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mandoinevarro · 4 years

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WILL BUY STOLEN GOODS FOR LOWER PRICE

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker: Chapter 1

Words: 8.4k

Rating: E

Warnings: shooting, non-descriptive death, SMUT, fingering, mentions of masturbation, AND masturbation now that I remember, penetration, creampie! just general filth, gambling?

a/n: SO literally nobody asked for this, but I decided to turn NO REFUNDS into the prologue of a short series (you don’t really need to read NO REFUNDS, it’s only for context.) Anywayyys heavy feelings, heavy plot, heavy smut. Have fun.

……………

Maker, you need to start cheating. That way you wouldn’t be in the middle of a staring contest with your cards, like you can change their colorful drawings and numbers if you only glare hard enough. You’ve never been particularly good at sabacc, but a little luck wouldn’t hurt, especially since this is the third round in a row you lose. Duma deals the last couple of cards across the coal black table and stacks the deck, signaling the start of the game.

Well, you suppose it doesn’t really matter; you doubt your sabacc buddies have better hands. These days, everyone in Nevarro is short on luck. Luck and food and water. Others are less pessimistic: As soon as Greef Karga glances at his hand he leans back on the carcass of a cantina booth and slaps his belly. “Ha!” he bellows, “by the end of this round, you filthy gutter womp rats will have to borrow from your womp rat mothers to pay me.”

“Quit bluffing, Karga. We know you don’t have shit,” Cara mutters. She picks up her cards and pulls a face like she bit on lemon, but still the veteran goes all in, pushes forward a couple of stabilizing coils, an identity beacon you could’ve sold at a decent price some months ago and—maker—even a pouch of nova crystal dust. Nobody here is stupid enough to gamble with food, but you’re surprised that even nova has lost its worth and been demoted to casino chip status. “This place smells like shit.”

“Bad bluff, piss-poor trash talk too,” you taunt. “Looks like all that time doing business with Imperials smoothed your brain, Karga.”

“Ex-Imperials,” he corrects. The ex-Guild leader slides a few more credits to the center of his ex-cantina’s table. “We live in a jolly Republic now, didn’t you hear? You’ve been liberated.”

“Fuck ‘em.” Duma turns her head, spits on the melted floor. “Can’t eat liberation, can I?” She throws a few more worthless credits onto the growing pile of nothing. At least, for now, it’s nothing. Credits and ship parts and every other type of currency haven’t meant anything but props in Nevarro for five months, when the siege began. That whole mess with troopers and Greef and Cara was bound to bring some repercussions—aside from making Karga’s cantina look like a volcano erupted inside. For five months, Imperial forces have surrounded the planet, and for five months, food and resources haven’t been allowed inside. They won’t let up, rumor has it, until they find the culprit: one particular Mandalorian with a valuable asset. They think he’s still hiding somewhere in the planet, but you know better. You watched the Razor Crest’s fly off-orbit and leave everything behind. Everything and everyone.

“This place smells like shit,” Cara repeats.

“Not shit,” replies Duma, “ash.” She picks up a card from the deck with long fingers. “You never did explain how that Mandalorian managed to torch this place.”

Cara’s sabacc face melts. Her fingers tighten and bend her cards as she exchanges a complicit look with Greef. “Never said it was Mando.”

“Who else? I was there in the first shootout. That hunter was fierce.” Duma dons a wolfish smile, because this is how she always wins: She plays with people, not cards. In fact, she abandons her hand face-down on the table and—oh no—gives you a once-over. “You knew him well, didn’t you?” You almost want to show her your garbage hand so she doesn’t bother trying to throw you off your inexistent game.

“Swung by the store a couple of times,” you answer as casually as you can manage and pretend the most interesting book is written on your cards. “But we weren’t exactly chummy, if that’s what you’re asking.” Creeping warmth attacks your face and there’s no stopping it. Shit.

“Funny, could swear I saw him leaving your store more than a couple of times.” You feel Duma’s eyes piercing into your forehead. “Pretty late at night, too.”

“Is that so?” Cara pipes with a lopsided grin.

“I thought you two were…friends,” Duma adds.

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, “you thought wrong.” Friends don’t leave friends to their luck in the middle of a fucking siege. It’s the same prickly thought that’s plagued you since you watched the Mandalorian take off triumphantly. It’s a stupid feeling. He was under no obligation to take you with him. You didn’t lie to Duma, you two weren’t friends. You couldn’t even call what you had a fling, even those require some degree of making-love-below-the-stars, quoting-passages-of-Naboo-Nights-to-each-other romance. Flings are shooting stars. No, your…thing, whatever it was, did not belong to the heavens. It was earthy. Human. It was counting credits and arguing about fuel prices or old modulators. It had weight—too much, apparently, to escape gravitational pull and fly away with him on the Crest. It was doomed to planets, both feet planted on the ground.

Still, you remember times when earthy was good. There was never anything airy or celestial in the way he’d take you. The shoved clothes, the harsh grunts, the rough hands, the pleasure, it was all palpable and primitive; earthy was dirty. Your furtive encounters had beating heart of their own, and there was always hard evidence left behind in case either of you ever needed a reminder: marks on the skin, ripped clothes, stained bedsheets. The bruises he left always took too long to heal, as if his touch enhanced your mortality, made you more human. Stars, those moments are what you miss the most. Five months is a long time to be neglected of touch—six, actually: five months since the siege, six since he last came to you. Earthy expires.

It’s not like there’s nobody in the planet willing to help you soothe your needs; quite the opposite, actually. Lately, it seems like handjobs are the new Nevarran handshake. Just last week you caught Cara feeling up some pretty market girl in an alley. You saw her, she saw you, you rolled your eyes, she grinned and got back to work. You were almost offended. Everybody’s screwing their time through the siege, while you’re left with nothing but reruns of filthy memories with the Mandalorian. You just know nobody but Mando will do. You replay your moments with him like a sad, mental porno on the nights you spend trying to get yourself off. Trying and failing, like having to put out a fire by spitting on it, because the only person in the galaxy with a hose is too busy playing hero lightyears away.

“Last round. Place your bets,” Karga announces and pushes a few more trinkets forward. Cara follows, and you pat around your pockets for something to lose. It’s all just rusted metal anyways. Only…shit, the last three games drained you. And Duma reads it on your face like you’ve got “BROKE” written all over your forehead.

“All out, huh?” She reaches down the table for her bag and drops a beskar pauldron on the table with a thud. A Mandalorian pauldron.

Cara purses her lips and balls a fist, but Greef shoots her a warning look. As if cantina brawls could make this place look worse.

“Still can’t believe you didn’t take anything that day,” Duma continues, shaking her head. “Regret it?”

“I’ll regret it,” you answer and go fish, as if a new card—the right card—could fix a life’s worth of bad luck, “when you learn how to chew beskar.” That earns you a signature “Ha!” from Karga and a cocked eyebrow from Duma. She can arch her eyebrows all she wants, but that much is also true. You don’t regret leaving the Mandalorian covert empty-handed.

You were the first on scene that day. After the smoke cleared, the remaining imps left to lick their wounds, and the Crest flew away, you went to check on Karga’s child, his pride and joy. You were met with a gruesome scene. The cantina, Nevarro’s most sacred landmark, had been reduced to its black skeleton, third-degree burns all over, gone. It sounds dramatic, but the cantina used to be the closest thing to a place of worship on this planet. God Booze was dead.

You kicked around the bar’s guts, until you found a gaping mouth on a wall, leading down, down, down into Nevarro’s entrails. Finding purgatory would’ve surprised you less than what you stumbled upon: an underground tunnel, an abandoned covert, and a sinister, unguarded pile of Mandalorian armor. Stars, it would’ve been so easy. You could’ve hoarded the spoils and stashed them away for better days. That amount of beskar could’ve bought you a one-way ticket out of this dumpster and an early retirement. But when you lifted a helmet, it stared back. It was blue and definitely not his, but Mando was all you could think of while you studied the helmet’s unique curves and creases. You heard his exasperated sighs when you got on his nerves, his moans when you’d touch him. And you just couldn’t do it. You sat back and watched as this skughole’s scavengers crept into the tunnels to pillage. Easy as that, everyone in Nevarro but you and Cara now has a beskar toy or two. Soon enough, this planet will house the wealthiest corpses in the galaxy if the siege is not lifted before reserves run out.

Karga clears his throat. “Well, ladies first. Let’s see those cards.”

Duma ignores him. “You know,” she tells you, “I’ve more beskar than I know what to do with. I’ll trade you a vembrance for a couple of ration packs.”

“And what am I supposed to do with a Mandalorian vembrance, play dress up?”

“The cards,” Greef urges.

“You’ll be rich.”

You snort. “The rich don’t starve.”

“Give me a break, we both know you’ve got portions to spare.”

Elbows on the table, you lean forward and closer to Duma. She sniffs weakness like a Corellian hound, and if you falter she’ll sink her fangs. “I’m not interested in your fucking loot.”

“Cause it’s stolen? You never had a problem with that before.” She mimics your move and leans closer. Karga fiddles with a coinage of calamari flan, like you’re both Canto Bight slot machines and he’s trying to decide where to put his money. “What, did you grow morals all of a sudden? Or maybe, you’re too worried of what your Mandalorian friend would think.” You flinch. She smirks. “Oh my, what would the disgraced hunter, code-breaker, cult member say—”

The tiny noise of Karga’s coinage clinking on the table is not enough to distract you from the verbal beating Duma is laying on you. But his voice—like he got the air knocked out of him—is enough to grab your attention when he murmurs, “Ask him yourself.”

Cara, Duma, and you turn to Greef Karga, who stares saucer-eyed at the window. All three of your heads move simultaneously, guided by the line of his eyesight. Outside the window, on the deserted street, stands a trooper barking orders. It’s one of those in all-black armor, the extra trigger-happy ones with a side of god complex because they think the change of color magically makes their aim less shitty. His blaster is drawn (surprise, surprise), and on the receiving end of its barrel…

Maker’s fucking mercy.

You don’t even see the blaster shot, only smoke snaking out of a hole on the shiny breastplate. The trooper plummets to the ground like his puppeteer cut off his strings: no last steps, no resistance. Now, anyone else would’ve walked away from what’s clearly worm food without a second look, but one does not become the best bounty hunter in the parsec by taking chances. A mountain of unpainted beskar looms over the corpse and kicks the blaster off the imp’s limp hand. The Mandalorian sheathes his own weapon—that blaster you’ve tweaked and polished so many times you know it as the palm of your hand—and scans the perimeter for danger.

You don’t tell your legs to move, but they don’t need the command. You find yourself trailing behind Cara, Duma, and Greef, rushing for the door. Outside, all four of you stumble and stop on your tracks to blink stupidly at the Mandalorian, the way children stare wide-eyed at soldiers on military parades. But this warrior stands grander than any Republic or Imperial officer you’ve ever seen. He’s clad head to toe in silver beskar—except for one armorless thigh that makes his other leg look even bulkier. His old armor, the one you used to shine and buff, is gone. This one you’ve only seen from afar, on that day he crashed the imps’ safehouse, and later when the battle broke out. You know it’s him, but in this new getup it’s easy to doubt. Maybe he’s a stranger. Maybe he won’t recognize you.

The Mandalorian studies each of you one by one, his hand near the blaster in case he spots any enemy faces. The hand twitches when he sees Duma—she doesn’t have the cleanest reputation around here—but she’s shocked and unarmed, so his arm relaxes. To Greef and Cara he gives short nods that they return.

And then you. He actually takes a step back when he spots you, like you pushed him square on the chest. The helmet lingers on you and tilts, shamelessly rakes over every feature like he’s memorizing you. You hold your breath. It reminds you of the day you met, that weight on your chest from knowing you’ve been seen. That’s how you know it really is Mando: Whenever he stares at you, you feel it in your bones.

You realize the moment’s dragged out for too long when Karga clears his throat. The spell breaks.

You and Mando look bashfully away from each other. You squint up at the clouds, your hands stiff on your waist in a forced, generic, looks like rain! pose. He turns to his boss (ex-boss? enemy? You never asked for an update on Mando’s most recent status in the Guild) and mutters a short, “Karga.” To Cara he’s warmer, offers a comradely clasp of hands and a pat on the shoulder. “Good to see you again.”

“You too,” Cara drawls, as she stares suspiciously between you and Mando. You squint harder at the clouds. “Didn’t expect you back during a siege, though.”

“I have to…” he spies a furtive glance at Duma and lowers his voice, “I’ve something to do here.”

Duma rolls her eyes and clasps her bag across her chest. “Don’t worry, Mando. I’ll leave you girls to catch up on the hot goss.” She strides into the cantina (probably to bag the bets, the asshole), and goes back outside.

She points at the window of a crumbling building. “Careful with snitches.”

You glance back to the window. Nothing. Jerk. Duma’s not above a made you look moment, apparently. You turn back to her but she’s already disappearing into an alley.

Cara waits until she’s gone to grab the Mandalorian by the arm. “Mando, where’s the…” she glances at you and hesitates. You fold your arms and raise your eyebrows at the veteran. If she expects you to leave graciously like Duma she’s got another thing coming. You’re actually very, very interested on the Mandalorian’s hot goss. Especially it comes with an explanation as to why he left you stranded here. Even though he doesn’t owe you one. Technically. “Y’know,” she finally says and drops her hand. “The asset.”

“On the ship. I need to get back.”

“You, my friend, need to lay low,” Greef says with a raised index. “Every imp in Nevarro will be looking for you. Maker—” he spreads his arms “—they already are! And someone must have heard the blaster shot. You have ten minutes or so until an Imperial squadron gets here. The, uh, asset will be fine.”

“The asset,” Cara exclaims, “is a ch—is…is delicate. He can’t just leave it on the Crest!”

Mando interrupts their game of taboo. “Cara,” he starts, “you go to the ship and check on…the asset. Please. I landed where I did last time. I…I’ll lay low in the covert.”

“About that,” Greef mumbles. He looks at Cara for support, but she steps back and raises both hands: You say it. Greef sighs. “They…they found the tunnels, Mando.”

The helmet crooks slowly to study Karga. “Who’s they?”

“Everyone. Half of Nevarro is living down there, you…you can’t go back.”

Silence.

You imagine all four of you go through the same checklist: Even if Cara didn’t already have a top-secret assignment with whatever the asset is, she doesn’t have a place of her own yet. Every week, she crashes on one of her sweethearts’ couches. On their beds, more likely. There’s no way Karga is letting him near his house, not after what happened at the cantina. That leaves…

“Stay with me,” you blurt before you can really think it through.

≈

The cramped storage room you call a home sits a story above your store. It’s four walls and only the essentials: a bed, an armchair, a table, a stove, and the only detached room is the refresher. It’s enough for you. But the Mandalorian looks like he squeezed into a dollhouse when you usher him inside and close the door behind you. He stands in the middle of the room, all fighter’s bulk and grandiose armor, like he’s afraid he’ll break something if he moves. As if he’s never been here before, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The apartment may be small, but it’s so filled with memories you could turn it into a museum of your dirty escapades with him. And if you look to your right, you’ll see the armchair where he sat while I went down on him on a stormy night.

“So,” you say and lean against the front door, “business or pleasure?”

He moves to stand to the side of the window opposite the front door and his glove moves the old washed out curtain to the side to peer into the street. The sun is setting, and the last streaks of light paint the beskar with warped yellow-orange streaks that stay as still as an undisturbed pond. So this is how he wants the evening to go: quietly and with a reasonable amount of distance between you. Disappointment knots in your stomach.

“Business.”

You open your mouth to cut into the silence, but you’re all out of words. Maybe you’ve lost your touch. It used to be so easy to tease him, but now…a heaviness seems to weigh down on his shoulders, some heightened sense of duty. But also determination: He stands taller now, prouder, like he woke up one day and knew exactly what he needed to do and why. Whatever that purpose is, you’re pretty sure it doesn’t involve you. You’re a detour, and not even the fun kind, judging by the space between you. Maker, this man used to pounce on you. Has the siege really battered you up that much?

“Been busy?” The sudden question startles you. He’s never been one to break the ice, that was usually your job.

“Sure.” Nope, not at all. “Store and all.” You closed the store three months ago. Turns out nobody buys equipment for their ships when they can’t fly past the atmosphere. “Plus, somebody needs to keep Karga distracted from his mourning. You owe him a cantina.”

“He told I did that?”

“Just a guess.” You move a couple of steps forward, like you’re approaching a nervous lothcat. When he doesn’t move away, you sit on the armchair, a little closer to him. “You like that flamethrower too much.”

“That what you four were doing in there?” The helmet moves to the side so he can spy deeper down the street. Always careful. “Assessing my damage?”

“No, just sabacc. Different kind of damage.” He’s making small talk. The Mandalorian, whom you’ve overheard have conversations solely based on grunts and sighs, is chatting with you. He’s not just answering out of politeness, he’s prompting you to go on, to keep running your mouth. That’s something he said once between thrusts, perched over you right on this floor: Keep running your mouth, see what happens. The memory warms your neck. Maker, not the point. The point is, before, he always said you had a smart mouth. Sometimes he’d chastise you for it, other times he’d encourage it. And you used to have the suspicion (or, let’s face it: fantasy) that he actually liked it. That somewhere hidden, beyond his pride and honor’s jurisdiction, he enjoyed the teasing and the banter, the challenge of having to deal with you. Better yet: More than once it crossed your mind that he got off on it, too. It’s been a long time, but some of that might remain. Maybe you’ll take his advice: keep running your mouth, see what happens.

You sit straighter, arch your back a bit just in case he’s watching. “You interrupted a round with your little stunt.”

“Yeah?” The helmet doesn’t move, but his hand runs up the curtain, considering. “Sorry. I bet you were winning.”

That makes you smile. It’s a dig at you. Far and wide across Nevarro, your uncanny ability to lose every single game of sabacc you play baffles locals and foragers alike. Yes, you know you suck, but the game amuses you anyways. You like the trash talk, the double-guessing, the bluff-calling. So much so that you forget to actually play. But what’s important is he’s teasing you, and that’s more than charted territory with him, a match you have a shot at winning. Okay. Game on.

“I was, actually.”

He huffs. “Don’t believe you.”

“Then I don’t believe you’re here on business.” Pause for effect. You can almost see a question mark form in a cloud above the helmet. You lean forward and lick your lips, lower your voice. “I think you missed me.”

You’re used to the helmet’s features remaining impassive, so you don’t look for clues on there anymore. Mando’s hands are more telling. You want to believe you actually see his fingers twitch and clutch the curtain a little tighter, that he takes too long to answer. That’s what trying to read him is all about—blind-guessing and wishful thinking.

“Don’t know about that. Six months and two weeks without your cons, I’m almost rich.”

Down to the week, huh? “Okay, if you want to make it about money we’ll bet on it. Twenty credits says you missed me.”

“Last time I was here you weren’t a compulsive gambler. Store’s doing that bad?”

“Last time you were here,” you coo, “there was a lot less talking involved.” You stare into the visor, and pray he can’t see the desperate hope in your eyes.

Your prayers are answered. In a way. Mando ignores you, doesn’t even look at you. You hear your clumsy attempt at seduction buzz around him like a one-winged bee, crash into the unmoving, unmoved Mandalorian, and fall to the floor in a pointed-lined spiral. You’re so embarrassed you want to step on it. Well, that settles it. Six months is apparently enough for a Mandalorian to lose interest.

“And store’s doing fine,” you lie to try and sway the conversation away from that lame innuendo that missed its mark. He really just wants to talk, then. No big deal. It’s fine. “Nobody gambles for money anyways.”

“Then why?”

You shrug. “Why do you hunt?” He’s never told you, but you saw him chase down a bounty once. He was ruthless, sweating adrenaline and with far too much stamina to only be chasing a bag of credits. “For the risk. The thrill.”

He lets your words float for a second. “You get a thrill out of losing?”

You roll your eyes. “I only lose cause everybody knows my bluff.” That is, except you. “You need to know someone to know their bluff. Greef and the others already know me too well. You, on the other hand.” You smile. “If you and I played, I’d get to keep so much of your stuff you’d think I’m half Jawa.”

And, only then, he seems to tense. That stupid throwaway line is what makes his spine grow visibly rigid and his hand drop from the curtain to his belt, where the leather of his glove creaks with how tightly he clutches the buckle. White and blue streetlights that reflect on his armor glide around like it’s water instead of beskar, and they’re your only indication that he’s shifted slightly. Slowly, so slowly you expect his neck to creak like a door, the Mandalorian turns away from the window to look at you. He holds there quietly, and you feel ants running down your back…stars, you’re nervous. For the first time in a while, he makes you genuinely anxious.

“You’re saying I don’t know you?” he rasps under the helmet. No, not really, but if it gets a reaction out of him…

“All I’m saying,” you start, summoning all your strength to keep your voice from faltering, “is you’ve been gone too long.” You try to make it sound a bit playful, but the words come out tasting bitter when you remember the sharp little edge that’s been digging on your side. He left you here, it whispers, he left you here and didn’t bother looking back. But a heavy boot suddenly drops forward and you’re forced to stop nursing your grudge to try and predict what Mando’s next move will be.

With every step he takes, you’re instinctively swallowed deeper into your armchair, until he’s looming over you. Stars above, the sheer size of him is enough to block out most of the artificial light coming in, and you’re left to squint in the blue twilight. Maker, you don’t remember him this big, this intimidating. Five months ago you would’ve smirked and opened your legs wide. C’mon, I don’t bite unless you ask, you would’ve teased, but now…now you think maybe you are the one who doesn’t know him anymore.

But some things never change, and having him so near still makes your thighs press together. If anything, this new foreignness, the inherent threat of a bounty hunter in your home that never quite poked the right nerve before now pulls on your most sensitive areas. It propels your heartbeat on a sprint. His arm moves, and—oh, you want him to touch you.

