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cupid-styles · 3 months

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daisy 2 (english profrry x quiet TA!yn)

she's alive and I hope you like it 🩷 I think there will be a short epilogue wrapping everything up after this :)

part one

word count: 7.9k

content warnings: a bit of angst (nothing too crazy), smut (f receiving oral, penetration, size kink/belly bulge, dirty talk, a tiny bit of cum play), and — as stated in the first part — massive, big fat warning for an inappropriate power imbalance.

main masterlist | talk to me

. . .

Y/N had tried to talk herself out of it. Several times, actually. For hours.

But at a certain point, she realized all she was doing was driving herself insane with a nonstop, hamster wheel of thinking. She couldn’t stop replaying the conversation with Professor Styles — or Harry, rather, as he’d said earlier — over and over, nitpicking at every tiny detail. She wished she had someone to go to — an unbiased, neutral third party who wouldn’t tell her what she wanted to hear, but she doubted that even if she did have that, they’d think her analysis of their discussion would be appropriate.

Because she had a huge, obvious, stupid crush on her professor.

Well, he wasn’t technically her professor. She was just the professor she was… assisting, and that technicality is the only thing that gave her enough courage to bundle up beneath layers of thermal wear and her forest green puffer jacket, hiking through the chilly winter evening to see if, by some miracle, Harry was still in his office.

On the way there, she spoke to herself sternly. She needed to have a goal in mind — an intention, really, of what exactly she was going there for. It wasn’t a normal thing to go see a professor in his office on a Monday at 6:40 pm.

It wasn’t normal to think about his grumpy face and even crankier demeanor; the way his lips pursed thoughtfully around wordy responses about a student’s answer to an essay question, or his long, calloused fingers that wrapped around the same gel ink pens he always used for grading.

It wasn’t normal for her to fall asleep imagining herself pressing her own plush lips to the same ones that nearly begged for an apology just a few hours ago.

And it certainly wasn’t normal for her professor to admit that he’d spent the weekend thinking of her, either.

The English building stays unlocked until around 9 pm on weekdays, just in case professors end up hauling their grading into late nights or students have group projects. She hurries through the wooden doors as soon as she arrives, hurriedly yanking her mittens off and stuffing them in her coat pockets as she walks the familiar journey down to Harry’s office. She’s unsurprised that most of the offices and classrooms have already gone dim, but the closer she gets to Harry’s, the sooner she realizes that his is the exception. With the bleak, yellowed light from the lamp she’d picked out a few weeks back, she sees a faint luminance from his office’s frosted window. Swallowing, she decides against her better judgment before waltzing in like she owns the place, and instead opts for a hesitant knock, punctuating it with a call of his name.

“Profess— Harry? Are you in there?” she nibbles on her lip before tacking on a, "It's Y/N."

She hopes he recognizes her voice as she wrings her fingers together in front of her. She thinks she hears muffled movement on the other side of the door, but she’s not entirely sure. It never occurred to her that perhaps he wouldn’t want to see her — maybe he’d peek through the crack of the door, see her face, and widen his own eyes in shock and embarrassment, maintaining silence until she eventually gave up and walked away. Her throat bobs nervously at the imagery.

She’s ready to give up when the door swings open, revealing a rather flushed looking version of the typically neat, well-kept professor she’s used to seeing. His cheeks don a splotchy pink hue that speckles down to his neck, where his usual button down is currently undone. Underneath, he wears a plain white tee-shirt. She blinks at the small display of intimacy before snapping her eyes back up to his face. He’s running his finger through his messy curls, tugging lightly at the base of the locks.

“Is everything alright?” he asks through a slightly nervous voice. With furrowed eyebrows, she nods her head slowly.

“Yes— well, no, I guess. I feel bad about earlier.”

She chokes the words out in hopes that she can keep her humiliation at bay. She’s unsure if her eyes deceive her, but it seems as though his face relaxes some before he quickly nods, stepping aside to let her in.

“Um, you have nothing to feel bad about,” he says, shutting the door quietly behind her. She shrugs her shoulders as she stands in the middle of his small office, avoiding his gaze. “I was out of line, Y/N.”

“What did you mean by it?” she rushes out, facing him with a leery expression. “That you spent the weekend thinking of me. And feeling awful about how you’ve treated me.”

His mouth opens and closes, and she can’t help the way she glances down at his raspberry-hued lips. She swallows tightly, biting on her own bottom lip.

“This isn’t something we can do,” he mumbles out breathily with a shake of his head. “You know that, right?”

They’re dancing around the obvious. Her stomach lurches at the low, groveled volume of his voice, and her fingers twitch at her sides as she resists the urge to step closer to him. She’s never been forward with a romantic interest before — she’s never had a reason to be, to uphold a certain level of confidence.

But she can’t help herself.

“Tell me, then. Tell me what you thought of this weekend.”

Harry’s nostrils flare.

“If it’s not something we can do,” Y/N says softly, licking over her lips, “Then whatever you thought about should be nothing, right?”

He’s torn. He’s so utterly torn that it feels like his brain is being split in half. He knows what he should do — he should tell her she’s wrong and that she should leave. He should leave this entire situation behind him, chalk it up to him being a touch-deprived idiot, and move on with his life. Join a few dating apps and find someone decent to settle down with.

But why would he do what he’s supposed to do?

“I thought about how fucking shitty I felt for ignoring you for weeks after you told me you just wanted my praise,” Harry blurts, heart hammering in his chest as he slowly starts to close the gap between their bodies. “I thought about how much I like having you around — how smart and talented you are, how beautiful and creative your brain is.”

“I’m not—”

“I’m not finished,” he replies curtly, making Y/N’s eyebrows shoot up to her forehead. “I thought about how pretty you are. I thought about how I’m thankful to have you as my assistant, because no one has ever been able to meet me on the same level. I thought about… how I’d be taking advantage of you if I told you any of those things, so I promised that I’d keep them to myself.”

He’s standing directly before her now. He’s so close that she can smell the warm musk of his cologne and see the freckles dotted over his nose. It makes her stomach churn in the best way.

“Why didn’t you?” she finally breathes out.

A smirk forms at the edges of his lips. He looks down at her as if he wants to swallow her whole, and she’s not sure that she doesn’t want him to.

“You asked me to tell you, sweetheart,” he murmurs. He reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear and her skin zips with electricity. “‘S not much of my fault now, is it?”

Quickly, she shakes her head. She swallows nervously and hopes he doesn’t notice her picking at her nails as she waits for him to surge forward and press a messy kiss to her lips.

But instead, he stops.

A look of clarity ghosts over his face and his throat bobs. It doesn’t stop him from thumbing over her chin with sorrowed eyes.

“We’ll wait until the end of the semester,” he murmurs out. The look of disappointment on Y/N’s face must be obvious because his eyebrows furrow in dejection. “It’s the safest way, okay? After that… after that, I’m yours.”

I’m yours. It echoes through her brain, making her heart thump rapidly in her chest. She feels it everywhere, but the hesitancy remains.

“Promise me,” she whispers, pressing a wary hand to the expanse of his chest. “Promise me I’m not wasting my time. Promise me that you mean this.”

He can’t help it — before he can even contemplate the consequences, he ducks down to connect their lips. It takes her by surprise but she immediately kisses him back, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck to pull him closer.

Despite the reluctant context, the physical bond is anything but. Harry kisses her unhurriedly, like he has years to worship every bit of her lips. He dips his tongue into her mouth the second she grants him the opportunity, and her chest feels like it’s ready to explode when he squeezes her hip. His large palm easily finds its way to her ass and she whimpers breathily into the seal of his mouth. It’s the only thing that brings him back down to earth — a reminder that he’s no longer daydreaming but experiencing the real thing. He forces himself to break the kiss but leans his forehead against hers, keeping his eyes shuttered closed.

“I promise you,” he exhales, and he feels her nod. “I’m yours.”

. . .

Attempting to act normal around Harry is harder than Y/N had anticipated.

In hindsight, the evening consisted of a half-assed confession and a rather… intimate kiss that nearly knocked her off her feet. If it had been with anyone else — someone her age, a fellow student or peer, maybe — she, of course, would be anxious over it. But the fact that she had to see him a day later in class was… well, somehow embarrassing.

She contemplates her outfit for hours, wanting to seem cute and put-together without overly desperate. She was scared it would be written all over her face the second she walked in and sat at her seat beside his podium — "I made out with Professor Styles in his office a day and a half ago and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it for more than two seconds since it happened" may as well have been written across her forehead.

When she finally does show up to class, Harry looks… well, he looks like his usual self. He’s wearing those wide-legged trousers that she thinks he must have in at least a dozen colors, matched with a button down and a sweater vest overtop. He’s standing at the podium with his back to the entrance as he waits for students to filter in, squeezing his bottom lip between his fingers. He’s reading something, Y/N’s unsure what it is, but when he hears the less than graceful clatter of her setting her things down at the table, he glances over to her and flashes her a smile.

A smile.

“Hey,” he greets. His voice is low and gruff and if she hadn’t been looking for it, she surely would’ve missed it. But she doesn’t, and it instead sends a zap of lovesick energy thrumming through her body.

“Hi.” she mumbles back, waving as she leans over to pull her laptop from her bag.

That’s the extent of the interaction, but it’s far more than she’s ever received from him. Normally, when she arrives at class, he fully ignores her. She only began to take issue with it when she figured out she was growing feelings for him, but somehow the quiet utterance of hey feels like a public acknowledgement of what occurred just a day prior. In some crazy way, it seems like it’s just as open as grabbing her and smacking a hard kiss to her lips. She finds herself wishing he would as he begins today’s lecture on male writers in feminist discourse.

As written on the schedule, Harry’s taking the time to discuss authors like George Herbert, John Berryman, and Leo Tolstoy. Y/N doesn’t feel particularly drawn to any of those figures, though a few weeks back when she and Harry were discussing this unit, they did find a mutual appreciation for Jacques Lacan. He wasn’t originally in the lesson plan — Y/N remembers it vividly, because she can recall saying that he would be a great fit. Her heart had expanded in her chest with praise when Harry agreed.

And yet… Harry’s standing up there in front of the lecture hall, waxing poetic in the dreamiest way possible, about Jacques Lacan.

“Lacan was incredibly controversial, so I don’t expect all of us to feel comfortable with translating his viewpoints to modern day psychology,” Harry explains as he hovers over the old, wooden podium, “But what I do want to dig into is his basic idea of the symbolic register. Does anyone know what that is?”

Yes, Y/N wants to say. It’s the concept that our existence as humans includes language, culture, and rituals.

“Lacan came up with this idea that he thought was waiting for us the second we were born. He felt that the symbolic register encompassed maybe more artsy, culture-based facets, and that was one of the most important parts of the human existence. We won’t get too far into it because this isn’t a psychology course, and frankly, I could give a shit if you truly understand this or not.” The class, including Y/N, laughs quietly. Harry rolls his lips into a thin line to avoid a smirk from appearing.

When the huffed merriment tapers off, he continues. “What I want you to take away as writers is this: Lacan’s symbolic register essentially implies that our lives, from the very start, are swamped with uncertainty. There’s no path for us. As you write your characters, consider that. Lacan thought that life experiences, specifically lack and desire, were what impacted the course we go on.”

As expected, the class is silent. Y/N’s found that students are typically too nervous or intimidated to contribute to conversations during Harry’s lectures, and she’s been on the receiving end of many, many emails asking things that could have been resolved in class.

“Think about what your characters lack. What are they missing? What are they unable to receive access to? Is it a resistance to pleasure, to giving in?”

Y/N swallows harshly at that. She pretends like she doesn’t hear it, instead focusing in on typing a response to an email in her inbox.

“And then, consider their desires. Their deepest, darkest wants. No one has to know them — in real life, no one truly knows our truest desires, anyway,” she swears her eyes squeeze closed at that, but she quickly snaps them open, “But use it as an exercise for this weekend. Don’t forget, second drafts are due on Monday. Class is dismissed.”

Y/N swear she feels a second heartbeat in her core as the lecture hall begins to trickle out with students.

. . .

“I thought we were waiting until the semester is over.” Y/N blurts it out when she can’t focus on grading Ren Wei's draft.

Slowly, Harry glances up from the stack of papers he’s currently grading. With confused eyebrows, he sets his pen down.

“We are,” he says softly.

“Then what were you talking about in class today?” She hisses lowly. She keeps her voice quiet even though the door to Harry’s office is shut closed.

“What do you mean?”

Y/N sighs frustratedly and sits back in her seat. She avoids Harry’s confused gaze as she crosses her arms over her chest. He ignores the way it pushes her breasts up through the soft fabric of her sweater.

“The whole lack and desire thing. You know you weren’t planning on talking about Lacan until I brought him up a few weeks ago.”

Harry’s throat bobs and she licks over her lips, quickly glancing back up to his face. She’s right — they both know she’s right, but Harry’s reluctant to admit it. He’s stubborn — he’s always been this way in relationships, and it tends to be one of his greater downfalls as a partner. Deep in the pit of his heart, he knows Y/N deserves better. She wouldn’t be worth putting his job or her status as a student in danger if she wasn’t.

“You’re right,” he finally admits as he nibbles on his bottom lip. “I’m sorry. It was out of line and I won’t do that anymore.”

She pauses for a beat. And then, “I thought maybe you changed your mind.”

His shoulders deflate and she suddenly feels embarrassed. It was a stupid thing to reveal, she decides, and she picks at the skin surrounding her fingernails as she mentally beats herself up for it.

And for a moment, Harry contemplates it. He knows it hasn’t been that long since he told her they have to wait, but he’d be a ridiculous liar if he didn’t admit that she’s all he’s been thinking about ever since they kissed in his office. Nervously, he reaches across the length of his wooden desk and takes her hand into his. He intertwines their fingers together and gives her hand a small, reassuring squeeze, and she looks up at him through her eyelashes. It makes his heart warm.

“You know this is incredibly difficult for me, right?” he asks. Y/N shakes her head and he scoffs in response. “I can’t stop thinking about you, Y/N.”

She blushes. “I can’t stop thinking about you either.”

“Yeah?” he chuckles, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. She nods. “When we kissed, it… it was so good, y’know? It just… it felt good.”

“I know,” she breathes. She squeezes his fingers lightly before retracting her own hand and placing it in her lap. She may look naive, but she's already decided that she won't let him have the upper hand – not when it comes to something she can actually have control over, like teasing.

The movement surprises him but he chooses not to acknowledge it. “But this is what we decided on, right? It’s better this way. It’s kind of like edging, hm?”

His eyes nearly bulge out of his skull as she glances down at her phone to look at the time.

“Anyway, I have to head out to class. Text me if you need anything, Professor Styles.”

She waltzes out of his office with a snarky, knowing grin on her lips, and Harry has to do a series of deep breathing to stop his cock from exploding in his trousers.

. . .

Y/N Y/L/N is a complete and utter minx.

Harry has no choice but to come to this conclusion because in the weeks that follow their agreement, he swears she does everything she can to try and make him break. The worst part is, he doesn’t even know if she’s doing it intentionally. But every time they’re in the same room, all he can think about is hauling her over his shoulder, locking her in his office, and stretching her body over the length of his desk so he can fuck her until she can’t even think straight.

And there’s still three months left of the semester.

Admittedly, nothing ever really happens between them. Despite the apparent and blatant flirting that occurs on both sides, they keep things surprisingly professional, even behind closed doors. For the first time in his teaching career, Harry is actually ahead of grading. For some reason, he feels as though it’s a testament to how well he and Y/N actually work together.

But then there’s the matter of her teasing, which drives him up a fucking wall — the cute little mini skirts she almost always wears, the batting of her eyelashes at students in his class, followed by the wide-eyed smile she flashes Harry as soon as she knows he’s seen it. She even out-smarted him on Ursula LeGuin the other day and, as dorky as it seems, Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been so turned on in his life.

It’s a series of back-and-forth. When Y/N has to leave his office for class, he’ll thumb at her chin or her cheeks so she gets all flustered before she heads out. Later that night, she’ll text him an innocent question with some sort of “typo”:

can’t stop thinking about your lips

oops! list* not lips! your list of grades — it’s due next friday, right??

It’s a stupid, risky game that neither of them can stop playing.

Even when they’re sitting in Harry’s office that Wednesday afternoon, buried beneath piles of final drafts for the midterm paper, he can’t help but gnaw on his bottom lip as she sits across from him. She’s focused — the cute furrow between her brows is the primary tell — but every now and then she’ll bring her pen up to her mouth to bite on it or poke her tongue out to lick over her lips.

Despite the chill of the day, she’s wearing a wool mini skirt atop sheer black tights, and he hasn’t been able to stop glancing down at the soft skin of her thighs since she showed up to campus hours ago. He wants nothing more than to rip a hole in the fabric, pull her into his lap, and kiss her until she’s a whimpering, breathless mess.

He’s so distracted that he doesn’t even notice the clock is steadily ticking towards 5 pm and, technically, Y/N should’ve left an hour ago. With wide eyes, he drops his pen on the pile of papers in front of him.

“Shit,” he curses, “You should go. Your hours ended at 4.”

She taps her phone screen beside her, “Oh. I didn’t realize it was so late. I guess I got in the groove with grading.”

“It happens.” He says understandingly as he leans back against his chair, stretching his achy back out some. “I’ll see you on Monday, then?”

She peers up at him through her lashes. “It’s 5 pm on a Friday, Harry. You should leave, too.”

He runs his tongue over his teeth. She’s right, especially since he’s been attempting to distract himself from his crush on Y/N by doing late grading sessions in his office.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he mumbles as he grabs his large tote bag. “I’ll walk you out, if that’s okay.”

They both know that it’s perhaps a cross of the boundary they’ve been trying to firmly maintain, but how harmful could a walk be?

Y/N flashes him a small smile. Silently, they each pack their things up, and she follows him out of this office as he locks his door. They walk side-by-side, Y/N nibbling on her bottom lip as Harry tries to resist the urge to grab the hand that he keeps accidentally brushing with his own knuckles.

“Do you have any weekend plans?” She suddenly asks softly, glancing up at the taller male.

He hums, “Nothing too exciting. Probably just gonna catch up on TV and reading. You?”

“The secret life of an English professor, hm?” Y/N teases and he chuckles. “I have to start prepping for midterms. Laundry, too. I guess nothing more fun than your plans.”

He laughs and her stomach erupts into flutters as he holds the front door for her. She smiles in gratitude, but her steps come to a stop when she witnesses the state of the weather.

It’s nearly a white out. A snowstorm must have barreled through while they were busy grading, because now it’s dark, flurries of snow instantly landing on Y/N’s eyelashes and jacket.

“Y/N,” Harry appears at her side, “You’re not planning on walking through this, are you?”

“I-I don’t have a car.” She mumbles, stuffing her already freezing cold hands into her pockets. “I’ll be fine, it’s not far.”

“No, but I wouldn’t feel okay with sending you home in this,” he replies. She blinks when she feels his hand reach out to her shoulder, giving it a small squeeze. “Would you let me drive you home, please? Just so I know you get home safely.”

Her stomach turns. This would officially cross the student/teacher boundary, but he’s right — it’s frigid out, and she always hates walking home in the dark anyway. Swallowing tightly, she nods.

“Yeah, please. I’ll take a ride.”

“Good,” he exhales with a nod, “My car’s just over in the faculty lot.”

With the both of them slowly shuffling through the snowy ground, they eventually make it to Harry’s car. As expected, it’s covered in snow, but he turns it on and blasts the heat so she can sit inside while he uses a brush to clear it off. She picks at her fingernails as she watches him through the foggy front window, her chest continuing to grow with nerves. She knows that this is all she’s wanted for weeks — to be alone with Harry, outside of the confines of his office — so why is she so scared?

Luckily, he gets in the car before she has more time to contemplate it. Blowing warm air into his cupped hands, he shivers dramatically.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” he whines, making her giggle. “Something funny about that, passenger princess?”

