 words

a/n: if you are suffering or even slightly down today, take this as your reminder that you are loved, cared for, and you matter. sending so many hugs to all of your way <3

(gif not mine, credits to the owner/creator)

you had been in bed since morning and it was 2 pm now.

suffice it to say, it was a bad day.

you were drowning in your thoughts, unable to distinguish the light on the surface from the darkness of the depths. you were not sure if there was any surface, to be honest.

you had forgotten to call in from your work in the haze that surrounded you but left a message about an hour earlier, a simple text to your boss that read apologies for not coming in today, feeling a bit sick.

bless her heart, you were only met with a text saying are you okay? that was left on read.

you should answer that soon.

there were several other texts you were yet to reply to, the most glaring ones being from Peter.

good morning sweetheart was the first one.

you okay? after a few hours of no reply.

y/n talk to me, please? was the last one.

you wanted to talk to him so bad, but it was much easier staying there and pretending the world didn’t exist for as long as you could, as long as it was viable.

you didn’t realise it was way later than 2 pm when you suddenly turned in your bed to see the darkened skies. you supposed time flies when all you do is lie beneath your covers thinking about all the reasons you couldn’t get up. (more often than not coming up with none.)

you jumped when a knock sounded on your window but didn’t remove the blanket from your face to see who it was. you knew who it was, you were just hoping he left you alone.

alas, that hope went out the window (no pun intended) when he stepped into your room. you wished you had turned the lock on them but in your state last night it didn’t matter whether they were on or not. no amount of locks could ensure that you felt safe.

“you should not leave your windows unlocked like that, sweetheart,” he said, noticing the piles of clothes in two places. apart from that, though, your room was organised like it usually was. not a lot of people could’ve said something was wrong by looking at your room.

“I know you’re awake, it’s fine if you don’t wanna talk to me,” he sighed. he was disappointed in you. you should get up and talk to him. greet him, at least. he came all this way just for you. and here you are, lying there like you don’t want it, want him. ungrateful brat. “did you have something to eat?"

you wondered why he bothered trying.

“y/n,” he sat down next to you. his ungloved hand came into your view as he tucked away the blanket a bit. you realised he wasn’t wearing his suit. did he not come here after his patrol?

you’re disrupting spider-man too. selfish selfish selfish.

“babe,” he started, stroking your cheek. “just give me a simple nod if you want me here. I’ll be gone if you don’t.”

tears were pooling in your eyes. you wanted him gone but more than that, you knew you needed him here. it was unfair to still need him for anything.

gathering all your strength, you nodded once.

his fingers gently wiped away the tears that managed to spill over.

"I love you," he said, before leaning down and kissing your forehead. your eyes shut tightly, undeserving of his love, his beauty, his warmth. "I'm gonna clean this room a little, okay? I must say, you've managed it quite well already."

you knew he was lying but it made the pressure holding you down lift a little. maybe you were not a complete failure.

a few minutes of his cleaning had put some life back into your body, making it easier to breathe in and out. you moved into a sitting position by your bed, legs hanging off its side.

"hey, bug," Peter grinned, triumph swimming in his eyes. "wanna eat something?"

you nodded after some time, contemplating.

"something light? I was thinking of some soup."

you nodded again.

"be right back!" he skipped out of the room, already familiar with your apartment enough to know where all the ingredients were kept.

you listened to the clanging of the utensils for some time, head bent in the doorway’s direction. slowly, you stretched your legs and decided to join him. walking seemed to take tremendous effort but when you saw Peter, his back to you, stirring the pot on your stove, making food for you. the realisation felt heavy but it seemed to make your steps lighter all the same. maybe you could be loved.

“hello there,” he called out to you. his senses were already attuned to you, and his heart fluttered wildly when he realised you were joining him in the kitchen. he stretched his hand out to you, sighing when your body slotted itself to his side as you both stared at the boiling soup.

as your head rested on his shoulder, eyes fixated forward, you realised it’s very easy to love Peter Parker. sometimes, that was all you needed. a reminder you could love.

phew, thanks for reading if you did!! comments and reblogs are much appreciated :) please do remember to check in with your closed ones and to never be afraid to ask for help.