Visor trained on you, Mando points to the floor instead. “You hide your credits here.” To illustrate (or just to rub it in that he knows) his boot presses down on the loose tile and shifts from side to side. The sharp sound it makes irritates you less than knowing he found the fox clever hiding spot you used to pat yourself on the back for. “You don’t keep them in the store because it’s too easy to break into. The security panel downstairs is broken, but the one up here works fine.”

You can almost hear his proud smirk under the helmet. There’s a reserved side to him, sure, but bastard can be arrogant when he wants to. And no, you have no idea how he found the spot, but you’re not about to admit it.

“Congrats, boy scout. You can spot a busted panel and you have flat feet. Want a badge?” Your irritation brings back some of your old snark, but you still flinch when he moves closer and his legs brush against your knees.

“You also keep expensive parts inside the stuffing of this—” he takes a tiny step forward and frames your knees with his legs “—armchair.” Your blood freezes at his words, but it abruptly runs hot as the city’s lava river when you realize how close he stands now. His legs press against the armchair and there’s nowhere to go. You’re cornered.

A leather glove moves close and you hold your breath, before you realize he’s only toying with the tips of your hair. But his fingers dig deeper, tangle on thicker strands and, without warning, give a short but firm tug. It’s a tiny pull, but maker’s mercy, you feel your core pulse. And then, before you can regain some lucidity, his fingers dip lower, where the tips trace a slow line down your nape. He draws featherlight circles on that spot between your neck and your shoulder that he knows makes your toes curl, and—stars, it’s just been too long—you whimper.

“Still so sensitive here,” he whispers.

Once, this shielded man knew his way around your body like it belonged to him. You thought that part of him was lost, that he forgot, that he’d truly been gone too long. Those fears dissipate when his palm curls around the back of your neck to hold your gaze on him, while the thumb of his other hand brushes your lips. You know the drill—you open your mouth and give the orange tip some kitten licks. Mando huffs: You can do better than that. Maker, it should be a red flag, how quickly you comply. That urgent need to please him that had never, ever felt so crucial. An O forms in your lips before you can stop them, and his thumb pushes down on your tongue deep and deeper. You should play hard, make him earn it, bite him. But his finger starts to retreat and you panic—no, he can’t change his mind, not now. You seal your lips, trap him inside your mouth and suck. But his grip on the back of your neck grows beskar stiff, and he forcefully removes his finger…only to glide the spit over your lips. Just like that first time.

The visor looms closer to your face, and you catch a ruptured sigh, the pleasured kind that these four walls know so well. If Mando wasn’t holding you down, your chest would balloon with satisfaction and you’d float. His thumb trails down your throat, wetting its path and no doubt feeling the vibration when you chuckle. He cocks his head to the side in a silent question.

“You owe me twenty credits,” you explain, your breath clouding the helmet’s surface. “You did miss me.”

Mando crouches lower, where his helmet brushes your nose, and gropes the tops of your thighs with those wide palms you’ve been dreaming about for weeks.

“Yeah? You like bets?” You’ve never heard his voice so coarse, scratchy like week-long stubble. Did he change the settings of his modulator? Or is it just rash, pent-up need? “Then thirty credits says you’re fucking soaked.” His fingers butterfly higher up your thighs, almost at the apex. Your legs jerk.

“That’s cheating,” you gasp.

He takes one glove off and settles the covered hand on your hip, while the other disappears between your legs until—stars—he cups your core through your pants. You mewl and he hums when he feels the hot, damp fabric.

“I still win.” He presses the heel of his palm right into your clit and grinds it back and forth. Oh, if you thought you were wet before. The pressure, the friction, him—it all scalds you from head to toe like a fever, but you chase it, greedily push your hips into his palm. His fingers flatten along your slit and grope you tighter. “Gonna pay me? Doesn’t have to be credits.” He pushes viciously into you with that wide, hard palm, preening at the little gasps that escape you. Whimpering, you let your eyes fall shut and focus on something sprouting in your belly. Stars, you’re close—how the fuck are you so close already? It must be all the repressed desire, all that time. Fuck, you’re close—

The Mandalorian halts. You’re eyes flash open to see him straighten and step back, take his other glove off to stuff it snug between his belt and his hip, and remain still as a building. Still catching your breath, you study him head to toe, scanning for a sign of what went wrong. He’s clutching his belt, his stance is too smug. This isn’t him fighting temptation, he’s toying with you. Maker help him, you’re going to kill him. Some corner in your brain reasons that it’s kinda fair, as payback for all the times you messed with him. But in the forefront of your mind pulses the climax he just denied you, cast aside and angry.

Before you know what you’re doing, you push yourself off the armchair. “You—”

Mando beats you to it. A hand on your shoulder and a vembrance across your chest, he lunges forward and slams your back against a wall. He hovers over you, tightly pressed against your body. A fleshy, hard bulge covered by his pants throbs against your belly. Of course. You forgot how much he likes it when you look like prey; how much he enjoys the hunt, whether he admits it or not. The hand on your shoulder trails down to cup your breast. You squeeze your eyes shut and let out a shaky exhale.

“You need it bad,” he breathes as his fingers massage your chest. The movement shifts the fabric of your tunic, brushing it against your nipple. You roll your hips to try and stimulate him, to show you’re not the only one worked up. His erection twitches and you smile.

“You—mmm—you’re projecting.” You grind again to prove your point, but he catches on to what you’re implying and retaliates by shoving his hand inside your cleavage. Stars, you have to punch down the moan surges up your throat when he pinches your nipple.

“You missed this,” Mando hisses, and whether he’s trying to convince you or himself, you don’t know. What you do know is he’s plotting to settle this stupid inkling of a bet in his favor. He wants you to admit you missed him so he doesn’t have to. You know, because it’s exactly what you are trying to do.

You sneak your hand down his torso, aiming for the hem of his pants—but before you can get even with him, he crushes his hips against yours and traps your palm between them. And he’s not done—he wedges his thigh between your legs and rubs it up and down, drags your clit just right. Your mouth gapes in a silent moan as white hot pleasure lights up your spine. You want to get away from it but, maker, his forearm is still stiff against your chest. Even when you grab the vembrance with your free hand it doesn’t budge. You’re trapped between him and the wall.

“Can take care of m-myself just fine,” you croak as a last attempt to hold on to your dignity. “At least when I’m alone I don’t have to fake any orgasms.”

Yeah, it’s a low blow. A dirty fucking lie too, but desperate times call for desperate measures and all. Good news is it gets you a reaction—he immediately stops moving, as if your words punched him off balance. Bad news is you hit a nerve—his breathing becomes harsh like a bull’s, so much so that you expect clouds of smoke to come out from under the helmet. The Mandalorian creeps closer to your face and his forearm digs deeper into your chest. There’s a promise of danger in the dark visor that makes your pulse race, and a primitive instinct blasts emergency sirens. Maker, this won’t end well for you.

Just as you’re about to backtrack and whisper you didn’t mean it, Mando lets go of you—only for a split second, before he grasps your shoulders and turns you around to push your front into the wall. You jerk back on instinct, but he flattens a palm between your shoulder blades and squishes you right back against it.

The helmet rests right next to your ear when Mando growls, “You expect me to believe that?” His hands drop to your hips as he replaces the pressure on your back with his chest. His body weight holds you in place, and he rocks the hard outline of his erection along your ass. “That I don’t make you cum, you little fucking—” You curl your back as much as his body allows so he can stroke himself tighter against you. He groans and kneads your cheeks, moves the flesh in tandem with his thrusts. “I shouldn’t let you tonight, t-teach you a lesson.”

The mere suggestion feels devastating enough to let a pathetic whine tumble from your lips. Before, you could’ve turned this into a game, held out a little longer just to watch him break first. But you’re too pent up, too desperate, too sick of waiting. Your fingers hook on the hem of your trousers and push them down. Mid-movement, he traps both of your wrists in one hand and keeps them pressed against your lower back, while the other one gets your pants the rest of the way down, underwear too. You barely have enough time to step out of them before his free hand reaches between the apex of your thighs. You’re sticky, leaking around his fingers, and pushing back against his crotch like you’ll drop dead if he doesn’t fuck you.

“Fucking wet, fuck…” he mutters. His fingers follow the heat and your pussy clenches around nothing. Stars, if he just moved higher, a little higher where you’re hot and soaked and throbbing for him. But he takes his sweet time, molds the inside of your thighs like clay, pulls the flesh, squishes it together, until you’re writhing against him and leaking down your leg. Your vision blurs. “Can—can I…?” He lets his index finish the sentence, teasing at the edges of your outer lips.

Even with the side of your face against the wall, you manage to nod. “Yeah,” you breathe.

Two fingers slide around your folds and you gasp. Mando moves slowly, collecting your arousal and coating his fingers. Your breath catches when the tips finally push into your entrance—only a fraction before they slide back out, so the rest of his palm can cup along your cunt and drag more slick behind it. He’s strategically avoiding your clit, though, and with both arms behind your back and at his mercy, you can’t reach for it yourself. Fuck, you…you only need to hold on a bit more, he’ll get bored of his game soon enough. That’s it, just a little longer. You waited six months, no way he’s making you beg after a few minutes of teasing.

The Mandalorian eventually pulls his fingers away from your thighs and curses under his breath. You hear the familiar rustling of fabric and a divine zip that fills your eyes with tears of relief. Fucking finally. You brace yourself and relax your pelvic floor in preparation, but it’s barely necessary—you’re so ready for it. Your cunt is open and weeping, he can just slide it in. All this time, with nothing substantial inside you, your lower muscles pump and twist painfully with demanding want. Even with his size and in this position, you’re so turned on he might even be able to bottom out. Fuck, he doesn’t have to move much, a few good pumps and he’ll have you cumming, easy. Stars, what’s taking so damn long—

A modulated, battered moan and a wet noise make you turn your head over your shoulder and look for the source. The low light makes it difficult to make out shapes, but there’s no mistaking what you find below you. Hand wrapped solid around his cock, Mando is jerking himself off. With your cum as lubricant. While he treats you like a piece of furniture he’s only gripping for support. A chemical cocktail of lust mixed with fury spikes your blood.

“Is…wh-what are…what the fuck do you think y-you’re…”

“Say it,” he spits between his teeth, “say you f-fucking need me.”

No, no fucking way. As much as the words burn on your tongue and your clit tugs and begs, you’re not saying it. He left, not you. You waited for him. You turn your head as far back as your neck allows without snapping a ligament and look straight into the visor. And pointedly curl your lips inside your mouth, sealed.

Your act of rebellion lasts a good ten seconds.

“You’re so fucking difficult,” he snarls. He stops tugging on his cock, and for a moment you hope he might indulge you, push into you and stop the masochist torment you’ve talked yourselves into. But when it comes to Mando and you, it’s never that easy. Still not releasing your wrists, he grabs the base of his cock, glistening with your stolen juices, and rubs it up and down the swell of your uncovered ass. You gasp, let your lips part and your gaze fall to where he’s rubbing up against you and refusing to push inside.

He's not going to last long. Swollen and a strangled purple, the head of his cock dribbles warm precum and smears it on your lower back. The veins on his length throb against your ass, and stars, they’d feel so much better inside you. The Mandalorian’s grunts and groans ring more frustrated than lost in pleasure; it’s not enough for him either. He’s torturing you and himself just to prove a point, while you refuse to speak the magic words just to keep your pride. Desperate tears threaten to spill, but you shut your eyes to push them back. Either of you could put an end to it, right now. Maker, it’s on the tip of your tongue: I need you. Spit it out, end it. I need you, Mando, I need you, do whatever you want with me. It doesn’t matter that you abandoned me in this shithole, that you discarded me like faulty equipment, that you didn’t even have the decency to tell me—

The thrusting stops. When you open your eyes, you find the visor fixed on you, cocked slightly to the side, like there’s writing on your face. Mando’s grip on your wrist softens, his frustrated panting slows. Maybe he sees the unshed tears, or maybe your face really is that transparent, because he takes pity on you. Gentle palms on your shoulders, he turns you around to face him.

Night has fallen. Fragments of fluorescent light pour inside through your worn out curtains and give the helmet a fuzzy silver halo. The rest of the armor is shiny black, smudges of light here and there. His head moves around the features of your face, one by one, taking its time. Showdown’s over. He’s not playing a game anymore, not trying to get you to break, he’s just…studying you. Staring his fill of you farewell-style, even though he just came back. It hits you that you don’t know how long he’s staying this time. You open your mouth to ask, but stop yourself in time. If he leaves, he leaves. He doesn’t owe you any explanations.

But when he curls an arm around your waist and holds you against the wall and his cold breastplate, it doesn’t feel like goodbye. It feels like old times—pre-siege, pre-battle, pre-everything—when he confidently grabs your left thigh, sinks his fingers into the plump flesh, and hooks it on his lower back. You drape your arms around his shoulders and hold him closer. You’ve always liked the bulk of him against you, it makes everything feel more real. Buried on the crook of your neck, you hear him sigh when he lets go of your thigh and blindly searches your cunt. With your leg around his back you’re completely open for him, so it takes him no time to find your bud. He presses against it and rubs it in slow but tight circles that make your legs cramp.

You push down on him, demanding more. He groans and complies, inserts one finger and continues rubbing on your clit with his thumb. Maker, this has no right to be so good. He’s doing pretty much the same you’ve done to yourself these past months, but with Mando there are never any ghost sensations, no what ifs. It’s all here and now, and you swear you feel the pleasure of his fingers picking up speed in every corner of your body. He has you moaning and rocking your hips, dripping down his hand, and when he starts rubbing you harder and tighter, you finally whine a tiny, “Please.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t need to ask what you want, but he moves his helmet to look at you square in the face, check if you mean it. You stare droopy-eyed into the visor and nod: yesyesyesyes. Mando groans and grips you tighter. Maker, he’s right, you need it—need the bruises, need his cock, need all of him.

“Fuck,” he breathes. His hand leaves you to grab his cock and guide it to your entrance. He moves it around your lips and brushes his tip against your clit as he looks for your hole in the dark. It doesn’t take long for the head to poke right outside where it needs to go. “Fuck, I don’t—don’t think I can hold back, don’t want to hurt you—”

“Stars, please,” you whine, “I want it rough.” You want it more than rough. After six months, you want it fucking depraved, but neither of you is going to last long enough to make it elaborate. Maker, you don’t care. Right now, you don’t care for risky positions or clever techniques, you want him.

He groans and pushes inside—only the head, still testing, but your walls immediately grip him tightly to hinder any attempts to move away. That’s not what you should’ve been worried about. Fingers tight around your waist, Mando pulls you down as he pushes up. Stars. The brutal thrust reaches the end of you and then some more. Fuckfuckfuck. The dull bam of your skull hitting the wall is suddenly drowned by a slicker, filthier sound coming from between your legs. His length begins to pull out, your pussy complains the whole way, and you can almost hear the Mandalorian gritting his teeth through the sweet torture of feeling you squeeze around him…and thrust back up—harder. He likes the pace and sticks to it—fast, rough, deep, repeat—while you make sounds like you’re choking on air. Stars, it has been long. Long enough to partially forget his size, his fucking girth, currently filling you to the brim and punching high little sounds from your throat.

“Mmmando,” you sob.

Mando groans in response, snakes a hand down to your clit and rubs with the same wild abandon as his pounding. Maker, your memory was never this fucking good. No matter how many details you recalled, there’s nothing compared to the real, human meat of his cock pulsing urgently inside you, hitting your cervix, making you whine. Nothing like his fingers around your waist, or knowing there’ll be bruises tomorrow. The pleasure has teeth, carries a painful bite, but it’s exactly what you need. That tangible grit in his thrusts and his fingers is the missing piece. Your muscles start cramping, you pull him tighter against you—Maker, right there, you can feel it. It reaches your head and makes you dizzy, sheds light on some hidden, shameful words.

“Mando, I…”

“I—fuck—I n-needed this,” he grunts and brings his hand down to feel where his cock is inching out of you, like he has to double check it’s actually happening. Thrust. “Used—used to d-dream about you.” Thrust. Three fingers now push into your clit and draw frantic shapes. You clench your jaw, feel the hot tide in your belly rise faster. Thrust. “Wake up so f-fucking hard—cum in my pants.” Thrust—thrust—thrust.

Maybe it’s his words, maybe the rough pace, but something holds a flame to the dynamite building inside you and it explodes. Maker, your head’s going to burst. You moan long and deep into the spot Mando’s ear might be. Your legs shake, your arms cramp. Months’ worth of frustration gush hot and wet around him, as he babbles encouragement: There you go, just like that, make it fucking good. Your walls are still fluttering, your ears are still ringing, you haven’t even ridden out the last of your climax when his hips pick up the pace.

“Let me—let me cum inside,” the warrior pants, “let me f-fill this cunt…I—I haven’t since—fuck, I didn’t—”

“Yes,” you gasp, “yes, please, Mando, cum, cum inside—”

There’s no space left between you, but Mando finds a way to squish you tighter against him as he pounds into you for a few last moments, until you hear a strangled grunt, and a half-forgotten warmth pools inside you. The extra lubrication drives his last thrust as deep as your body allows. A few more lazy thrusts inside you, short and stunted as you take his load inside you, before he stops. A warm string trails down your leg, and—stars, he’s leaking out. How much did he cum that it didn’t fit inside you? Fuck.

You take turns panting, whimpering, listening to each other’s heartbeats slow to a semi-normal pace. The Mandalorian moves away from the crook of your neck to meet your glossy eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but you think will. You can almost hear his mouth opening, words boiling and rising in bubbles up his throat—

Zium!

It’s your imagination. It’s your ears ringing from that orgasm, your mind making stuff up. But. You could swear you saw a red flash glade right past your cheek. And from the way Mando’s helmet cocks to the side, you know he saw it too. You turn your heads in unison, to see smoke coming out of a hole a breath away from your ear. It takes both of you too long to put two and two together, and—before he can pull out—more of those red flashes are raining down on you.

…………

Edit: Chapter 2 let’s goooooooo

Taglist: @rosetophighlander @hellomothermoon @newyorksins @leo-moon @benedrylcumbersnatch

#the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian #din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando smut #mando x reader #mando x you #star wars smut

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dubersbutt · 3 years

Text

4 Times Leon Joined You and Connor

+ 1 Time He Stayed

Summary: How you, Leon and Connor became a thing

Warnings: smut (oral (female receiving, male receiving, penetrative sex), mlm sex (blowjobs)), sexuality crises (sexuality procrastination)

1) The “Accidents”

Leon gets your text message a second too late. The notification with your name and “DON'T OPEN MY SNAP” hanging above the picture of your scantily clad torso, matching royal purple set, the deep colour complimenting your tan skin. Leon is torn between wanting to be respectful and wanting to keep the picture open until he can get himself off. But, he’s a good dude so he does not do the latter. Instead, he closes the snap and texts you back

Leon: Whoops. I didn’t get your message until after I opened it

You: Ugh. I’m sorry, your name is right under Connor’s and my finger slipped.

Leon: Aren’t you supposed to be at school.

You: Stats are boring. I was trying to bother my boyfriend.

Leon: Pay attention in class, (Y/N).

You: 🙄

You: You can keep the picture btw. I know I look good

You: No face, no case

Leon doesn’t keep it but, his finger hovers over the replay button for far too long.

~~~

Leon’s furnace craps out on him halfway into the season, and Alberta winters without heaters isn’t very enjoyable so he temporarily moves in with Connor, the day of the charity gala. Leon has a good time for the most part. Except -

He can’t get that fucking picture out of his head. And your dress hugs you in all the right places and he really hopes that neither you or Connor notice that how often he looks over at you. Connor has to rub elbows with the rich donor more than Leon does, so he keeps you company in between rounds. The two of you keep yourselves entertained by comping up with potential conversations for the other people in the room.

“Leon wait,” you say, clutching his arm and Leon feels his heart skip a beat, “That girl is his daughter, not his sugar baby.”

“No,” Leon was convinced, they were sitting way too close if that were true, “How do you know?”

You point to an older lady that’s approaching the table. She leans down to give the man a quick kiss and Leon’s about to propose a potential mistress until he realizes the girl looks like a younger version of the older woman.

“Shit,” he says and you look at him with wide eyes, “We’re going to hell.”

“We totally deserve it too.”

An hour later, Leon is excusing himself from a conversation with Klefbom and an older lady. She hardly notices, her attention has been focused on Oscar the whole time. Oscar tries to get him to stay but Leon thinks her not-so-subtle flirtation is hilarious.

He laughs when he gets the “I’m gonna fucking kill you” text from Oscar on the way to the bathroom.

Leon: I don’t like being the third wheel

Leon: Make sure she’s not married, klef. You’d be a terrible mistress

Oscar: I would be the best mistress in the history of mistresses.

When Leon opens the door to the bathroom he’s met with the sound of moans. He supposes he should have shut the door right then and there but he opens it all the way without realizing. He’s met with the sight of Connor fucking you on the sink. Your nails are digging into his back as Connor fucks you. He’s frozen for a moment, can’t remember how to move his limbs until you meet his eyes. He’s fairly certain you smile at him but he’s also convinced he imagined it. He replays your moans and tiny whimpers in his head.

He’s not even surprised when he wakes up the next morning and the girl next to him looks a little like you when he squints.

~~~

A week later he’s coming home from a run, the weather had warmed up enough for a short 15 minute jog before he had to pack for the California road trip. He lets himself in through Connor’s garage door, taking off his snowy boots in the mudroom. He takes his earbuds out, pocketing them when he hears -

“I - fuck, don’t tease me.”

Not again.

Now, Leon is kind of annoyed. He texted Connor that he was on his way home, had given him ample time to move to his bedroom. And Leon has to pass the living room to get to the guest room.

“You’re such a brat,” he hears Connor say and the next thing that comes out of his mouth is a loud groan.