“No!” She exclaims with a laugh, “I’m sorry I didn’t help clear your car off. I’m sure that was awful.”

His eyes crinkle teasingly as he chuckles along with her. As he backs up out of the parking spot with ease, he presses the palm of his hand to the back of Y/N’s headrest, checking to make sure he’s clear. She wonders if he’s used to driving in the snow, but lets the question die in her throat instead of pushing the conversation.

“Sorry, I didn’t ask where you live,” he says when he turns onto the main road. “I think you mentioned once that you’re not too far from campus?”

She nods. “Yeah, I’m on Maple. It’s a single-person house, I’ll tell you where to turn.”

“You live alone?”

She doesn’t think the question is meant to be inherently suggestive, but there’s something about his immediate response that has her teetering on feeling that way. Swallowing, she nods again.

“Mhm. Most of my friends graduated or moved away when we finished undergrad, so it’s just me.”

“No pets or anything? You seem like the type to own one of those bald cats.”

Y/N balks at his reply, a peel of laughter bubbling from her chest. “What?”

Harry’s cheeks warm as he slowly drives down the snow-covered street. He doesn’t know how to tell her that he thinks about what kind of person she is when she’s not around — he knows it probably sounds creepy, but it’s how he’s been entertaining himself in the meantime.

“I just… feel like you’d like those things,” he treads lightly, shrugging his shoulders, “Is my assumption wrong?”

“Very much so. I’ve only had dogs,” she giggles, “Are there any other assumptions I should know about?”

His throat bobs. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” she quirks a brow. “Turn at the light.”

He flicks his right signal on, “I may have tried to figure you out a bit in my… spare time.”

He cringes, but the sound of her laughter quickly pulls him from his embarrassment.

“Well now I have to know.”

“Fine,” he decides, finding himself drawn to her little game, “I think you prefer matcha or hot chocolate over coffee.”

“True, but that’s only because you watch me cringe every time you drink your stupid black coffee.”

Harry snorts, “Okay, fair. I think you’re a homebody.”

“Mhmm,” Y/N nods. “True. Go on.”

“You prefer chocolate to vanilla.”

“Strawberry, actually.”

He hums. “You read period piece smut for fun.”

Y/N lets out a loud cackle. “What about my personality makes you think that?”

“You just seem like the type to go to the romance section at the bookstore, but only buy dirty books that are set in the 1800s,” he replies easily, a smirk edging at his lips, “Am I wrong?”

She ignores the way her cheeks flair with warmth. “I’m not opposed to it, but it’s not the only thing I read.”

“Sure,” he laughs. She rolls her eyes before pointing to a house down at the end of the road.

“I’m right over there.”

Harry nods and pulls up in front of it. The snow is only worse on the residential streets, likely because there haven’t been many cars going through to clear the roads. She nibbles on her lip as she unbuckles her seatbelt and turns to look at him.

“Thank you for the ride.” she says softly.

“Of course.”

They stare at each other for a beat before Y/N tears her gaze away from him. She glances out through the front window, watching momentarily as snowflakes continue to beat down on the exterior of his car.

“It’s not safe,” she mumbles breathily, facing him again. “You shouldn’t drive in this.”

He swallows. He knows what he should say: No, it’s okay. I should go home. We said we’d wait, remember?

But he doesn’t want to. Not when she’s dangling alone time, off campus, right in front of his face. He can’t resist her — he doesn’t want to resist her.

“Can I come inside, then?”

. . .

Y/N’s house is everything Harry would have expected it to be.

She has two huge bookshelves that are overflowing with worn novels, Post-It’s and folded-down pages sticking out of nearly every page. She has plants and candles, cuddly blankets thrown askew over her couch, and a sink filled with half-consumed cups of tea. There are framed pictures and Polaroids tacked up on her fridge of people Harry assumes are her friends and family. He smiles gently as he passes by an image of her wedged between two older people who have some of her same features. It’s all very her, which means it’s all entirely too comforting.

“Do you want something to drink?” Y/N asks, nibbling on her bottom lip as she glances up at the man before her. It’s an unusual sight; one that makes her feel like she has to blink a few times to ensure she isn’t dreaming.

“Not unless you’re willing me to make my ‘stupid black coffee’, as you affectionately referred to it in the car.”

Y/N blushes, “I don’t have any coffee here, but I can make you tea. Or hot chocolate.”

“Tea is good, sweetheart.”

The flush only deepens at the pet name. He’s not sure where it comes from — maybe easing into a relationship-type dynamic is easier than he thought, especially considering he’s been pushing it down since their kiss. He watches as she turns to face the kitchen counter, occupying herself with turning the kettle on and retrieving two tea bags and mugs. He wants nothing more than to hug her from behind, pressing his fingertips into her hips to squeeze them teasingly. To dip his head to the crook of her neck and press kisses along her delicate skin. He swallows and adjusts his trousers, willing the thickening erection tucked underneath to go away.

“How do you want it?” she asks, glancing behind her to look at him.

He coughs. “Sorry? How do I want what?”

“Your tea,” Y/N replies slowly, a small smile on her lips, “How do you want your tea, Harry?”

“Oh— um, however you take it is fine.”

She nods and busies herself with filling the mugs up with the boiling water. Once she’s finished, she slowly hands him the steaming cup. He smiles in gratitude, allowing their fingers to brush against one another in the pass-off.

“By the way,” she says lowly, blinking at him, “You’re doing a shit job of hiding your boner.”

Her eyes crinkle in a smirk as she lifts the mug to take a sip of the warm liquid. Harry’s cheeks instantly warm and he stutters over his words, attempting to force out an apology. She lets him scramble for a moment before reaching out to curl her fingers over his wrist with a smile.

“I’m just teasing you. I hope you know I don’t care.”

He huffs, setting his cup down on the dining room table, “Yeah, but I’m the one who told you we have to wait. And now I’m standing in your kitchen, getting hard over you making me tea.”

She giggles. “I consider that a compliment, to be honest.”

“I’m sure you do,” he grumbles, “You make me feel like a doped up, lovesick teenager.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” he scoffs, “Everything you do does something to me. Even if you don’t mean it. It’s ridiculous.”

“What do you mean?”

He sends her a knowing look and she grins.

“You know what I mean, Y/N.”

“You know I’m not good at reading between the lines, Harry.”

He sighs. “You turn me on. Even by doing the stupidest shit— knowing more about me in certain subjects, wearing those cute little skirts… it all drives me insane. I’ve been trying to keep it together, but I can’t.”

“Then don’t,” she replies almost instantly, placing her mug on the table next to his, “I don’t want to wait, Harry. I feel… I feel so stupidly desperate for you. And I want this— I want you.”

“I know, but—”

“But in any other context, if we didn’t meet this way, there wouldn’t be an issue,” she points out stubbornly, “If we had come back to mine after a date, we’d already be upstairs with our clothes off.”

He can’t help the way his cock jumps at her words and he mentally groans. He wants to yell into one of those cute throw pillows on her couch, or maybe lay face down on the fluffy carpet in her hallway.

“Listen, I’m sorry if I’m crossing boundaries, we can just watch TV or something—”

“Stop,” he cuts her off with a shake of his head. “Can we just… Can I just kiss you again? I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

Y/N blinks owlishly. Surprise is clear on her face, but it doesn’t stop her from nodding her head. As corny as it sounds — and Y/N knows it’s corny — it feels like magnets being pulled together. It’s not a moment longer before Harry’s palm is pressed gently against her cheek, his lips brushing up against hers. She’s nearly salivating at the thought of closing the gap between them and yet, at the same time, her brain is melting with lust.

This kiss, unlike their first, is riddled with want. It’s hurried and sloppy, teeth clashing and tongues dipping into each other’s mouth. Harry’s hand slips from her cheek and down to the back of her neck, giving it a small, testing squeeze. She presses her chest impossibly closer to his, eyelashes flittering at the warmth radiating from the button-down he wears. She’s desperate to feel him, to eliminate any boundaries or distances between them — for the first time, she’s sick of playing games.

“Upstairs,” she pants out through swollen lips. He takes her bottom lip between his teeth and pulls playfully, allowing it to snap back in place, “Take me upstairs, please.”

He swallows and her eyes find his Adam’s apple, nervousness settling in her chest. He gives her neck another squeeze.

“Are you sure?” he breathes. She leans up to wrap her arms around his neck and presses a gentle kiss to his lips.

“If you’ll have me, I’m yours, Harry.”

“You’ve always been mine,” he mutters with his forehead against hers, “Show me the way, sweetheart.”

She grabs his hand in hers and lightly tugs him out of the kitchen. If she’s being honest, she’s fantasized of this moment for months now. She was never sure of how it would happen (the logistics never mattered in her daydreams), but having him here, standing in her bedroom, feels like some kind of joke her mind conjured up.

But when he lays her back against the mattress, elbows digging into the soft tufts of her bedding, it feels a little like a hazy fantasy.

When he parts her thighs and kneels down between them, pressing a smattering of kisses along her neck as his hands push the fabric of her thick sweater up, her labored breathing is the only anchor she has in reality.

And when he finds himself between her thighs, tugging her black tights down to reveal a sodden pair of underwear, a hiss sounding out from her mouth when he bares her center to the cool air of her bedroom, things begin to feel very, very serious.

“Is this okay?” he asks huskily. He’s since moved down to kneeling on the carpet of her room, his large palms parting the insides of her thighs. Every single move he makes drives her insane.

“Yes,” she breathes, fingers gripping the blanket beneath her.

He’s less calculated now that he’s received her consent. She instantly mewls the second he puts his mouth over her, licking through the wet fabric of her underwear. Her eyes roll back just from the muffled sensation, especially when he allows a low moan to vibrate from his chest.

“Need more,” he mutters against the soft skin of his thigh as he pulls the material to the side. He inhales sharply at the sight of how wet she is, his fingertip gently tracing over the tip of her swollen clit. “You were hiding all this from me for months.”

He states it as if it’s a fact — like she’d been doing it intentionally, when all she’s been doing is dreaming of the day he’d finally be the one to break. Through a shaky swallow, she parts her lips.

“Didn’t mean it,” she murmurs, sitting up slightly to look down at him. It’s a heavenly vision — the image of the professor she’s been crushing on, on his knees for her in her bedroom. He sends a smirk her way as if he can read her thoughts (and maybe he can, she’s truly not sure anymore), and surges forward to dip his tongue through her folds, licking up the heady arousal dripping from her hole. It makes her gasp and reach down to grab his hair, a tight fistful of locks in her hand.

“Doubt it,” he says into her core. His fingertip continues tracing tight circles into her clit as he begins to flex his tongue inside of her, and Y/N’s back is arching against the expanse of her mattress from the wet, intoxicating sensations of it all. It’s nearly too overwhelming for her, especially given the sensitivity of her clit — but Harry can feel her tensing beneath his grasp, a delicious telltale sign that her peak is quickly rising.

“Harry— oh my god—”

“I know,” he coos, replacing his tongue with two of his fingers. He presses against her g-spot and she gasps, grinding her hips down against his hands, “There you go, angel girl, cum on my fingers. That’s it, good girl.”

If his hands weren’t currently occupied, one would undoubtedly be wrapped around his length right now, twisting and pumping until he emptied himself to the sight of Y/N’s coming, pulsating pussy. It's better than any daydream he ever could have thought of — her moans are beautiful and whimpery, her body warm and pliant beneath his touch as she comes down. Sensitivity immediately takes over and she gently bats his hands away, panting out loudly from above.

“Alright?” He asks softly, placing a light kiss to her thigh. He hears her swallow loudly.

“Jelly,” she mumbles, “Limbs are jelly.”

That makes him chuckle as he sits back up on his knees. He hovers over the length of her body and smiles at her fucked out expression.

“You’re pretty when you come.” He says before leaning down to peck her lips.

“Yeah?” She asks teasingly, “Show me what you look like?”

Harry stills but she nips at his bottom lip playfully, “You didn’t cum in your pants just from eating me out, did you?”

“Got pretty close to it.” He confesses, eyes falling shut as she continues pressing kisses to his jawline and down to his neck.

She hums at the admittance as her hands rake down his chest, “Do you wanna fuck me?”

“Whatever you want,” he swallows, the answer sounding far more submissive out loud than he’d intentioned, “Fine with… I’m fine with whatever.”

“I want you to fuck me.” She says, looking up at him. “Is that okay?”

“That’s perfectly okay.”

Y/N grins and begins to make quick work of shedding his layers of clothes. His button-down is the first to go, followed by his trousers and belt. Once he’s down to his briefs, she gently hints at wanting to climb on top. He has no reservations with that so he helps her straddle his thighs, watching as her eyes peer down at his covered length.

“You look big.” She admits.

He’s not sure if it’s meant to be a compliment or a nervous comment, so he silently issues a small squeeze to her hip.

“Seriously,” she continues with a frown. “Other girls have taken you no problem?”

This makes him laugh. “Generally, yeah.”

“I don’t think it’s gonna fit.”

Harry smirks. “This isn’t your way of telling me you’re a virgin, right?”

“No!” She exclaims theatrically, and that only amplifies his laughter. “I’m just… I’m nervous! You look really big Harry, seriously.”

“Take me out then,” he instructs lowly and the tone of his voice zips straight to Y/N’s center, “I promise, you’re freaking yourself out over nothing.”

She grumbles as he pulls his underwear down his legs. Harry kicks them off his ankles and she sighs as she takes him into her hand. He has to make an effort not to hiss at the feeling of it.

“Still huge,” she mutters, “My hand barely fits around you, Harry.”

“You’re making my ego insane, angel.”

She peers up at him, where his arm is tucked behind his head like he’s lounging the day away. She gives the head of his cock a small squeeze.

“Do you really think it’ll fit?”

“Yes,” he chuckles, “If not, I’ll just go down on you for an hour and by then you’ll be open and wet enough.”

“Shut up,” she mumbles, the thought of him spending an hour of his time between her thighs almost being too much to fathom. “‘M gonna try to put you in.”

“It’ll be fine, sweetheart. Just breathe and take your time. We can do a different position—“

“No,” she quickly shakes her head. “Wanna ride you. This is how I envisioned it.”

Harry’s eyebrow quirks at that but his curiosity is quickly replaced by pleasure when she hovers her hips over his length. The warmth from her previous orgasm is radiating off of her and he breathes out sharply when she pushes the tip in, her fingertips covering the sight. Harry reaches out to move them. “Need to see,” he grunts.

Her jaw drops open as she slowly lowers onto him. Neither of them speak — it’s all entirely too consuming; her getting filled to the brim and him being surrounded by the tightest heat he’s ever felt. When she finally sinks down to his pelvic bone, her eyelashes flutter.

“Can you move?” He asks through a slightly clenched jaw, “Or— do you need me to—“

“I can do it.” She replies as she steadily attempts to move her hips up. “Oh, that’s a lot.”

“Too much?”

She shakes her head, “It’s good. Is it good?”

“It’s amazing.” He breaths out, gritting his teeth as she moves up and down.

With his reassurance under her belt, it’s easier for her to find a bit of rhythm, even if she has to place her hands down on his chest for stability. He happily places his own palms on top of them, curling his fingers around her wrists to help her.

“There you go,” he encourages, leaning his head back against the pillow as he watches her. “You look so beautiful, holy shit.”

She moans when she finally figures out a pace that hits that soft spot inside of her, eyelashes fluttering from the constant pressure. Harry moves his hands down to her hips to assist in the maneuvers, but mainly because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get sick of seeing his touch on her skin. She swallows harshly when she lifts a hand to coax at her swollen clit, a wet gasp sounding from her lips. Harry’s gaze lifts from where they’re connected to see widened eyes.

“What’s the matter? Are you okay?” He asks in immediate panic.

She nods quickly and reaches out to grab his hand and place it over his stomach.

He thinks he may pass out.

Beneath the soft, dimpled skin of her stomach, he can feel his length bulging in her tummy. If he looks close enough, he can see the faint outline. It takes everything in him not to snap.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters as she resumes her pace of bouncing on his cock.

“Told you you were— oh— big,” she says stubbornly, and if he wasn’t so overwhelmed with the current state of her body, he probably would have had a comeback. But right now, all he can focus on is not blowing his load inside her.

“Need you to come,” he grunts. She nods eagerly like a puppy and he smirks when her fingers return to her clit, rubbing tight circles. “Need you to come so I can paint that pretty pussy, yeah?”

“Yes,” she mewls desperately. Her movements get jerkier and sloppier, but Harry has no problem meeting her hips. He thrusts up inside of her to hopefully reach the same spot, though his worry is quickly wiped away when he feels her muscles contract, her face twisting beautifully.

He can barely help her through her orgasm before he’s pushing her into her side. He’s no longer inside and his hand has switched to keeping her thigh up as he pumps himself, groaning at the sticky mess between them.

“Wanna feel it,” she whimpers almost pathetically, “Please Professor Styles, cum all over my pussy.”

That’s all he needs before he’s bursting at the seams, ropes of thick, white cum covering her. He’s a groaning mess and he doesn’t even notice that she’s running her hand through his hair, playing with it gently, until he has nothing left to give. With a final whimper, he lays back against her bed, completely spent.

When they’ve both caught their breath, Harry turns back onto his side to face her.

“You alright?” he asks softly. He’s nervous to reach out and thumb at her cheek or press a kiss to her hand. For some reason, he feels like the situation is too delicate right now and he’s at risk of fucking it all up.

Y/N hums, “Mhm. Are you?”

“I am.” he answers with a thick swallow. “Is it okay if I hold you?”

“Please.”

His heart jumps and he wraps an arm around her shoulders, tugging her into his chest. He leans down and kisses her hair.

They sit in the silence for a bit, Y/N finding comfort in Harry’s constant breathing, the sound of his heartbeat.

And then: “So you envisioned this?”

She bites at the smile on her lips before she bats at his pecs, “Shut up. I know you did too.”

Harry has no problem admitting that she’s right.

1K notes · View notes

punkshort · 4 months

Text

somewhere to run | 7. break the chain

Pairing: sheriff!Joel x f!reader

Chapter Summary: You take the next step in your relationship with Joel. (Smut. It's just all smut. All of it.)

Chapter Warnings: language, smut (18+ MDNI), Joel being a consent king, unprotected piv sex, fingering, dirty talk, hair pulling, oral sex (f receiving), reader is a little bit sexually inexperienced, brief thoughts of SA but absolutely nothing descriptive, talking about injuries (bruising), oh yeah and infidelity duh

WC: 7.3K

Series Masterlist

There were a lot of things that went through your head when you woke up that morning. Primarily, your thoughts centered around giving your statement and dread you felt about Joel possibly treating you differently once he heard the truth. And you were partially right. He did end up treating you differently, but not at all in the way you expected.

No, you certainly didn't expect your evening to end up with Joel's body pressing yours into your couch, his lips alternating between peppering chaste kisses along your jaw to his tongue probing desperately into your mouth while your fingers gripped his tie and the stiff fabric of his dress shirt, holding him as close as possible because you were terrified he might stop.

You knew you were technically being unfaithful, but was it really cheating if your husband treated you like a prisoner? If you never had any means of escape from a marriage you felt manipulated into? Besides, Joel knew everything now and he still chose to stay. Nobody's ever stood by you or tried to help you the way he had. Whatever ended up happening that night, you knew it wasn't going to be meaningless. You trusted him, you knew that much, and for once in your life you finally felt like maybe, just maybe, you could free yourself from Patrick and live the life you deserved.

His hand cupped your cheek, fingertips digging into the back of your neck while he held all his weight on his other forearm, hovering above you and trying to keep his hips from rubbing against your center but his body was desperate for friction, and he knew he couldn't hold himself back much longer. After everything he heard you say, every horrible memory you were forced to bring up and relive, he wanted nothing more than to help take it all away. He wanted to cleanse your mind of those memories, of the life you felt forced to suffer through, and prove to you right then and there that love shouldn't hurt. Had you ever even really felt love before? Truly? Probably not.