#tasm!peter parker #tasm!peter parker x reader #peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #peter parker #tasm!peter parker x y/n #tasm!peter imagine #tasm!peter parker imagine #tasm!spiderman x you #tasm!peter fanfiction #tasm!peter parker x you #andrew garfield x reader #andrew garfield x you #tasm!peter parker fanfiction #peter parker fanfiction

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dreambunnynotes · 3 months

Text

daily note: january 27th ❤︎

hello angels, long time no see! it's so nice to be back; i took a little break from tumblr for my mental health and i now feel reinvigorated, rested, and ready to document my daily progress. let's get into my first reflection of the year!

accomplishments:

worked for 2 hours on bookbinding; i completed a hand-bound notebook i had started yesterday and them got to work on a trickier hand-bound journal afterwards!

figured out how many books i would like to make in time for an upcoming market i am doing with my sister, and planned out my daily quota in order to reach my goal by the date

answered a few asks on my law of assumption tumblr; this is something that stressed me out for awhile because i have around 70 asks that i need to answer, but i figured out i could answer three asks a day and empty my inbox within 3 weeks, which seems like a really reasonable goal! speaking of determining my goals, i...

figured out a goal-setting system that actually works for me! it gives me self-imposed deadlines that are actually effective, and it cuts the goals up into short enough time frames that it makes them seem doable and exciting. i actually figured out this system a few days ago, but today i was able to implement it and it felt really nice! i'll try to make a post about it sometime soon if others are interested.

visited with my nephew and other family members

cleaned out my pets tank and did a complete overhaul of the soil that was overdue

listened to a bunch of edward art videos while i did bookbinding!

returned to this lovely tumblr to make a daily reflection at long last!

final thoughts:

that's all for now sweet peas! have a great day, take good care of yourself, and i'll see you tomorrow for my updated 2024 goals list and what i have accomplished so far since my last update! mwah ❤︎

#becoming that girl #dream girl #dream life #girlblogging #glow up #it girl #productivity #that girl #clean girl #pink pilates girl #wonyoungism #self improvement #daily life

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smarti-at-smogwarts · 9 months

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2 for Marti and Theo?

for a friend

Marti & Ben:

Brave_Sara Bareilles

But I wonder what would happen if you

Say what you wanna say And let the words fall out Honestly I wanna see you be brave

With what you want to say And let the words fall out Honestly I wanna see you be brave

Theo & Garrett Weasely

I Think We're Alone Now_Tiffany

Children behave That's what they say when we're together And watch how you play They don't understand And so we're

Running just as fast as we can

Holding onto one another's hands.

Give me a number and I'll give you a song

#my answers #my mcs #cleaning out my inbox as self care #might bring thar ask game around again actually is fun

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welcometotheocverse · 11 months

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👨‍👩‍👦 Tino

Tino and Rory did a few numbers together before Rory quit dance when they were kids! Both Lorelai and Miss Patty keep pictures.

character headcanon asks!

#my ocs #my answers #tino la costa #cleaning out my inbox as self care

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lorimnnn · 10 months

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hey babez :3 could u possibly write about how michael feels for a hyperfemme bimbo gf? like he never sees her without heels and lashes on X3 this is shamelessly a self insert lol

i have no excuses. this has been sitting in my inbox and stewing in my mind for way too long but here it is!!! i was so excited to put it out I have no idea what happened lol

hope you enjoy my love!!

p.s. remember to reblog and comment!!!

cw: swearing, canon-typical violence, suggestive themes

i feel like a lot of the people who say he wouldn't care because he's literally a psychopathic serial killer forget he was born in 1957. He was literally raised in the sixties--- he won't care BUT HE'S GOING TO NOTICE.

michael is a watcher. long before he approached you he has memorised your routine, developed favourites from your closet, salivated over the doe-eyed batting of your long lashes when something doesn't quite go your way. you will later learn that your missing makeup products and fraying clothes is because of this fucker playing with you.

he's intrigued by you. the way you prance around without a care in the world, legs exposed, everything exposed. it's so scandalous. it feels like a sin to look at you alone.

the confidence that you carry yourself with only arouses him even more. he can't even fully objectify you because you know your worth and have standards and therefore he finds himself wondering what you're like. your personality. everything in between.

it becomes obsessive

when he approaches you, it's to extinguish his desire over your body. over you.

if he lets it go any further he'll---

are you... are you flirting with him?

he doesn't know how to feel with you looking directly at him, flinging comments his way despite knowing, KNOWING who he is. you're not even mistaken, you're just going for it even though he still has a knife in his hand

he already can't resist you

when you start running your hands down his body, he's done. just done.

if you're a bimbo in the 1960s (idfk you time travelled), you're going to be an outsider yourself and it makes him feel closer to you. you're practically a power couple--- two outsiders doing whatever the fuck you want with your lives? marriage. now.

you make him feel like a filthy old man. michael was raised with ideas of a white-picket fence and a busy 9-5 with a pretty wife to come home to. all that jazz. while he isn't that traditional you're going to be uprooting everything he once thought he knew and you best believe that when he looks at you, there is not one clean thought in his head

he becomes possessive tenfold. it doesn't help that you're dead gorgeous. will try stop you from leaving the house. will lock you and isolate you in there if he knew it wouldn't draw attention. why the fuck did you have to be so popular?