Leon has to start packing, they need to be at the airport in an hour. He tries to make his appearance quick and minimal but he meets Connor’s eyes. He mouths, sorry as he picks up the pace, but Connor doesn’t seem to mind. His face is flushed, and his chest is rising and falling quickly. Connor winks at him. Winks.

When he finally makes it to his room he slumps against the walk, leaving the door open a crack so he can hear Connor’s moans. He can’t help it anymore, he pulls the waistband of his pants down, gripping his dick. He has to bite down on his hand to keep his moans at bay. He cums in unison with Connor, using his moans to guide him to finish.

He stands there for a moment, hands sticky with cum listening to Connor praise you through the crack in the door.

~~~

Leon doesn’t make a habit of picking up men during the season. You can never know who's secretly a hockey fan wanting to sell Leon’s bisexuality to the tabloids. Hell, only like 4 people on the team knew. But Anaheim doesn’t have a huge hockey presence so he takes a chance. He gets out of team movie night under the guise of an upset stomach.

Instead, he Ubers to the nearest gay bar. The place is pretty packed when he gets there. He orders a drink and notices a floppy haired blond guy across from him. He’s a little too scrawny to pass as Connor, but Leon’s not asking for perfection. He asks the bartender to send over another of whatever he’s having before he makes his way over to him. Not-Connor’s name is Josh, and they hit off right away.

Soon, Leon’s pushing not-Connor up against the bathroom wall, grinding against him. Not-Connor gets down on his knees and sucks Leon off. It doesn’t take long until Leon’s shooting down his throat with a hand in his thick hair. He starts to get down so he can reciprocate, his jaw is gonna kill him tomorrow but he’s not an asshole, when not-Connor stops him.

“If you want, we can go to mine and you can fuck me,” he says, biting his lip.

Leon’s already forgotten his name, but he says yes anyway.

Not Connor is really fucking flexible, letting Leon hook his legs over his shoulders when he fucks him in missionary. They stop for a quick snack in the kitchen before Leon bends him over the counter and fucks him until tears form in the corner of his eyes.

Leon’s half an hour late for curfew, but no one says anything to him.

2) The Vacation

Don’t get him wrong, Leon is always honoured to be invited to All-Star weekend. However, if he had the choice of being interviewed for two days straight or sitting on a beach in california for a week, he probably wouldn’t put too much though into his decision.

But, he still had 4 days of vacation in Palm Springs with the team before he and Connor had to leave early. Connor had asked him if he wanted to split the cost of the penthouse suite, and because Leon’s room was on the other side of suite as yours and Connor’s room, he said yes.

They left for California as soon as their last game ended, leaving them too tired to party the first night, choosing to order room service instead. Leon gets a plate of honey garlic chicken wings, 12 of them to himself, spaghetti, and a slice of cheesecake because, fuck it, he’s on vacation.

When it arrives, he snatches the plate of wings before Connor could take one, he had a bad habit of saying he didn’t want stuff and then asking for a few bites. Normally, Leon doesn’t care but he’s been craving wings for weeks. Why did he choose the career with the strict diet regimen?

“You’re really not gonna share?” Connor asks, eyebrow raised.

“Nope,” he replies, popping the ‘p’ and sinking his teeth into his second one.

“You have 12!”

“No one was stopping you from ordering your own.”

Leon feels your eyes on him. He assumes it's because he’s foregone any and all manners. The sticky sauce on the wings coat his fingers, he can feel it in his beard but he does not care because they’re so good. He doesn’t care that he’s gone full barbarian-

“Leon do you want to have a threesome with us?” you ask and Leon chokes on a piece of chicken.

“What?” He nearly drops his wing, “Right now?”

Connor’s groans and runs a hand through his hair in exasperation, “This is not how we said we would ask him.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t explain it,” you giggle and gesture at how he’s hunched over his wings, “but this is doing it for me?”

“Really?” Leon asks incredulously and Connor looks at you in disbelief.

“I wish I could say it didn’t.”

Leon squints at you and Connor, “You’re serious about this?”

“Yeah,” You both respond.

“We’ve been discussing adding a third,” Connor asks, “We were going to ask when you weren’t beasting a plate of wings - I admire your ability to eat during a conversation, by the way - but someone can’t keep it in their pants.”

You shrug, taking a bite from your burger.

Leon contemplates it, eating his 8th wing in the meantime.

“Sure,” he says, starting his 9th, “But not tonight. I don’t feel sexy after I eat spaghetti.”

You laugh, “Leon, if you had to choose between only sex or only food which would it be?”

“Food,” he says with no hesitation, or regrets.

~~~

The next day Leon spends baking in the sun. Everybody had decided to spend the day in the attached private pool in the suit. He chirps Connor when his skin starts to burn about an hour into the day and pokes at his red shoulder when he joins Connor under the umbrella.

By the end of the day Leon is pleasantly tipsy, saying goodbye to the team as he lounges on the couch. When the door shuts, you settle yourself in his lap. Your skin is warm from the heat.

Your sheer white swimsuit coverup has been driving Leon insane for the past two hours the team has been in the suite. Although, seeing you in your bikini, watching the water glint off your tan skin as Connor splashed you with the water, was far worse.

“Hi,” you hum, leaning in, “You still down for this?”

“Of course.”

You kiss him, letting out a groan as you do so. Leon rests his hands on your thighs, and when you don’t rebuke him he slides them up, dragging your cover up with him. His fingers toy with the band of your suit bottoms. He pulls away from your mouth, instead kissing along your jaw, scraping his beard against your skin gently. Normally, he wouldn’t be so bold, but, when you first started dating Connor, he told Leon that he started to grow his beard out because you enjoyed the scratch on your skin. He pays attention to the places that draw tiny gasps or moans from you, noting them for later.

“I should have known that the two most impatient people in my life wouldn’t wait for me,” Connor says, holding your jaw to kiss you. Leon doesn’t miss the way your body goes limp against him when Connor’s fingers tighten ever so slightly.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a sub,” Leon hums, pulling your cover up all the way over your head. “She’s not,” Connor interjects, helping Leon with his task, “She’s a brat, but she’s pretty.”

“You’re mean,” you respond, “Should we move to the bedroom?”

Connor pulls you up, off his lap. Leon thinks that he’s just going to lead you, but Connor picks you up. You pull him closer with your legs, grunting as Connor settles you and starts walking to the master bedroom. Leon has to stop himself running after you.

Leon takes two minutes to get there, stopping for a quick glass of water. Two minutes is all it takes for Connor to fuck you from behing. Leon takes a minute, scanning his eyes over the two of you. Connor looks over and winks at him and Leon gets that same pang in his heart again. He stops, and you let out a whine in protest, pushing your hips back against him.

“Take her mouth,” Connor says, nodding towards the empty spot on the bed.

“For the record, I’m not thrilled that you’re bossing me around,” he says but obliges, pulling his swim shorts off on the way there.

He gives himself a few pumps before you reach over and take over, “You can put your hand in my hair,” you say, before you wrap your lips around the tip.

Connor’s hand slides along your spine, lightly dragging his nails as you start to bob your head, taking Leon deeper each time.

“Should we link arms in true Eiffel Towel fashion?”

~~~

Leon thought it was going to be a one-time thing, but the next morning he wakes up with your throat on his dick, and he can hear the shower running. By the time Connor’s back in the room, you’re cuming on Leon’s cock as he spills into the condom.

“You asshats,” Connor says, water dripping down abs, “I leave for five minutes.”

“You take the longest showers known to man, Con,” you tease, accepting his kiss.

That day the team planned on going to go sightseeing, but Leon makes the excuse of finding a girl at the hotel bar last night. Connor says that the two of you are going to take advantage of the empty penthouse. And you do. The next day, during the team hike, the three of you lag behind the rest, too exhausted to keep up.

~~~

Leon thinks that when they land in San Jose for the All Star game, that it’s the end, and he’s almost sad about it. But at the end, Connor and him get the same snap. You lifting up your McDavid jersey to reveal a lacey, navy blue bodysuit. The V dips tantalizingly low, Leon wants to lick the exposed skin and feel your body squirm against his as he teases you. He and Connor change faster than Leon thought was possible, and soon he’s upstairs in yours and Connors room. Connor fucks you first, not giving you quite enough to cum as he finishes, filling you. As Leon’s rolling on the condom, Connor’s whispering in his ear - don’t let her cum.

So Leon fucks you slowly. Holding both of your hands in one of his palms, he takes his time. His thrusts are rhythmic, as he grinds into you, watching your face contort. He rubs your clit, feeling the way you clench around him. He pushes you to the edge and waits before pulling out entirely. He rests his dick on your stomach, pulling off the condom as he cums on your stomach.

3) The Dinner

Connor gets sick from the WEM signing in February. (Whoever decided to have the Oiler’s star player do a fan signing with a thousand people in the middle of flu season needs to be fired but that’s besides the point.) Because of this, he can’t go to the Nuge’s team bonding dinner but he insists that you still come, the other girls would miss you.

So you go, and you press up against Leon every once in a while during drinks. At dinner, you sit next to him, keeping a hand on his thigh at all times. Your hand moves onto his inseam as you spoon risotto into your mouth. While Nuge and Bre are handing out deserts, you lead him down a hallway.

“Hold on...aha!” you push open a door, leading to a guest room. The bed is made, and there’s a picture of Nuge’s dog on the bedside table. You turn the picture down, “I don’t want Sophie to see what we’re about to do.”

“(Y/N), What about Connor?” he asks. Leon has spent the night with you and Connor multiple times since coming home, and he’s fucked you many times but Connor’s always been there.

“Connor doesn’t care,” you say, pushing him down on the bed, “He said it was fine. We can FaceTime him if you want.”

Leon doesn’t think you’re lying, but he does enjoy watching Connor bite his lip as he watches Leon fuck you from behind. He’s got a terrible angle, can’t really see much but just the sounds of you and Leon make him groan into the phone. You end the cal with a quick “I love you.”

“You coming over tonight?” you ask when you and Leon finished getting dressed.

“Obviously.”

Everyone’s tipsy enough that they hadn’t noticed the two of you were gone.

When Leon comes over that night it’s the first time he gets his hands in Connor. He’s just finished fucking you - he’d quickly become the one to call the shots when he was around - and Connor was watching him pound into uou with wide eyes, fists clenched at his side like he was told.

Leon had spent a number of nights with you and Connor by now, but he figured Connor wasn’t into men so he didn’t push it. But this time it was different, he didn’t know why, but it was.

Leon knee-walks over to him, planting his legs on either side of Connor’s thighs. He doesn’t kiss him, doesn’t know if that’s too much, but he slides his hand up the length of them.

Giving a handy for the first time is always a little bit awkward, Leon actually has to pay attention to what they do and do not like, but with Connor it’s easier. It’s still a little awkward, he accidentally squeezes Connor’s base a little too hard and he crumpled against him, but it’s significantly better.

(Later that week you’d have a conversation with Connor.

“You know I don’t mind if you wanna do stuff with Leo when you’re gone right?”

“What?”

“If you want to. You don’t have to but you seemed like you really enjoyed Leo’s hands the other day. Not that I blame you for that.”)

4) The Roadie

Leon isn’t expecting anyone to knock on his hotel door. He’s surprised when it’s Connor there. He’s antsy, cracking his knuckles.

“Hey,” he says, furrowing his brows at Connor’s uneasy demeanour, “everything okay?”

“Everything’s great,” Connor replies, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Do you wanna come in?”

“Wh-oh yeah sure,” he stutters like he didn’t realize that he was still outside.

Leon lets him in, and Connor walks to the chair on the other side of the room, but doesn’t sit. Leon eyes him as he sits on the edge of the bed.

“So I talked to (Y/N),” Connor starts.

“And…” Leon prompts.

“She said that if we wanted to mess around together on roadies then that’s fine with her,” he takes a deep breath “andivebeenthinkingaboutitandiwannatrymaybebutivenever-”

“Woah woah woah,” Leon stops him, “You’re going to have to repeat that way slower.”

“I was thinking that, if you’re down, then maybe I would be willing to try it?” he trails off at the end.

“Connor?”

“Yes?”

“Do you want to sleep with me?”

“Maybe,” Connor takes another deep breath, “I mean I’ve never done anything with a dude before, but I kinda liked it the other day. But like, only if you want to.”

“We can fool around on roadies,” picking up is so much work, Leon would love to have a steady side piece - even though he doesn't have a main piece, “Since when were you into dudes.”

Connor rubs a hand over his face, “Don’t start with me. I’ve been having an ongoing sexuality crisis for a while. I love women, (Y/N) especially, but we’re tabling this conversation for, like a year.”

“Just one thing,” he says, finally sitting down on the bed next to him, “I don’t want you to….fuck me just yet.”

Leon wants to laugh, Connor’s so straight that it hurts, “Gay sex isn’t like straight sex, there’s a process. And, I don’t want to brag, but if I were to fuck you, you wouldn’t be able to walk for a week and you’re kind of important to the team.”

“So...you’re a bottom,” Leon teases, poking him in the shoulder.

“I think so? Obviously I won’t really know until I try it but I see the appeal….what are you?”

Leon does laugh at that, “ I usually top but I don’t mind taking it every once in a while.”

Connor nods, which Leon finds adorable. The last time Leon dealt with any kind of virginity was when he was losing his own (both times), and he’s kind of excited.

Connor leans in, kissing Leon softly. Leon pushes against them, hand coming up to card through Connor’s hair. A few moments later, he pulls away.

“What’s the verdict?” Leon asks.

“Your beard feels weird.”

“Good weird or bad weird,” Leon didn’t have a 5 step beard oil routine for it to feel bad.

“Good weird.”

Leon hums in approval. Connor leans back in, and this time Leon pushes him down on the bed and Connor lets him. He lets Leon trail kisses down his neck, chest heaving off the bed once Leon gets that spot at his jawbone that drives him crazy.

“You good?” Leon asks as he lowers himself between Connor’s spread legs. Connor nods, “If you’re uncomfortable, tell me and we stop.”

He takes Connor’s dick out of his shorts, only mildly surprised when he realizes Connor’s not wearing any underwear. He licks his lips as he starts to jack him off. Connor lets out a breathy moan as Leon drops his hound to the base of his cock a with a gentle squeeze. Leon leans forward, sucking on the head gently as he watches Connor’s face turn red. Leon bobs his head down, taking more down his throat each time. Leon digs his fingers into Connor’s hips to keep them down.

“Easy, baby,” Leon murmurs, not realizing the nickname was on the tip of his tongue until it had slipped out, “It’s been a while, you’re gonna have to give me a second before you fuck my throat.”

“ ‘M sorry,” Connor says, panting.

“It’s okay, Con,” Leon responds, reaching for Connor’s hand and placing it in his hair.

“Fuuck, Leo,” Connor grunts when Leon starts to suck on his head.

Leon finds a good rhythm, bobbing his head low and hollowing his lips as he comes up. Connor is groaning, Leon should probably tell him to keep his voice down given that they’re surrounded by the team but he doesn’t care.

Leon drops his dick, until the very tip of his cock, and sucks. Connor grunts, thrusting up into Leon’s hands before Leon starts to slide his hand up and down quickly, bringing Connor to the edge.

“Close,” he pants, “I-close, Leo, plea-”

Leon sinks his head down one more time before Connor hits the back of his throat. He sputters a little as Connor keeps spilling into his mouth. He feels a little bit dribble out, and when he finally pulls off, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“How was that?” Leon asks, tucking Connor’s soft dick under the waistband of his shorts.

Connor has a hand thrown over his face, and his only answer is a groan. Leon can’t help but laugh.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, I know my head game is strong.”

(Connor tries to give Leon a blowjob, but he gets a little too ambitious and chokes a few bobs in. Connor sputters and coughs, and Leon can’t help but chuckle as Connor grips his thighs, trying to catch his breath. He wants to try again but Leon stops him.

“You’ve done a lot today, you can try again later if you want to.”

“No, no I can do it.”

Leon explains that he doesn’t want Connor to bite his dick and Connor relaxes, giving him a hanjob instead. His pressure is a little light, so Leon wraps his hand around Connor’s and guides him until Leon finishes all over his stomach.

(Connor hesitantly runs a finger through the mess, before slowly raising his finger to his lips. He scrunches his nose in disgust. “Drink some pineapple juice, ugh.” and Leon laughs)

Connor leaves shortly after, and Leon definitely doesn’t replay the moment over and over again in his head.)

+ 1) The One Time he Stayed

When Leon pulls up into Connor’s driveway, he’s expecting the usual: play with Lenny, threesome, play with Lenny, dinner, play with Lenny, maybe round two, decide if he wants to drive home at 3 am (the answer is most likely no).

However, when he shows up Connor isn’t even home, which is not normal. Lenard throws himself at Leon when he walks through the door, knocking him down on the floor.

“One of these days he’s gonna be successful in his assination attempts,” you joke from your place on the couch.

“There are worse ways to die,” he says as he gets back on his feet, this time ready for Lenny’s high energy. Eventually Lenny decides Leon is not worth his time, padding off to his bed by the fireplace, so Leon sits by you on the couch.

“Watchya reading?” he asks, poking you in the side.

“My textbook detailing the different types and phases of psychosis,” you say, capping your highlighter.

“Hm,” Leon grunts, “Uplifting.”

“Very,” you place the book on the coffee table, “So Connor was telling me about your hook up on the roadie.”

Leon’s heart stops, “Connor said it was okay and you seduced me at Nuge’s so I assumed-”

“Leon, relax” you cut him off with a chuckle, “I’m not mad.”

Leon lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“And I did not seduce you at Nuge’s.”

“You led me down a hallway I’ve never been in just to have sex with me in their guest bedroom,” he raises an eyebrow, “that’s the definition of seducing.”

You mutter something that Leon can’t decipher under his breath which he knows means that he’s won this argument.

“Anyways,” you say, clearing your throat, ““Connor was gonna be here, but he had an appointment and now he’s stuck on the Henday but he’ll be here soon. We were talking and we were thinking, only if you wanted to, that maybe you could join us...as a couple.”

Leon isn’t sure he understands your proposal.

“What?”