Joel's hand left your face and drifted down to your shoulder, then gingerly grazed your ribs, his tongue still dancing with yours, trying to pull out that sweet sound you gifted him with only once before at the carnival. A sound that haunted his dreams, a sound he replayed over and over in his mind late at night when he tried to sleep but was too consumed with thoughts of you.

His fingers dipped lower and nervously fidgeted with the belt of your robe. He was suddenly unsure, now that he was aware of your past, what you would be comfortable with. He pulled back and looked down at you, watching as your chest heaved beneath him. Your perfect, swollen lips were parted and your eyes were dark with lust as you gazed up at him.

"Maybe we should slow down," he said, selfishly regretting the offer the moment it left his lips, but the last thing he wanted to do was pressure you. Thankfully, you shook your head and tugged gently on his tie, urging him back down, but once again his conscience got the best of him and he hesitated.

You furrowed your brow, trying to figure out what the problem was when it occurred to you, a thought that quickly snapped you out of your trance in shame. Scooting yourself back so you could prop yourself up on your elbows, you took a deep breath before speaking.

"Right. Nikki."

His eyes widened and he immediately shook his head.

"No, that's over," he told you, and you inwardly sighed with relief. "But what you said at the station earlier, I just thought..." he trailed off, a part of him not wanting to ruin the moment but the other part of him trying to be respectful. It was clearly not something you were used to. You were used to a man who just took what he wanted from you over and over and Joel absolutely refused to be like that, no matter how badly he ached for you.

"Were you telling me the truth before?" you asked, seemingly ignoring what he just said. He frowned, not following. "You told me you would make me forget about every man who's ever had me."

His breath caught in his throat as he remembered that night at the carnival when he walked you back to your car. He had no idea his words would have such an impact. At the time, it was just something he said in the heat of the moment, but hearing those words echoed back to him, after everything he now knew, he took it as a challenge. All you seemed to know was pain and hurt, but if you let him, he would show you how good it could really be.

"Yes," he said, his eyes boring into yours and watching as a flicker of excitement passed over your perfect features and suddenly all he could think about was taking your pain away.

"Then make me forget."

His mouth crashed down on yours again and finally, finally, he heard that little moan. The one that he couldn't get out of his head. The one that drove him crazy ever since he heard it. The one he daydreamed about every time he looked at you. He growled against your mouth as his arms wrapped around your middle, scooping you upright and making you grip his shoulders for dear life as he lifted you up, your legs wrapping around his waist while he blindly walked towards your bedroom. You giggled against his mouth when his shoulder knocked into the doorframe and he cursed under his breath. He opened his eyes for just a moment so he could get the layout of the room and put you down safely on the bed.

His lips traveled down your neck while he nimbly undid your robe, his hands sliding underneath the thin fabric, fingers dancing over your delicate skin. He felt you stiffen under him when he touched your side and once again, he pulled back to look. Any other day, his eyes would have locked onto your exposed breasts, but not today. Today, he was focused entirely on the enormous bruise still struggling to heal over your ribs and he had to actively suppress his reaction, but you could still see it. His nostrils flared and he clenched his jaw as he continued to examine the deep blues and purples that littered your beautiful skin.

"I'm fine," you told him quickly, your breath coming in quick gasps as you tried to pull his attention back. "Promise, I'm fine."

His eyes found yours for a brief moment before he looked back at the bruise, then leaned forward to plant a tender kiss against it. He heard you sigh, your hands finding his hair, and he kissed your ribs again, forcing himself to shift gears. You didn't want his pity. Not right now.

"You were naked under this thing the whole time you were talkin' to me?" he murmured, his lips traveling across your stomach, leaving soft licks in its wake.

"I told you I was in the shower," you replied teasingly, grateful that he moved past the bruise as his mouth found the underside of your breast. He pulled your nipple into his mouth and you arched your back with a gasp, his tongue flicking over the stiffened peak.

"Joel?" you whispered, and he hummed in response, still lavishing your chest with attention. "Take off your clothes."

You felt the prickle of his facial hair against your overly sensitive skin when his lips turned up into a smile. He pushed himself up, kneeling between your legs as he stared down at you watching him tug slowly on his tie, unknotting it before tossing it on the floor behind him. His eyes were still glued to yours, the corner of his mouth turning up in a smirk as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt. You watched, lips parted, your eyes greedily drifting down his chest as his thick fingers undid each button with precision until he finally got to the bottom, tugging the shirt out of his slacks and shrugging it off.

Your hands came up to work on his belt while he lifted his white T-shirt off over his head. His hands dropped to his sides as he tilted his hips forward more, giving you better access until you yanked the leather from his waist aggressively, making him chuckle. You were about to start working on his pants when you noticed the deep purple bruise marking the right side of his chest and you gasped, sitting up to reach out to him.

"Oh my god," you whispered, your eyes filled with worry.

"It doesn't hurt anymore," he told you quickly, but he could see the pain behind your eyes when you looked at him.

"I'm so sorry," you told him, your lower lip beginning to tremble.

"Don't be sorry," he said, his hands coming up to cup your face. "None of this is your fault."

"I made him come here," you said, tears welling up in your eyes. "I moved here and ruined everything!"

"No, stop," he said, shaking his head and pressing a gentle kiss against your lips. "You movin' here's the best thing that ever happened to me, okay?"

You sniffled and looked up at him, his thumb drying your tears as quickly as they fell.

"It's okay," he whispered, giving you another soft kiss. You sighed, leaning into his touch like a lifeline. Like it was the only thing tethering you to reality. "You're okay," he added in-between kisses, and you decided to believe him. You let him ease you back onto the mattress, his warm skin pressing against your chest while your hands dipped between your bodies, fingers fumbling with the button on his pants. He lifted his hips up ever so slightly, just enough to give you room to maneuver his zipper and tug on his waistband, but not too much because he couldn't fathom not feeling your body against his for even one unnecessary second.

When you finally managed to pull his pants down, he kicked his legs out behind him, flicking the restricting material onto the floor to join the rest of his clothes. His mouth traveled down your chin, along your jaw and taking a small break behind your ear before he continued down your throat, his teeth grazing gently against the delicate skin as you began to writhe underneath him.

"Are you sure you wanna do this?" he asked, his lips sucking on your collarbone. He realized how ridiculous it seemed to ask that now that you were already both naked, but he felt the need to give you another chance to back out. He couldn't get your words out of his head and he needed to make sure you wanted this just as badly as he did.

"Yes," you moaned, tipping your head back, your eyes sliding shut. "Yes, please Joel, please, please - oh!"

You gasped when you felt his thick fingers trace along your folds, collecting the wetness there before his fingertip teased at your entrance, trying to learn your body's cues so he could give you exactly what you needed. Your hips jutted upwards, encouraging him to continue and he smirked against your skin as he sunk one finger inside. Your grip on his shoulders tightened as you let out a low moan, the sound sending even more blood directly between his legs and he was beginning to question if he was going to make it.

"Fuck, baby," he murmured, withdrawing his finger quickly and making you whine. "I know, I know," he cooed, his breathing becoming shallow as he repositioned himself between your legs. "I just- I can't- shit, I need you so bad," he told you as he notched himself against your opening. You eagerly spread your legs wider, looking up at him with heavy lidded eyes, your chest and neck all pink from his facial hair. He watched how the rush of blood underneath your soft skin he caused helped to hide the bruises and scrapes someone else left. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Like he was watching the start of him erasing all those horrible memories.

"You tell me if you don't like somethin', or if it's too much, or if it hurts-"

"Okay," you said, cutting him off and nodding enthusiastically.

"Okay," he repeated, his voice a little shaky as he locked eyes with you for one more brief moment before pressing forward. You both groaned, jaws hanging open as your bodies welcomed each other so perfectly. He inched in slowly, trying to memorize every single second until he bottomed out, one hand gripping your hip and the other clenched into a fist next to your head, holding himself up so he could watch your face for any sign of discomfort. When it became clear there was none, he let himself drop down onto his forearm so he could slot his mouth back over yours. You moaned sweetly into the kiss, your fingers coming up to grip his curls and he felt goosebumps travel down his arms. Fuck, he really liked it when you tugged a little on his hair.

You lifted your hips a bit, rocking them, trying to get him to move, but he tightened his grip and pushed your hips back down.

"Not yet," he gasped, letting his forehead rest against yours as he tried to collect himself. "Just... just gimme a second."

"Is everything okay?" you asked after another moment, and he let out a soft laugh.

"Yeah, I'm just afraid this'll end too soon. Gotta make you feel good first," he explained sheepishly, planting a small kiss on the tip of your nose.

"About that," you said, dropping your hands from his hair. "I can't... no one's ever... y'know," you trailed off, feeling your cheeks flare. He frowned as he pieced together what you were trying to say.

"You've never had an orgasm?"

"Well, on my own, yes. But not with someone else," you said hurriedly, shame and embarrassment coursing through your veins as you watched his face fill with disappointment.

"It doesn't mean I don't enjoy it, you just don't need to-"

"Make you come?" he finished for you, raising his eyebrows in disbelief.

"Uh huh," you squeaked, hoping you weren't as red as you felt. He tsked and shook his head.

"Oh baby, you poor thing," he mumbled, leaning down to give you another sweet kiss before reaching to the side to grab a pillow. "Lift up."

Confused, you did as you were told, lifting your hips up so he could wedge the pillow underneath you.

"Comfortable?"

"Yeah, but-"

"Don't worry, I got this. I got you," he said, giving his hips an experimental roll and watching your face for your reaction. You sucked in a deep breath and your eyes fluttered closed. Good start.

He gave it to you nice and slow, dragging himself in and out, building you up little by little and paying close attention to your body language. If it was possible to hate Patrick even more, he did. You had said your relationship together wasn't always bad, but as he suspected, your definition of good was not at all what it should be. And Joel was eager to prove that to you.

"So beautiful. D'you know how beautiful you are?" he murmured, picking up the pace just a bit, his tongue flicking over your nipple each time he sunk back inside you. You gasped, the sensation unraveling something in you. "D'you know how crazy I am 'bout you? Think 'bout you all the time," he switched his attention to your other breast, his thrusts remaining steady as he waited for your body to tell him what it needed.

"Me, too," you whispered, your hands coming back up to get tangled in his hair, making him groan.

"Talk to me, I wanna make you feel good," he said, lifting his head off your chest to look at you. "Tell me what you like."

"It's good," you assured him, your eyebrows furrowed in concentration, little gasps leaving your mouth each time he pushed back into you.

"Nah, not good enough," he determined, propping himself up on both forearms now so he could change the angle. His fingers suddenly reached down to grip your knee, pulling it up to your chest before falling back on his forearms. You gasped, eyes flying open as he circled his hips and he smirked. Got it.

"Ohmygod!" you cried out, pulling on his hair and making him moan. "Right there, Joel, don't stop-"

You had no idea how he managed to actually do it, but he did. He reached a spot deep inside that you didn't know even existed and it wasn't long until you felt yourself falling, his name tumbling from your lips over and over and you had a faint idea of how loud you were being but you didn't care. Nobody, including yourself, has ever made you feel that good and it was making you dizzy, your brain foggy as you tried to make sense of what just happened.

"Fuck, what I tell you? So good, you did so good," he mumbled, his lips frantically finding yours as he chased his own high. "I'd give you one more but it's a miracle I lasted this long," he panted, his head falling to your shoulder as you still struggled to come back to earth underneath him. Your fingers in his hair loosened and he grunted, one of his hands coming up to make sure you kept your hands there and you quickly figured out what he wanted. Making sure to grasp a good handful, you gave his hair one firm tug.

"Oh shit!" he groaned, pulling out of you just in time to come all over your inner thighs. "Shit, shit, shit," he muttered, his hips weakly thrusting forward until he was spent, collapsing in a heap on top of you.

"Sorry," he mumbled into the crook of your neck and you giggled. "I might've ruined your sheets," he added with a chuckle, and you laughed even harder.

"It's okay," you said, burying your nose in his messy curls. "I'm on birth control, you could've..."

"Didn't exactly have enough time to ask first if that was okay," he said, smiling against your neck. What a concept, you thought. Being asked first.

"Do you, um," you began, not sure why you felt so nervous around him still. "Do you like getting your hair pulled?"

Joel laughed softly and finally rolled off to the side, allowing you to take deep breaths again now that his weight wasn't crushing you.

"I think I only like it when you do it," he said, grinning while the tips of his ears started to turn red. You hummed and rolled to your side so you could face him.

"I'll keep that in mind for next time," you replied with a wink.

He rolled onto his side as well, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

"I like the sound of a 'next time'," he said, making you blush before planting a quick kiss on your forehead and standing up with a grunt. You watched as he left your room, still completely naked, the sight making you grin and bite your lip. He returned just a minute later with a wet washcloth and you watched as he gently cleaned you up before attempting to spot clean your sheets, then giving up and flopping back into bed, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you against his chest.

It felt so warm, so safe, so peaceful that you never wanted to leave. His big hands gently rubbed your arm, his touch so soft and soothing that you almost felt like you could fall asleep. You closed your eyes and pressed your ear against his chest, listening to the rhythmic thud, thud, thud of his heart. Every strong beat a reminder that he was real, that he cared, that he was going to help you. Even if your relationship never got to this point, you knew he would still help you get out of this mess you were in, because he was a good man. You just wish it didn't take so long to find him.

You glanced at your digital clock and tried to hide your disappointment when you saw it was nearly 6pm.

"You'll have to get going soon," you reminded him, your fingers running lightly over his bare chest. "Sarah's probably waiting for you."

He hummed and picked up his phone, checking his calendar quickly before dialing a number. You could hear the ringing on the other end and a tinny voice answer.

"Hey Tommy. Can you or Maria pick up Sarah and keep her overnight? Yeah, I'm workin' a late one, not sure when I'll get home."

Joel listened to his brother's answer for a moment before nodding his head.

"That's no problem, I'll call and tell her you'll be there in an hour. Thanks, I owe you one." He pulled the phone back and you tried to stifle your smile as he went to dial Sarah.

"You don't have to-"

"Shh," he said, then "hey babygirl, I'm sorry but I'm gonna be late tonight. Uncle Tommy'll come by to get you in an hour and you can stay at his house... yeah, I'm sure if you wanted to do your homework at the diner, he won't care. You all good? How was your day?"

You nestled into his shoulder as you listened to him talk to his daughter, asking her questions about school and her extra curricular activities before he finished up the call, telling her he loved her as he hung up.

"You didn't have to do all that."

"Yeah, but I wanted to," he said, kissing the top of your head. You sighed and leaned back into his chest, then froze when you heard his stomach.

"You didn't eat, did you?" you asked with a smirk, and you felt his chest bounce lightly up and down as he stifled a laugh. "Can I make you something? Do you like pasta?" you asked him, sitting up in bed but he reached out and grabbed your shoulders, pulling you back into him.

"Yeah, but I don't want you leavin' just yet," he mumbled, his voice rumbling in his chest and echoing through your ear. You couldn't help but smile at how sweet he was, and you kicked yourself for not telling him everything sooner.

"The noodles are already cooked, it won't take long," you said, sitting back up again after a minute, and this time, he let you, but only after he insisted on helping. Or at least, he thought he was helping by leaning against the counter and circling his arms around your waist while you stirred the sauce.

"If I burn this, it's your fault," you teased, tipping your head back against his shoulder as his lips made their way down your neck.

"Mm, worth it," he mumbled.

You watched him eat from across your small kitchen table with a goofy look on your face. It was still hard to believe the past couple hours really happened, and having him sitting in your tiny apartment eating leftover pasta in his boxers was just making it seem even more surreal.

"What're you lookin' at me like that for?" he asked, his mouth turning up into a smirk as he swallowed the last of his food.

"Can't I just look at you?"

"You got somethin' goin' on up there," he said, tapping the side of his head and leaning back in his chair.

"I was just thinking how the book club ladies were right about you."

He frowned and gave you a confused look.

"All the women in this town are crazy about you, you know that, right?"

He shrugged a little but you saw his cheeks begin to color.

"You're the only one I want crazy 'bout me," he replied, making your heart flutter.

"Mission accomplished," you said, and he chuckled before standing up to wash his plate in your sink, and you watched, still in utter disbelief he was standing there barely dressed in your kitchen.

"I can feel you still lookin' at me," he said, his back to you, and you laughed.

"I'm just having a hard time believing this isn't a dream," you said, coming over to lean against the doorway.

He turned around, drying his hands on a towel before looking you up and down.

"Want me to prove it?" he asked lowly as he took a few short steps towards you. He bent down slightly so he could run his hands up the backs of your legs, disappearing beneath your robe to grab onto your ass. You could feel your knees weakening already, his touch continuing to be your downfall.

"Yes," you whispered, tipping your head so you could find his throat, your tongue leaving wet marks after every little bite to his tanned skin while his hands kept roaming over your body. He quickly became fed up with your robe and before you knew it, it was piled in a heap next to your fridge.

He dropped to his knees, leaving your head spinning at the sudden loss, and when he lifted one of your legs up to rest over his shoulder, you gasped. Even though you knew the answer, you asked him anyway.

"W-what are you doing?"

His eyes found yours and he paused, looking up at you from between your legs, his eyes hot with desire and his curls a floppy mess on his head.

"Is this okay?" he asked, and you swallowed nervously.

"I d-don't... I've never had -" you cut yourself off as your cheeks once again flushed with embarrassment.

"You're kiddin' me, right?" he asked, his expression unreadable. "No one's ever licked this perfect pussy before?"

"Jesus Christ, Joel!" you laughed, taken aback by his blunt words. Never in your life had you ever expected to hear this kind of talk come out of his mouth.

He chuckled and nosed at your folds, making you gasp.

"You ain't heard nothin' yet," he muttered before flicking his tongue out and licking a broad stripe up your center. Your hands flew out to grip the counter behind you, your mouth hanging open, unable to form a coherent thought, let alone sentence.

"Oh, my god," you finally managed to whisper, your head tilting forward and your eyes sliding shut as he buried his face between your legs, his facial hair rubbing against your overly sensitive skin, making it difficult to remember how to breathe.

His fingers gripped your thigh, keeping you in place as he lapped at your arousal, moaning to himself at the taste. Earlier, he felt so angry no one had been able to make you come before, but now he found something incredibly arousing about being able to do these things for you for the very first time. He felt himself throb as he listened to your perfect little moans, garbled versions of his name and curses driving him wild. When your legs began to shake, he hooked your other one over his shoulder, holding you up as you leaned back onto your forearms, trying to take some of the weight off him.

You looked down just as he slid one finger inside your aching heat, hooking it and brushing against that same spot as before while his lips wrapped around your clit, the combination of the two sending you head first into a dizzying orgasm. He felt your arms slack and he quickly reached up with his free hand to make sure you didn't fall, all the while his mouth and finger rode out your climax, slowing down only when your body warned him to. He could feel it when your stomach muscles began to jump and your legs twitched over his shoulders, so he finally pulled away with a satisfied smirk, leaving a trail of wet kisses along your inner thighs as you tried to catch your breath.

"God, you're really good at that," you finally managed to say.

He grinned and carefully set you back on your feet before standing back up with a groan.

"Can't believe no one could ever made you come before," he murmured into your neck as he wrapped his arms around you.

"Maybe you just got lucky," you teased, and he chuckled for a moment before scooping you up, making you squeal in surprise.

"Don't give me a challenge and expect me not to follow through," he said as he walked you over to your tiny kitchen table and laid you down. Your heart raced as you watched him fling his shirt over his head and you did your best to ignore the ugly bruise this time, just as he had been doing to yours. He pushed his boxers down to his knees, not even bothering to remove them as he gripped his erection in his fist, sliding the tip slowly through the remains of your release and watching you flinch when he nudged against your sensitive clit.

His eyes found yours and he waited, wanting to hear you say it, needing to hear you say it.