so many guys asking after you are now dead. and they keep popping up like flies--- Michael gets annoyed by this really easily. it's probably the only part of your getup and lifestyle that he doesn't really like. since he's a pretty independent killer and likes to go and do his own thing, it sets him on edge knowing he can't leave you alone for a minute without having like, 500 men pile up on his hit list

you get a free scary dog now at least. yay! privileges! feel free to walk wherever you want at whatever time of day or night. Michael will take care of you and castrate any man dumbass enough to even look your way

michael is so obsessed it's not okay

his favourite part about this though is watching you get ready. then tearing it all off you and watching you have to start again. you'll be doing your makeup and his hands will just be running up and down your legs, squeezing your thighs and waist, bruises left in his wake.

you'll be constantly swatting him away because he can't help himself. his hand is always on an exposed part of your skin

he just thinks you're so gorgeous and not in a loving way, but an inquisitive way. he's genuinely affronted by how good you look and he doesn't understand it, that explosive, sensual vitality of yours that can never be snuffed out and is so, uniquely you. he wants to pull you apart and understand you because just like him, you're an anomaly of your time

he already has a staring problem... can you imagine him now? he's not looking away once. it'll quickly get uncomfortable because he just won't stop. doesn't even wanna close his eyes when you're sleeping. everything you do to him is just provoking him. push his face away? he's going to steel himself and lean into your touch. shove him? he's a brick wall and thinks you're feeling him up. yell at him about it? he's unimpressed--- don't you get it? you're literally the centre of his world. why would he look away?

michael is literally feral for you i don't make the rules

tell him you've got nothing to wear and he will go and pick an outfit he's lowkey been fantasising about for a good month, waiting for the opportunity. and it's actually pretty good. depending on how you react, this will become his love language for you--- acts of service.

definitely starts targeting other bimbos and stealing from their closet to give you clothes.

i have a very clear image in my head of The Shape himself, prowling down the streets of Haddonfield and surveying the empty streets of the night, utterly ferocious as he hunts his next kill---

completely softening when his bimbo s/o, previously clinging to his arm like they're on a nightly stroll, trips over nothing.

if your feet ever start to hurt from the heels, he will happily carry you. but not in a cute way. as in a 'I want you around but you're holding me up. I'm going to sweep you off your feet now. Don't fall."

decorate his mask with lip prints

I dare you

you'd think he would hate it but it's been like a few weeks and the lip prints are still there. you know he loves it. he knows he loves it. he will always pretend to be indifferent though and it will surprise you every time. michael can care less about how scary he looks. even with his s/o making him look like a besotten college boyfriend, looking scary is the last of his worries when he's literally a famed killer.

since he's following you anyway, use his pockets. mechanics overalls have so many pockets. and he'll encourage you. if you ever end up walking around at night with him and start complaining that you forgot your lipgloss at home, he's going to suddenly be holding out his hand--- he's a walking, non-talking, portable storage bin and be grateful because this is his only way of showing non-physical affection lmao. i fully suggest you take advantage of this. he doesn't need his pockets anyway, he holds his knife. so feel free to stock him up and rummage around as much as you like

but be warned. if you touch him in the slightest when retrieving your lipgloss from one of his pockets, he's going to think you're sending signals.

holds all your specialists at knife point so you can get your stuff done for free. if you don't like that, just tell him. but he thinks he's helping you lmfao. your poor nail girl is pissing herself trying to glue on your acrylics

just give him lots of kisses to fuel up for the day and he's good (he will stand there and act unresponsive and neutral, but if you don't give him his daily dose of affection he's going to continue to stand there, blocking your path until you do)

and don't be fooled, either. Michael may be soft on you but he is not a soft man

definitely takes sick pleasure in seeing his bruises peeking out of your skimpy clothes, his marks on full display on your neck. it's just so territorial and it's one of the few things that is able to send a rush through him--- knowing that everyone wants you and that you're walking prey, but you've already been claimed

is like an animal around you. give him one signal and you will definitely be devoured--- i hope you don't spend a lot of money on clothes because you're going to find a lot of it destroyed. better learn how to sew

just think of him as your pet rabid dog. full stop.

otherwise i actually think Michael loves his hyperfemme bimbo gf. not that he'll admit it, but you know. he's horrible at hiding it but it has a lot to do with the fact he doesn't try. just stay out of trouble and he won't wreck havoc on your life <3

Michael has always been an outsider.

It had nothing to do with the fact that he'd become a killer as a kid, although that was the first and most obvious sign. Growing up in the sanitarium had only conditioned him into believing he could never be anything else and that his only mercy would be embracing it. Funny. Now he was rumoured to be the devil incarnate: the ultimate outsider.

But that wasn't the point.