“Would you like to join me and Connor as a third?” you ask, “If you don’t want you can leave before Connor comes home and we’ll never bring it up again.”

~~~

Later that day, when Leon is falling asleep with Connor on one side of him using his chest as a pillow and you’re on his other side tucked against him, he’ll think about what a strange road it was to get here. Connor’s already asleep, listening to Leon’s heartbeat as his head rises and falls on with Leon’s breath.

“So was this always the plan?” Leon asks when he feels you tracing something on his skin.

“Hm?” you question.

“Was this all an elaborate ploy to get me to join you and Connor?” he clarifies, “Because if so, kudos because I never expected.”

“No,” Connor mumbles against Leon’s chest, turns out he wasn’t asleep, “We didn’t expect to ask you to join us more than once in California but you’re too damn cute.”

“I never thought we would because I didn’t think Davo was into dudes,” you say, “We get any closer to an answer on the sexuality thing, Con?”

“We’ll get there when we get there.”

#nhl smut #leon draisaitl #connor mcdavid #leon draisaitl imagine #connor mcdavid imagine #leon draisaitl smut #connor mcdavid smut #nhl oneshot #nhl imagine #polyfic

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corpsedaydream · 3 years

Text

paint wars part 2

OKAY HERE IT IS! PART TWO TO PAINT WARS

if u haven’t read part one, i’ll link it right here

word count: 3k (yikes it’s a long one)

_______________________________

paint wars part 2

Things had been rough lately.

Real fucking rough.

You missed Corpse so much. You hadn’t spoken to each other since that fight at his apartment and that was fifty-four days ago now, almost two thirds of a season you’d been without him.

“I miss you.” You spoke aloud into the emptiness of your apartment, noting that the time on your phone now said 12:01am. It was officially now day fifty-five without speaking to him.

You swiped away all your notifications on your lock screen, ignoring everything and everyone that was trying to reach you right now so you could look at the person who was ignoring you. You wanted to look at the photo that was still your wallpaper. That first photo you’d ever taken together.

You went to change it on day thirty-eight of not speaking. On night thirty-seven of not speaking you’d gone out with your friends, they’d finally convinced you after a whole month of trying and you got absolutely wasted. So of course you’d called Corpse. But he didn’t answer, not any of the fifteen times you’d called. So that next morning, when you woke up hungover and saw that same lock screen photo and not one response from him, you told yourself you were going to change it. You tried to tell yourself you were angry, but it was just a coping mechanism to ignore the hurt that had been tunnelling through your heart since being without him. You spent an hour scouring tumblr and twitter for some aesthetically pleasing lock screen, but you didn’t save a single one. Nothing could compare to that photo of you and Corpse.

You then started to wonder if he’d listened to any of the voicemails you’d left the night before. You couldn’t remember them exactly, but you knew you definitely left four of them and how badly you wanted to know if the curiosity became too much to bear and he’d listened to them.

And he had.

On night thirty-seven, while you were out drinking, Corpse was in a deep sleep. He hadn’t been sleeping a whole lot lately, so finally, he’d crashed hard that night and slept through the calls you’d made to him. But even though he wasn’t aware of the calls in his sleeping state, you were still present in his dreamland. Every adventure his brain took him on was with you, maybe it was something that kept him asleep, the fact that you were right there in this fantasy. You were talking to him again, he could see your smile, hear your laugh, reach out and grab your hand, he could kiss you again. It was happiness. But then he woke up and he went to reach out for you in his bed, still caught up in the false wonder his dreams had provided him, only to find it was just him and reality slapped him fully awake. You weren’t there with him. You hadn’t been for a number of weeks. He missed you.

On day thirty-eight, when he spotted the missed calls from you on his phone, he cursed himself for being asleep and missing it. But would he had answered had he been awake? He wasn’t sure. So instead, he heard you speak to him for the first time in so long, even if it was through a voicemail you had left in the space of him not answering your calls.

“Oh, fuck- oh my god.”

That was it. That was the first voicemail, there was a lot of background noise but he had heard you so clearly. In your drunken state, you didn’t know what to say, so that’s what you had left with him, until you called back and left another.

"Hi.” You started it simple. He had the phone clutched so tightly in his hand, the device pressed so firmly against his ear, he didn’t want to miss a word. “I- I don’know what to say.” He noticed the slight slur to your words then, you were drunk when you had called. “I’m’a just go.”

You hung up again, but alas, there was another.

“Can I just ask... are you ignoring me?” Your voice was so meek, his chest hurt at the sound of it. He almost went to say no, but this was a one sided conversation, he’d missed the opportunity. “I miss you.” You hung up again, and he had to stop himself from replaying it over and over again to hear you say that you missed him.

But there was one last voice mail.

“I should stop calling, huh?” You sighed and he could picture you with a sad pout, your eyes all droopy with a mix emotion and alcohol. “But, I just want’a talk to you.” You confessed, then he heard another voice call your name in the background before they spoke to you and he listened. “(Y/N)! Here you are, what are you doing? That guys wondering where you are, he’s fucking hot-”

Corpse hung up then, he didn’t want to hear anymore. Jealousy was surging through him as the unwanted images of you with someone else plagued his mind and he threw his phone across his room. Wishing he hadn’t of started listening to those fucking voicemails.

What he didn’t know, though, is how the rest of that last voicemail went.

“I really don’t care.” You’d told your friend at the mention of the guy. Yeah, he was attractive and he was buying you drinks, but you wanted no one except Corpse. “Give me a sec.” You’d told your friend before walking away again, bringing your phone back to your ear to talk to the only person you wanted to talk to right now, even if he wasn’t on the other end of that call. “I hope you didn’t hear that, but if you did, don’t worry it. I’m g’na go home now.” You sighed and looked up at the night sky, there was no shooting star, or really any stars at all because of the light pollution from where you currently were, but you were still wishing that by some magic happenstance, Corpse would pick up his phone and speak to you again. “I wish I was going to yours.”

On day thirty-nine you cried so hard. You thought you had made it past this violently sobbing stage, this was exact state you’d cried yourself to sleep to each night for the first few weeks. Your heart was in so much pain, it was torn apart and you swore only one person had the power to stitch it back together, but he wasn’t there. You hadn’t heard a single thing from him. Were you two still together? Had you broken up? You weren’t even sure. But on day thirty-nine you cried that hard again because Corpse hadn’t responded at all to your calls or voicemails, so you convinced yourself he truly wanted nothing to do with you.

You’d been avoiding searching his name on social media, knowing it would send you into a spiral and you’d overthink every little thing but on day forty-two you’d noticed on twitter that he was playing games live. He wasn’t live himself, but you watched someone’s stream just to hear him again. You cried again doing this, because he was being exceptionally quiet, he wasn’t his normal self, he barely laughed once.

You wished you hadn’t clicked on it. The guilt you felt was already immense, but hearing him so not like himself made you feel even worse for causing all of this. You stopped watching, you couldn’t bear it. You knew you were to blame for all of this, you pushed him too far, you couldn’t believe how stupidly you had acted, you knew better and you did it anyway. The self attacking thoughts kept swirling your mind until you gave yourself a headache.

On day fifty-six of still not talking to each other, you ventured out to the beach with just your best friend. She’d been there for you a lot lately, she also felt bad about that night, but you tried to assured her it was your own fault. She didn’t know Corpse like you did, she didn’t know him at all, that’s why you felt to blame for not stopping the idea before it was too late.

“You should put sunscreen on.” Your best friend told you. You were laying on your towel in the direct sun, enjoying the warmth blasting into your skin, you hadn’t been to the beach in such a long time.

“Yeah.” You answered her, but you knew you weren’t going to. Another time, you would have, you knew the familiar sting of sunburn well and you normally put it on to look after your skin, but you hadn’t really been taking care of yourself too well lately, you just didn’t care enough.

On night fifty-six, you stood in front of your bathroom mirror looking over your body. You’d spent a lot longer at the beach than you realised and now you were burnt so badly and as red as a tomato. “Fuck.” You said out loud, turning and looking over your shoulder to inspect your back, it was just as red. You should’ve worn sunscreen. You left your bathroom to go find your aloe vera plant, only to find that it was dead. “Fuck!” You repeated, the one hope you had to help heal your skin even slightly quickly vanishing. “Oh, fuck. What am I going to do?”

That’s how you found yourself heading towards a 24 hour store to purchase whatever aloe vera cream or gel you could find, you knew it wouldn’t be as good as the plant itself, but you needed something. It was late and you were anxious as you neared the shop, you knew about this place from Corpse, he would often go there at odd hours to get whatever he needed. It was close to his place and you hadn’t driven around this area since that disaster of a night.

You squinted your eyes as you walked in and the harsh fluorescent lights pierced into your eyes after walking in from the night time. You were walking quickly and you told yourself it was because you were embarrassed about your skin being so burnt and you didn’t want anyone to see you like this, but it was really because you were so anxious over the thought of who you could potentially run into in this shop. Your swift steps brought you to the skin care isle and you let your eyes scan the shelves for the aloe vera you so desperately sought out.

“(Y/N)?”

You froze completely and you swore you even felt your heart stop beating. Hearing his voice speak your name again felt like lighting had struck right through you. This couldn’t be real, this had to be your imagination playing some sort of sick joke on you. Slowly, you turned towards the direction his voice had come from and sure enough, there he was. Dressed in all black, a beanie on his head and a mask over the bottom half of his face, your eyes locked with his. There was a pull in your chest, your heart had heard him, too and it wanted so badly to be with him, to be healed by him. You had thought up this scenario a million times over these past fifty-six days, of what would happen had you and him had a run in like this and in every single one you had so much to say, but right now, you were speechless.

Before you had a chance to even try to say anything if you managed to stop being stuck in silence, Corpse spoke again.

“Fucking hell,” He neared you and you sucked in a quick breath at his sudden movement. “Look how burnt you are.” You were wearing tights and an oversized hoodie, so your entire body was covered, but your face was just as burnt and clearly he had noticed.

This was another aspect that didn’t fit into your scenarios you’d thought up about this moment. You’d imagined you would’ve look amazing. But instead of looking like some beautiful mermaid, you were the same colour as Ariel’s hair from The Little Mermaid. “I know, don’t look at me.” You huffed and dropped your head down, letting your beach waved hair fall around your face.

“You didn’t wear sunscreen?”

“Obviously not.”

“That was silly.”

“I know.”

“Are you sore?”

“Yeah.” It felt so natural to have this back and forth with him. It was brief, but it was enough for your heart to kick back into gear and speed up.

He stayed silent for a prolonged moment so you looked back to his face and his eyes were on your face but it was his turn to glance away then and you took the opportunity to really soak in his side profile. You’d even missed just being able to look at him.

“Why are you here?” He asked you.

“I need aloe vera and I knew this place would be open.”

“You’re not using your plant?” Butterflies fluttered inside of you that he remembered a simple mundane fact that you preferred the healing touch of the actual plant for sunburn as opposed to what was bought at a store in a bottle.

“It died.”

Corpse suddenly looked back to you and much to your surprise, he laughed.

“Why are you laughing?!”

“How do you kill a succulent?”

“You know I’m not good at gardening and shit like that.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d be able to kill a succulent.” He laughed harder and you started to smile, he was teasing you but it felt so right. And hearing his laughter filled you with a warmth you’d been missing.

“Shut up.” You told him, but you were beginning to laugh too. “It’s hard to keep plants alive.”

“(Y/N), succulents are pretty much impossible to kill.”

“Okay, I get it, I didn’t purposely murder my aloe vera plant.”

“Oh, baby.” The pet name slipped so easily from his lips but it caught you both off guard, so the both of you stopped laughing and your postures stiffened.

Briefly, your eyes met but each of you darted your vision elsewhere. However, neither of you made no effort to move away from one another.

“Sorry.” Corpse said softly.

“It’s okay.” And it was, so okay. You wanted to tell him that hearing him call you baby was all you’d been wanting to hear again over these almost fifty-seven days without him. “I should really get this aloe vera gel on me, though.” You really didn’t want to leave him, but you couldn’t stand in this store forever.

“Are you sunburnt all over?” He asked.

“Yeah.” You sighed

And just as instinctively as the pet name had slipped out, his hands started to move towards the sleeve of your jumper. But he stopped himself when you flinched slightly and he quickly realised what he was doing. “Sorry, can I see?”

“I mean, you can, but I don’t want you to do it because it does really fucking hurt. That’s why I jumped, not because I don’t want you to touch me.” You answered him quickly. “I do want you to touch me- wait, I mean, no.” If your face wasn’t already red from the sunburn, it would have become red then from the blush you could feel forming. And if your skin wasn’t in pain you would have facepalmed yourself. “Sorry.” You apologised then.

“It’s okay.”

Shaking your head, you began to gently slide the sleeve of your big hoodie up.

“Fuck, (Y/N).” Corpse cursed, concern filling him as your skin was practically glowing from the burn it had copped. “You can’t do that to yourself.”

“I know.”

“How long were you at the beach?”

“All day pretty much.”

“You’re that burnt all over?”

“Yeah, I mean, some spots are worse. I think my back and shoulders are probably the worst. They hurt the most.”

He moved to step around you then, disappearing out of your sight as he was now standing behind you. “Can I?”

“Yeah, just be careful.”

And he made sure to keep his movements cautious, he decided on looking from the top, his hands grabbing the neck on the back of your hoodie to pull it back ever so gently so he could inspect. His eyes widened in a combination horror, worry and sympathy. He’d seen you get sunburnt before, but never to this extent. “Oh my fucking god.” The contrast between where the strap of your togs sat over your shoulder, blocking a sliver of your skin from the sun to keep it its natural colour versus the red that was brought from the burn was insane. “It looks like someone has painted you.”

“I mean, I guess the sun did. Just in a really painful way.”

“You’re not planning on going to the beach anytime soon, right?” Corpse carefully released your hoodie then and stepped in front of you once more. Distress was so present on his face, despite most of it being covered. He was so worried about you in this moment.

“Definitely not. The only thing I’m planning on is not going outside in any sunlight until my skin is healed.”

“Living like me.”

“Guess so.”

“My aloe vera plant is alive.” He stated.

“Wow, you’re really just going to flex that right now? Trying to kick me while I’m down.” You joked back, assuming he was teasing you.

“No, I mean...” He trailed off, his eyes struggling to stay on yours as he continued. “You could come over and use it, I know you like the real stuff better and I could help do your back, or wherever you can’t reach.” He was nervous, but he really didn’t have to be.

You could feel it happening, your heart beginning to heal.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Do you want to?”

“Yeah.”

#corpse #corpse husband #corpse x reader #corpse husband fanfiction #corpse husband imagine #corpse husband x reader #writing #mine

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kyndaris · 3 years

Text

Zeptogram Squad

Back in 2007, a little known game came out on the Nintendo DS. After a friend told me about it (because they liked the art style), I tried it out. Only to lose interest after the first few minutes because of the timer. Fast forward several years and the game would come out on mobile devices, and then later on the Switch. Not wishing to waste the second chance I had been given, I bought the game and wrote up my thoughts of the title on this very blog.

Imagine my surprise then when a sequel was announced in early 2021. NEO: The World Ends With You was one of the few games I actually cared enough about to pre-order. Unfortunately, with the Delta strain entering Australia, my hopes of picking up a physical copy were dashed. Still, that didn’t stop me from sucking up the cost and getting the game via the Nintendo eStore and playing it soon after my first major love: The Great Ace Attorney Chronicles.

As soon as I started the game, I was struck by so many familiar elements to the original game. The art style screams Tetsuya Nomura for one. Two, the Reaper’s Game where Players are forced into a life-or-death situation and fight against the Noise. Shibuya as the setting is a close third.

But that was where many of the similarities started to fall away. Rather than playing as Neku or Beat or any of the old cast members, the main character for NEO is Rindo Kanade, a fifteen year old with an ahoge and also seems to wear a mask as fashion. According to Nomura, it was a coincidence that one of the fashion accessory to differentiate his character became the norm in everyday society in 2020 and 2021.

With Rindo was best friend: Tosai Furesawa (also, commonly known as Fret). Unbeknownst to them, the two were drawn into the UG despite being alive and kicking through the activation of their powers through special Player Pins. Just as with Neku and the rest of the old cast before them, they are forced to partake in the Reaper’s Game lest they face erasure. Along the way, they pick up allies in the form of Minamimoto and Nagi, a college student fascinated with mobile game: Elegent Strategy.

As the first week progresses, they discover that they all have special abilities. Fret is able to ‘remind’ individuals about anything they’ve forgotten or specific topics of interest. Nagi can ‘dive’ into people’s heads. And Rindo? Well, he has the super fancy ability of ‘replay’ where he can travel through time.

Speaking of time travel, I usually hate it as a trope. And it’s why I’ve shied away from games such as Returnal and Deathloop. Rather than loop time around, however, it’s very much alternate dimensions that disappear as soon as Rindo is able to change the past. As the narrative continues, it becomes an important point and helps up the stakes in the final battle battle while in other games it’s more of a gimmick or left unexplained.

By using their powers, they make it to the end of Week 1 and would have been able to leave the game after narrowly besting Susukichi (a member of the Ruinbringers and a minor antagonist) in battle before it is ruled invalid due to the interference of a hooded figure that looks somewhat like the legendary Neku (gone from the RG in an extra episode that came packaged with the Final Remix version of The World Ends With You, which came out on the Switch).

Forced into a second week of the Reaper’s Game and losing the valuable Minamimoto, the unlikely allies fight their way through until they have to hunt down the interloper that had saved them earlier. Except, of course, it’s not Neku. But Daisukenojo Bito (or Beat as he prefers to be called). With one of the old cast members supporting the team, they manage to survive Week 2. By the end, they even manage to recruit a former member of the Reapers, Shoka Sakurane.

Alas, though they managed to win against Susukichi a second time as well as defeat Tsugumi, they are forced into a third week of the game because the leader of the Ruinbringers is none other than Shiba: the Game Master. Honestly, as I played, I couldn’t help but decry the unfairness of it all. The deck was stacked against all the human players from the start and I honestly felt for the teams that had been there ever since the beginning.

It’s during the third week that a lot of the underlying plot is unravelled such as the revelation that the Reapers in charge are from Shinjuku and that they had fled to Shibuya three years ago.

But, the best reveal of all was Neku coming to Beat’s rescue at the end of Day 4 of the third week. I could not have been even more excited to see the character that I played in the first game return in all his glory!

There’s a lot about NEO that I loved. The character relationships (and the budding romance between Rindo and Shoka) in particular helped gave both the protagonists and villains alike, depth. Then there was the reunion between Shiki and Neku. I’m not afraid to admit that I got a little teary at the scene.

Most important of all, NEO, like The World Ends With You before it, taught that what makes a place special aren’t the buildings but the people and the connections one builds. That was why Rindo decided to risk it all and use his powers again even though it might have proved disastrous.

And while I would like nothing but gush about the game, there were quite a few things that irked me about the title. The fixed camera angles - while understandable - also made it occasionally difficult to navigate around the world and its fixed settings. It didn’t help that the minimap on the lower left wasn’t orientated in the same way as the locations - which made it all the more confusing.

This also extended to combat where player characters were focused on one enemy and the use of the right analogue stick merely shifted the target.

Instead of swiping madly at the screen, NEO also changed up how pins were used. Each pin was assigned to a specific button. Whether that was X, Y, L, R, ZR or ZL. By the end of the game, I could feel my hand cramping as I button-mashed my way through most of the combat encounters (although there are a few buttons that one needs to hold/ or charge). It became a dizzying dance of seeing which pins had been recharged and how effective they were against each enemy.

The groove display was a fun addition and dropping the beat meant there were new creative ways for my team to do damage. But my goodness...those Scramble Slams were the worst when it came to racking up points. And all for what? A pin that became obsolete by the third week as I picked out my favourites.

Still, this was a solid game by Square-Enix and I’m still very curious about the lore of the world that has been so lovingly crafted. Angels, Composers, Conductors...

Let’s hope it doesn’t spiral into Kingdom Hearts level of ridiculousness when it comes to backstory.

Also...before I forget, I love the stickers that Rindo uses in his chats with Swallow and Fret! Square-Enix...please release those stickers for use! I want to send my friends Cactuars, Tonberries, Chocobos and Moogles!

#video games #neo: the worlds ends with you #the world ends with you #neku x shiki #rindo x shoka

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years

Text

Black lace and property damage

Summary: With your messy work hours, Bucky’s consistently inconsistent mission schedule, and those basic life tasks you’re both ignoring (when was the last time he actually bought a new toothbrush?), the simple act of just being together has been shunted to the side. Bucky’s officially starting to panic.

Characters: Bucky x Reader Warnings: SMUT, 18+. Sweet sex, awkward sex, some dirty sex, some sex on a car. Basically sex. Swearing. Bucky wearing a white t-shirt and dog tags. My sketchy automotive knowledge.

A/N: This story is sort of an ode to anyone struggling to make time for your person. Life gets busy, so don’t be afraid to get creative. Also sometimes sex goes smooth and perfect, but often it comes with mishaps and giggles. Both ways are great, Bucky says just roll with it!

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

The porch light above the front door is out.

Was he supposed to change that before he left?

“I’m not touching it Bucky, there are spiders up there. Big ones. The kind that give you rabies.”

“Spiders don’t have rabies.”

“No one’s ever proven that.”

Dammit. Yeah, he was.

Picturing you stumbling up the porch, using the pathetic flashlight on your phone to light the way, Bucky feels like a world class, Grade A jackass. He needs to make it up to you.

Good thing he has plenty of ideas for that.

“Please be home,” he mutters, “please be home, please dear god be fucking home.”

Fingers crossed, he kicks the door open and calls out a hopeful hello.

An empty echo returns.

Bucky blows out a frustrated breath.

Figures.

Slogging down the dark hallway, he slings his bag on the kitchen table with a thud. Grenade pins, bullet casings, fun size candy bar wrappers, and handfuls of beer bottle caps rattle loose in the army green canvas and he grimaces.

One of these days, maybe, just fucking maybe, he’ll convince Natasha to stop using his bags as her garbage bin.

Ignoring that disaster zone (a problem for future Bucky), he wanders over to the sink, where he spies a small tableau on the counter. Propped up beside his favorite coffee mug, the one with sparkly pink letters proclaiming “Bitch, I’m Fabulous”, is a folded piece of paper, his name scrawled across the front.

He flips it open.

“Hey Bucky Bear. Don’t let your sexy ass fall asleep before I get home, I have a surprise!”