"Yes," you whispered with a nod. "I need you, Joel. Please make me come again."

He wasted no time sinking back inside you, a groan of relief slipping past his lips as he looked down and watched you stretch so perfectly around him.

"You got any idea how many times I've imagined you sayin' somethin' like that to me?" he said through gritted teeth, watching as your breasts bounced lightly underneath him from the force of his thrusts. "How many times I came all over my own hand thinkin' 'bout you? God, you feel so fuckin' good, better than I ever imagined."

Somewhere in the back of your head, you knew you should feel embarrassed listening to his confession, but at the moment you couldn't bring yourself to care. In fact, it only served to spur you on, your slick coating him more and more every time he pulled out. You hooked your ankles around his back and your fingers gripped the backs of his hands, which were holding your hips in place as he fucked into you, stopping you from sliding up the table.

"Kiss me," you mumbled, and without a second thought he lifted you up so you were sitting on the edge of the table, his hips still rocking into you as his mouth crashed over yours. One arm around your middle, the other around your shoulders, holding you tightly against him as his tongue probed inside your mouth, licking past your teeth, pouring every ounce of affection he had for you into the kiss.

He dropped one hand to your waist, tilting your hips and making you gasp, your legs nearly losing their grip around him. You could hear the legs of the table squeaking against the floor and had you not been so far gone, you might have wondered if it could be heard in the pizza place downstairs.

"Fuck it," he growled, picking you up, growing frustrated with the table and turned around to pin you against the wall instead.

You cried out his name, the new position making you see stars.

"Think you can come again for me?" he whispered in your ear, his hot breath on your neck sending a shiver down your spine.

"Yes," you whined, tipping your head back against the wall, surrendering over your body. Trusting him, needing him to give you something you've never had before. Something beyond the physical. Something meaningful. Something good.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, looking for something to ground you as the wave of euphoria crashed over you. You buried your face against his neck, practically sobbing his name as he continued to fuck you through it. Your legs began to weaken but you did your best to hold on.

"Oh fuck, I'm gonna come," he groaned, pulling back just a bit, just enough to look down and watch as he disappeared inside your wet heat over and over, the visual sending him over the edge.

"Come inside me," you mumbled, still in a daze. You heard him moan and then whimper, the force of his orgasm taking every last bit of strength and willpower he had. His hips bucked forward, determined to give you every drop of his spend until he finally slowed and collapsed against you.

"Can you stand?" he asked, his mouth against your shoulder as an aftershock ran down his spine.

"Yeah," you said weakly, forcing your eyes open as he slid out of you and gently placed your feet back on the floor. You stood, squeezing your legs together as he pulled his boxers back up and scooped your robe off the floor, draping it back around your shoulders.

"You look tired," he said softly, hooking a finger under your chin, tilting it up so you would look at him.

"I've had a big day," you said with a lazy smile.

The two of you spent the rest of the evening on the couch, trying to watch TV but you were so content and relaxed, you once again found yourself falling asleep against him, his fingers stroking small circles over your back as you drifted off.

You woke up with a start early the next morning, the day before seeming like a fever dream until you felt Joel's arms wrapped around you. At some point he must have carried you to bed because that is where you currently found yourself, his warm body pressed up against yours underneath your sheets. You inhaled deeply, your whole bed smelling just like him. A familiar, comforting smell that made your muscles relax as you melted back into his hold. You couldn't see the time, but you knew it was way too early, so you tried to fall back asleep, however, your body was already responding to being so close to him, and you were finding it difficult to think about anything else.

You shifted restlessly next to him, trying your hardest to ignore the ache between your legs: one that was a mixture of soreness from the night before, and a new, growing need. You never really thought of yourself as a very sexual person. Even when you first met Patrick, you couldn't recall ever feeling like this. Some foolish part of you wondered if it was something else that was the driving force behind your neediness, but you quickly dismissed that idea. It had to be the way he could read your body like a book, maneuver you and touch you exactly the right way at exactly the right time that caused you to crave him this badly because you weren't sure what you would do if it was the alternative. You didn't want to even think about that yet because you knew neither of you could do anything about it until you figured out how to deal with Patrick, and although Joel made promises to help, you knew not to get your hopes up too high.

"You always move around this much?" he teased, his voice a deep, low rumble in his chest, making the ache for him grow even stronger.

Rolling over in his arms, you turned to face him, his eyes still shut but the corner of his mouth turned up into a smirk. He looked so perfect in the morning, it almost wasn't fair. His tousled curls and his voice sounding more like a growl than anything else made up your mind, not that you needed much more convincing.

Deciding to ignore his question, you leaned forward to press wet kisses against his bare chest, slowly making your way across and pausing when you got to his bruise. You made sure to be gentle as you peppered the area with kisses, because even though he said it didn't hurt, you knew better.

"Mm, I could get used to this," he sighed, eyes still closed as he pulled you even closer. He was so warm and he smelled so good and you felt so safe. If you had it your way, you wouldn't leave that bed for the rest of the day.

You continued to trail little bites and licks up his neck, his pebbled skin salty against your tongue while your hand slipped down between your bodies and behind his waistband to wrap your fingers around his already hardening length. He let out a small gasp and his eyes finally opened, looking down at you heatedly as you slowly stroked him up and down.

"Again?" he asked in disbelief, but he was already rolling you over so he could position himself on top of you, his hand sliding down your side to untie the robe you never ended up changing out of the night before. He pulled his head back a bit so he could flick your robe open, your lips losing contact with his skin but your hand still slowly working him underneath his boxers.

"Need you," you mumbled, your eyelids heavy with sleep and lust.

"Yeah?" he asked, fully awake now as his fingers toyed with your nipple, rolling it between his fingers, making you whine. "Tell me, baby. Tell me what you need."

"Need you to fuck me," you replied, no longer feeling any shame or embarrassment. He growled and grabbed your wrist, pulling you off of his cock and gently pressing your arm into the mattress so he could yank his boxers down with his other hand. As he was about to notch himself at your opening, you stopped him.

"Can I be on top?"

He glanced up at you and a huge grin spread across his face.

"Fuck yes, you can," he said, quickly rolling onto his back and pulling you with him so you straddled his hips.

"I never got to do it this way before," you told him, lifting your hips so you could position him under you. He was about to reply but you began to slowly sink down, making his jaw drop, words failing him.

"Wha- fuck," he groaned, his teeth clenched and neck strained when you found yourself fully seated on him, and you let out a sigh of relief. "Whatever you want, it's yours," he finally said, sliding his eyes shut as you began to roll your hips slowly, his hands on your waist gently guiding you.

You planted your hands firmly on his chest, careful to avoid the bruise as you furrowed your brow and picked up your pace, alternating between rolling and grinding on top of him. His thick length reached depths you didn't know existed, and soft, little grunts slipped past your lips each time your skin slapped together.

"God, you're good at that," he mumbled, echoing your earlier words back. His eyes remained closed but his breath was becoming shallower the faster your hips moved.

"You think?" you asked him, suddenly feeling shy. His eyes popped open to find yours and he nodded.

"Oh, yeah. Fuck, so good," he snarled, his gaze dropping down you watch you bounce on him, something he thought he would never actually get to experience but fantasized about more times than he could count.

"I think it's -" you cut yourself off with a gasp when you found a particularly good angle, your eyes squeezing shut, desperately trying to focus. "Think it's all you," you finally managed to get out.

"Hell no," he said with a shake of his head, but your eyes were still closed. "Look at me, baby."

You forced your eyes open, pupils blown wide with desire, lips swollen and parted as you continued to ride him.

"It's you. You're fuckin' amazing, and I'm so sorry no one's told you that before."

Your hips faltered at the unexpectedly sweet sentiment, but his hands urged you to continue, so you did.

You leaned forward, putting more pressure on his chest as you bounced up and down. Joel watched, his gaze transfixed on your face as you chased your high, using him to give yourself what you wanted.

"That's right, take it," he said encouragingly, helping you move up and down a little faster, your mouth forming a small circle the closer and closer you got to your orgasm. "Fuckin' take it, take what you need." And give me your pain. I'll take it all.

"Oh fuck, Joel," you whined, tipping your head back as you felt the heat pooling low in your belly. "Fuck, I think I'm gonna come," you added, your breath coming in sharp gasps as your legs began to grow weak from the effort.

"Look at me," he panted, a thin layer of sweat coating his neck and chest as he tried to hold himself back from flipping you over and fucking you into the mattress.

You lazily rolled your head forward, forcing your eyes open so you could look at him.

"Wanna look at you when you come," he explained, and maybe yesterday you would have blushed, but today you just nodded and furrowed your brows in concentration, your release so close you could taste it.

"That's it baby, c'mon, give it to me. I can feel it, feel you squeezin' me. All for me, ain't that right? All mine?" he rambled, his words pushing you higher and higher.

"Yeah," you whined. His eyes were ablaze when he looked up at you, raw need and desire painted across his face. "All yours. You make me feel so good, Joel."

"Show me," he commanded, his nostrils flaring, his hands gripping your hips until you moaned his name so loudly you should have been embarrassed but all you could focus on was the way he made you feel.

He watched you fall apart on top of him, the sight filling him with so much pride and satisfaction that he quickly sat up so you were sitting on his lap as he fucked into you, desperate to join you, his mouth covering yours messily. Your fingers raked through his hair, twisting around the curls before giving it a sharp tug. He groaned loudly, thrusting deep into you until his hips stilled and he emptied himself inside you once again.

"That was incredible," he panted against your mouth, trying to catch his breath. You just slumped against him tiredly, your body unable to hold itself up any longer. He eased you both down onto the bed, letting you lay on top of his sweaty chest while he rubbed your back, his nose buried in your hair. "You're incredible," he said softly, correcting himself.

A nagging thought in the back of your head wondered what this meant for you two, but you didn't want to break the spell. For the first time in such a long time, you were happy and content and you didn't want to ruin it. But you knew the town was too small for your relationship with Joel to remain a secret, and if people didn't already know, they would soon find out you were still married to Patrick. You chewed on your lip as your mind wandered, still lying on top of him, your head rising and falling with each breath he took.

"You alright?" he asked, picking up on your silence.

"Mhm, just tired," you said, lifting your head to give him a small smile. He searched your eyes for a moment, not believing you.

"You sure? Did I hurt you?" he asked, pinching his eyebrows together. You reached a hand up to his face, the pad of your thumb smoothing out the frown, making him smile.

"You could never hurt me," you told him, hoping you were right before pressing a kiss against his lips.

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undercoverpena · 6 months

Text

frankie, baby

frankie morales x f!reader | masterlist

summary: “Well… we technically can’t touch each other inappropriately,” you begin, tracing your fingers on his black shirt, circles then squares, then triangles. “But, Will wasn’t specific about saying inappropriate things.”

warnings: explicit. 18+. smut. p in v. nsfw chat up lines. flirting. one slight spank. frankie undressing you. frankie being gorgeous, minor cock worship, christmas themes. reader wears a green dress, talks of lipstick - but nil else.

wordcount: 3.7k an: huge thanks to @thetriumphantpanda for reading this and ensuring words meant what i meant. to all my frankie-lovers, this one is for you. credit to this tiktok for the idea.

It wasn’t that Frankie hated Christmas parties, he just found they weren’t his favourite.

Over the years of attending the Miller’s annual bash, he’d always found himself asked the same questions over, and over, again. They would always come at him in varying voices, accompanied by different expressions.

But they all had the same undertone: what’s next for you, Francisco? What’s your future like Francisco?

He’s sure he wouldn’t find it all so tedious if it were only once he had to deal with it.

However, it replays itself—almost like a rerun—when he visits his own family. The only difference is there’s more judgement, a higher pitched concern and intermittent Spanish.

This year, there was at least one noticeable change. A thing which spoke for itself: you.

Stepping out of the cab, you close your bag, fussing with the bottom of your green dress before you look over at him—eyes finding him.

He counts—a thing he does now. He does so until it appears. Having begun doing so without realising when the two of you made it official. He’d learnt that sometimes it comes by the count of five, but he loves it when it’s on the count of three.

Tonight, it’s two—two, measly seconds.

Eyes zoned in, Frankie watches it like a spectacle—like it’s a firework show just for him. His eyes trained as it blooms and stretches out, gazing as it brushes out over your cheeks. It hits your eyes, that smile which could stop his heart.

The one which makes him feel lucky; that burned a bonfire inside of him that no rain, wind or hail could ever extinguish.

“Keep looking at me like that, Morales, and we’ll break Will’s one, and only, rule.”

While the two of you would never describe yourself as animals, apparently the Miller brothers disagreed. Unbearable had been another descriptor used—

It’s not that we’re not happy for you both. But, around my family, could you calm it down?

Smirking, he holds his hand out to you. Something shifts back into place when your palm meets his and your fingers find their homes between his.

“I’m not the one with their legs out, querida.”

“I didn’t want to be underdressed!”

Snorting, he pauses at the steps to the front door. The music from inside thrumming, the hard-to-contain usual excitement is practically already trying to seep its way out into the night, trying to brush over the two of you, as he takes a second to admire you.

Because you looked radiant, indescribable. Yet, it isn’t even the half of you.

Fingers brushing your smile, he swallows, half thinking to himself if this is all a dream, he hopes he never wakes up. Not from this, from you.

“I tell you that you look good?”

Stepping closer, you press your lips to his. Bathing him in heaven and sweet scents, leaving a mark of you against his mouth.

“You did,” you whisper, breath dancing with his when you part before your thumb wipes over the stain your kiss left. “Now, let’s go in, so we can begin the countdown to getting home.”

Foolishly, Frankie had expected you being on his arm would answer questions.

But if anything, it forced more to arise.

Some he could answer with a smile, a laugh, even a shrug, and others he found were ticking time bombs that no amount of sips of his beer would dilute. It was made worse when you’d slip away, tempted by a cocktail or a glass of bubbles, a kiss to his cheek as a parting gift while you left him to the hounds.

When he managed to make a break from the third when are you asking her to marry you, Frankie hides next to Ben—who is eyeing up the buffet table like it has all his answers and prayers layered over it.

“Hey man, having a good time?”

“Yeah, Benny. Great.”

Snorting, Ben grabs a piece of fruit. “Y’good?”

Twisting the cap off another bottle, he shoots a glare at Ben—hoping it’s readable, his anguish, how fucking uncomfortable he is. “Your Aunt just asked me when I’m getting married, and when I’m making her a great aunt.”

Laughing, he watches as his friend pops another piece of ham in his mouth. “And are you?”

“Fuck off, Ben.”

“Jus’ saying, maybe I wanna be an uncle while my knees are still good.”

Shoving him, Frankie leaves him laughing, moving through the guests, nodding and hugging those he had managed to avoid thus far. But his eyes are fixed on finding one thing—you. With each brush over a group, his heart sinks a little.

It only returns to its rightful place when he finds you in the corner, tucked away. Close to the overzealously decorated Christmas tree, positioned close to a set of bookcases he remembers hiding next to himself last year.

You have your back to the room, allowing him a moment to brush his gaze over your spine—over the way your dress skims down over your curves. Your attention is stolen, either genuinely interested in what you’re holding or busy pretending to be in a book covered in more dust than an abandoned building.

Sliding his arms around your waist, he feels you curl into him.

“Answer me this honestly. Do you think if I drank a smidge of bleach I’d still be able to fly with you to your family, or will I ruin Christmas?”

Laughing, he hooks his fingers together over your stomach, thumb brushing out over the silk—allowing himself to feel the softness that glides between his touch and your skin.

“That bad, huh?”

“Apparently I both have good skin and simultaneously could benefit from a skin regime—I found both out in the space of five minutes.”

Pulling a face, Frankie turns you, resting his head on yours as he feels your arms slide around him. Hearing you softly murmur which relative handed you both pieces of information.

“We could hide out in this corner all night? It’s a nice corner.”

“This where you hid last year?”

He says nothing, but the face he lets fall out says enough.

“We could hide or…” you say, an infliction to your tone.

One he doesn’t catch immediately, but dawns on him in the seconds that pass. More so, when he feels your eyes on him, burning, glaring.

“Or?”

Smirking, you bat your lashes—feigning innocence. A look he knows all too well means anything but angelic.

“Well… we technically can’t touch each other inappropriately,” you begin, tracing your fingers on his black shirt, circles then squares, then triangles. “But, Will wasn’t specific about saying inappropriate things.”

Leaning closer, Frankie narrows his eyes, pinching the inside of his cheek with his teeth.

“So, let’s see who can get away with saying the wildest, but publicly appropriate things.”

His mouth twists, watching your head tilt ever so slightly, lips remaining parted, waiting.

“Who wins?” he asks.

Tracing the edge of your upper lip with your tongue, you slowly begin to smirk—all wide-eyed, practically fucking shimmering.

“The person who calls an early cab home.”

It thrums in him, the tension of when you’ll say something.

Your fingers are in his as the two of you join the others, finding a place next to Will—who is busy both telling and reenacting a story Frankie is already sure he told last time.

He’s also sure you know it. Having been sure it was one Will had told most chances he got. But the way you’re hanging on to every word, makes him question otherwise.

“Very on top of things, isn’t he?” you whisper, nodding your head to Will.

Pausing, Frankie bites his smile, brow raising as he watches you twirl your finger over the top of your glass. The distinct sound of Santa, Baby playing in the background, fading from the loudness to a simple hum as you adjust your dress in front of him. Letting him see a glimpse of your breasts—showing him how all that remains between him and your skin is one single, thin piece of silk.

Keeping his hand at his side, he watches you. Assessing. Trying to work out your direction, your ploy—taking a sip from his beer just as you begin to add:

“I like to be on top of things. Would you like to be one of them?”

He almost chokes. Heat flushing on his neck, burning up to his ears. Somehow able to bury the splutter, your face shifting into one of concern—but he sees the devilishness under it. Your eyes giving you away, even if your hand is patting his back, calling his name.

Moving closer, your lips almost brush his ear. “You like that one, Morales?”

Catching himself, he knocks the bottom of his bottle against your glass. “That’s a good one, querida. But, wait—are you an elevator, because I’d love to go down on you.”

It’s instant, the way your mouth falls open— eyes widening before he swears they twinkle.

“That was…”

Moving closer, he presses a kiss to your forehead, taking your empty glass from your hand. “Can’t wait to see you crack, baby.”

“Oh, it’s so on, Morales.”

At one stage, between you whispering ‘is that a candy cane in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?’ and him replying with ‘nice dress. Can I talk you out of it?’, Frankie had lost you to Will and an intense game of darts.

When he manages to pull himself free from an intense questioning from one of the smaller cousins on helicopters, he finds you in the kitchen—just tidying up some plates.

“Hey.”

Smiling, you slide the one in hand into the dishwasher. “Hey, handsome.”

“Why you in here alone, querida?”

Standing straight, you sigh, resting your palm on the counter as you look across at him. “Just… I’m not feeling myself.”

Placing his drink down, he moves around the counter. A wave of guilt crept up, wondering to himself how he’d missed it when he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off you.

Placing his palms on your jaw, he slides his fingers up your cheeks—lifting your chin.

“Can I feel you instead?” you add.

He feels your smirk sliding up into your cheek—slowly shaking his head as you begin to bite your tongue, his nose scrunching.

Laughing, low, almost gruffly, he smiles. “You’re so bad.”

Nodding, you slide your arms around his neck. It’s second nature to move you, press your lower spine into the counter—press his hips to yours.

“How you gonna make me good, Morales?”

“Well, I’m not a dentist, but I bet I could give you a filling.”

Grinning, you tighten your arms around his neck, mouth ghosting over his. For a moment, it’s just the two of you. The room fades out, the party a distant memory and the music nothing but a soundtrack. His fingers fall, sliding down, knuckles brushing over the silk which sits over your breast, running over your nipple he feels harden, before sliding down. Moving, slowly trailing his way until his hand grasps your hips—hearing the soft gasp you let escape.

You make him so hard—make him desire and crave.