Even if Michael weren't a killer, he'd always been different. A flimsy grasp on emotions and even clumsier responses to things that were supposed to inspire sympathy. Sadness. Pity. The in-between emotions that weren't quite happy but weren't quite sad or angry or scared. But he'd just been slow in development, right? One day it would end and he would wake up and be like the rest of them. It had been a naive thought--- it had gotten Judith killed.

The sanitarium also taught Michael other things, other than the fact that he would never belong in society as anything more than a menace and disruption. He learned that he was a rarity. Some sort of unexplainable anomaly that they had to contain because they couldn't understand, and because he didn't care about changing that, he would never be free. The sanitarium had taught Michael that people feared him because there weren't many of him. So he gave them something real to fear.

He never really came across someone like him. It wouldn't have really changed things, but it would have added bredth to perspective. But Michael would soon find out that anomalies like him came in all shapes and sizes. Anomalies, like you, were just as strange, even if you fit in much better than he did.

You.

He didn't know what to make of you.

"Hey sexy!" A drunkard's voice floated over the heads over the bar and stabbed right into your back. You only wrinkled your nose.

"Um, ew!"

"Aw, don't be like that. You don't mean that." His eyes raked over you. "Looking for anybody, hey? I can save you the time you spend searching."

You look like you're about to gag. "No. Like, never. In a kajillion years."

"Bitch."

"What's the word again?" You frowned. "The men with no dicks?"

"... Eunuchs?"

"Yeah!" You beamed. "That's you. 'Cause you have no balls."

His friends roared in laughter as red crawled over the man's face. You were satisfied enough by then to move on. You knew he wasn't done. He'd probably try follow you home. That made you smirk.

You had a little magic trick up your sleeve for little diseases like them. A magic trick you weren't even sure knew that you knew he existed: Michael fucking Myers.

Michael didn't understand what it was about you that stuck out so much. You were here at the bar for what every other person was there for. Talk. Drink. Fuck, maybe, if you got lucky that was. You were all dolled up like every other woman in the room but it was like the spotlight was naturally attracted to you and he couldn't look away. Was it that tiny little skirt? Your tits pressed up towards your chin by a tight little top? You were so scandalously dressed and hid nothing. Your intentions were clear and yet somehow that repelled people the same way it drew them in.

Michael could tell you were like him. You couldn't relate to the conversations. The difference was that you tried to. They'd just laugh at you and walk away--- another dead tonight.

How long has it been, now? Since he'd started stalking you? A few days? Weeks? Months?

It had never occurred to him that you could be doing it on purpose. Changing with your blinds wide open, bending over when you caught a glimpse of him standing there in your mirror. But the obsession had gripped him. There was no escaping.

And it was distracting him horribly.

You would die tonight, he decided. These... Feelings would die with you.

It all happens in moments.

Him, following you home.

Him, raising the knife above his head.

You, turning before it could meet home, pressing your body against his.

"I knew you'd say hi one day."

Michael stops. Tilts his head.

"Not like this, though." You pout. You run your finger down the cheek of his mask and along the zipper of his mechanic's overalls. Your touch is electric and he can nearly feel it against his skin, the thrills exploding at the slightest pressure. "I'm honestly kind of hurt."

He could kill you now.

Maybe give you a chance to run?

Having you see him and speak directly to him, though, is a dizzying feeling he can't quite seem to recover from. But from the outside he looks stoic. He looks like he's humouring you before your inevitable death, which you inwardly frantically hope against.

"Michael, right?" You taste the word, curiously finding your way around it. "Mikey."

He stares at you impassively.

"I thought you had a crush on me." You draw circles into his chest with your finger and tilt your head back to look at him. "Did I get it wrong?"

Er... Not really.

You were either really dumb or maybe just---

Maybe a little weird like him.

Michael slowly lowers the knife. You take it as an olive branch and push yourself further against him, hard enough to feel the contours of his toned stomach and the rippling valleys of his body. Muscular. Well, he was a serial killer. You could put that thought away for now, though.

"I've been dying for you to talk to me all week. What took you so long?" You bite your lip. "I almost went and talked to you myself. Oh. Oooh. Maybe I should have. I think you're more excited than I am that we're finally talking."

Experimentally, his hand comes up to take hold of your throat. He inspects you--- your long, fake lashes framing filthy doe eyes, the sparkling smear of eyeshadow across your lid that matches your abnormally long and sharp nails. The confidence in which you hold yourself despite being at the mercy of The Shape himself. Genuine.

You're being genuine.

And Michael is... Feeling things. A lot of things. It's almost overwhelming, the onslaught of arousal, the heightened obsession, the near-desperate desire to possess you right there and then---

Mine, he thinks, and he almost says it out loud. Mine.

#slasher x reader #slashers #michael myers #michael myers x reader #slasher #slasher x y/n #michael myers x y/n #halloween #michael myers x you #why tf does tumblr have a word limit on bullet points i hate this i wanted to include so much more what the fuck

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