Drawn under your bubbly letters, he finds two stick figures entangled in an outrageously lewd sex act. Tracing tender fingers over the very obviously male stick figure (you never were very subtle), he grins so hard his cheeks ache. Leaning on the counter, he sniffs the letter because he’s a sentimental sap and it smells like your Cherry-Almond lotion, and drops his head in his arms.

“So tired,” he whines softly, voice muffled against sleek granite.

Three weeks. That was the last mission. Three weeks, even though Steve guaranteed Bucky three days max. Of course, two days into the mission Bucky remembered that Steve Rogers is an accomplished liar, so instead he spent three exhausting weeks dodging bullets, rewashing all his underwear, and hysterically rationing his bag of fun size candy bars.

Finally home, he wants to forget everything and sink into the post-mission domesticity he dreams about when he’s stuck in some dank motel on the corner of Fuck This and No One Cares. The routine is simple. A scalding hot shower, burrito wrapping himself in the feather duvet, making out with you for a few hours, taking a break to eat some pizza, and then fucking you so hard he breaks the brand new headboard he made for you last month (actually the third headboard he’s made...a fact he smugly reports to anyone and everyone).

And after all that fun, he wants to sleep. Maybe two full days. Or five. Tops.

Is that asking too much?

“No,” he sighs out loud. “It’s not.”

Carefully folding the cartoon and your sweet message, he kisses the paper and tucks it in his back pocket.

No way he’s falling asleep before he sees you. Nope. Nada. Negative. Totally not happening.

Pepping himself up, he goes to work, whizzing through his homecoming task list.

Blood-stained tac clothes go in the washer with three cups of bleach. Guns and knives are wiped down and polished. The contents of the dirty green canvas bag are unceremoniously trashed. The spider infested porch light is changed (with only three furry sightings). The shower is set to a blistering temp and he hangs out in there for an hour, soaping his hair into a foamy mohawk, belting out a few showtunes with his shampoo bottle microphone.

Scrubbed fresh and clean, he flops on the bed with his Starkpad and opens up Netflix, searching for something to keep him awake. Several scrolls later, he finds Brooklyn 99 and settles in for a laugh.

Confident in his ability to resist the appealing pull of sleep scratching at his brain, he takes a slurp of the Super Double Big Gulp sized coffee on his nightstand and stretches his eyes wide open.

Staying awake. Piece of cake.

Ten minutes later, Bucky’s fast asleep.

*****

When his eyes pop open, the room is dark. He feels tipsy, sleep drunk on his first uninterrupted hours of rest in weeks.

Beside him, he feels the cozy pressure of another body. Glancing down, he finds you curled under the sheets at his side, your face smushed against his arm, steady breaths fogging the gleaming metal.

Asleep.

Bucky grits his teeth. Squeezes his eyes shut. One thing. You asked him to do one thing.

God. Dammit.

Furious with his lame old man ass, he almost wakes you up. Almost. But then he swallows that desire and thinks.

Before he got married, Bucky read every relationship advice book under the sun. He gets the importance of keeping the romance alive. He knows you need to cherish your person, make them a priority, shower them with love. He knows. He gets it. He watches Oprah, for fuck’s sake. Relationships take work.

But lately? This is life.

With your messy work hours, Bucky’s consistently inconsistent mission schedule, and those basic life tasks you’re both ignoring (when was the last time he actually bought a new toothbrush?), the simple act of just being together has been shunted to the side.

Bucky’s officially starting to panic.

Although, he muses, eyes lingering on the innocent curve of your mouth, the chaos has forced both of you to get more…creative.

He grins.

It was you who instigated it the first time. He was lying in a dingy motel bed when you nervously offered.

“Hey, um…do think maybe you’d…like…would you…uh…”

“Spit it out babe.”

“Doyouwannatryphonesex?”

An anxious slur so fast, he nearly misses the question. He remembers that beat of hesitation, before you dove in headfirst, telling him in obscenely explicit detail exactly what you wanted to do to him. He was so shocked he dropped the phone and had to naked crawl under the grimy mattress to fish it out.

He must’ve jerked off five times that night. Replaying your filthy words. Remembering the quiet whimpers as you came on your fingers, gasping out his name. What a treat.

Sexting soon followed, accompanied by a plethora of nudes. None from you of course, because as you always remind him, you’re a lady, but Bucky? He gets irrational joy from sending them. They come in a variety of close-ups and poses, several which Sam accidentally discovered when he walked in on Bucky prancing around naked, searching for his best angle.

Sam always knocks now.

But sometimes words and pictures aren’t enough. Sometimes you need the soothing weight of someone in your arms. The scent of sweaty skin beneath your nose. Hot breaths of pleasure in your ear and the touch of a cool tongue licking across a heated body.

Sometimes he just needs you.

Could he wake you up? Sure. He knows you wouldn’t mind, you’ve told him a thousand times. But he also knows how tired you’ve been, and he can’t bring himself to shake you awake, selfishly stealing those bits of recovery you need.

So instead, he searches for something to keep him occupied.

He tries reading Game of Thrones again and gets nowhere. Thinks yet again someone needs to get George R.R. Martin an editor.

He flicks on his phone and covertly watches PornHub on mute. Seriously debates whether he can get away with jerking off while you’re sleeping because hey, Bucky Barnes is nothing if not stealthy.

He stares up at the ceiling and tries to see how long he can hold his breath. He gets 2 minutes and 8 seconds (a new record) before giving up.

In the end, he rolls onto his side stares intently at you. Wills you to wake up on your own. Come on baby, please.

But nothing works, and when sleep still doesn’t come, he decides to be productive. Crawling carefully from the bed, he smothers a laugh when you curl instantly into the warm mattress dip of his body, burrowing further under the blankets and unconsciously stealing his pillow. Most mornings Bucky wakes up hanging off the bed, no blankets or pillows to his name, while you’re swathed in comfort, cold toes shoved beneath his belly.

Maybe he should be annoyed. Except every time he looks at you, he forgets how to scowl.

Love is weird.

Rummaging silently through the closet, he unearths a threadbare pair of jeans and an oil stained t-shirt, slips into his worn leather boots. He drops a light kiss on your forehead, brushing a finger down the curve of your neck. Smiles to himself when you snuffle a quiet snore.

And he heads out the backdoor, down the weatherworn brick to the garage out back.

It was an added bonus when he bought the house. An unanticipated domestic perk. Hell, he never thought he’d find someone would actually date him, let alone someone who wanted to marry him and buy a house with him and accept his penchant for hoarding things in a rickety old garage (come on, I grew up in the Depression and I need this, he whines every time you take him to Target).

Thank god you said yes. He’s the luckiest jerk in the world.

Flicking on the garage light, Bucky still gets a little thrill. The entire place is an homage to eclectic, random artifacts, from the box of ugly 1970s vases he found at a flea market, to the fishing equipment he insisted on buying and has yet to use, to the sack of broken seashells you drunkenly collected on your honeymoon in Costa Rica.

In the midst of the swirl sits his pride and joy. Cherry red paint, black leather seats, a tad dusty, full of potential.

The 1969 Camaro looks like a teenage wet dream.

He remembers the day he brought it home, that surge of macho pride when your eyes lit up. After you slapped his ass and told him how sexy the car was, he reveled in your admiration for maybe 10 seconds, before hauling you back to the house and under the sheets. Took several hours before you both came up for air.

That was a good time, he thinks dreamily.

The car attracted his friends as well. Sam and Steve brought over a celebratory case of beer and stood by while Bucky explained the changes he had planned. Steve gave a few sage nods, while Sam helpfully threw out words like fuel injector now and then. Neither had a fucking clue what was happening, but Bucky graciously let them fake it.

Tony also saw the car once. Got a fervent gleam in his eye and started to say the phrase jet fuel, before Bucky ushered him out the door. Tony doesn’t get to see the car anymore.

There are still plenty of fixes to make, but for tonight he takes it easy. Flips on the ancient radio perched above the workbench and flops down on a rolling seat, sliding under the Camaro to tinker around. He goes to work, lets the crackle of the radio and the mechanical puzzle lull him into focus mode.

So intent on the task at hand, he barely hears the garage door opening.

The click of a shoe alerts him too late and he freezes, gripping his wrench tight. Muscles tense, garage floor plans and fight scenarios flooding his brain.

“Bucky? Do you have a sec?”

His breath whooshes in relief at your voice. A silly grin bubbles up because you’re finally awake, until he tilts his head sideways, peering out from under the car to see your feet.

Black high heels.

Stomach sinking, Bucky closes his eyes. Back to work then. Motherfucker. He missed his chance again.

Swallowing down the bitter disappointment, he croaks out a plea.

“Hey babe, do you gotta go back to the office so soon? Can you just - “

Click click and you step between his legs. Firm hands clutch the oil stained fabric at his knees and you pull. The seat rolls easily and he slides free, squinting up at you in the dim light.

The words die on his lips.

Black high heels, yes.

And.

Lacy black underwear, the sides held together with thick satin ribbons. A lacy black bra, your breasts threatening to spill out.

Gorgeous, devilish smile.

Fingering the wide satin bow between your breasts, you tease a light tug and Bucky starts sweating like a virgin on prom night. His wrench slips from numb fingers, thunking him in the nuts and clattering away.

“Shit,” he grunts. There’s a moment of confusion on whether the fresh ache in his balls is from the punch of the wrench, or tantalizing swathes of skin before him, but then you say his name and he figures it out pretty fucking fast.

“Hey Bucky Bear,” you purr, in that raspy voice he loves. “Still want that surprise I promised?”

Palming himself roughly, Bucky adjusts the suddenly tight front of his jeans, eyeing you with a lusty smile. Fuck yes, he wants his surprise. He wants everything about you.

“You bet your sweet ass I do. What’d you have in mind?”

“I have some ideas,” you say playfully. Stepping closer, slipping your fingers into his silky hair, he leans into the touch. “And I promise we’ll get to them. But first, how about you stay down there and maybe show me how much you missed me?”

Torn, Bucky looks down at his oil stained fingers. They spasm, clutching the edge of the seat so tight the metal bends. His voice drops several octaves.

“Babe, I - shit, I’m gonna kill the mood here, but my hands are all dirty, I should wash ‘em first,” he apologizes. Rolling your eyes, you shift closer until the edge of his nose is a mere inch from the delicate lace panties.

“I’m not asking for your hands, soldier. You have a mouth. Get creative.”

Bucky’s jaw drops. Sassy and domineering? And nearly naked?

Hell yes, his dick shouts. Here we fucking go.

Warm and cool, tentative fingertips press into the smooth skin behind your knees, stroking higher until he’s plucking the satin ribbons and pulling. It feels like Christmas morning when the knot slowly breaks apart, whispers of satin and lace floating to the ground.

Nosing against your core, he inhales, long and deep. A low growl rumbles, rough hands gripping your hips tight and heat explodes across your skin when his tongue presses into your folds, licking over your clit.

“God,” your moan is dark, desperately breathless, “keep - that feels so good, Bucky, keep going, please, been way too long.”

Bucky gives a fervent nod of agreement, strands of his dark hair tickling your thighs. When was the last time he did this? Nah, you know what? If he has to ask, it’s been too long.

From now on, the only correct answer should be every damn day.

He feels you moving his head, guiding him exactly where you need him most, and he hums hungrily. Shoves his tongue deeper. He adores when you take charge, using him, his mouth or his fingers or his dick, to get yourself off. He loves it, dreams about it, wishes you would let him film it just one time (because sometimes missions last three weeks not three days Steve).

But until then, he devotes himself to making it perfect because you deserve perfect.

Fast, firm flicks of the tongue. Long, leisurely strokes, licking you slow and sweet. Rough pressure, his plush pink lips sucking tight around your clit. So good.

Your eyes fall closed as his tongue moves faster, quicker, pushing you closer closer closer -

No, that won’t do. Cold metal lightly pinches your ass, a bid for attention. Chest heaving, you open your eyes.

Bright eyed and eager, Bucky gazes up from between your legs, looking thoroughly debauched. White t-shirt stretched tight across broad shoulders, dark hair mussed in your fingers, an obvious erection straining his jeans.

So close, you’re so close, right on the edge, just another second -

He knows, of course. Could always play you like a fiddle. He cocks a challenging eyebrow, sucks your clit between his teeth -

“Oh god, Bucky, fuck,” you moan. Weak knees buckle and his hands clutch your ass, keeping you upright and open. He never stops licking, swirling that talented tongue to draw out the bursts and shocks of pleasure until you’re gasping. When he’s wrung every drop from you, he kisses the sensitive bud and tips his head back with an arrogant smirk.

Legs like jelly, you promptly collapse into his lap.

The momentum of the fall sends the rolling seat flying. Busy being chivalrous and keeping you from tumbling headfirst onto dirty concrete, Bucky lets the wheels send him whizzing backward. His head smacks the door handle with a sharp thwack.

“Ow,” he grunts.

“Sorry,” you pant. Struggling for breath, wrapped in the haze of post orgasm bliss, you cuddle against him, soaking up his warmth. “Want me to rub it?”

Massaging his head, he wrinkles his nose. “Maybe. Depends on what you’re offering to rub.”

“Dealer’s choice,” you sass, and Bucky barks out a laugh. Wandering hands skim lightly over your shoulders, fingering the straps of the lacy bra, feather light trails along your collarbone, to the satin bow between your breaks. Tugging impatiently, he smiles when it unwinds, your breasts spilling free.

“Well, how about I take my pants off, we get in the backseat of this car, and you rub whatever you find.”

“Intriguing. What happens after I finish rubbing whatever…pokes my fancy?”

Bucky dips his head, takes your nipple between his lips, sucking gently. The feel of his wet mouth has you squirming closer until he pauses to offer an option.

“Maybe we fuck like a couple horny teenagers?”

“You’re killing me with the romance here, Barnes,” you say drily and he chuckles. “But I was maybe thinking something different.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

Licking a lazy strip between your breasts, he kisses up, up, up, until his tongue finds the hammering pulse of your heartbeat. Bemused, he hears your voice falter, before bravely offering your idea.

“I was thinking maybe I sit on the hood of your pretty red car, and – and you spread my legs and fuck me so good, I can’t walk for a week.”

Startled, Bucky pulls back. Excitement explodes in his chest.

“You - really? Seriously? That’s what you want?”

“Yep,” you confirm, palpable relief at successfully executing the dirty request. “That’s exactly what I want.”

Bucky plants a sloppy kiss on the tip of your nose. Wiggles his eyebrows and winks.

“Well god damn. You got it sweet cheeks.”

Wasting no time, he pushes off the ground and you kick your heels off, wrapping your legs around his waist. He huffs out a blissful moan when you suck a string of hickeys down his neck, grinding against you as he stumbles to the front of the car. Without thinking, he drops you on the shiny red hood and -

“Cold!”

Icy metal meets your bare ass. There’s a panicked scramble back into his arms and he manages to catch you, until your flailing upper cut cracks his jaw. It sends him off balance, tripping forward to smack his kneecaps on the Camaro’s fancy new grill. A grating screech tears the air and the grill rattles to the floor, the metallic clang bouncing off the walls.

Flinching, you peer up at him as it fades away.

Bucky’s nose twitches.

In all his fantasies (and there are many, because you are one sexy piece of ass), this shit never happens. Every sexcapade is effortlessly smooth, sensual and steamy, where you both look great, not a hair out of place, no oil-stained hands or unintended destruction of expensive vintage cars.

In reality, it seems like something always goes sideways. One of his nipples gets gouged by your fingernail or the silk from your negligee gets caught in the plates of his arm, or one of his perfectly aimed thrusts sends you both toppling off the bed. Sometimes he wonders if this is just the two of you? Do other people have perfectly orchestrated sex lives? Is porn not a true mirror of real life?

Is porn a lie?

Maybe he should watch more porn and form a more educated opinion.

For now, he takes in your crestfallen expression, vehemently shaking his head when you try to apologize.

“Buck, I’m sorry, I -“

Holding up a stern hand, he stops you cold. Sets you on your feet, gallantly whipping off his shirt, and spreading it on the shiny red paint. This time when he sets you on the hood, you lay back until the familiar scent of his cologne hugs you close. Bucky lifts your feet, propping each on the hood, spreading your legs open. He leans in close, a pink flush spreading over his chest, crawling up his throat, blue eyes turning dark.

“Listen to me. Don’t ever apologize, okay? You’re worth more than this old junker.” A crooked smile tilts his mouth, his voice as soft as the lips now brushing yours. “You’re priceless. You understand?”

“Okay,” you murmur. Fingers dance lightly up the hard planes of his stomach, wrapping around the chain of his old dog tags. “I understand.”

Bucky nods, watching your eyes drift down, drinking him up. He lives for that look. Sets him on fire, to watch you ogle him. When your eyes skate down his right side, he flexes his forearm a bit, because he knows it turns you on.

A swift tug of the chain and he dips easily, mouth slanting over yours. There’s a faint sound of teeth clacking together, and he stifles a laugh at your excitement. Deep kisses, stoking that simmering fire sitting right below the surface. Your lips part and he slides inside, curling his tongue around yours, pulling away to lick along the corner of your mouth, to suck your bottom lip between his teeth.

The thought appears, same as when he had his mouth between your legs. How long has it been since the two of you just made out like this? Same answer? Too fucking long?

This is definitely happening more often.

He feels your eager fingers reach for the button of his jeans, popping it open, slipping your hand inside. Cool fingers wrap tight around his cock, the other hand wandering down to squeeze a handful of his ass. Bucky hurriedly shimmies his pants to his knees, sets both hands on the car and leans forward, tipping his face down, touching his forehead to yours. Blue eyes flutter closed, breath hitching while he concentrates on the feel of your capable hands, slow strokes along his length, slicker with each tug.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he grits out. “Can you - damn that’s good - can you, there, bit lower -“

Ragged pants melt into a low groan when you slip your hand from the death grip on his ass to cup his balls, rolling them against your palm.

“Like that?”

“Yeah, yeah, yes, fuck yes, just like that,” he hisses, thrusting into your hands. “Can you - can you pull just a little-“

He stammers the question, ignoring your amused hum. It was a quirk, one he discovered early in the relationship. It came out of the blue, a bashful request during a romp in the sheets, but for some reason, Bucky has a thing for having his balls tugged. Not hard (which was also discovered after an unconsciously rough yank had him squealing in pain), but more of a soft squeeze, followed by a slow pull.

Like how you squeeze an overripe banana, he had explained later, gingerly massaging his balls. Not so hard it squishes.

Many entertaining attempts later, and he swears you have the move patented. Stroking his dick faster, your thumb presses over his balls, before a careful pull. Tipping his head back, Bucky stares glass eyed at the ceiling, lost in pleasure, pushing himself into your firm grip.

“Feel good?” you murmur.

“Yeah. Yes, so good, so god damn good ,” he chokes out. Faster, harder, faster - and then a strangled gasp and panicked blue eyes catch yours. “Wait, too good, it’s too good! Don’t wanna come yet, hang on! Need to be inside you first.”

He grabs your wrists, the thwarted sting of a denied orgasm obvious in the grind of his teeth. Both of you look down to where your hands are wrapped around him, one still kneading his balls, the other curled around the velvety hot skin of his cock.

“Okay,” you say, looking him up and down. “Fine, but - you’re so sexy, Bucky. And I love your balls.”

Bucky nods furiously, gulping a deep lungful of air. His ass cheeks are twitching.

“I love that you love them, I really do. But babe, I need you to let go of my balls or I’ll come all over your hand,” he rasps, wiggling away. Releasing him, your hands run up his chest, twining around his neck, dragging his sweat damp chest flush against you.

“If I must,” you agree, smiling into his lips. Bucky relaxes into you, the slow melt of tongues follows, the kind where a kiss bounces around, until it finds the perfect rhythm. His hands trace up the line of your arms, unlocking your fingers and pulling them free. Brushing his thumbs over your wrists, he bends close, kisses your knuckles.

And then he folds your arms above your head, pinning them down.

“Keep them there, alright? Don’t move until I say you can.”

“Kinky. Yes sir,” you breathe. He smirks.

“You’d better watch it, you little deviant. I might get used to that.”

“Sorry…sir.”

Pulling you further down the hood, he rubs his cock between your legs, sliding himself between your folds until a slick sheen coats his skin. It startles a grunt from you when he abruptly shoves inside, sinking deep until his hips press flush to yours.

He waits. Has to wait actually, because its been a long damn time and if he’s not careful he’s going to embarrass himself before he even gets started and holy shit, is this even real life? Is he dreaming?

Splayed out on the hood of his car, legs wide open, breasts wet from his tongue, black lace and crumpled satin ribbons. Arms pinned above the luscious skin bared just for him. Bucky stares between your legs, dry mouthed and dizzy.

“Come on, Bucky, please? Fuck me, please fuck me, I missed you so much.”

How could he ever resist this? You naked, writhing against the vivid red of his Camaro, moaning for him to fuck you, with his cock buried in your -

“Aw fucking hell,” he mutters. After so many weeks apart, he knows full well this won’t last long. It’s a damn good thing he has more than a few rounds in him.

Cracking his neck, rolling his shoulders back, he digs thick fingers into your thighs, pulls back nice and slow. He waits. Waits. Waits a bit longer because he likes to be an asshole and hear you beg.

“Bucky, come on -”

And he plunges into you, burying himself in the tight, silky heat of your cunt. Warm up over, no slow start. The pace he sets is rough, so deep he feels the pleasure licking down his spine and into his toes. Over and over, he slams into you until one particularly sharp thrust presses the tip of his cock against that perfect spot inside and you arch up with a broken cry. Hands scrabble above your heard, searching for anything to hold onto, finding something flexible.

With a plastic snap, the windshield wiper blade breaks off in your hand.

Bucky stutters to a halt, blinking sweat from his eyes when he sees the look of horror on your face. The apology is still forming when he snatches the plastic from your fingers, throwing it aside.

“Don’t care,” he grunts. Giving you no time to argue, he wraps his hands behind your knees and raises your hips, fucking into you faster. The filthy echo of sweat slick skin accompanies his breathless order. “Touch yourself. Let me watch.”

A frantic agreement and one hand slips between your legs, the other cupping your breast. Frantic circles over the swollen bud, trembling fingers plucking at a pebbled nipple. Bucky watches greedily, eyes flickering back and forth, memorizing those things that bring you pleasure, fantastically dirty memories to replay on a rainy day.

“Bucky,” desperate fingers rub your clit faster. “Keep going, please keep - keep doing that, I’m close, I’m so close, I’m -“

Sharp and sweet and unexpected, the orgasm crashes into you. Arching up, the low moan tears free, and Bucky slows, hypnotized by the sight of you shuddering beneath him.

“There you go, that’s it,” he urges hoarsely, before surging forward and capturing your lips in a wild kiss. Two more pumps of his hips and he stops, grinding against you until he comes with a heavy groan.

Silence fills the room, broken only with the sounds of harsh breaths and the wet rush of his heartbeat thumping in his ears. He rests his forehead between your breasts, listening to the staccato beat of your quick breaths, until you struggle up onto your elbows, pushing his sweaty hair away from his face.

“So I broke your car.”

He says nothing, but a moment later his shoulders begin to shake and suddenly he’s laughing, great rushing wheezes as he struggles for breath. Raising his head, he finds you nervously squinting down at him. He stretches up, presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I got insurance. Just need to check my coverage for mildly destructive ‘I missed you’ sex.”

“You might consider expanding that policy. I’m just saying,” you suggest with a giggle and he snorts.

Quiet contentment blankets the stuffy garage, both of you basking in that tingly afterglow. Folding your hands behind his neck, you draw him close and Bucky nuzzles into the crook of your neck.

“Been tough lately,” he whispers, mouthing gently along your throat. “Trying to find time together.”

Nodding slowly, your smile turns wistful.

“Yeah…guess it makes any time we get even better. Right? It doesn’t matter to me what we do, as long as we’re doing it together.”