Make him want to slowly pull up the skirt of your dress and feel for himself too if you’re having the same effect. If you’re soaked, if the tops of your thighs are coated in want.

“Frankie,” you whine, all low, barely more than a whisper.

As his waist presses against you, survey you as your brows rise at the realisation of how hard he is inside his jeans—how hard he is for you. Eyes flashing, something shifting—no longer a game but a prize within reach—as you lift your chin, slotting your mouth over his.

It begins soft, gentle. But in a click it's desperate. The words, the insinuations—all of them—slamming into the two of you as you crawl your nails against his scalp, and tug on his curls. His own grip tightened on your hip, keeping you flush to him, letting him rock his hips ever so slightly, the friction helping, groaning into your open mouth.

“Want you,” you murmur.

“Yeah?” he pants, drawing a circle on your hip, feeling you urging to kiss him. “Call a cab, baby. Call one and I’ll make it worth it.”

You halt, pause.

Blinking a few times, before clarity washes over lust—drowning it, dragging it back out to sea, leaving the beach with only memories.

“You should know…”

Tracing his nose over yours, he bites your bottom lip. “What should I know?”

Rolling your lips, you stare at him—the biggest, fullest eyes he’s seen. “I’m not wearing any underwear.”

He knows you move, but he doesn’t feel you do so.

Suddenly short-circuited. Left with only a fleeting recollection of the way your hip felt in his palm, the way your dress felt under the callouses and years of service. It isn’t until the door to the kitchen swings back, brushing against the frame, does he blink. Snapping out of it. Forcing him to realise what it is you just said.

“Fuck.”

Moving, he turns on his heel—palm flat on the wooden door as he pushes it open. His blood is thumping, jeans are uncomfortably tight as he scans the area.

All of the lines he’d found on his phone were seemingly pointless now. Hell, even the game seems pointless now. How close it was already, the fact all his nerves were sizzling, faint memories of how warm you were against him.

Especially now he knows he can pull you into an empty room, slide the fabric up which covers your body and find you bare.

The only thing he wants to do is surrender.

Is it say his goodbyes, call a cab, and have you at whichever home is closest. He just needs to find you. Doing another look, another scan. Moving through the room—spotting how the numbers have dwindled—before he finds you with Ben, no drink in hand, just a tight expression on your face.

“Hey—”

“I’ve called us a cab,” you announce, staring pointedly, the weakest wink sent only for him. His lips desperate to crawl up, clamber into his cheek. “Told Benny my headache was getting worse.”

The two of you are barely through the door when he presses you flat against it, it clicks into place—his finger-twisting the lock, sealing the two of you inside, nothing and no one allowed to interrupt.

“Bedroom, now.”

You slip out of your shoes, fingers wrapping around his chin as you slant your mouth over his—and he’s able to taste the bubbles you enjoyed earlier, the faint remnants of mint from gum you likely chewed in haste. Then it’s gone.

Fingers around his wrist, dragging him past furniture and rooms until he’s being led into his own room, your touch falling from him—feet stepping back, moving closer to the bed.

“If I said you had a beautiful cock, would you put it inside me?” you ask.

Groaning, he closes the gap, and pulls you flush to him as his palm comes down on your ass—your gasp spreading into his mouth, before your groan replaces it, washing past to his throat, tongue licking past his teeth.

His mouth on yours, his shirt coming undone. Your nails scratch down his chest, his stomach, pausing right where his belt sits on his waist—

“Dress on, or off.”

He barely registers the question at first, until his fingers grasp the dress by your waist. He tortures you with it, the way he bunches it up, slowly pulling it up, letting the edge of it skate past your knees, up your thighs. Each inch unveiled meaning the cool air is kissing your skin, brushing over it, likely making even more of a mess between your pressed-together thighs.

Not halting his movement until he can see you weren’t lying earlier, and then he aids you in getting it over your head, unveiling you—a goddess, the hottest fucking thing his eyes have ever seen.

And, you’re all his.

“Sit down, baby,” he moans.

You do, slowly perching your rear on the end of the bed, spreading your legs—looking at him with the same wide eyes as you’d given him in the kitchen. But, he’s only focused on the space between your thighs. How you’re drenched. Practically desperate.

“You want me?”

He watches you nod, and he steps closer—forcing your thighs apart, spread by his thighs as he slowly removes his shirt—eyes gesturing down to his belt. And, you read his mind well. Tongue swiping over your lip as you begin to undo his belt, the melt clattering, his jeans loosening as you move to the button, then the zip—the noise cutting through the slow breaths the two of you keep trying to take.

Commanding your eyes up to his, he slowly kneels on the bed—one on either side as he watches you slide back, the two of you moving more into the middle, bodies almost touching, heat searing between the two of you. It only warms further when his lips find yours, when it’s needy, all tongue and whimpers.

His hips move with his movements and strokes, the air tinged with the littlest moans as he grabs a hold of his cock, dragging the head of it through your slick folds, making you plead, beg—smearing and skating it spitefully over your slick folds.

That’s when it meets his ears, those distinct words—ones he knows he’ll think up when the two of you are apart and he can’t sleep. When he’s rock hard and only imagining you being with him—I want to feel you tomorrow, Frankie.

It unlocks something. Floods him. He manages to take in a breath before he buries himself inside you, right to the hilt, going deep. He feels you stretch around his thickness, as he revels in your tightness, the way you gasp at the feel of him—fingers digging, scrunching them into his sheets. In awe of you, momentarily just watching you before he wrenches your back from his sheets, perching you on his thighs, needing to see you, needing to run his palms up your spine.

“You look beautiful taking me, querida?”

You moan as his hips snap, taking him so well, so perfectly—a thing he tells you, a rush of good girl, good querida taking me like this. And he expects a comment, a thing you bite back.

But it never arrives. Instead, it’s a barrage of chants, all yes, please, yes, painting the shitty room—giving the crumbling paint something to be disgusted at, other than its own despair. The metal legs of the bed squeal against the floor, the headboard hammering, and clattering, leaving a mess of years of repainting along the cheap flooring.

“More, Frankie. Please.”

His hand sliding down between your thighs, above where the two of you are joined, thumb finding your nerves, drawing circles—languid, slow. Tracing the letters of his first name against your throbbing clit—the sound of his cock fucking into you growing louder, sloppier.

"Love your cock, Frankie. Always feel so good inside me."

You're a mess, covered in a sheen of sweat and make-up smudged, but to him, you're still perfection. A realisation that almost nears him to the edge, to emptying himself inside of you and writing his name there too.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he grunts, teeth pinching your ear as your hand grips his wrist—thumb still swirling, the R and N being from your favourite from the way you moan, the way you clench around him, “Thought about this all night. Only fuckin’ thing that got me through it.”

He feels your nails dig down into his neck, mouth searing as it burns against yours, moan after moan coating him, letting him taste the sound of his name.

“Y’ruin me, Frankie—only one I ever want fucking me.”

It spurs him on, angling his hips, hitting the spot which makes your words slide into moans, all pleases and yeses, undoing you. It ripples out. Making your back arch into him, tightening up from your head to your toes, before it bursts. Erupts.

You clench all around him, tightening, squeezing him until his vision blurs and your name curls somewhere on his tongue, all set to be spat, spoken, even fucking whispered. Somehow able to swallow it when it unfurls through him, when it shoots up his spine and surges through every nerve and muscle.

The two of you collapsing against his mattress—both of you gasping, his heart hammering in desperation to rip out his chest and be with yours, as you turn in his grasp. Then, he feels your lips on his, burying three words against them, three words he says back, pressing them to your mouth, so he knows you have them.

Both relaxing, your ear coming to his chest, hand sliding out over his body.

“I liked our game,” you whisper.

“Me too.”

“Next time, we should make it more fun.”

Next time, he thinks, letting his eyes drift out to the drawer you never go in—the one stuffed with his underwear, and a box you no nothing about.

“Could get toys we need our phones for,” you continue, a mix of mischief and sleep adorned on your face.

Kissing your hairline, he sighs in contentment. “Sure, baby. Whatever you want.”

Because next year he’ll let you have whatever fun you want, as long as you’re his fiancé and not his girlfriend.

an: think sundays are now feral-frankie-sundays with jo...

#frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales smut #Frankie morales x reader smut #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x you #triple frontier x reader #francisco morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #francisco catfish morales x reader #catfish morales x reader #frankie morales smut #triple frontier smut #frankie morales x f!reader smut #pedrostories

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taesancore · 5 days

Text

the playlist i never sent

woonhak x f!reader

(𝐈𝐈) OUR

a/n: finally pt.2 is here!!! this took quite some time to post and i apologise for the delay~ pt.3 might be the final one, i hope you enjoy this one and tysm for reading the series until now!!🫶🏻

🍦.ᐟ read part one here❕

🍦.ᐟ genre: f2l (idiots to lovers🤡), little angst

🍦.ᐟ warnings: idiots fr, PININGGG!!! lots of mutual pining and dumb characters, but hey nobody’s perfect :). mentions of TWS’s jihoon, Le Sserafim’s eunchae, NewJeans haerin, zb1’s yujin, IVE’s leeseo and Enhypen’s ni-ki.

wc: 4292, lowercase intended

“you kissed her?!” jihoon had almost shouted woonhak’s ear off in class. “say it louder won’t you? i don’t think the other building heard it” he snarked as jihoon still stood dumbfounded. “no i- so she kissed you?” the boy questioned further. “i don’t know! what am i gonna do” woonhak groaned into his palms. “did you like the kiss though?” jihoon asked, wiggling his eyebrows this time as woonhak scowled at him.

truth was, he had no idea. technically she had kissed him. but he had kissed back, he had no idea why he kissed back. and a part of him had no idea how he was gonna tell this to y/n, they told eachother everything.

she doesn’t like you anyways, what’s there to worry? rang out a small voice in his head as he sighed.

“are you going to tell y/n?” jihoon questioned hesitantly, he knew how much the boy liked y/n. “no…it’s better if i don’t jihoon” woonhak said softly. yes, she showed zero signs of liking him and probably never will, but a stubborn sliver of hope in him refused to die down. and then suddenly, a bulb lit up in his head.

“however…”

꒰ 🍵 ꒱ؘ ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

you on the other hand were panicking as you should be. you couldn’t stop replaying the night’s events in your mind. somehow your mother had believed your lie of feeling sick during the event and returning home early, so staying at home and “resting” during the weekend gave you time to call eunchae over and spill everything.

“WHAT?!” she had shrieked when you told her everything. “I KNOWW THIS IS BAD” you had wailed. “no this is brilliant!! you can now confess to him!” she cried gleefully as you looked at her in disbelief. “of course not?! did you not hear a thing of what i said?? he likes someone!!” you huffed out loudly, heart sinking at the statement.

“…you seriously can’t be this dumb y/n” your friend said after a beat of silence.

“you’re right i can’t…which is why you won’t be telling him that it was me!” you cried out. ignoring eunchae’s absolutely done expression, you continued, “woonhak would never suspect me, and he did mention that he liked someone that night, so i’ll make it my mission to find out who he likes and make him believe that she was the dove girl!”.

“y/n…why would you do that?? you like him for fucks sake!” eunchae said with frustration.

“you don’t get it chae, if he finds out it was me…everything’s gonna fall apart” you replied lowly. you had already pictured his reaction if he discovered that you were the dove girl, the excitement in his eyes fading away into disappointment. you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him if he found out and your current plan was the best idea.

“besides, he’d probably have no intention of finding the girl from the ball, given the fact that he he likes someone”.

꒰ 🍵 ꒱ؘ ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

“y/n, i need your help” was the first thing woonhak had said when they met that day at his house. “sure but with what?” you had replied, puzzled at his solemn face and request. he then proceeded to fill you in about the night at the ball where he ran into the dove girl (you might have tried to hide a little grin at the nickname he gave you) and how she also abruptly left that night.

why he didn’t mention the kiss you had no idea, perhaps he really liked someone else from your class, and maybe the kiss meant nothing to him. as your dejected self let this thought sink in, you almost missed his next words.

“…so i need you to help me find her”

“you WHAT??”

woonhak ignored the way you choked on literal air as he continued to ramble on.

“—i’m thinking we’ll make an account on instagram like one of those cliche reels—“

“why do you want to find the ball girl so badly?” you interrupted him, trying to mask your anxiety. oh this was so not going your way. “because i have something that belongs to her” he said after a moment. what?

“…she dropped this while she left and it’s an important clue—“

your eyes widened to the size of golf balls as woonhak lifted a single pearl earring to show you.

fucking idiot, how did you not realise that you lost it that night?? you continued to silently hurled expletives of all sorts towards yourself as you felt your palms grow sweaty.

“you okay y/n?” woonhak questioned, probably noticing your panicky expression (you hoped he didn’t). “that’s a really expensive earring” you said in a small voice.

technically it was, your dad had bought it for you a year ago before he passed away. you really hoped you could somehow get it back but that seemed impossible as you couldn’t dare to reveal yourself.

“really? that’s the second clue! i knew you’d be good at this” woonhak beamed. “i still don’t get why you’re asking me to help you find her—or why you want to find her” you grumbled as he tsked

“because you’re my best friend?” ouch.

“besides, won’t it be a little fun too? to think of it as a secret mission of some sort!” he made a little ‘woah’ face at you with a huge smile as he flopped down onto his bed.

yeah…for you, you thought helplessly. yet you giggled at his antics as you fell onto the bed by his side, the topic of the ball lay completely forgotten as you two basked in each others presence as usual.

꒰ 🍵 ꒱ؘ ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

“kim woonhak likes someone?”

“haven’t you heard? he’s searching for the girl who danced with him in the ball!”

“he even put it up on the school page!”

“oh how i wish it was me…”

“right! wonder why she left though, such a cinderella story”

the words flew past you the minute you entered school the next day. seriously, you undermined how passionate your best friend could be as you took in the sight of multiple girls talking about what colour dresses they wore and what masks they picked. “kim woonhak you little shit” you muttered, musing over the effect he had on the freshman girls who continued to watch the reel he made, explaining the features and characteristics of the dove girl.

“seriously, at this point any of them could end up being his mystery girl” your classmate haerin scoffed as a couple of girls in the next bench looked up the cost of a peach dress online.

too bad they’ll never find the original one, you thought as you thought about your dress that your mom had taylor-maid for you.

the talk of the town, woonhak himself came to take his place behind you, booping your nose as he skipped towards his seat, casually sending butterflies to fly in your stomach. you turned around and glared at him to which he sent a cute little smile as the teacher called out for attention.

“hey, do you think she’ll come out?” came a whisper in your ear while mr. jung droned about the different clauses. “what?” you coughed out, trying your best to sound subtle.

“the dove girl, now that she knows i’m, you know, kim woonhak” he said with a cheeky tone. you sent a dry smile at that. “someone’s full of themself today” you replied as he made a sound of denial.

“woonhak and y/n! silence please” mr. jung barked out as you two fell silent. the class continued in silence as you thought about woonhak’s current plan. what if someone did step out and claim that they were the dove girl? would he believe it? if he did…it would make it easier for you won’t it?

“psst, you know she kind of reminded me of you” the boy behind you whispered again in your ear as you let out a choked noise.

“y/n is everything alright?” came mr. jung’s voice as you continued to cough into your fist. shit the whole class was looking at you.

you muttered an apology after you calmed down and shot your friend a glare, he sent you a confused expression in return. damn it, what did he find familiar?? “and how exactly did she remind you of me?” you hissed back at him as he shrugged.

“don’t know, she’s terrible at walking in heels, just like you” he snorted lightly as you held back an offended expression.

i literally ran down two floors in those heels! was what you wanted to say. obviously you couldn’t so you just rolled your eyes at him. “gee thanks hak—“

“that’s it you two! detention today evening!” mr. jung’s yell cut you off as the two of you winced.

you let out a silent groan as haerin snickered from next to you. great. just great.

꒰ 🍵 ꒱ؘ ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

“wait—what makes you think it isn’t y/n?” yujin, one of woonhak’s freshman friend piped up. “pay attention dumbass, she wasn’t at the ball” came hyunseo’s snarky reply as yujin let out an ohhh.

woonhak’s sighed as he sat up from the grass of the football turf. his friends continued to bicker as he packed up his belongings to head to detention. “enjoy detention hyung!” yujin called out as hyunseo giggled. “yeah, with y/n” she teased as woonhak smiled at their antics.

seriously, almost all their friends knew that he liked her, how didn’t she see it?

“what’s up shawty—oh i’m sorry mrs. moon” he mumbled with bright red ears as he scurried away to the seat next to you. mrs. moon let out an amused smile while you tried your best to stifle your laughter. “ah stop alreadyy” he whined as you continued to giggle.

shit your perfumed was so distracting today, it had hit him with its sweet scent today morning when he got them into detention too. he smiled to himself as they got to work with the detention essays.

an hour had passed already as woonhak lied down with his head facing yours, gazing silently at you who was fast asleep on your desk. he smiled to himself as you mumbled something softly in your sleep, rustling a little as some hair fell on your face. god, his hand yearned to move it away from your face but he held back.

“you’re practically shooting heart eyes at her you know” came the voice of mrs. moon as she observed the scene with great interest.

“it’s nothing new mrs. moon…she’s the only one who hasn’t seen them” he said softly, still not taking his eyes off the sleeping girl. his hand ghosted above your face, seriously itching to brush those stray hairs away.

ah young love, mrs. moon thought as she smiled at the scene. “try the back entrance near the turf, mr. lee is taking another detention near the front entrance” was all she said as she got up to pack her bag, shooting woonhak a small wink. his confused expression turned into a huge smile which he sent mrs. moon.

mr. moon truly was the best, he wanted to give her the biggest hug in that moment.

꒰ 🍵 ꒱ؘ ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

“psst—hey y/n!”

“….goaway”

“detention’s over dumbass”

you woke up to meet woonhak’s face inches away from yours. the last time he was that close to you was when you kissed—

stop. stop thinking about that. stop thinking about his lips—

he stepped back quickly, clearing his throat as you registered your surroundings.

“get up sleeping beauty, we have to escape”

you sat up with bleary eyes as woonhak grabbed your hand, pulling you up. well that definitely had you a little awake as you looked at his nonchalant demeanour as he casually interlinked your fingers. ok, you two were really good friends, this is normal, yeah.

“ok…now we run” woonhak said once you two were near the class door.

“what—“

you had no time to process as you found yourself dashing across the corridor with a hand in woonhak’s own. the wind whipped across your face as he laughed at your bewildered cry of “why are we running??”

“who’s there!” came a roar from the classroom you ran past. fuck, mr. choi. “shit!” woonhak yelled as he sprinted faster, nearly causing you to trip in the process.

“fuck your never ending spaghetti legs kim woonhak!” you hollered as mr. choi’s shouts faded into the background. the evening glow of the sun was nothing compared to his bright smile as he whooped, he was now running next to you as both of you started laughing at the thrill of it all.

“that was—oh my god!” you giggled as the two of you slowed down while panting and breathing in. his hand was still in yours, you realised, but you didn’t want to tell him that, in the fear of him pulling it away.

“should we get some food?” woonhak murmured, taking in their surrounding area which was the neighbourhood filled with eateries and stores near his house; a popular stop for your classmates who went on dates. you really hoped he didn’t realise that (though a part of you was hoping he brought you here on purpose).

“sure” you said as you led him to the nearest ice cream shop.

her hand is still in mine, whatamisupposedtodo.

woonhak hoped you didn’t notice how sweaty his palm was, how couldn’t it be? he was sure he’d been holding your hand for more than a solid fifteen minutes for now and just how were you so calm about it??? his insides were nearing combustion and here you were happily looking at the different ice cream flavours.

“one cookies and cream and a mint chocolate please!” you chirped as woonhak smiled at himself. you remembered his usual order—

of course you did, you two always had ice cream together, why was he so giddy about this?

“are you guys together? there’s a couple’s discount along with a cake on the house if you are!” the guy behind rhe counter who’s tag read ‘jaehyun’ quipped.

“ah actually—“

“yes we are!”

woonhak’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as he stared at you. you on the other hand squeezed his hand as you turned towards jaehyun with a smile.

“great! please have a seat over there!” he replied cheerfully as he shot you two a grin.

“what was that about??” woonhak said as soon as you sat down, his hand was unfortunately no longer in yours as he sat on the opposite of you.

“hey, you gotta seize the opportunity” you said while taking a bite of your ice cream.

moments like these, where you nonchalantly and so easily made his heart flutter, was the reason he was charmed by you. “you could’ve said that you wanted free cake” he grumbled, trying to hide his flushed cheeks.

“hey! does the idea of being my boyfriend sound that bad” you scoffed, causing his eyes to widen. you really had to applaud your acting skills because you were mentally screaming in your head, for when had you gotten this bold??

“t-that’s not what i meant! stop twisting my words!” woonhak cried dramatically, causing you to laugh. “by the way, how’s the search for your mystery girl going?” you slowly asked.

“i swear to god— the amount of people who obviously aren’t the dove girl are all up in my dms, i know that they aren’t her!” he insisted.

“how do you know they aren’t?”

“i’m telling you, they literally had pics of themselves in different dresses posted and yet they’re trynna tell me they were the dove girl!”

“never mind then” you said.

“but one of them seems suspicious you know”

he said suddenly. your ears perked up at this, this was a positive sign!

“who?”

“you know seowon right?”

know her? your insides deflated at his question. of course you knew her. woonhak’s dance partner for last year’s yearly festival. she was a trainee from STAR entertainment and honestly? she had always had a thing for woonhak, literally everyone could see it. you were sure he probably did at some point too, given the chemistry they had, maybe he still does-

“y/n?” you jolted as woonhak snapped his fingers in front of your eyes.

“ah seriously how are you sleepy already? you literally snoozed an hour ago!” he complained as you scowled playfully at him.

“as i was saying…seowon had a picture of herself wearing an orange dress on her profile—it isn’t clear enough but it looks…”

bingo.

“then it could be her!” you said in false excitement.

“i don’t know…it doesn’t feel like it’s her…” he said unsurely.

“tell you what, i’ll spy on her tomorrow” you said seriously. oh you will, you had a clear plan now and couldn’t wait to spill this to eunchae (you were a 100% sure she’d jus call you a dumbass but still!).

“you’re gonna look like a creep” woonhak wrinkled his nose.

“oh shut up hak”.

꒰ 🍵 ꒱ؘ ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

“you’re the most dumbest dumbass i’ve ever met y/n y/l/n” eunchae declared the next day as you two drove to school in your car.

“i don’t even know what she did but i agree” came mr. yoon’s voice from the drivers seat as you made a sound of betrayal.

“mr. yoon! how could you?” you cried as he snickered.

“no seriously y/n! you wanna talk to seowon and ask her to be the mystery girl? are you hearing yourself?” eunchae repeated your plan in disbelief.

“he already thinks it’s her chae, it’ll be the best way to close this case” you sighed.

“you could just tell him, that it was you you know, why are you doing this to yourself?”she questioned softly. she really hated seeing you hurting yourself while always placing others before you.

“because i know, he’d never see me in the same way again if i do chae” you said sadly.

“i’d rather be sad while seeing him happy with someone who isn’t me than lose him completely”.

AN HOUR LATER~

why you put yourself in these kind of places you had no idea. yet here you were, hiding behind a bathroom stall as you ‘spied’ on seowon and her friends who were busy talking two eachother.

“come on! it so was you seowon that night at the ball” one of the girls gave a little squeal.

“yeah! why don’t you fess up to kim woonhak?”

“you two are practically made for eachother you know” another swooned as seowon shyly exclaimed.

“stop it you guys!”

well. they seemed to be fixed on the fact that their friend was the one. no wonder woonhak was a bit suspicious. “but you know, he asked us if you were with us at the ball, and we said you weren’t” another girl replied.

your ears perked up at this, you could weave a story with this one that’ll seem convincing…right?

the bell rang at that moment as you heard the shuffling of their feet while they walked out of the washroom. you stepped out a minute later but stopped due to your phone ringing. oh it’s mom.

“hello—“

“y/n, we have to attend director min’s party next week.”

it’s like she only cared about you when you had to attend events like this. not once did she ever call to check up on you or ask you about your day.

“—so you’ll have enough time to find yourself a date, bring woonhak if you’d like” her voice came through the speakers.

“okay, love you mom” you said.

“hmm”. the line went dead.

you put the phone down, trying to ignore the tears prickling your eyes. seriously why were you acting up today? this was nothing new anyways.

but why did you feel like your heart was being crushed into a million pieces?

“find a date…shit”.

꒰ 🍵 ꒱ؘ ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

“put that phone away mr. popular, we have fifteen minutes left!” jihoon chided a busy woonhak, who was currently groaning at the number of dms in his account.

“i don’t get it…they all obviously aren’t the dove girl so why are they—oh?”

“what now?” jihoon said, exasperatedly as he peeked into his friend’s phone.

“kang seowon?” he added, puzzled as he read the dm she sent.

“what…the fuck” a hushed whisper came from him as woonhak stared at the message, expressionless.

꒰ 🍵 ꒱ؘ ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

you walked back towards your classroom after lunch, discussing the ‘date’ situation with haerin.

“i’m assuming you’ll ask woonhak then” she said as you pondered. that could work.

“you’re right…i’ll check with him and return, save me a seat!” you called out as you made his way towards his class, did he have math or science in the next period?

“yo woonhak, i—“ you faltered as you saw him in a serious conversation with none other than kang seowon. she was smiling shyly at him while he had a blank expression on him.

“y/n hi!” she chirped at you. “i was just asking woonhak if we could meet next saturday, as a little get-to-know-eachother hangout!”

this was it. you had done all the spying for nothing after all. you should’ve been feeling happy, relieved even. yet, why did you feel like everything was crumbling down?

“r-really? that’s cool! you said with faux enthusiasm, missing the look woonhak gave you. “that’s a really good idea you know—“

“y/n can i talk to you?” woonhak cut you off with a serious expression.

“hak what happened?” you said once he pulled you to the corner near the classroom. you could see seowon peeking at your direction curiously.

“is it really cool? with you? he questioned with the same expression.

“think about it, it’ll make it easier to find out if she’s the dove girl or not!” you explained as his expression morphed into an unreadable one.

“is that really what you think?” he asked.

“yes woonhak” you smiled, ignoring the growing lump in your throat.

his eyes refused to meet yours. he had seen this coming anyways, yet it hurt like a thousand needles every time you sent him reminders like these. reminders that make his remaining hope want to extinguish itself completely.

“i’ll see you next week” seowon said while walking away, with a coy smile which she directed at him. he felt nothing though, just like how he felt nothing when he saw her message where she asked him to meet up. she might be dove girl though woonhak, he told himself, hoping to get some of his optimism back with the possibility. yet he couldn’t bring himself to.

“what were you going to tell me? earlier when you came here” he asked as you faced him.

“huh? oh—nothing really” you muttered, suddenly gazing at the ground beneath you with interest.

“okay then” he said, stepping away with hands in his pockets.

“have fun…next week” you let out, giving him a weak smile.

“thanks” he replied with a dry smile as he walked away to his class.

you stared at the direction where he walked off to with a whirlwind of emotions swirling in your mind. god your head hurt. everything made no sense right now, wasn’t this what you wanted?

yeah. this wasn’t the time to overthink.

you needed a date, and there was no way in hell you were going to ask woonhak now. not when he had a date on the same day.

꒰ 🍵 ꒱ؘ ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

you had reached home a little later than usual, mr. yoon was visibly concerned at the change in your usually chatty behaviour after school but decided not to bring it up.

he was however, a hundred percent sure that it involved your best friend woonhak though, seriously everyone was able to see how head over heels you were for him.

your mood indeed was pathetic. all you wanted to go home and do was eat a heavy meal and sleep, to temporarily forget the events that took place today. however you had a terrible surprise waiting for you, as you were greeted by a face you absolutely detested, once you entered your house.

“y/n! it’s great to see you here, you look beautiful as usual” drawled eunbin, who shot you a sleazy smile. yuck.

“eunbin, i wish i could say the same” you deadpanned, ignoring his eyes that roamed over your frame. yuck again.

sung eunbin was the son of your mother’s senior at work, whom you often met at the events you accompanied your mother to. and every single time he attended, he made sure to let you know that he was single and ready to mingle.

seriously, he always managed to give you the ick whenever you met him.

“y/n! get ready and join us for dinner, meanwhile you can show eunbin your room!” your mom called out, further dampening your mood. seriously, today had to be one of the most annoying days ever.

“how’re you feeling about the party next week? i take it that you don’t have a date?” he jeered as he followed you to your room. jeez this guy couldn’t take a hint to save his life.

“it really isn’t any of your business you know” you shot back as you slammed the door to your room shut. if only you could skip dinner and be in here forever.

“seriously though, i don’t get why you never let me be your date” eunbin said the minute you stepped out of your room, dressed in formal attire.

“i mean, i’m practically doing you a favour, given you being single and all…” he smirked cockily at your irked expression.

oh he was really testing your patience today. scratch that, the entire world was testing your patience today.

“who said i was?” you snapped back, without realising the words that came out of your mouth.

“oh?” his eyebrows flew up into his hairline. “do enlighten me”.

“yeah, i’ve got a boyfriend”.

just what did you land yourself into?

a/n pt.2: im literally posting this at 1:30am rn so i’ll recheck for any errors in the morning! meanwhile do like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this! feel free to comment to be added to the taglist, and stay tuned for pt.3!!

🖇️: @woonagi-lemon @luvhanniex

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capricornlevi · 1 year

Text

don't know what i wanted - kishibe x f!reader

cw: brief mention of violence, injury, trauma (not graphic), hurt/comfort, injury recovery, established relationship. brief mention of having children (no decision or plans made/no pregnancy mention), consumption of alcohol/cigarettes, explicit sexual content (oral sex f! receiving, fingering, hand jobs, vaginal sex), - NSFW, MDNI

word count: 12.8k

a/n: this is technically a sequel to one of my earlier devil hunter!reader x kishibe fics but can be read as a standalone fic as well! this fic takes place after kishibe's injury when he was in his 20s, but reader-character is his partner as opposed to quanxi. the fic essentially covers the aftermath of the injury & how they recover together. hope you enjoy my loves, thanks for reading! thank you so much to this anon who helped inspire the plot of this fic

if you prefer to read on ao3, it is published here

___

“Stay still,” you mumble, frowning as Kishibe pulls his head back when you try to unwrap the gauze by his jaw. He has a frown of his own etched on his face, eyes shut and lips pulled tight with discomfort – you’d feel pity for him if he weren’t being so damn uncooperative. “You’re gonna tear your stitches.”

Your couch, despite serving as Kishibe’s resting place while he recovers from his injury, is likely not the most appropriate place to carry out some fairly intensive first-aid. However, you have no other choice since he refuses to go to the doctor to change his bandages.

One fucking hospital visit was enough, he’d muttered then, still drenched in his own blood, and you hadn’t the heart to argue with him.

That was two weeks ago now – fourteen days of sleeplessness, of antibiotics and pain medication and bruise balm for his ribs, of waiting until the dead of night to cry so that he doesn’t hear you.

You’re grateful that you weren’t there to witness it. It’s selfish, you’re well aware of that, but you’re not sure how you would have been able to cope if you had the images of the attack replaying in your head over and over, tormenting you both.

“Thought you’d be nice to me,” he grumbles, and although he can’t really smile with his injury you can still hear one in his voice. “Your bedside manner is lacking today.”

“I tried being nice at first. You told me to ‘ act like normal and stop treating me like I’m dying ’, so that’s what I’m doing,” you counter, carefully grabbing the corner of the medical tape.

He winces but doesn’t budge. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

“A direct quote, I’m afraid. And that was before they administered the morphine, so you can’t even blame it on that.”

You pull the tape gently, exposing the stitches and bruised skin. Kishibe tenses underneath you, every muscle in his body going rigid, small beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

It breaks your heart.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispers. His voice is quieter now since talking too much can be painful. “Bring back the tough bedside manner. I take back my complaint; I need to be humbled.”

You blink, trying to fix your expression into one that’s more impassive.

“I’m just focusing on the stitches. I need to be careful at this part,” you say, knowing that both of you recognise the lie for what it is.

This feels foolish. It’s everything you feared about getting involved with another devil hunter. You’re supposed to be unshakeable, callous to all loss, utterly focused on the mission. You’re supposed to be tough.

Instead, you’re close to tears at the thought of what would have happened if the strike had landed just a few inches lower.

Things were supposed to be different. You were supposed to do this whole hunter thing by yourself. This was never the plan; to factor another person into your life in such a significant way, to value their well-being as highly as you do your own.

But he makes your days interesting. He’s kind at heart and values you as an equal as well as a partner. He always seems grateful to even be near you, and so you’ll happily tend to his wounds and keep him company, and even let him smoke indoors once the window is cracked.

You remove the old gauze carefully, clean the stitches according to the nurse's directions, and replace it with fresh bandages while Kishibe stays still, eyes squeezed shut.

“Nearly done,” you reassure him softly, applying the medical tape at a careful angle, “nearly done, I promise … and … there. All clean.”

He opens his eyes and lifts a hand to his cheek. He’s not going to tug at the gauze, he knows better than that, but he ghosts his fingers over the bandages as if to check they’re really there.

You smile and lean in closer to press a kiss to his forehead, feeling the breath catch in his throat as you pull back.

“It’s gonna make me ugly, y’know,” he says, letting out an amused scoff.

“More ugly?” you gasp. He lifts up his hand to playfully flick your nose.

Joking around like this is one of the only ways you know how to distract him, to show him this change is not going to upset things irreversibly. The last thing he wants is for you to be walking on eggshells around him. For his recovery to be a success he needs support, normalcy – he needs you to be yourself.

“Yep," he agrees. "A nasty scar to complete the whole image.”

You scoff and climb into his lap, feeling him sink back into the couch cushions, muscles releasing their tension. His injuries are almost entirely confined to the upper half of his body but you still move with incredible care and gentleness as if he’ll break underneath your touch. Sensing your hesitation, he wraps a strong arm around you, pulling you closer. It’s easy to melt against him.

“You know I could never find you ugly,” you reply with a chuckle, nestling against his shoulder. “I tried really hard, too. When we first got partnered up, I used to stare at you for hours trying to trick myself into finding you gross, but no luck. You’re stubbornly handsome and always will be. It’s a flaw of yours.”

“A flaw?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, voice muffled against his sweatshirt. “It’s really fucking annoying, actually.”

He kisses the crown of your head. “Ah, I can live with annoying .”

Even after the absolute chaos of the past fortnight, he still smells wonderful. Fresh and clean and familiar, with something deeper in there that draws you in even after smelling it a thousand times — it’s him.

You hum thoughtfully. “I’m glad, because for a while there it was really inconvenient. Wanting to fuck your annoying partner is not something they teach you about during training.”

“But did they tell how inconvenient it is to keep fucking him afterwards?”

You laugh a little, your eyelids getting heavier and heavier with every passing moment.

With Kishibe’s health taken care of for now, you feel at ease. The sensation of being wrapped in his broad arms takes you back to the first night you fell asleep beside him, where you let go of your worries and concerns, trading them for a brief window of serenity.

It’s a type of comfort that you thought you could never have, a blessing only available to other people and never to devil hunters.

“Nah, I just kinda accepted it at that point.”

He says something in response, but you fall asleep before you hear it.

___

The pancake batter sizzles as it hits the pan, bubbles forming on the surface after a few moments on the heat – you finally got the temperature just right, and so you pour another serving alongside it for good measure.

Phew. You burnt the last one, and don’t have enough eggs for another batch.

This is your fourth time making pancakes this week since they’re a nice, soft food that can be easily cut up into tiny bites. They don’t cause too much strain to Kishibe’s jaw and you can flavour them with fruits and chocolate. Best of all, they’re significantly more appealing than the nutri-shakes the hospital supplied when he was discharged.

He took one sip before saying he’d rather you punch him directly on his dislocated shoulder than make him drink that shit again.

As if on cue, Kishibe’s voice calls out from the living room.

“Smells nice out there,” and it really does; the warm aroma of baked goods wafts through the air along with a hint of freshness from the fruits you prepared. It finally masks the smell of the smoke from the unsalvagable first batch. “Need any help?”

The offer sounds innocuous at first, but the desperation buried in the words tells you that he’s on the verge of disobeying his doctor’s orders.

“You’re on bed rest!” you shout back, stealing a chocolate chip from the bag on the countertop. The sweetness is enough to tempt you to grab another; this time, you pour a small handful and tip it into your mouth, savouring the taste.

You flip the pancakes with a spatula only to wince as the metal burns your finger – you hadn’t realised that you’d left it so close to the heat. You drop the spatula and it clatters against the tiled floor.

You groan, choosing to go clean the utensil before tending to your hand. It’s only a small injury but you grimace nonetheless as the pain starts to build, aching and throbbing. An angry welt forms on your fingertip.

It was careless on your part, but it’s not surprising that your attention span is somewhat lacking as of late. You run your hand under some cold water and get lost in the sensation.

Four days have passed since you last changed Kishibe’s bandages and two days since his most recent check-up (which you finally convinced him to attend), and things haven’t gone … smoothly, to say the least.

The doctor had kindly but firmly informed you both that in order for Kishibe to proceed to the next step in recovery, he needed to play it safe over the coming week. Unfortunately for him, playing it safe means that he has to actually get some rest.

A lot of rest.

He hadn’t even complained when receiving the news – he just sat there, utterly motionless, with displeasure and annoyance radiating off him like a fever. It worried you. This whole thing hasn’t been easy on you but it’s not exactly a walk in the park for him, either. He might pretend otherwise, but he doesn’t like to be benched. He’d do more to help you if he could.

As if it weren’t bad enough that he can’t hunt devils or even pay a visit to headquarters, now, he’s rendered completely and utterly defenceless, unable to even make himself a meal without assistance. It goes against every survival instinct in his body.

Part of you wishes he wouldn’t be so stubborn about saying on the couch. You had offered to share your bed with him - expected it, even - but he refused. Hurt at first, you hadn’t brought it up again, but once he understood your reaction he explained it was because his meds make him toss and turn in his sleep. He didn’t want to wake you.

Then you offered to take the couch instead since he’s the one recovering, after all. Again, he turned that down, but you didn’t take that refusal as much to heart as the first one.

This setup - him staying on the couch, allowing you your own space - seems to be the one bit of independence he can hold onto, the one way he thinks he’s making your life easier amongst all of this.

The buzzing of a timer startles you out of your trance, and you turn off the tap to go pour yourself a coffee.

You plate the pancakes and chop some berries and fruits to serve alongside them, angling the knife so it doesn’t put too much pressure on your finger. In spite of this, the burn starts to sting once again, the pain sharp and angry. You give up halfway through. Taking the plates in hand, you turn to bring them into your living room.

When you enter the room you see Kishibe already standing. His arms are folded casually across his chest despite the damage he sustained to his shoulder and ribs. He’s pacing slowly, fixated on the wall to your left-hand side – from the looks of it, he’s browsing the books on the shelf behind the couch. He seems to be scanning the titles with interest.

Something’s … different. In a strange way, a sort of déja vu that you can’t quite place.

As he spots you, head turning in your direction, you know from the look on his face what he’s about to offer. You cut him off before he can do so.

“Don’t need any help!” you inform him. “I can carry the plates – you’re supposed to be resting .”

“Not what I was gonna say, smartass,” he huffs in amusement, until his eyes flicker down to your hands and you know he can see how you’re favouring one side over the other, gingerly holding one of the plates so as not to aggravate your burn. He lifts his gaze up, a question written on his face as he regards you.