Bucky feels a lump in his throat (the kind that could easily dissolve into manly super soldier tears), and he gathers you in his arms, tucking you against his chest. When he answers, his voice cracks just a bit.

“Someone’s a sentimental sap.”

He hears your muffled laugh against his chest, feels you bite at his collarbone and he chuckles.

“I love you Bucky. And I’m really sorry I murdered your car.”

“I love you too, babe. I’m glad you came down here. Especially in that outfit.”

“Yeah? You liked it?”

“Fuck yes I did. What spurred that idea, hmm?”

“I just don’t want to lose our spark,” you admit, snuggling closer. “When things get so busy, it’s easy to let things like this slide, and I don’t want you to - get bored, I guess. With us.”

Bucky thinks about all his relationship advice articles and the fact that he sometimes even prints them out and goes through with a yellow highlighter to capture the key points. Hearing your soft concern makes him fall even more in love with you.

Because this is important. This relationship, this love, this spark he was lucky enough to find with you, it’s the most important thing in his world. You are the most important thing in his world.

Brushing a knuckle down your cheek, he coaxes your chin up.

“I know it’s tough, always being on different schedules, but I want you to know, I’m always gonna love you and I’m always gonna want you. Nothing changes that. And if you ever doubt just how much I genuinely want to bang you all night long, then you say something. Deal?”

He boops your nose and you grin.

“Deal.”

“And honey, not that I’m complaining, trust me, but you don’t need to dress sexy to get me all reved up,” he shrugs. “You do that just by looking at me.”

“You do know how to charm the pants off a lady, Barnes.”

He throws his head back and laughs. Swings you up in his arms and calms your startled yelp with a kiss.

“Damn straight. Now how about we give that backseat a try. I think you mentioned wanting to rub something back there?”

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes #bitsmasterlist

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jake-marshall · 3 years

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TGAAC: Adventures thoughts

So I finished game 1 last Saturday, and took a brief break from continuing so I could write a fic centered around it (won’t mention what character because ~Spoilers~), and will now continue on to game 2 starting today (albeit, I did start a little of game 2 last week but was so burned out from having marathoned Case 5, I didn’t really vibe with it so I’ll probably just start over). Here are my, as well as my wife @morpheusdreamt ‘s (who watched parts with me) thoughts on the DGS/TGAAC 1, under the cut. LOTS OF SPOILERS INCLUDED! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!

The Adventure of the Great Departure - discounting the fact that it’s the first case and therefore also a super-hand-holdy tutorial, I felt this was one of the stronger first cases in the whole series. I really enjoyed Jezaill and Hosonaga, and just Kazuma and Ryuunosuke’s dynamic as a whole, even though I knew what was coming. My complaint about this case was that it felt way too long for a first case - which, I mean, I get in hindsight because of needing to include the right amount of development between Kazuma and Ryuunosuke to make Kazuma’s death effective and to make it more believable that Ryuunosuke takes over as the main lawyer. But also, it wasn’t satisfying to out Jezaill as the murder (even though I know she has a role in the second game) and then come to find out she probably won’t be punished for it. This lack of satisfaction became a sort of prevailing theme for me throughout the game. The Adventure of the Unbreakable Speckled Band - again, another tutorial case that felt way too long. I’m pretty sure I was drinking the whole time I played this case, with Sholmes being the one to drive me to do it. As with the first case, the characters stood out for me way more than the case itself. My favorite part of this was watching the bond form between Ryuunosuke and Susato. As much as I also like Nikolina, I found this case overall to be fairly forgettable. The Adventure of the Runaway Room - first of all, I haven’t replayed this since completing the game (and therefor completing case 5) but I feel it’s almost necessary to do so to fully grasp this case? Which is, after having completed the game, something I really like about this case in particular. I thought McGilded was a fantastic character (and not just because of his resemblence to Handsome Jack :p), and I knew we’d meet Gina and Van Zieks in this case, but I was still thrilled to have it happen. Upon first playthrough, this case was like the others, extremely frustrating in the sense that I wasn’t really getting anywhere? That the plot wasn’t going anywhere? I mean, at least for me, I really had no clue as to how involved McGilded was in Mr. Mason’s death, so kudos to the writers in keeping me guessing. Overall, this felt like a filler case until you get to the end and realize, oh shit. It’s not, is it? And then I wished I would’ve paid more attention to some details, so it’s definitely worth a replay. The Adventure of the Clouded Kokoro - But no, this is the filler case! And I know some of the characters show up in the 2nd game, but oof. There was very little I enjoyed about this case on an individual level, and I’m not one to get super salty about ~this is problematic~ but the consistent inclusion of joking about domestic violence made me uncomfortable. Soseki was a fun character, but the Garridebs and Beates felt over-the-top, and, again, the fact that the attack was actually an accident just made this case feel like, ??? It made me wary of starting the 5th case. I felt, there’s nowhere I’m going to come away from the game liking it more than “just alright”. The Adventure of the Unspeakable Story - Let me start by just saying that this is one of my favorite cases in the entire series. So the only things I knew about this case going in was that Gina was the defendant and that Ashley was the killer, but I didn’t know anything regarding motive or his background, or Gina’s whole ordeal with McGilded. Both of their arcs spoke me to quite profoundly. I thought Gina’s development and her fears and insecurities surrounding trust were so relateable, her self-loathing and resignation to never having anything in life go her way just because of her class. Of her needing to look out for herself because no one else will, at least not without wanting anything in return. Like dude, I was crying when she finally accepted Ryuunosuke’s offer to defend her. I don’t really see it brought up (and maybe I just haven’t looked hard enough) about how heavily it contrasts with Ashley’s story, of them both coming from a poor background and both clearly suffering from abandonment issues and how it’s molded them and their perspective on the world and the people in it. I thought Ashley was so compelling, even though he starts off as a sort of caricature (which I gather was the intention). His absolute contempt towards McGilded (and clearly at himself, by the end) was so palpable for me, and left me thinking about him and the case for days after completing it. I liked too, that for as many AA cases where the killer will be like “I’m so much ~smarter than you~”, Ashley actually does a pretty good job of backing it up, that it’s more show than tell (his making the deal with Gregson and the fact that what broke most of his testimony was the Skulkins and not things he himself said) as it tends to be the other way around. I still want to know what went down in the bus between his dad and McGilded. I have this terrible feeling that Mason went there to tell McGilded to leave his son alone and that he wouldn’t sell the disk. Which would make it all worse, lol but I’m fine with that. Unless Gina undergoes some sort of terrible devolvement in the 2nd game, I can safely say that she and Ashley have become Top 10 all time AA characters for me, and that’s saying something considering how long and how deeply I’ve loved my faves from the original games. Anyway, getting back on point to the actual games and not just meta on the characters, I liked the pace that Case 5 progressed at, and how it had some expected twists and turns (like Sholmes’s appearance) that weren’t made any less enjoyable by being predictable. And I didn’t find it terribly difficult but it was still outrageously fun (minus the stereoscope mechanic which I know is just a fucky misfortune given the game was originally designed to incorporate 3DS functions, which are obsolete on the Switch). I just thought that Case 5 felt like everything that was right in the original series, both gameplay wise and story/character wise. Despite the fact that it hangs on a massive cliffhanger -__- But luckily i don’t have to wait two years to play the 2nd game, lol. Maybe my opinion of this game will change after I play the 2nd game, but overall my feelings are that it’s enjoyable enough and if you like Ace Attorney, and you’re more invested in the main characters/their development you’ll like it/probably even love it. For me, the fifth case and it tying together with the third case, specifically the affects it had Ryuu, Van Zieks, and Gina makes the rest of the game worth playing, but the rest of the cases are not as individually satisfying as many of the other cases in the AA series. I would still recommend this, however, based on how eager it’s made me to want to play the second game opposed to just feeling like I went through all that for nothing (which is sort of my experience when I replay AJ or DD now, not that I still don’t love them).

#the great ace attorney #tgaac spoilers #ace attorney #leanne plays aa

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wwitbeyondmeasure · 4 years

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Summer at the Burrow: r.w. fan fiction

Previous Chapters

Introduction / Author’s Note / Chapter 1: The Journey to the Burrow / Chapter 2: Hidden Letters / Chapter 3: Ron’s Return / Chapter 4: Nighttime Conversations / Chapter 5: A Morning Surprise / Chapter 6: The Quidditch Match

Chapter 7: Girl Talk

Lunch passed by in a whirl. Numerous freckled hands snatched sandwiches off plates and scarfed them down. Jokes were played on family members as messes were made on the wooden table. The atmosphere of the dinning table in the Burrow was as it always was: chaotic and wonderful. However, you had a hard time enjoying the usual festivities. Your mind, and heart, with both still upstairs with Ron in that tiny bathroom. You wished more than anything to be back there, leaning in to the one person you wanted more than anything.

You risked a glance at Ron. He was unusually silent, not bothering to jump in when the discussion turned towards Quidditch. His eyes met yours and your heart skipped a beat. His cheeks reddened as he looked away quickly. You couldn't help but think that his thoughts were also focused on the same moment that had been replaying in your head.

"Y/n, do you want thirds?" Ginny asked from across the table. She had always been clever, and her steady look let you know she noticed your absent disposition. Her arched brow and knowing eyes told you that you needed to talk- soon. You shook your head to answer her question, despite how good the sandwiches were.

The rest of the day was spent doing chores. With most of the Weasley family home this summer, along with some additional guests, the house got messy very quickly.

"Couldn't you just magic everything clean?" George grumbled at his mother when she gave the list of chores to the group.

Mrs. Weasley's tone was as cold as ice. "Maybe if you children wouldn't have dragged mud all over the house after your Quidditch game, I would be happy to use magic. But since you did bring the entire garden into this house, you will clean it yourselves!" Her narrowed glare lessened as she looked upon you and Hermione.

"Of course, I don't blame you dears. You can rest while my children- yes Harry that includes you- clean the house," she told you with a loving smile.

Despite the offer, Ginny forced you and Hermione to help her sweep and mop the floors. The twins were tasked with putting away all their joke items and Harry and Ron were outside degnoming the garden for the second time that week.

To lighten the mood, you ran upstairs to retrieve the muggle radio you brought from home. You spent a lot of your time listening to it while you were lonely, dancing around your room when you knew no one would be watching. Turning the dial to your favorite station, you placed the radio on the shelf so everyone could hear it. Then your chores begun.

Sweeping wasn't so bad while you were doing it with your best friends. You joked and laughed the entire time, singing badly and off-key to your favorite songs. Ginny used her mop handle as a microphone to dramatically serenade Hermione. The twins even joined in on the fun by dancing next to you, feather dusters in hand. You threw your head back in a laugh as Ginny fell to her knees for her final solo.

This is what family is, you thought to yourself.

You didn't notice when Ron stopped in from outside to grab water for him and Harry. You didn't notice his gaze softened as he watched you dancing with his family. You didn't notice his eyes dropping to the way your hips swayed to the music, and you didn't hear Harry mumble, "Mate, you're whipped," to his friend.

...

The sun set as you completed your chores and you found yourself cornered after dinner.

"Sleepover. Tonight. My room. You, me, and Hermione" Ginny said with a tone that made it impossible to argue with her. Not that you wanted to argue that, you actually missed having sleepovers with your dorm mates.

You made your way over to Ron who was just finishing up washing the dishes. You tried to ignore the way his broad shoulder muscles moved beneath his thin cotton shirt. You also tried to ignore the freckles peeping out from behind his hairline. Everything about him made your head feel dizzy and you suddenly felt the need to chug a large glass of water to cool down.

"Hey," you said gently, standing next to him and picking up a dish rag to help dry the plates.

"Hi," he responded, his voice alone making butterflies erupt in your stomach.

The next ten minutes passed without either of you saying a word. You fell into the familiar comfortable silence that only best friends can experience with one another. The rhythm of him washing the plates, you drying them, and then them magically floating back into the cabinets felt good. Everything you did together always just felt right.

"So," you said, speaking up once the dishes were done, "Hermione and I are sleeping over in Ginny's room tonight." You don't know why you brought it up, maybe as just another excuse to stay around him for longer.

You were surprised by the grin that immediately spread across Ron's face. "So I don't have to sleep on the couch tonight? Wicked."

Your smile subsided slightly. Ron didn't assume you and him would share a bed again tonight like you did the night before. You were silly to have hoped that would become a regular occurrence. Confused thoughts swirled around you in a whirl as you tried to hide your disappointment.

You nodded, and as you turned to walk up to Ginny's room, you felt Ron's hand reach out to catch yours.

"Y/n- wait..." he began. You looked up to meet his eyes and your insides melted when you saw him looking at you differently. He looked at you with determination and absolute attention- the same way he looked at you earlier that day, when you thought he was going to kiss you.

"If you have nightmares tonight, you know where to find me. My bed is always open for you" he said with a cheeky smile. His smugness and arrogance took you back for a second. Fred and George must be getting to him. You blushed as you turned back up the stairs.

Was that an invitation? Or just a flirty joke that friends say to one another?

These questions filled your mind as you changed into pajamas and made your way to Ginny's room. The moment you approached her doorway the door swung open and you were yanked inside. Ginny swiftly closed the door behind you to ensure privacy.

"Talk," was all she said.

You blushed as you sat down on her worn blue carpeting. Hermione was sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed with a book in her hand. The redhead plopped onto the ground next to you, laying on her stomach as she propped herself up on her elbows. This was the usual procedure for girl talk back at Hogwarts- Ginny leaning in, eager to hear your gossip as Hermione pretended not to notice but eventually gave in and joined your discussions.

"About what?" you asked innocently. Ginny rolled her eyes as Hermione shut her book, her attention now focused on you. They were two of the smartest witches you ever met, and knowing you couldn't fool them, you decided to come clean.

"I think Ron and I almost kissed," you blurted out.

Hermione's mouth hung open as Ginny exclaimed, "Shut up!"

You nodded at their reactions, closing your eyes for a brief moment to relive the moment.

"When? How?" Hermione asked, scooting closer to you.

"Upstairs, he was helping me clean my cut after the game and then I guess...we started leaning in. I don't know if the kiss actually would have happened though- we were interrupted before I could tell what was going on" you explained.

Ginny's eyebrows knit together with anger. "Who interrupted? I swear if it was Fred or George I'm gonna beat their-"

"You did, genius. Your voice carries throughout the entire house," you said with a hint of humor, cutting her off.

"Oh," she replied, her ears turning pink.

Hermione grinned at you, "well this is good! Maybe you didn't kiss that time, but there will be other opportunities."

You smiled at your friend's optimism. As much as you loved your friends for supporting you and being interested in your love life, a part of you wanted to keep a part of the interaction between you and Ron to yourself. You wanted to keep a part of him close and secret to only you, so you switched the topic of conversation.

Turning to Ginny you asked, "So, how's Harry?" You wiggled your eyebrows in a teasing manner. The question made her launch into a hilarious story about how she caught him staring at her during Quidditch and managed to knock him off his broom.

"That's what boys get for not keeping their eyes to themselves, right y/n?" Ginny joked.

You laughed, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh please! You should have seen the way Ron oggled at you while you were dancing today! His eyes were practically glued to your arse. I almost would have told him to get a room, it was so intense," Hermione said with a giggle.

You rolled your eyes, pretending this new information didn't make your heart race. If he really watched you the same way you watch him, maybe this fantasy of yours wasn't so far-fetched. Maybe, just maybe, he felt the same way.

The rest of your girls sleepover was filled with laughter and chatter as you talked into the wee hours of the morning. As Ginny and Hermione drifted off to sleep, you couldn't help but wonder if Ron was in his room right now- waiting for you. Each time your eyes closed, all you could picture was Ron, leaning closer and closer and closer... You fell asleep to your imagination wondering what his lips would feel like against yours.

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blindlesbian · 3 years

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A christmas buddie fic

This fic is for @fyeahbuddie for the 911 gift exchange. @officerrxyes Buck was in Eddie's kitchen baking festive cookies with Chris on Christmas Eve. He thought it would be the perfect way to wind down, but it ended up being harder than he imagined. Eddie accidentally added way more. Instead of twenty cookies, they were now baking forty. All three had spent the day out, hanging with friends and family. Unlike last year the 118 wasn't scheduled to work for the holiday, which everyone was thankful for. "How much longer is dad gonna be," Chris asked. Eddie was out buying more frosting because they'd run out. Chris was eager to finish decorating his cookies, and so was Buck.

"Soon, don't worry." By the time the last batch of cookies finished baking, Eddie had arrived. "Hey guys, I got the stuff!" Chris squealed, "hurry, dad, I wanna decorate my snowman!" After about an hour of eating and decorating, Chris was put to bed a little past his bedtime. Buck was still in the kitchen, washing dishes because they didn't clean up while they worked. "Buck, thanks for doing this tonight," Eddie said, leaning against the door frame. "Yeah, of course, no problem. You know I love hanging out with Chris." Eddie walked over to the sink, "let me help you out." Buck sat down at the kitchen table with a tired sigh after they finished, "next time, let's not bake cookies from scratch. It's more stressful than rescuing people from burning buildings ." He joked, and Eddie chuckled. He loved making Eddie laugh. "Do you want a drink?" Eddie asked, pulling out a bottle of wine from the cabinet. "Yes, please," Buck said. Eddie handed him a full glass, and they walked over to the couch. "I'm glad we have these two days off. Last year was a bit of a bummer," Buck stated. "You did an amazing job with the surprise Christmas dinner last year. It was super sweet." Eddie said. Buck blushed, "it was nothing." They were lying on their backs on Eddie's living room floor, Buck's head resting on Eddie's chest. Neither of them dared to move; they wanted to stay like this, however long it would last. Moments like this started happening more often, where they would hold each other or touch on another as if they were together. They kept talking and drinking and time flew by. By now, they were drunk and having conversations about their childhood Christmases. "I remember when I was a senior in high school, my parents forgot about Christmas for like, the third year in a row. They were too busy trying to sell the house," Buck said. "They were always too busy for Maddie and me. But always had time to go to some stupid work event." Eddie ran his fingers through Buck's hair. He stayed quiet, trying to figure out the most comforting to say.Buck sighed, "I'm sorry; I'm treating you like a therapist." "No, you're not," Eddie said. "Yes, I am. You don't even care," Buck stated. Eddie held Buck's chin, gently turning his face so he could look at him. "No, don't say that. I care about what you have to say." There was a moment of silence, and they just stared into each other's eyes. "I want to make you feel safe and heard." Eddie realized he was still holding Buck's face, nearly caressing it. Eddie wanted to kiss him so badly, but they were drunk, and he had no idea how Buck felt. "Eddie," was all Buck could mutter. His heart raced, he hopped Eddie couldn't feel it. Buck was just drunk enough to lean in, just a little. He hoped Eddie got the hint, but his hand let go. "It's already late. Maybe we should get some sleep; we've got a busy day tomorrow." Eddie suggested. Buck's heart sank. "Yeah, you're right," Buck sighed and slowly sat up. Words couldn't explain how stupid he felt; he couldn't believe he thought Eddie would feel the same way. "Goodnight," Eddie said, quickly exiting the living room, leaving Buck with the stupid wine bottle and glasses. ---Eddie woke up the next morning feeling like an idiot. How could he just leave like that, Eddie wondered? Last night's memories were hitting him like a wave, the conversations, how close they were, how drunk they were, Buck's head on his chest. He let his mind wander, thinking about all the things he and Buck will never have together. His alarm went off, disrupting Eddie's thoughts. It was only six-thirty, and Chris wasn't going to be awake for another hour and a half. And Buck was still here, but he didn't want to face him. He didn't want to ruin the perfect memory of last night with reality. Eddie tested the waters with a "u up" text and immediately cringed. "Yea, wanna make breakfast together?" was what Buck sent back. Eddie grinned at the reader like a child. He skipped out of bed and quickly brushed his teeth. "Hey, Merry Christmas," Buck said. His beaming smile made Eddie's heart skip a beat. "Merry Christmas," Eddie said. He looked at the kitchen counter; it was already a mess." Why does my kitchen look like this," Eddie asked. "Because I was looking for bacon," Buck said. Eddie rubbed his temple, "I don't have any bacon." "Oh," Buck giggled, and Eddie couldn't help but laugh too. "Let's just make pancakes," Buck suggested. After putting everything back into the fridge, they began working. Buck knew he was the better cook between the two, and things would've gone a lot faster he did it himself, but he loved doing things with Eddie. "How come mine keeps ending up like that," Eddie asked. They were both standing over separate burners, cooking the pancake mix. "Because you're holding it wrong, lean the pan a bit," Buck instructed. "Like this," Eddie asked. He was still holding it wrong. Buck hesitated for a moment before walking behind Eddie and snaking his hand over Eddie's. "Like that," Eddie asked. "Yeah, like that, Buck assured. Buck's chest was pressed against Eddie's back. It was just like the night; they didn't mention how close they were to each other; they just enjoyed it. They were on their last pancake. "Good job," was all that Buck could say. He didn't want to make it weird, but this whole situation was strange. He wanted to be with his best friend, who had a kid and was married a few years ago. Buck let go of his hand and walked back over to his burner. —- It was New Year’s Eve, and Eddie was replaying those two days in his head over and over again, trying to figure what he did wrong. Buck had been distant for a week, only a few conversations at work. “See you guys tonight,” Bobby said as they exited the firehouse. “Captain Maddie and I can only be there for an hour. We don’t wanna be away from the baby for too long,” Chimney informed. “Yeah, Mia is the same way. So I’ll also be leaving early, Hen stated. “No worries, guys,” Bobby said. “But you two will be there all night right,” Bobby asked. “Yeah, you bet, Cap,” Buck said. “Yeah, Chris and I be there all night. He’s going through a don’t tell me when to go to sleep phase,” Eddie said. They all chuckled, said their goodbyes, and entered their cars. —-Eddie arrived with Chris on time, and the party was already in full swing. Their coworkers, family, and friends were there. “Hey Eddie, hi Chris,” Athena greeted them at the door Harry by her side. “Do you wanna play video games in my room with Denny and me,” Harry asked. Chris turned to look at Eddie, “go ahead. Be safe.” Eddie said, and the boys went off. “What’s been going on between you and Buck,” Athena asked. “Nothing’s wrong, we’re fine,” Eddie lied. Athena raised her eyebrow, “you two are usually joined at the hip, but you came here alone.” “Wow, those detective skills are top-notch,” Eddie joked, but she didn’t laugh. “Buck has been on the phone with Bobby every day, asking him for advice about you. It’s interfering with my life, so please just apologize so I can sleep peacefully,” Athena said. “But that’s the thing. There wasn’t a fight; he just stopped talking to me. I don’t know why,” Eddie explains. “You don’t know why you’re best friend is upset,” Athena asked. Eddie thought about last week for the hundredth time. Did Buck have a problem with how close they were? Did he make him uncomfortable? “Maybe I do know why,” Eddie said. —- "Hey, there you are," Buck heard Eddie say. Eddie had been searching for Buck almost all night. He was sitting on a swing bench in the backyard of Athena and Bobby's house. Eddie stood a few feet away from him as if he was terrified to go near him. "Yeah, here I am," Buck muttered. There was so much Buck wanted to say but said nothing at all. "Can I sit next to you," Eddie asked. Buck nodded, and Eddie walked over and sat down. "Did I do something wrong," Eddie asked, breaking the silence. A look of confusion swiped Buck's face. "No, of course not," Buck said. "Then why are you telling Bobby that we're fighting," Eddie asked, a little annoyed. "I never told him we were fighting; I told him that I messed up our friendship," Buck said. Now Eddie was beyond annoyed, "why would you say that. How could you have ruined our friendship?" There was a long pause. Eddie was sick of the silence."Because... I have feelings for you," Buck confessed, "and we can't be friends if I like you. It's just too weird." He couldn't even look at Eddie while he said this. "Evan, look at me," Eddie begged softly, "please." Buck scanned Eddie's face trying to figure out what he would say next. Eddie's eyes were watery, but Buck couldn't tell if it was because of the cold wind or if he was upset. Eddie held Buck's face, and Buck nearly melted. "I have a feeling for you too," Eddie stated, his voice a little shaky. And just like that, Buck was crashing his lips onto Eddie's. Everything they've ever wanted to say to one another was spoken at that moment. Eddie's hand found their way to Buck's hair, and Buck was holding on to Eddie's waist for dear life. They heard the New Year’s countdown starting, and Eddie pulled away. “Maybe we should join everyone,” Eddie suggested. Buck groaned, “fine.” They shared one last kiss and walked back into the party. A new year, a fresh start to their relationship.