Playing ignorant, you choose not to address it. “So what were you gonna say, then?”

He’s not going to drop it entirely, of that you’re certain, but he does concede a little. He straightens his posture, a glint in his eye, and tells you, “I was thinking we could eat at the table tonight?”

His tone is light and ebullient, his demeanour carefree in a way you haven’t seen from him in a long time. He had spent the past two days in what could only be described as a pit of despair, and so to see this change now ... it stops you in your tracks.

You blink at him. “What?”

“Can we eat at the table?” he repeats. “Just this once.”

It seems harmless, but you’re not sure if it’s wise. The instructions from the doctor were for Kishibe to minimise unnecessary movement and stay well-rested.

(He had also been told to try and eliminate stress as much as possible, but the two of you had laughed at the last part.)

Still, you’re not sure if this is a good idea; the last thing you want is to set back his recovery, even at his own request.

“Please?” he follows up. The word stings you as much as the burn. “I just want to have a meal together like we always do. Just once, and then I’ll go back to bed. And I’ll shut the fuck up from here on - I won’t complain about the bandages or the shitty nutri-shakes or the exercises for my shoulder or whatever it is they want me to do - I won’t say a word about any of it,” he pauses and breathes in, breathes out. “Just a half an hour of being normal. Please.”

Looking at him now, it’s plain to see how being confined and restricted has eaten away at him.

You come to a decision quickly, happy that this won’t do too much harm. If anything, this might help his recovery somewhat.

“... for half an hour only,” you direct slowly, not breaking eye contact, “and absolutely no unnecessary movement. If you try to pick up the plates or push in chairs or anything, I’ll give you a matching scar on the other cheek.”

“Oh, I assumed as much,” he answers quickly, and millimetre by millimetre, his expression lifts into something that looks a lot more like him – like how he looked when you walked in the room, like how he’s looked at you since you first got partnered up together. Even with the bandages, you can see his lips quirk upwards; the closest thing to a smile as he can manage. “And I agree.”

He lets you carry the plates in without objection, and you eat your meal together in blissful silence.

It’s been a while since someone other than you has eaten at this table.

By the time you’re halfway through the stack of pancakes, some colour has returned to Kishibe’s complexion.

"Fuck, these are the best yet,” he says after a particularly big forkful, “which makes me a little confused, because I could hear you swearing for about fifteen minutes while you were making them.”

“Well, I burnt the first couple,” you point out, taking a few orange slices and setting them down on your plate, “which I’m sure you know since the smoke alarm is a rat bastard.”

“That's not all you burnt,” Kishibe remarks as he takes a sip of water.

You lift your head. “Hmm?”

He sets down his glass and takes your hand, flipping it so your palm is facing upwards. “I saw you holding the plates funny,” he frowns when he spots the welt on the tip of your index finger. “What happened?”

You can’t help but laugh. Kishibe was nearly eviscerated a few weeks ago, yet he’s here worrying about a burn that will fade in its entirety before the month is out.

“I burned it on the spatula,” you answer as he strokes circles on your palm with his thumb, “it was my own fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”

His eyes flicker up to yours and you wish you chose your words more carefully.

It was my fault.

Wasn’t paying attention.

My fault.

In amongst the near-constant worrying about his health and the gratitude at the fact he’s still alive, you can sometimes forget that it wasn’t only Kishibe who got hurt that day.

You open your mouth to say something but with a near-imperceptible shake of his head, he tells you that it’s not necessary.

“Did you put any burn gel on?” he asks then, moving on as if nothing happened.

You try to take your hand back but he clasps it gently. “No, not yet.”

He raises his eyebrows with mock surprise and you chuckle, letting your head fall back with a groan, predicting what’s coming next.

“Don’t start," you warn him.

He scoffs. “This coming from the person you gave me a lecture on how to properly care for wounds not two days ago-”

“Okay, okay, I’ll take care of the damn burn-”

“ - and about the importance of recovery and taking proper medical advice - ”

“Fucking hell, I’m doing it!” you exclaim with a laugh, pushing back your chair and letting go of his hand. “Who knew you could whip out the guilt trips like that?”

He shakes his head and shrugs his uninjured shoulder. “Not a guilt trip. Just pointing out the similarities.”

You stand up to leave but before going to the kitchen cabinet to fish out your heavily-used first aid kit, you lean down, tilt his face towards your own and press a soft kiss to his lips.

“You’re insufferable.”

He kisses you back. “Yeah, but you knew that already.”

---

He looks so … unlike himself. Hooked up to all these different machines, with gauze covering most of his upper body, he could be anyone.

You thought there’d be some recognition within you, some moment where you see him in the hospital bed and just know it’s him, but you don’t feel anything of the sort. It could be a stranger lying there for all you know. His face is covered, the clothes aren’t his, there are no distinguishing factors at all that make you think that the person in front of you is Kishibe.

Maybe they were wrong?

The Division officials might have made a mistake. The scene was chaos; there were so many people running around, so many casualties, it would have been easy for them to misidentify a person in an ambulance, to have shouted the wrong name by accident.

Maybe this isn’t him. Maybe he’s fine. He could be still at the scene helping to clear up, administering first-aid to the survivors …

But then you spot it – hanging on a coat rack in the corner of the hospital room is his jacket, torn and bloodied but still his. You walk over to it, movements so slow and mindless it’s as if you’re possessed.

You barely register the low buzzing of the machines. Even when they emit a loud beeping sound every now and then you can’t bring yourself to look at them directly. He’s being kept alive by these machines.

You stand by the coat rack and reach out a trembling hand. Some dust - no, it’s black, so it’s soot - starts to fall softly to the floor, almost like snow, and it stains your hand as you pull back the fabric to search for something. You rifle through the side pockets looking for it even though you know he never keeps it there, checking every nook and cranny –

There it is. His battered old lighter. It’s in the left-hand breast pocket, as always, but that was the last place you searched.

Your fingertips touch metal, tracing the outline of the lighter as your eyes start to sting. You breathe in through gritted teeth as you slip the lighter out of the pocket, clutching it in your palm as if it’s made of solid gold, and you turn it over to make sure it’s his.

You make a choked sound that thankfully catches in your throat before it turns into a sob.

You can’t cry here. The hospital is full of other hunters, milling about to try and find and identify any survivors. You can’t break down in front of them.

Although personal relationships between two partners aren't banned or even all that rare, displaying such open, raw vulnerability in front of everyone … it would mark you for death. To let other hunters see you weep for Kishibe would mean that, in their eyes, you have become weak, soft, unfit for this line of work. They would never trust you on a mission, and being untrusted while out in the field is a guaranteed death sentence.

A few tears might be excusable, but you know that the cry you just suppressed would have burst out like a dam breaking. It would have made it very clear that your relationship goes beyond that of coworkers.

It’s funny though, in a way; if they outright asked you just what your relationship actually is , you wouldn’t be able to tell them. You know it’s not casual – not anymore. The pit of agony in your stomach tells you that you’re even farther gone than you’d assumed.

But it’s not defined, either, and likely never can be.

You hear some people shuffle outside the hospital room as the door handle turns. You hastily raise your hand to your face and wipe at some tears that are threatening to spill, slipping Kishibe’s lighter into your own pocket as you do so.

Two nurses stride in and start to record some of the figures displayed on the machines, paying absolutely no attention to you. There’s a single chair in the corner of the room and so you go to sit down before your legs buckle underneath you.

You were warned it was going to be bad, and the hushed voices around you tell you that it can’t be good news.

When you arrived at the hospital they had asked if he had any family, if you could contact them, that they should really be here for this. They said that if he has any hope of survival, he needs support.

You can only hope that when he wakes, you’ll be enough.

___

Kishibe is no longer on bed rest, and he is delighted.

He’s definitely not out of the woods yet - he’s still on a list of meds as long as your arm - and he’s been ordered to only engage in the lowest-of-low impact activities; walking, essentially, and maybe cooking a quick meal or two. Nevertheless, he welcomed the news with open arms. He expected it would bring him a degree of freedom and independence he’d spent the past few weeks yearning for.

This morning, however, you’re discovering that this may not be the easiest milestone to have reached. Success and improvement aren’t guaranteed and he’s struggling more than he anticipated he would. He gets fatigued easily - walking from the kitchen down the hallway has his muscles aching and his body weak - and everything hurts. The many weeks spent without exertion have taken their toll.

He’s at the stage in his recovery where the long-term effects of his injuries are starting to make themselves known. It’s too soon to tell for sure, but it looks as though his shoulder might be damaged permanently; as he tries to reach above his head he winces in pain, even more intense than in previous weeks. The resulting hit to his morale is tough to see.

He tries to put on a brave face, but you can see right through it.

“Looks like you’re finally going to be the stronger one,” he jokes half-heartedly as you support him on his way back to the couch. He’s bearing most of the weight himself, but using your shoulder to keep steady. “Take this as my concession.”

“I was always the stronger one,” you mumble, lowering yourself down to let him sit.

He collapses onto the couch, face twisted in pain. “ Mentally stronger,” he concedes. “And emotionally, I guess. Better socially, too, if you count having to put up with the brass. But I think I’d have put up a good fight for the title of physically strongest.”

You scoff as you release him. “Even with your best fight, I’d have left with a clean sweep.”

With his good arm, he clutches his chest dramatically as if gravely offended.

“Would lying to you be nice?” you ask fondly, arranging the cushions on the couch so he can sit more comfortably. “I thought you were sick of the sugarcoating?”

Laughing, he drops his arm. “Guess not.”

“Good,” you smile, watching as he settles himself. “I like when you’re agreeable.”

He chuckles again. “Ever thought of being a doctor? You’d be good at it, if you gave up shit-talking your patients.”

“Well, my patients would probably be more reasonable,” you say with a yawn, subtly rolling out an ache in your shoulder from supporting Kishibe up and down the hallway. “I wouldn’t have to shit talk them as much.”

Even in this hypothetical context, it’s funny to think of a world in which you and Kishibe work normal jobs. People become devil hunters for two reasons: revenge or necessity, and sometimes both. But over time, those reasons start to twist and change, becoming stronger or weaker or more obscure, and through the course of their career, hunters often collect new motivations.

For you now, it’s just that you’re good at what you do - as good as your partner, if not better - and so you rarely let yourself think about what could have been had you chosen differently. It seems pointless.

“And if you leave, then what would I do?” Kishibe pipes up with a grin. It’s a little strained since you know he’s in considerable pain, but he does look as though he’s entertained by all these impossible scenarios. “When you’re off being a big-shot doctor - can’t really be a hunter then, can I?"

You sit down cross-legged next to the couch, a place you’ve spent countless hours as of late. If you checked, you’d probably find an indentation on the carpet. “Why can’t you be a hunter? They’ll just give you a new partner.”

He makes a noise somewhere between disagreement and disgust. You laugh, feeling a little bemused; you’re far from being his first partner, and he’s not yours, either. You’re not sure where he got this strong distaste towards the idea of working with someone new. It’s bound to happen eventually.

You take his hand in your own and give it a squeeze.

“Ah, I don’t think I’d want a new partner,” he admits casually. “I think I’m set.”

You arch a brow. “You know you won’t have to sleep with them, right? You can just work with them?”

“Wait, really?” comes his sarcastic retort, his expression taking on a forced and sudden seriousness. “Holy shit, that changes things. Why didn’t you tell me this before now?”

You release his hand for dramatic effect only for him to stubbornly take it back.

“... you’d really quit if I couldn’t be your partner anymore?” you ask after a moment has passed. The question gnaws at you, allowing your mind to revisit the prospects you had locked away in a box somewhere in its depths. You try to keep your face impassive as you can.

He nods as though there’s no need for him to even consider it. “Yeah, pretty sure.”

“And do what instead?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs. “Male modelling?”

You roll your eyes. “Be serious.”

“Ouch, first of all,” he huffs, only to be met with an amused glance from you, “and secondly – I’m not sure, really. I haven’t thought it through.” Well, that makes two of you, at least. “I just know that it … I know we’re told not to rely on our partners to the point of it becoming self-sacrificial, but the thing is - I think I’m gone past that point. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing. So, I just don’t think I could trust anyone as much as I do you.”

Something’s at the tip of your tongue; something that scares you.

You don’t say it. Instead, you just enjoy the easy silence, both of you indulging in the frivolous what if’s in your own minds.

The quietness is soon interrupted by the sound of an alarm buzzing in the kitchen

“Time for your meds,” you announce. You get to your feet and ignore your own fatigue.

“The ones that taste like shit?”

You shake your head. “Nah, the little tiny ones you can knock back with water.”

“What a relief,” he sighs, eyes following you as you head out to the kitchen. “Thanks, doc."

___

It’s not always so easy for Kishibe to keep things light-hearted. As the week progresses and his injuries show no signs of improvement, he has taken to napping during the day, more to let the time pass by quicker than anything else.

He seems less willing to do the exercises the doctors assigned him, and the tasks that he once begged you to let him do no longer carry the same appeal. He eats a meal with you at the table, chats for a few minutes, then returns to the living room. Afterwards, he stays quiet unless spoken to.

You know it has absolutely nothing to do with you. It’s not any form of silent treatment – in fact, you can see how he uses his very limited social battery to chat with you over dinner. His eyes still show fondness when he looks your way. He still kisses the crown of your head when you embrace him.

He’s just struggling. And you are too.

You’re reading a book - or trying to, at least - as Kishibe sleeps off the morning’s unsuccessful attempts at stretching out his shoulder. Your eyes are unfocused, the page before you blurry. You find yourself thinking of that first morning you woke up next to him.

When you woke up in your bed, rays of sunshine streaming through the curtains, you knew Kishibe was lying by your side. You didn’t even have to roll over to confirm it; you could smell his aftershave.

It’s not that you forgot - neither of you had too much to drink the night before - but it all felt so surreal that part of you thought it was a dream. But you felt so grounded that morning, Kishibe’s arm draped over your waist, and you knew it was all real from the soft sounds of his breathing next to you.

“You up?” he mumbled, his voice laced with sleep as it often is during your early-morning missions.

“Just about.”

“Will I get breakfast?” he asked as he suppressed a yawn. He made no attempt to move his hand away.

“I can get it. You paid for the cab,” you replied, not moving away from him either.

The cab. Last night. The cab you took home from the bar, to sleep with your partner, to make a decision with irreversible consequences.

Though funnily enough, the regret hadn’t hit you yet. You half-expected to wake up in a cold sweat, having come to the realisation that entertaining your feelings for Kishibe was the stupidest mistake you ever made.

But you didn’t feel anything of the sort. This was … easier than you had expected. It was like a piece of your day-to-day routine you hadn’t realised you were missing.

You rolled out of bed and looked at him, his hair touseled from sleep and a satisfied smile on his face, and it took only that one glance to make you crawl back under the covers and let him take you apart over and over again.

The pattern continued over the following weeks, months. You worked as normal, bickered as you always did, and then went home together most nights. Your dynamic didn’t change all that much, except maybe for the fact that you were a little gentler with each other – not in the field, of course, but in the mornings when you woke up with bloodshot eyes and tired limbs.

Of course, relationships don’t tend to work on that trajectory; the idea that you can just coexist forever without anything ever changing. Happy as you were, you knew things wouldn’t continue undefined, unexplored. Something would come along to disrupt things. Something big, something you weren’t prepared for –

Just then, Kishibe stirs. You drop your book to your lap, ready to leap up to assist if needed, but he falls back into a restless sleep after a few moments pass.

Despite everything, you smile. His morale may have taken a hit but he’s still trying, trying every single day, to get better. That hard work can’t just be for nothing. You’ll both see improvement soon.

You’ve gotten this far together, you think to yourself, and he just might make an optimist out of you yet.

You thought he fell back asleep, but …

He says it so softly that he could just be sleep-talking, but the words cut clear through the air, repeating in your mind on a loop until you can no longer think of anything else.

“Love you.”

___

It’s a bad night for Kishibe.

Yesterday was his first attempt at sharing your bed, a fairly significant milestone in itself, but the pain kept him awake all through the night, tossing and turning until the early hours of the morning. Though you swore that you didn’t mind (and you meant it), he’s returned to the couch this evening and there was no convincing him otherwise. He stayed silent while you tried to argue your case.

However, you weren’t about to let him isolate himself indefinitely or stand idly by as he wallowed in his own imagined failures, and so tonight, you decided to stay with him.

You’re curled up in an armchair on the other side of the room, wrapped in a blanket and resting your head against the velvet cushion behind you, watching in silence as his face twists in pain to the point it’s almost unrecognisable, clutching his sides as his aching muscles try to heal themselves.

His breath sounds torn and ragged as it leaves him, but apart from that, he makes no verbal signs of discomfort. You start to worry that he’s holding back for your benefit.

Obviously, you don’t want to hear the sounds of his suffering, but the idea that he’s trying to act tough or unbreakable or any of that other bullshit you stopped caring about long ago …

He sucks in a shallow breath and his hands ball into fists, his knuckles turning white as he does so.

You catch a glimpse of the clock above the window; it’s just after two a.m., which explains why it’s been a few hours since you’ve heard the sound of traffic or footsteps from the street below floating through the cracked window. You rub your tired eyes with the back of your hand.

Ordinarily, you’d be in bed by now, but you can’t bring yourself to leave. The thought of him being here alone in the dark, sweating bullets as he tries to struggle through the pain … you know you wouldn’t be able to get a wink of sleep.

Just then, Kishibe makes his first utterance of pain; a low sound that gets caught in his throat, but you still hear it.

You shrug off the blanket and rise up from your chair, quietly pacing across the room. You sit down on your haunches by the sofa and Kishibe opens his eyes – exhausted, bloodshot eyes that have something of an apology in them.

He opens his mouth to say something but you just reach your hand out to cup his cheek. Your thumb traces slow, soothing circles and he leans into the touch, almost mesmerised by the movement. You don’t say anything, don’t try to crowd him or lay next to him or get him to talk unnecessarily; your touch alone is enough reassurance. His gaze softens.

It’s been a week since he told you that he loved you. It’s been six days and twelve hours since you said it back. Neither of you has said it since, but you don’t really need to. This is enough.

The only perceptible sounds in the room are that of the two of you breathing and the tick-tick-ticking of the clock behind you, but you can easily tune that out, choosing instead to focus on how Kishibe’s chest is now rising and falling at a much steadier pace, on how the divot between his brows has fully relaxed.

Your thumb gently grazes over the reddened skin on his cheek but he feels no pain from it – he told you before that the scar by his jaw is as close to fully healed as he’ll get it. His eyes flutter shut as you keep up your gentle caresses, but you don’t stop. You keep going as if it’s offering some comfort to you as well.

This started out as a bad night, but it just might turn into one of those rare occasions where Kishibe gets more sleep than you do.

And you don’t mind at all.

___

Kishibe finishes his first complete set of exercises the following morning.

Two days later and he can walk unsupported, up and down the hallways – it tires him out, but he can do it. He sleeps the full night in your bed afterwards.

He’s more proactive, too, in his recovery. He’ll make an effort to keep to a schedule, which certainly helps to keep him from falling back into that pit of despair. He responds better to feedback from doctors. That familiar glint in his eye returns, as does his sense of humour. He starts to smile more.

As the days pass, his progress becomes more and more apparent - an exercise here, an independent task there - and it all adds up to a far more encouraging picture than what was painted at the beginning.

It’s not all good news, of course; there are still signs of long-term damage to his shoulder. His range of movement will likely never be the same.

But crucially, his outlook has changed. He no longer carries himself like a burden.

As a result, you’re sleeping through the night again – it’s easier to wake up in the mornings knowing your day will have a sense of normalcy.

Though come to think of it … it’s hard to pin down what ‘normalcy’ will even look like from this point on.

As he continues to improve, you find yourself considering it more and more. Will it involve you going back to work? Or will it be both of you returning to life as Devil Hunters, living life exclusively in the short-term, never planning or aspiring to anything else?