#911 fox #buddie #evan buckely #eddie diaz #911giftexchange #fanny writes #buddie fic

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wordsandshawn · 4 years

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Sunflower | Part 3 #ShawnMendesWritingCircle

a/n: Here is the third part to Sunflower started by @theshawnmendesstorycollection! You can find parts 1 and 2 (written by @lonelyreputation) on the masterlist! Also, shoutout to @saysweartogod-og for creating this super fun game! I loved this story so much, so I can only hope to have done it justice. Enjoy!

wc: 1.5k

At the sound of the bell chiming, you look up instinctively, ready to greet the customer with a smile and cheery welcome despite not feeling cheery inside at all. However, when you catch sight of the boy with the mop of brown hair and tattoos walking into your flower shop, your first instinct is to hide. If he hadn't seen you, you probably would have ducked behind the counter to avoid him. However, he saw you the second you saw him, so hiding isn’t an option.

He saunters up to the counter, and you still wish you could just disappear, but you force yourself to stay put.

"Hey," He says, once he reaches the counter.

"Hi," You respond, averting your eyes and busying yourself with the small flower display perched on the counter.

A few beats of silence pass between the two of you, and you know that he's trying to figure out what to say next.

"I just came by to see if you were alright. I thought maybe you got super busy or something..." He says, trailing off and looking around the shop as if to exaggerate the fact that there is almost no one in here.

"No, it's been pretty slow today." You respond to his statement, but completely ignore and avoid the real question he was asking.

He leans on the counter. Even though your eyes are looking anywhere but at him, you can practically feel his gaze on you, probably trying to figure out what happened, but you refuse to give in and answer the question you know he wants to ask. Finally, he says, "I was waiting at the coffee shop, but you didn't come."

"Yeah, I uh, had a lot of work to do." You lie, and based on how empty the shop is, you know that he probably knows it's a lie too, but you've already convinced yourself that he's not good for you, so you can't bring yourself to be honest or let him get too close.

"Okay." He says, standing up straight. The message was loud and clear, and he clearly got it. "Well, I'll see you around, I guess." He says, before turning and walking out. As you watch him leave, you can't help but feel torn. You're watching the most beautiful boy walk away, and you know the only reason why you were so cold to him and why you won't run after him and tell him you really do want to get coffee and you're not busy is because you're afraid that he can hurt you more than anyone else ever has.

There's something about him that just pulls you in. Maybe it's the way his gentle touches felt on your torso and the careful way he examined your tattoo earlier today. Or it's the look of focus on his face when he had the tattoo gun in his hand and he carefully pressed it against your skin with such precision. These moments had replayed in your mind ever since they happened. And you can’t stop thinking about how warm his brown eyes are when you meet his gaze. How he has such a quiet way about him that’s also kind and attentive, making you think he notices everything, even when he doesn’t let on. You’ve never felt drawn to anybody before the way you feel drawn to him. And the truth is you’ve only had a handful of conversations with him, so you can’t really know him yet. You could be completely wrong about him, but deep inside you have a feeling that you’re not.

You’re still staring at the front door, the space where Shawn used to be when Danielle pops out of seemingly nowhere, probably to ambush you with questions. You know she means well, but the truth is, you don't really have answers about what just happened.

"Okay, hold on. That's tattoo shop boy?" She says, in disbelief.

"Yeah," You respond, finally feeling like you've snapped out of whatever trance you were in. "Why?"

"He's hot."

You can't help but roll your eyes in response to her brutal honesty and the fact that she’s not wrong.

"But really, what happened? You didn't even meet him for coffee? You were practically glowing when you left the shop earlier."

"It's not gonna work out." You pause before saying. "I'm going to check the back." Even though there's nothing that needs to be checked in the back, you slip out anyway, not wanting to have this conversation with Danielle because you can’t explain it to her when you don’t fully understand it yourself.

Even though you had tried to convince yourself that nothing would happen between you and Shawn and that he'd probably be back with his ex by the end of the week, you couldn't stop thinking about him. While working inside the shop, you’d constantly find your eyes darting to the sidewalk outside, thinking maybe you’d catch him walking by. Whenever the bell on the front door rang, you’d constantly look to see who came in, thinking maybe it would be him. The few times you’ve seen anyone with the same build and hair color as Shawn, you’d practically feel your heart beat in your chest, preparing to face him, but it was never him.

Considering Shawn had never shown up after saying he'd "See you around," the first time he said it and only suggested going out once you showed up with flowers for him, you never expected him to mean it this time around, especially after how cold you were toward him last time you saw him.

After a few days pass without him showing up, you realize how tired you are of thinking every person passing by or walking in the shop is him. You make a conscious effort to try pushing him out of your mind and forgetting about him.

You're in the middle of fulfilling a big order, and you’re working on arrangements toward the back of the store. It's a Friday, so it's one of your busier days, and the girl who usually works primarily on the arrangements called in sick today, leaving you with the task. One of the perks of being busy is you don’t have time to stare out the front window of the shop waiting for a certain boy to walk by.

When the door chimes signaling someone has entered, you barely look up from your bouquet. The door has been chiming all morning, and this time is no different. From your spot you can only see the top of the person's head, catching sight of the brown hair. The thought that it could be Shawn comes and goes in a second, and you’re back to focusing on the flowers in front of you that have somehow stubbornly refused to look the way you need them to.

When you feel another presence next to you, you finally look up. Frustration toward the flowers is written all over your face, but it all disappears as soon as you look up to figure out who walked up. He’s standing there, his curls styled perfectly and pushed back from his face. He’s wearing a plain white t-shirt, black jeans, and black boots, and he’s carrying two cups in his hands. When you meet his eyes, he smiles.

“Hi—” You choke out, the surprise of seeing him here in front of you and being reminded of how attractive he is has you at a loss for words.

“Hey, so I’m not really sure what happened the other day, and I can tell you’re really busy, so I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but I walked by a little while ago, and it looked kind of crazy in here, so I figured you could use this.” He says, holding out the cup of coffee. You reach for it as he explains, “I don’t know your order, so I just got you a vanilla latte with almond milk.”

Still shocked, you thank him profusely, and you want to talk to him, explaining what happened and how you got scared and felt insecure seeing him with such a beautiful girl that day in the coffee shop, but Danielle rushes over to you, interrupting any moment you could have possibly had.

“I’m so sorry, but a customer wants to talk to you, now.”

You want to ask Danielle if it can wait, but you can see the urgency in her face, and you know she’s been busting her butt all morning too, so you don’t want to leave her hanging. You’re just about to apologize to Shawn and say you have to step away when he speaks up.

“Bye flower girl, I’ll see you around.” He waves goodbye to both you and Danielle before turning and walking out. As Danielle pulls you back to the front desk where a disgruntled customer is waiting, you can’t help the butterflies in your stomach and the thought floating in your mind. This time he said I’ll see you around, you have reason to believe it’s true.

#ShawnMendesWritingCircle #Shawn Mendes #Shawn Peter Raul Mendes #Shawn Mendes fic #Shawn Mendes imagine

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tiffdawg · 4 years

Text

Shift This Weight | Javier Peña x Reader

Gif: @bestintheparsec

Series: Confessions | Part 1 of 3

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader (fem;no y/n)

Word Count: 1.8k

Rating: E | Warnings: Angst. NSFW - smut, oral (male receiving), sexual language, mild cursing. 18+ only.

A/N: I set out to write some soft!Javi, but this ended up kinda sad and much smuttier than I originally intended. This is going to be a three-part series I’ll be posting over the next week or so and I promise you, soft Javi is coming after this. I suppose a little angst is unavoidable when Javi’s in love. smh.

My Masterlist

Read on AO3

... . ...

Shift This Weight

You’d known Javier Peña for years. Your stints at Quantico had overlapped however briefly, but it was more than enough time to strike up a casual flirtation with no expectations.

While it never amounted to anything, you’d enjoyed his game of cat and mouse in between classes and training sessions in the weeks leading up to your graduation and subsequent departure. You’d been assigned to a post as a field agent on the other side of the country, and, you jumped at the rare opportunity, more than eager to prove yourself.

Looking back, you realized the two of you never said a proper goodbye. There was just that one stolen kiss and a softly muttered congratulations in a deserted hallway after your commencement ceremony. You felt the brush of lips against yours even days later as you boarded a plane bound for Los Angeles, one-way ticket in hand. You’d thought you’d never see him again, but perhaps you some small part of you knew even then it wouldn’t be the last you crossed paths with the young hotshot from Texas.

… . ...

The City of Angels was good to you. The ridiculous traffic was a small price to pay for the gorgeous weather and endless coastline and despite a few missteps at the beginning you settled nicely into your new role as a DEA agent. But even though work was steady and you had a close circle of friends, you couldn’t help but feel like something was missing. When you were offered a position at the US embassy in Colombia, you shocked everyone, yourself included, when you took the position without a moment’s hesitation.

You were only half surprised when you walked into the embassy building on your first official day and crashed right into Javier, literally colliding with the man from your past as you scrambled to find your new office.

“I heard you might be coming down,” he said with a smirk and without missing a beat, “Happy to see the rumors were true.”

You couldn’t help but return the smile, happy to find a familiar face amongst unfamiliar surroundings. You were both older and it showed; you could see it etched into his handsome features, felt it in your tired bones. The realities of the job had worn down the bright-eyed kids you were at the academy into hardened agents.

“Happy to be here, Agent Peña,” you shot back with a wink, suddenly feeling much more confident despite your disorientation.

“Follow me, chiquita.”

How could you resist?

… . ...

Javier resumed his flirting with you as if no time had passed, as if you weren’t his colleague and partner, as if he wasn’t sleeping with half the available women in Bogota. You played along with his game even as you felt your feelings for the man blossom into something new and dangerous.

Still, the professional in you had managed to hold yourself together well enough. At least you did until everything came to an unavoidable crescendo one fateful night almost a year after your arrival in Colombia. You’d had a frightfully close call during a raid on some low-level sicarios hiding out in Medellin. The kind of near miss that made your whole past flash before your eyes and made you rethink your present and future.

Javi was standing close to you, the rise and fall of his chest matching yours as you both fought to steady your breathing post-shoot out. He scanned you for injuries with his deep brown eyes, closely inspecting the cut on your cheek with a gentle prodding fingertip. He was remarkably unscathed save for the mental scarring of narrowly missing a bullet meant for his skull.

You weren’t sure whether it was the rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins or the thought of him almost dying that propelled you forward as you cupped his face between your still shaking hands and kissed him. It wasn’t some chaste, teasing peck like before. It was a needy, messy melding of mouths. He reciprocated immediately and eagerly, pulling you flush against him despite the awkwardness of your bullet proof vests. It was everything you didn’t know you’d been waiting for all those years.

... . ...

A few months later, you found yourself sitting in a dimly lit bar not far from the embassy. That day had been stressful, to say the very least. Murphy, ever the optimist, at least when compared to Peña’s special brand of skepticism, had suggested drinks after leaving the office, inviting both you and Javier. While your illicit office romance was still very much a secret, Murphy definitely knew. Javi wasn’t shy about undressing you with his eyes from his desk across from yours, especially now that he knew what was underneath your pantsuits, and your witty remarks to his advances held a lot less bite than they did before.

You tried but failed to drown your frustrations with tequila and polite conversation with Steve and Connie, but by your third drink it was clear you needed something stronger. And from the way Javier’s dark eyes found yours over the rim of his glass and across the bar top, he shared your sentiment.

If you couldn’t drink away your problems, maybe you could fuck them out of your system.

Which is how you ended up back at your apartment an hour later, stark naked and straddling Javier’s lap as you rode him as fast and hard as your shaking legs would allow.

The closer you got to your climax, the more your steady rhythm faltered. “Hey, I got you, hermosa,” he said, and your eyes snapped open. He started to thrust up, taking over for you. “Touch yourself. Cum all over this cock.”

Your fingers found your clit, just as he’d told you to, and with a few well-timed strokes you were coming hard, unraveling on top of him. Your body went completely limp, with only his hands, one on your hip and the other grabbing at your breast, to hold you upright. You felt yourself clenching around his thick length as you rode out your orgasm and he spat out a string of intelligible curses in Spanish.

“Where? Where, baby?” he said through gritted teeth.

You released yourself from his grasp and knelt between his legs, taking him into your mouth completely. A few more errant thrusts and you were swallowing around him, taking every drop he gave you. When you pulled off, you opened your mouth to show him it was all gone.

“Fuck you’re perfect,” he mumbled, taking your face between his hands and kissing you obscenely. He pulled you back up his body, never breaking the kiss, to lay next to him. You giggled as he continued to kiss you through ragged breaths while he came down from his own release. His greedy hands still roamed your body, kneading the soft flesh of your thighs and ass. “So fucking perfect, hermosa.”

You smiled into his kiss, basking in the afterglow and feeling something akin to actual happiness. Something you’d long thought was out of reach for someone in your line of work. Everything just felt better with Javi. He made your life better, made you better. Even when the world seemed to be crashing down around you. Even when catching Escobar seemed like an impossible task.

You wanted to come home to this, to him, every damn day and he deserved to know just how much he meant to you after all these years. Those very words were overwhelming you, begging to be spoken into existence.

“I’m in love with you,” you said against his lips. You felt him still beneath you and you pulled away just enough to look him in the eye, wanting him to see that you truly mean what you were saying. You needed him to know it wasn’t some post-orgasmic slip of the tongue. It was real. “You don’t have to say it back. I know you probably don’t even want to hear it, I just- I needed to tell you. It was suffocating me not to tell you. I love you, Javi.”

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t so much as blink. Usually you could read him easily, his ever-expressive eyes always betrayed his emotions, but that night his face gave nothing away. The only indication that he heard you and was contemplating your words was the gnashing of his jaw as he ground his teeth.

Finally, he placed a firm hand on your cheek, bringing you closer so he could press his lips to your temple. He forwent his usual cigarette to lay with you, settling you firmly against his chest.

His reaction startled you; it certainly wasn’t what you were expecting. You doubted he felt the same, and part of you thought he might run out of the apartment or even throw a few curses your way for shattering what was supposed to be a casual arrangement. His silence and the way he cradled you to his chest was more than a little confusing.

Eventually your racing thoughts lulled, and you started to drift off to sleep, allowing yourself to fantasize that he might stay the whole night with you. That you might at least get the luxury of waking up next to him in the morning, warm golden sunlight streaming in through your thin curtains to bathe his tanned skin like you’d always imagined.

Instead, he slipped out from beneath your sheets, gathered his clothes strewn about your room, and quietly left.

You laid there for a while after that, stomach turning as you watched the red numbers of your alarm clock rise steadily, signaling the coming dawn, and you replayed the night in your mind. You didn’t regret what you said. No, you’d learned from your past heartbreaks that being open and vulnerable was the only way to be true to yourself. As hard as that was sometimes. You knew you were taking things in a direction he never wanted to go, but it was stifling to remain standing at the proverbial crossroads of loving him silently or never speaking your truth. It was a relief to say those three little, weighty words out loud. Still, you wracked your brain trying to decipher the hidden meaning behind his actions. He hadn’t said another word the rest of the night, but he’d stayed.

Until he hadn’t. In the end he left you without so much as a goodbye. As you frustratedly buried your face into your pillow and willed yourself to fall asleep, you wondered if that was the last night you’d ever spend with him, if your confession would drive him away forever.

... . ...

Spanish Translations

Chiquita: little girl

Hermosa: beautiful

… . ...

Thanks for reading!

#javier peña #javier peña x reader #javier peña x you #narcos fanfic #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javier peña fanfiction #my fic #my writting #fic: confessions

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thebluenoteblog · 4 years

Text

Knee to Knee

Summary: After being badly injured, Joel just isn't himself. It takes something big to snap him out of it.

Player: Joel Edmundson

Word Count: 3.1k

Requested: can you do a colton or joel one where he gets injured and you have to take care of him and after a couple of weeks he finally snaps at you and you leave and he gets all worried and when you come back he apologizes and you make up

Note: Joel is injured in this fic and is on crutches. There are a lot of things he struggles to do because of this. I am aware that there are people who live on crutches and are fully capable of doing these things, but my assumption is that this takes practice which Joel has not had by this point. My intention was not to offend anyone.

It was a little over sixteen minutes into the third period and the Canes were up by two goals. You stretched your arms above your head and relaxed back into the cushions of the couch, the remote balanced beside you and a bag of chips in your lap. They were playing their second of four away games and tonight’s match up was against the Panthers. The game was harder and faster than you had expected it to be and Joel had found himself in the middle of more than one scrum throughout the night.

It was almost over though, and soon you would be able to put away the chips and climb into the shower while you killed time until Joel called you. You had just glanced away from the screen to check a message that had popped up on your phone when there was a commotion between the announcers. You dropped your phone back into your lap and refocused your attention on the game. “That was a knee to knee hit. There’s no doubt about it. It looks like he’s down, they’re calling over the trainer now.”

You scanned the ice, eyes immediately focusing on the player lying face down near the net. Who was it? Finally, the guys blocking your view moved and you got a good look at who it was. 6. Oh god. About a thousand thoughts raced through your head. You couldn’t gather a single one of them into anything remotely coherent as you watched him struggle to get to his hands and knees and then lay back down, hands curled into fists beside his head.

Eventually the trainer made it to him and after a short discussion, he was being helped off the ice, supported on each side by Slavin and Svechnikov. He disappeared down the tunnel without once putting any weight on his right leg. When he was gone, the players stood around for a moment, as everyone gathered their thoughts and the screen cut to a replay of the hit. Joel didn’t even have the puck when he was hit, he was skating toward it.

You knew one thing for damn sure: you could forget taking a shower. You weren’t walking away from your phone until someone called you.

<><><><><><>

You unlocked the door and pushed it open, carrying Joel’s bag inside and holding the door open for him as he made his way through on his crutches. He hadn’t said a single word to you since you had picked him up from the airport. He was more than a little bitter that the team had sent him home to start physical therapy rather than finishing out the road trip with the rest of the guys.

It might have been a little bit selfish, but after what you saw, you were glad to have him home. He couldn’t play anyway, and you were worried about him. At least this way you knew he was taken care of. He didn’t seem to see it that way though.

“Why don’t you go sit down?” You said, “I’ll take your bag upstairs. Do you need anything?”

He frowned, “No, I’m fine.”

You nodded and turned to head up the stairs, bag in hand. You froze at the landing to see him making his way into the kitchen on his crutches clearly in need of something that he was too stubborn to ask you for. You could already see exactly how this was going to go.

<><><><><>

You placed the plate on the end table beside Joel and said, “Dinner is served,” in the most upbeat tone you could muster with him walking around the house like a storm cloud of gloom.

He looked up at you and, to his credit, tried to smile as he took the fork from your hand. “The Blues are winning,” he said.

“That’s awesome, what’s the score?” You asked as you took a seat next to him and stabbed a fork into your pasta.

“Can’t you read?” He mumbled quietly.

Your cheeks flushed, equal parts in embarrassment and anger. You’d just spent an hour cooking him dinner, one of his favorite meals, and that was the response you got? You swallowed the pasta around the lump in your throat and blinked back the angry tears burning your eyes.

He never looked away from the television. He never looked over at you. He never noticed you silently swipe a single tear from your cheek. If you really thought about it, he probably didn’t even realize what he had said.

<><><><><><>

You pulled up in front of the physical therapy building and shifted the car into park. You moved to get out of the car, grab his crutches for him, open his door, help him in any way that you could. He beat you to it. He opened his own door, climbed out of the car, hopped to the back and pulled out his crutches.

He moved to close the door, but you stopped him, calling out, “I’ll go park and meet you inside.”

He gave you a confused look, “I’m fine. I just needed a ride. Be back to get me in an hour and a half.”

Then he closed the door and disappeared through the entrance, quite easily for someone stuck on crutches who wasn’t used to them. You took a few deep breaths as you pulled away. Counted to ten in your head and tried to convince yourself that abandoning him at the rehab facility would only make things worse.

You were sure there was somewhere you could get in for an hour-long massage. You would send Joel the bill when he was in a better mood. Say you were billing him for damages he had done to your psyche or something like that. If the only repercussions he faced for acting like a tool throughout his recovery was a seventy-dollar bill for a massage, you figured you were letting him off easy.

<><><><><>

“What are you doing?”

You glanced down at the pile of clothes you were folding. “Laundry?”

Joel rolled his eyes, “I can see that, I meant, why?”

“I always do your laundry,” you said. “Do you even know what laundry detergent is?”

He shifted back and forth on his crutches, “Of course I know what laundry detergent is. Just leave it. I’ll do it myself.”

“You’re going to fold your own clothes?” You asked him, giving him an incredulous look, as you dropped a shirt into your lap. It was your shirt, not his. This was your laundry too. So, if he wanted to be a dick about this, then he was going to have to at least let you sort out your clothes. As much as you loved your fiancé, you did not want him folding things that were supposed to go on hangers. You would never get those wrinkles out.

He frowned, “You really don’t think I’m capable of folding my own clothes?”

You forced a smile and turned to the pile, “Let me get my stuff out and you can take over. I would be glad to go start lunch.”

“When do you go back to work?” Joel asked, sitting down heavily on the couch beside you, his leg propped out in front of him.

You froze, staring straight ahead, “I’m working from home for a month. Until you’re off crutches. Unless you want me to go back to work now.”

He shook his head and grabbed a shirt off the pile, “No, no. I was just wondering.”

You nodded and finished sorting the clothes in silence. You were afraid to open your mouth. You were afraid that no words would make it past the lump in your throat. That questions intention was clear: he didn’t want you there.

As soon as you sorted the last of your clothes from the laundry, you grabbed the laundry basket full of your clothes and headed to the bedroom, wiping a tear from your face as you went. You closed the door behind you and dropped the basket on the floor before collapsing onto the bed.

You buried your face in Joel’s pillow and tried your hardest to remember the days leading up to the roadie. All the smiles and the laughter and the subtle touches just to remind you how much he loved you. The way he would walk up behind you and wrap his arms around your waist, pick you up and spin you around. You would kick and scream and pretend that you hated it. Right now, you would do anything to that that Joel back. Even if he couldn’t do that, he could laugh like that. He could smile like that.

You let yourself cry for a long time, because you knew that Joel wouldn’t come looking for you. Even on the off chance that he noticed you were missing and cared enough to worry, he wouldn’t care enough to try to make it up the stairs. Yes, you knew that when you were done you would fix your makeup and go down to the kitchen, then cook him something amazing for lunch. Then you would bring it to him and probably get nothing in return except a faked smile, if you were lucky.

Still, you pulled yourself out of bed and made your way to the bathroom.

<><><><><>

“Joel, it’ll be okay.”

Joel twisted his head around so sharply that you were surprised that he didn’t stumble on his crutches, “Stop fucking saying that,” he snapped. “Stop saying it could have been worse, stop saying it’ll be okay, stop trying to make it better, stop trying to help, stop trying to make it okay.”

You flinched back, the doorknob still in your hand and you were now thankful that you hadn’t had time to close it yet. All you wanted to do was run out of this house. Away from him. Away from this nightmare. Away from whoever the hell had come home from Florida in your fiancés body.

“It’s a grade three MCL tear. It couldn’t have been worse. It could have been better. It could have been a two-week injury. Maybe one month. No. I’m out for three months and that’s assuming things go well which they aren’t. My PT says it’s looking like I could be out for over four months,” he hissed. “Does that sound like things are okay to you?”

You didn’t realize you were crying until his face softened, “(Y/N), why are you crying?”

You swiped your hands at your cheeks, “I’m going to go stay somewhere else.”

“What are you talking about?” He asked, shaking his head, “(Y/N)-,”

“I don’t need to stay here and spend all day trying to take care of you just to take this… this…” you paused, trying to think of a word, any word to describe what he had been putting you through for the past two weeks. “I’m not even going to say what I’m thinking right now Joel. I’m just going to leave.”

He reached out an arm to try and grab you and he dropped one of his crutches. This time you didn’t stop to help him. He’d made it perfectly clear how he felt about your help. You turned and walked through the door, closing it lightly behind you. You could hear him calling your name as you walked down the driveway and as you pulled out into the street, he finally got the door open, just in time to see you pull away.

<><><><><>

Joel had never felt anything quite like what he felt watching you drive away and being completely helpless to stop it. His stomach sunk, his heartbeat picked up and he was finding it really hard to breathe. He stood there, on the front porch for a long time with only one crutch under his arm before pushing the door closed and hopping over to grab the one that he had dropped.

He called you about ten times before you started sending him straight to voicemail. He threw his phone across the couch. He immediately regretted it because he was the only one there to go get it and he wasn’t going to give up on trying to get ahold of you. It was useless though, he called and texted until his phone died and you never answered. He didn’t know why he was still trying; your phone was clearly turned off.

Eventually he gave up and set his phone on the charger, then made his way into the kitchen to make something for dinner. It turned out to be a lot more difficult than he had expected it to be. He wasn’t allowed to put any weight on his knee and hopping around with a pot of boiling water wasn’t exactly a bright idea, even he knew that.

He gave up on cooking and heated up some leftovers, returned to the couch, took a few bites then paused and sent you a message.

Please call me.

<><><><><><>

Over the next week, Joel realized just how much you had really been doing for him. It turns out that he really didn’t have any idea how to do laundry. He was a little embarrassed to realize this and decided that he would figure it out, then ended up doing something wrong and dyeing his white clothes blue.

He tried his best to cook and ended up doing nothing but making a massive mess that wasn’t even remotely edible. He ate a lot of take out. He wasn’t supposed to be driving so he had to Uber to physical therapy because the team was out of town. Your side of the bed was empty at night, and he hadn’t fallen asleep in his bed alone in so long that he had forgotten what that felt like.

He knew you had to be staying with someone from work, because those were the only people you knew in Carolina other than the team and you wouldn’t have gone to any of them. He didn’t have any of their numbers though, and he wasn’t enough of an asshole to show up at your work and cause a scene. You probably wouldn’t even be there. You still had a few more days of working from home.

<><><><><><>

One week and one day after you left, Joel was sitting on the couch his leg up on the coffee table and a carton of Chinese food in his hand when the front door opened. His eyes snapped in the direction of the entry way and he muted the game, set his food on the end table then moved to grab his crutches.

He got halfway to his feet before you appeared in the living room and held up a hand, “Don’t get up.”

He frowned and slowly sank back to the couch, afraid to not listen to anything you said, least you leave again. “Where have you been?” he asked.

“A friend’s house,” you said, taking another step toward him. Instead of touching him, or interacting with him in any way, you grabbed a pizza box and a couple of empty Gatorade bottles off the coffee table and walked out of the room with them.

Joel got up this time and made his way after you, pausing when you walked outside to toss the box in the trash can. You made your way past him without saying another word and he stared down at the hardwood floors for a moment before pushing the door closed and following you. “Are you staying?” He asked, quietly.

At first, he didn’t know if you had heard him. Then you turned and paused from where you were straightening the living room. “I haven’t decided yet. I guess it depends on how the next few minutes go.”

Joel took a deep breath, “How do you want them to go?”

You paused in folding a blanket, then continued and dropped it over the back of the couch. You slowly turned to face him, “I don’t think you understand how badly you hurt me.”

He looked at the floor and rocked back and forth on his crutches, “I think I do.”

“No,” you said, “You don’t. I cried every day because I was trying so hard to make you happy and all I got was sarcasm and rude comments. You asked me when I was going back to work, Joel,” you said, tears welling in your eyes at the memory. “I was going to talk to my boss about working from home for another week or two because I wanted to be home to help you until you didn’t need me, but clearly you want me gone. Clearly you don’t want my help.”

He shook his head, “I didn’t… I don’t… (Y/N) I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t have an excuse. All I can say is that I’ll be better.”

“Why? Because now you know that you need someone to cook you dinner and do your laundry?” You asked him, a tear finally running down your cheek.

He mumbled something that you couldn’t hear but sounded something like, “Shit, no.” and he leaned his crutches against the back of the couch and hopped over to you. Joel placed his hands on the side of your face and forced you to look up at him. “I wanted you to come home the second you left. This has nothing to do with me needing help. Although I am starting to realize that I do need a little bit of help,” he paused, then added, “If you came home and told me that I was out of luck and you weren’t going to do a damn thing for me, I would be fine with that. Just please, please, come home.”

You looked up at him, blinking back tears as he looked between your eyes searching for any sign that you were accepting what he was offering. Finally, you spoke, “Do you really think that I could be here and not take care of you? I’ve been home for ten minutes and I’m already cleaning up your messes.”

He smiled hesitantly, “Does that mean you’ll come home?”

You nodded, “Yes, I’ll come home.” He pulled you against him and you rose up on your toes to connect your lips. When you pulled away you smiled at him, “Seriously though, I’m sending you the bill for the two massages I got because of this nonsense.”

He laughed and pulled you in for another kiss.

#joel edmundson #joel edmundson imagine #joel edmundson imagines #hockey imagines #nhl imagine

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honeypirate · 3 years

Text

Reunited part three

Master list

Nishinoya x y/n

Kissing Noya became one of your favorite things. That night you finished the movie then he took the remote and switched it back to your game replay, he just smiles when you quirk your eyebrow at him when he settles back into cuddling you and holding your hand. “This part” he points to the tv and you open your eyes to look, you had been dozing on his shoulder as you drew things along his hand with your finger. He’s so excited and it makes your stomach flip “I saw this part in a highlights clip online. You absolutely perfected this libero set” he’s buzzing with praise for you and you blush “thank you! I worked so hard! But it’s also perfected by the other team members. Lisa there,” you point to the wing spiker “she’s our ace, she pushed herself so hard to get to jump that high. She pushes herself as much as I do” he laughs and brings your arm up to his lips, kissing your fingers, then your wrist, then up your arm slowly, making sure he kisses all your bruises and marks. Your heart is beating rapidly and you have a cute smile on your lips as you watch him. You feel so comfortable and at home with him here, you already know it’s going to be really hard when he leaves, you feel tears starting to prick your eyes so you quickly shove those feelings away. Happy to just be in this moment with him. “Yū” you whisper as he gets to your shoulder and buries his face in your neck, smiling and giving you small sweet kisses. “Y/n” his voice was quiet, the game was forgotten as you both cuddled and held each other, his head on your shoulder and your arms around him. You ended up adjusting your body so you could lay on the couch now with him laying between your legs with his head up on your shoulder and his breathing soft on your neck. You played with his hair and soon you both were asleep

You woke up to the smell of coffee and pancakes, when you opened your eyes you leaned up and saw him quietly dancing the kitchen, wearing your apron. He tries to flip a pancake in the air but it falls on his head, you try to hide your laughter but he turns when he hears you, a big smile on his face. “Good morning beautiful!!” He says excitedly “breakfast is almost ready and there is coffe here for you too!” You stand from the couch and stretch out your arms in the air, he notices the rise of your shirt and your obvious bralessness which he realized that’s why he was so comfortable laying on your chest last night. His face blushes deep red as he turns his attention back to pancakes. You wrap the blanket around your shoulders and walk over to him wrapping your arm around his waist and laying your head on his shoulder. “Thank you. This is perfect” you kiss his shoulder then get some coffee.

he brings a plate of pancakes and other food to the table. “I made American pancakes, and a few other things that we used to eat a lot as kids” you grin when you see the spread, your stomach grumbling. “This looks amazing. You’re the best, babe!” You don’t even notice the word slip from your mouth as you start to eat, humming with joy and doing a tiny dance in your seat. He freezes for a second, you guys and kissed, but honestly he still didn’t know what it meant long term. He was gonna take it slow and see what happens, he didn’t expect you to call him a pet name and he didn’t expect to love it so much. His cheeks flush and he smiles, trying to calm down his racing heart. “Babe, huh?” He says quietly and you choke on your pancake, coughing a bit before swallowing. “Sorry I didn’t even notice.” You say quietly and take a drink if your coffee. “No no don’t be sorry.” He tucks your hair behind your ear “I like when you call me sweet names” he says before starting to eat and focusing on his food. You blush and continue your meal, feeling very domestic with him, it made your heart soar.

After breakfast you clean up before going to brush your teeth and put ready for your typical Monday. You throw on your VB shorts and a sports bra, throwing on a hoodie over the top. You get your training bag ready and bring it out to the living room.

You stop in your bedroom doorway frozen, Noya’s standing at the table, all cleaned up in a nice pair of black jeans and a tucked in white button up that he rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. He’s got a pen in his teeth as he digs through his bag trying to find something. He looked so good, like he belonged here in your kitchen, and for a second you could imagine a whole life of possibilities with him. You smile warmly as he finds what he needs with a triumphant look.

Pulling yourself together you walk over, setting your bag down next to his “Hey beautiful girl” he looks at you with such kindness and adoration in his eyes. You smile back at him as you wrap your arms around his middle laying your head on his chest. “Hey hun” your voice is soft “you look really handsome. What do you have going on today?” He rubs soft circles on your back “I have a meeting with the American branch of the magazine I work for, they want me to go to a game in a couple weeks so I’m basically just picking up documents and information.” The game you have next month flashes in your head but you stamp that out, there’s so many games he could be going to. “I have practice until five, and th...” he gets excited “wanna get dinner after?” You laugh and reluctantly pull away, ending the hug “that’s what I was gonna ask.” He apologizes for cutting you off and you kiss his cheek “dinner tonight. I’ll meet you back here at like 5:15 because the gym isnt far from here and I just walk. Also.” You reach into your bag and pull out your spare key. “This is for you” he takes it with a smile “perfect thanks y/n” his phone beeps and he curses under his breath “I gotta go or im gonna be late” he throws his bag over his shoulder and slips on his shoes before pulling you into a hug and and a kiss, then a second kiss, third, you pull away blushing “go babe! Don’t be late. I’ll see you tonight!” You give him a push and he laughs giving you one more kiss before running out your apartment door.

It’s been a few weeks with him in your home, you’ve been in a sweet routine with him now. Morning breakfast, getting together for dinner then you’d talk and cuddle and kiss before bed. Today you woke up extra early, the time with him has been fun and great except all the girls that flirt with him. He doesn’t really pay them any attention but it still makes you jealous. You cuddled and kiss a lot, call each other sweet things. But what were you? You were confused and decided that a run would clear your head.. But you lose track of time pushing yourself to just keep going and by the time you get back home you have just a few minutes to get your stuff together before you have to leave for practice.

“Y/n! Good morning!” His cheerful voice made your heart skip as you ran inside the apartment. “Hey Noya! I lost track of time on a run and now I’m gonna be late!” You laugh and basically jog into your room.

You come out with your bag across your back and you stop in your tracks when you take him in. His tan suit pants and black button up shirt, black belt, and black shoes. You can smell his cologne and it gives you butterflies. Damn he looked so good.

You felt a familiar twinge of jealously before reminding yourself that he leaves in a few months and to not get too attached. “Dinner tonight?” He says and smiles turning to look at you. “Yes” your voice cracks and you clear your throat “same time?” You ask and he nods enthusiastically. You get your wits about you now and return to running out of the apartment with a see you later.

You were late. And you were never late. It make him worried. He wondered if it was because he hadn’t made another move yet. Did you forget about him? Have you stopped caring about him? Did he do something wrong? He tried to get rid of his anxiety and forced himself to just patiently wait.

When you walk through your apartment door at 5:45, thirty minutes late, you drop your bag immediately and close the door before turning to look at him sitting on the couch. He was dressed in some jeans and a simple hoodie and looked absolutely delicious, he looked a little worried and was about to ask you what’s up before he saw the look in your eye. Frustrated and holding in what looked like hours of unshed years. He stands and takes a Step towards you as the dam breaks and you cover your face with your hand as you sob.

He notices the bandage on your left hand as he softly pulls you into his chest. He holds you and hums softly and when you’re calmer he asks “Baby what happened?” He says as his strokes your back softly. “You’re gonna..” sniffle “think I’m a baby” he chuckles softly “I already think you’re my baby so just tell me” his slight confession goes over your head for now. “We had a practice game against a college team, which is fine we’ve always beat them, but I tried to block but the ball and it hit at a weird angle. A total fluke and accident. I broke two fingers and the skin split between my ring finger and pinky. I got five stitches. It’s why I’m late.”

As you’re telling him he knows something bad and his stomach sinks when he imagines you getting stitches. When he imagines you in pain it hurts him as well.

“I held up my facade of ‘im fine’ thinking I could convince myself but then I saw you and you look so damn good that I just couldn’t hold it anymore. I’m sorry I ruined your night Nishinoya” you start to cry again, placing your forehead on his chest, thinking that you ruined everything

He holds you “baby it’s okay I don’t care about the night I just care that you’re alright. You’re all I care about” you nod and try and calm down again. “I look good for you only anyway” he whispers and kisses the top of your head.

He runs you a hot bath as you sit on the edge of your bed quietly. When he walks over to you he cups your cheeks and rubs his thumbs under your eyes wiping any tears left away. “Stay?” You ask and he smiles softly with a nod.

You walk into the bathroom and he follows, he reaches down to the hem of your sweatshirt and slowly pulls it over your head carefully. He looks into your eyes as his hands softly touch the band of your shorts and you look so fragile he could cry. It’s a silent question and you nod once before he slides your shorts and underwear down your legs, you lay your good hand on his shoulder to steady yourself when you step out of them. He softly helps you out of your sports bra and then holds your good hand as you step into your deep tub filled with hot water, bubbles, and epsom salt.

He quietly took his hoodie off and set it on your bed as he got the stool from your vanity to sit behind you, he also started playing some soft music. He took the pony from your hair and slipped in on his wrist before slowly and gently getting your hair wet and washing it for you.

His heart aches for you. You’re his perfect girl, of course not his yet but he will ask you to be soon. He doesn’t want you ever in pain. He wanted to help you out in any way he could to make you feel better. Your body was beautiful, he wasn’t blind, but right now you were trusting him and he would never break that trust. He just wanted to take care of you.

You feel the tension and sadness seep out of your body, grateful for the pain meds from the doctor so your hand doesn’t hurt right now. You were putty in his hands as he washed your hair. And when you leaned forward he washed your back with your scrubbie. When you’re clean you stand and he wraps a towel around you before helping you out of the tub.

He helps you to your room, his arm around you comfortingly. “I’m gonna order a pizza and then we should watch something and you should let me hold you” you smile at him and nod “yes please” you say softly and he walks out of your room.

You grab your underwear from your dresser and slip on a pair of black lace boyshorts and decide to grab his hoodie on your bed and slip that on your bare top. After that you grabbed your blanket and made your way out to the couch.

You walked out of your room as he was ordering pizza over the phone, he looked up and smiled when he saw you, then blushed when he noticed you were in his hoodie and just your underwear. You were stunning. The most gorgeous girl.

You sit down on the couch and he comes over when he hangs up. He’s already queued up a movie, a romcom you said you liked a few days ago and you smile when you realize. You look up into his eyes and you almost start to cry again. But this time it’s because how loved you felt. “Yū I..” your voice cracks and he smiles warmly at you before he sits down on the couch and pulls you to his chest. “I know” he says and holds you. He felt it too. The love you both had for each other. You tilt your head up and start to softly pepper kisses along his neck.

A knock on the door pulls him away from you and you sigh.

You eat some pizza and it makes you feel better to have food in your tummy before cuddling with him again and enjoying the movie for a while before getting a little bored. You look up at him, your head on his chest, and you start to draw small circles on his chest. He looks down at you and smiles lovingly.

“I’d be so sad without you here tonight” you say quietly and he blushes “I’m so glad I could be here to take care of you y/n” he brushes his lips softly against yours and your body floods with tingles. The movie ends and you lay together talking about your days other than your accident. You learn about the games he’s been to already and written about. The men’s volleyball team was amazing apparently but he says you’re a much better libero then they have.

It’s getting late and you take some night time medicine, your captain gave you the next few days off to heal but you already know you’ll go to the gym anayway to support your team. You’re standing in your kitchen drinking some water and he walks up and hugs you from behind. You turn around and wrap your arms around him, resting your head against his shoulder and asking “will you sleep in my bed with me? I don’t want to be alone”

Your question gave him butterflies and he nodded “yeah” he says and withholds the urge to jump in excitement. It’s still a little early so you decide to start a show in bed, one that you used to watch together every Wednesday night in high school.

After five minutes of the show you roll over so you’re laying chest to chest and you’re looking at him, studying his face. He starts to blush at your gaze and he can’t hold back a smile as he looks back at you.

He starts to run his fingers through your hair and it gives you a shiver, he pulls the blanket higher up your shoulders and you use the movement you cuddle up closer to him, throwing your legs around him and fully laying on him, your head on his shoulder. “How much longer do I have with you?” You whisper, afraid your voice would crack if you spoke any louder. He frowns “I’m supposed to go to Canada in a little under a month” you groaned and he chuckled a little “y/n” his voice was firm and you leaned up, putting all your weight into your hips against his as you looked in his eyes. He moaned involuntarily as your hips grinder against him and you smiled shyly. “Yū?” You ask and he runs his hands softly up your thighs, slipping under the hoodie and squeezing your hips “I don’t want to lose you” he says and his voice cracks “not again. Do you think we can make this work?” You beam at him. “Please I want that so bad” you say and he pulls you back down to him with a laugh, making sure your left hand was okay “so you’re my girl now?” He asks with excitement and you giggle and say “yes” he lifts your face to his and kisses you before saying “finally”

#noya #noya x reader #noya imagine #nishinoya yuu #nishinoya yu x reader #nishinoya haikyuu #nishinoya x you #hq nishinoya #hq noya

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