You doubt that’s even possible. Maybe ‘normal’ isn’t something that is casual, unlabelled. Maybe ‘normal’ isn’t about just hooking up and going your separate ways the next morning.

Maybe it hasn’t been like that for a while now.

___

“You take good care of me, y’know?”

You lift your head, surprised; you thought Kishibe was asleep. It’s midday and he’s stretched out in your bed - he had the last of his stitches from surgery removed yesterday; the new medication makes him drowsy - and the last time you glanced in his direction, his eyes were closed.

“Whatcha mean?”

You ask the question through a mouthful of piping-hot vegetable soup, having made yourself a bowl while he napped. Sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed with a book in your other hand, you have the bowl carefully perched on your lap – eating in bed is not a common occurrence at your place, but you don’t like leaving Kishibe unaccompanied while the meds are wearing off. This way, you’re within reaching distance of him should anything happen.

“Everything okay?” you follow up when you don’t get an answer.

“Yeah, all okay,” he mumbles, his voice sleepy but still achingly fond. His eyes are still closed, a lazy grin on his face; you have to imagine that it still hurts for him to smile, but he seems to take some novelty in the fact that he can do it at all. “I was just saying: you take good care of me. Really good care.”

You chuckle softly as you take another sip of the broth. All it took was his stitches being removed and the sentimentality just starts pouring out.

“Is this because of that stuff you were saying last week?” you ask amusedly, recalling his reluctant praise for your first-aid skills and how he said you’d make a great doctor . “About me quitting and getting into medicine?”

“Maybe?” he answers with the lilt of a question. He sounds a little hazy, almost unsure of whether he even knows himself.

Now properly awake, he starts to sit up in bed, clasping his hands behind his head as his lower back stays supported by pillows – again, likely pushing the boundaries of his comfort, but he seems unperturbed by it.

Despite the fact that he’s only wearing a t-shirt and that the windows are thrown open to allow some fresh air into the room, his cheeks are flushed pink. His hair is messy, too, the soft black strands pushed back as though he’s run a hand through it.

He smiles at you as you eat, eyes scanning your face. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was trying to commit it to memory.

It takes a while for realisation seems to dawn on him, for him to figure out what he had initially meant to tell you.

“I just … wanted to tell you you’re great at this,” he says then, with considerably more determination this time. “At all of this. And to say how much I appreciate it. To thank you, as if that’s even enough.”

You lower the spoon from your lips and shoot him a bemused look.

“You a little stoned off the pain meds, huh?” you tease. “They got you on the good stuff?”

He laughs. “Yep, a bit.”

“Knew it.”

“But I’m still telling the truth,” he continues with a shrug, and he sounds so sure of himself, “pain meds or no pain meds.”

“Always honest to an absolute fault,” you remark quietly, stirring distractedly as he gives you a wry smirk.

And it’s true.

His honesty wasn’t the easiest thing to get used to at first. Teasing and flirtation aside, when it came down to it, Kishibe could be blunt – to the extent that it caused quite a few spats in the early days of your partnership.

However, somewhat reluctantly and without any conscious decision on your part, you got used to it over time. It went from aggravating to just annoying to tolerable , and now, you figure that his honesty is more of a virtue than anything else.

In your line of work especially, you can’t rely on someone who sugarcoats things and builds up a false sense of security. Dependability is everything. You’d rather hear the truth from him than something that could get you killed.

He’s an honest hunter. Part of you wonders if outside of work, he’s picking up some of your bad habits.

You slide off the bed and set your bowl down on the nightstand as his gaze follows you. When you return, you hop up next to him, laying down by his side. He shuffles over to make space and you pull the covers up halfway, staying on your side, propped up on an elbow and resting your chin against your hand.

Then, you just look at him, taking in the relative peacefulness that he hasn’t been able to enjoy in so long.

“Okay, in the spirit of honesty,” you begin, smiling to match the expression on his face. “Want to tell me how I’ve been taking good care of you?”

“Fishing for compliments?”

“Oh, always.”

“Well now who’s being honest?”

You raise your eyebrows as a means to challenge him; he relents with a laugh.

“Fine, fine. Want to hear me sing your praises?”

You nod instantly and he rolls his eyes without any malice. With a fond shake of his head, he starts to speak.

“Okay, where to start? I mean, I suppose firstly; you’re here all the time. I like that I can go to sleep at night and then wake up in the mornings, knowing that you’re here.”

You snort at the candour and his straightforward delivery. “Is this your way of telling me to back off? Because I won’t be offended. Too much, anyway.”

Kishibe barks out a laugh.

“Nah, the opposite, actually,” he corrects you, his eyes twinkling, but then grimaces in pain as he rolls out a kink in his shoulder. You shift over to go and help him, but thankfully, the jolt of discomfort passes as soon as it hits. You return to resting on your elbow but stay a little closer this time.

“I want you here as much as possible,” he says then, a softness to the words. “So I can take good care of you, too.”

Oh. Huh. You truthfully weren’t expecting that.

You chuckle, unable to think of any other way to respond. Ignoring the heat creeping up your neck, you try not to read too much into it.

“You do take good care of me — saved me from that pack of fiends back in January, for one. Talked me out of signing a contract with that Devil, for another -”

He shakes his head by means of interruption, clearly dissatisfied with the angle you’re taking.

“I don’t just mean work stuff. I mean … I don’t know, doing extra stuff.”

Your brow furrows in confusion.

“Like more than what partners do?” you ask, genuinely curious. It’s hard to think of anything he could do for you that he hasn’t already done. You share a relationship of equals; you’ve never wanted for anything.

“More than what partners do,” he agrees, tilting his head to the side. “I meant … like what husbands do.”

Oh.

You blink at him. He blinks back. Neither one of you says anything else.

An unfamiliar sensation rushes through you like a wave, starting in your chest and spreading up and out to your limbs, and it’s such a strong, visceral feeling that you have no idea how you can’t place it.

Surely something this intense has a name?

Kishibe looks far more composed than you feel, far more composed than he arguably should be considering what was just said.

Other than his light blush and the way his pupils are just a little blown out, he seems unruffled.

You, on the other hand, are decidedly not .

Then, before you can even begin to formulate something resembling an answer, he ups the stakes once again.

“Move in with me,” Kishibe says, phrasing it as a statement rather than a question, and it’s as though a year’s worth of unspoken words are hitting you at once.

In a way, you suppose they are.

Unable to do anything else, you sit up straight, lips parting helplessly while no words come out.

If Kishibe is concerned by your lack of response, he doesn’t show it. He stays where he’s sitting, patiently awaiting an answer without so much as an anxious fidget.

An answer.

Your answer.

You search for one desperately, trying to pick just one decipherable thought amongst the thousands rushing through your mind right now …

But before one comes to you, a lightbulb goes off. You don’t have to give an answer – no, you shouldn’t give one, considering that Kishibe’s on medication, recovering from weeks of pain and rehabilitation, and he’s not thinking things through right now.

Of course, you think to yourself as the waves start to subside, this isn’t an official offer. He’ll forget all about this in the morning.

Rather than stress him out with complications or details or promises that he may not even be aware he’s making, you decide to give him an out. To give him the opportunity to revisit this another time.

You twist to the side to look at him, hoping your face doesn’t betray you. He looks back expectantly.

“Maybe you should get some sleep-”

“I don’t need sleep,” he objects, frowning now. “I’m being serious. This isn’t the drugs talking - well, maybe part of it is, I don’t know … but I’ve been thinking about this for a while.”

You laugh softly, marvelling at the absurdity of this conversation. “You want me to move in with you?”

He nods. “And, to be completely honest, I want a lot more than that.”

You know it’s a bad idea to push further, but your curiosity wins out. “Like what?”

“I want to marry you,” he answers matter-of-factly, and your heart goes from beating too fast to stopping entirely. “I want to wake up next to you in the mornings. I want to see you before we go to sleep every night. And if we get there and decide it’s something we can do, I want to have babies with you and see them grow up in a house we own together. I want to stay with you every day until we’re old as shit and you really do find me ugly.”

He stops speaking like he’s run out of breath. Similarly, you feel as though you can’t get enough air into your lungs.

You hadn’t realised that you’d started trembling.

What he’s saying … it sounds like an indulgence. Something that’s so normal for so many, but so unbelievably idealised in your own mind that you hadn’t even allowed yourself to hope for it.

How can you possibly plan for your lives together when you can only take things week-by-week, grateful for every morning you wake up unscathed?

But now … Kishibe isn’t unscathed. The worst-case scenario actually happened, but instead of running away when faced with the harsh truth of your mortality, you both got through it. You stayed by his side, caring for and comforting him. He, in turn, placed his trust in you, entirely and without hesitation. And you know that things would be the same if the roles were reversed.

But that doesn’t mean … you’ve never even thought about … how could you begin to take on all of those responsibilities …

Almost as if he’s reading your mind, he elaborates.

“But I don’t mean - I don’t want to force you into a life you don’t want, or anything like that. We don’t need to do it the traditional way. I don’t care about the official papers or the white picket fence or any of that bullshit, and the kids thing is a whole other conversation too, and … shit, I didn’t mean this to pressure you,” he says, and you know he really means it. “It’s just … I don’t know … with everything that’s gone on, I think I’d regret it if I didn’t say it.”

As the words sink in, something inside you clicks into place.

So that’s the feeling you just experienced: true regret.

Regret that you hadn’t said something like this earlier.

Regret that you’d lived a whole life without even allowing yourself a glimpse at the other possibilities.

Regret that it took Kishibe nearly dying to get this far, that you had wasted so long pointlessly holding back the inevitable.

But with the regret came a sense of relief as well, relief so great that it feels like a deep breath after being held underwater. Relief that offers your racing mind some much-needed clarity.

You look at him with a smile and his shoulders relax.

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

He exhales - you hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath - and nods slowly. “Okay, good,” he says gently. “Is that your answer?”

You shake your head once. “Not quite; I do want you to get some sleep first. I need to be a thousand per cent sure this isn’t influenced by those meds. Then I’ll give the official answer,” you finish, ensuring the words are delivered softly so he knows it isn’t a rejection.

Thankfully, he doesn’t interpret it as one. “Fair enough. Can’t argue there.”

You lean over to kiss him then hop out of bed to let him rest, picking up the bowl to take back to the kitchen. In preparation for his nap, he settles himself in amongst the pillows and blankets, beaming from ear to ear.

“See you soon, doc.”

You head out, laughing, and just as you’re about to close the door behind you, you call out over your shoulder.

“If this is going to happen, you need to do some serious work on those godawful pet names.”

___

At some point that night, Kishibe wakes next to you. He’d been in and out of sleep all day and you’d dozed off hours around midnight, but you’re not sure what time it is when your eyes open instinctually at the sound of him stirring.

The air feels heavy but warm, almost like an embrace.

“You awake?” he asks softly, but his words are clear and crisp. The medication’s worn off.

You don’t roll over, don’t shift in place. You stay lying there, staring at the ceiling, feeling your eyes inexplicably prickle with tears.

Happy tears, for once in your life.

“Mhmm,” you agree softly once you’ve cleared your throat. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s okay.”

The only visibility in the room is from the moonlight trickling through a small opening in the curtains; not enough for you to see his face, but you know he means it from those two words alone.

It’s time to make good on your promise.

“You’re really sure?” you ask then. “About what you said, earlier?”

A beat of silence.

“Yeah. I meant it.”

Another moment of pure quiet, slow and sedated, without so much as the sound of a car passing outside.

You breathe in deeply.

“Then yes. My answer’s yes.”

___

It’s difficult to pinpoint the moment at which Kishibe officially moved in. You both agreed that it was better for him to move into your place as opposed to finding somewhere new - he practically lives here already, plus you hate packing - and for lack of an official move-in date, today seems as good as any. Kishibe has finally been given the all-clear: a clean bill of health, with minimal long-term damage. The relief is so profound you could cry.

And so tonight, you’ll toast his recovery and celebrate the move, celebrate getting to this point together, celebrate the good habits you’ve picked up from each other and the fact that you’re not as terrible at this as you once feared.

Kishibe doesn’t have much left back at his old apartment, which makes the move-in process short and sweet. This morning he had gone back to hand in his key to the landlord, packed a suitcase with the few belongings that he hadn’t already moved over, and arrived back at your door with a smile on his face and an expensive bottle of whiskey in hand.

Now, he’s in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Your offers to help him are pointedly ignored. In his words, he wants to start repaying the favour for all you’ve done – you explain that he doesn’t need to repay anything but he’s typically insistent – and, truth be told, it’s nice to sit back with a glass of whiskey while a meal is served to you.

You enjoy the delicious smells wafting through the kitchen, the sight of Kishibe humming along to one of his vinyls as it spins in the record player on the countertop. You laugh as he tries (and fails) to hit one of the high notes.

He, in turn, appreciates the look on your face when he serves up the dish in front of you. He marvels at your strength, your resilience. He never imagined he’d be grateful for almost dying.

Hours pass with the two of you eating, talking, drinking, acknowledging your mutual ignorance over the course of your partnership - you think back to a time long before his injury when Quanxi mailed a package intended for him to your address, assuming that the two of you were already living together - and you feel your heart swell at how your little apartment is, for the first time, full of laughter and levity.

After the meal has been enjoyed and the kitchen cleaned spotless by a highly-motivated Kishibe, you retire to the couch for the evening to sit together, not to rest. In a perfect world, that couch will never need to be slept on again.

As you settle on the couch, you don’t miss how Kishibe’s gaze lingers on you – the later the hour gets, the more heated glances the two of you share. You feel a pleasant heat creep up your neck as his eyes trail downward.

You mindlessly flick through the channels, settling on some shitty murder mystery you have no intention of actually watching. He wraps his arms around you and you lean your head back against his shoulder, draping his arm over your waist.

You hadn’t realised that the hem of your t-shirt had lifted a couple of inches until a few minutes later when you feel his fingertips graze against the exposed skin by your hip. It’s only the lightest of touches but it feels incendiary .

Your enthusiastic reaction is understandable since you obviously haven’t been able to share any physical intimacy since his injury. His health, understandably, took priority, but now you’re now far more reactive to his touch after months of going without it. He notices.

Testing the waters, you push back against him and feel him already half-hard against your lower back.

“I know what you’re doing,” he murmurs softly, his breath hot against the back of your neck. Your laugh is saccharine, playing innocent.

You missed feeling him like this. You’d gotten so used to this type of intimacy, so familiar with each other’s bodies.

Bored of the movie you’d barely been pretending to watch, you crane your neck around to press your lips to his jawline, only barely skimming the sensitive skin. He makes a gruff sound of approval that catches in his throat, and before the moment has passed, he has you lifted up and around onto his lap, pulling you in for a heated kiss.

Wasting no time, apparently.

It hadn’t taken much to get him going, but then again, it has been a while — you can’t fault him for his eagerness when you're just as excited yourself.

You return his kiss, eager and hungry as his tongue pushes into your mouth. This is far messier than usual – in the past, you’ve taken your time with soft, languid kisses, gentle caresses, but this is different; heated, urgent, as though you physically can’t stand the absence of his touch.

With immense self-control you pull back, looking with hooded eyes as a thin string of saliva connects your mouth to his.

“Bed,” you choke out, the whisper barely audible as it leaves you, but he responds without question. He helps you up from the couch and grasps your hand firmly as you head down the hallway.

Once the bedroom door closes behind you, he half-guides, half-pulls you onto the bed with him. You don’t even have time to gasp. Within a matter of seconds, he’s lying on his back in the centre of the bed as you hastily move to straddle him, the movements a little unpolished and frenzied but you’re past the point of caring about appearances.

Your lips are so close to his that you share a breath before he pulls you in for another messy kiss. You grind down on his clothed cock and he shudders, grabbing your hips and grinding back, marvelling at the fact that he can finally, finally touch you like this again.

“Do you have any idea how much I’ve fucking missed this?” he whispers into the shell of your ear, having moved his kiss-swollen lips to nip and suckle at your pulse point until you can feel his mark against it. “Weeks and weeks of having to look without being able to touch,” you tug his shirt up a few inches, mirroring his earlier movements on the couch. You gently drag your nails over his lower stomach, over his hips, running your fingers around the waistband of his pants, “… fucking hell, fuck, I missed this so fucking much …”

You want to hear more. Every word sends shivers down your spine, goosebumps prickling on your skin, and so you push him a little more; “how badly did you want to touch?”

He laughs disbelievingly, the sound canting up into a sharp gasp when you slip your hand fully into his pants, cupping the bulge in his underwear. “W-well,” another shaky pant, “it’s … shit, it’s most of what I thought about the past month,” a groan this time, “...at least .”

“Mm?”

You lean in to kiss his neck, clouding his thoughts even further. He makes an admirable attempt at continuing; “yeah … spent every night thinking about the thousand different ways I want to touch you,” you nip his earlobe with your teeth, “... lick you, fuck you,” he swallows thickly. “And how could I not?”

You straighten up, giving yourself a moment to catch your breath. “What do you mean?”

His breath is heavy as you start to stroke him through his underwear. You feel a bit mean for making it so hard for him to reply, but his shaky moans and the way his muscles tense as you touch him are too much to resist.

To his credit, he gives his answer. “How could I not feel that way when I was there on the couch, thinking about you in our bed? Imagining being able to just reach my hand down and make you come on my fingers, imagining how good you’d taste … knowing you were just down the hallway … holy fuck, it nearly killed me.”

“Nearly killed you, huh?”

He nods, letting out a short laugh. “Part of the reason I insisted on the couch.”

You yelp with surprise as he hauls you further up his body – you remember his strength all too well, but hadn’t expected him to regain most of it so quickly.

“And you know what I wanted most of all?” he asks once you’ve steadied yourself against his shoulders, pressing a kiss to your forehead before helping you tug off your shirt.

Once your upper half is bare you shake your head to answer his question, going to open the buttons of his shirt with unsteady hands. You get the top one open, then the second, then the third -

His grin turns salacious. “For you to sit on my face.”

That’s enough to shock you into halting your movement. Your whole body heats, anticipation crackling through you. “I - what?”

His large hands rest against your bare hips before moving up, up, up over your waist and ribs and finally, your breasts, cupping them in his hands and running his thumbs over your peaked nipples.

“… for you to sit on my face, please ?”

A giggle slips out in spite of everything.

Months of not getting to touch like this, and that’s what he wants to do first? You’re not going to object too strongly, but; “I didn’t … I just … don’t you want me to do something for you?”

He smiles again, looking up at you through heavy-lidded eyes, as though he could devour you right now and it would be the best thing that ever happened to him. “This is for me.”

Well, no use in arguing any further. Wordlessly, you shrug off your skirt and underwear, tossing them on the floor as Kishibe’s eyes stay locked at the apex of your thighs. He lays his head back down on the pillow, practically beaming.

You move to the top of the mattress, using the headboard for leverage as you angle yourself over him, thighs caging his head. Too far gone to feel any self-consciousness about your vulnerable position and how evidently wet you already are, you spread your legs further and slowly lower yourself over his mouth, feeling his breath against your soaking folds. Shaking already, you approach and just about feel him –

You half-expected him to tease, but he doesn’t; as soon as you’re close enough, he cranes his neck to run his tongue all the way through your entrance, slow and deliberate.

It’s hot, almost unbearably so, and you can’t help but cry out as your head falls back involuntarily. His movements stay slow and tantalising as he savours the taste of you, eating you out in a way that could almost be described as leisurely .

Any words of praise you want to give him die a sudden death, caught at the back of your throat as keens and gasps and broken fractions of syllables are the only sounds that escape – you can only hope they are sufficient in getting your point across.

They do. He groans his approval, spreading you open with his thumbs, marvelling as your thighs start to tremble with every motion he makes. Your fingers hurt from how tightly you’re gripping the headboard.

Your back arches, desperate to seek more of the sensation that’s sending sparks through your entire body, but he’s careful and methodical in the way he takes you apart. He takes his time, sucking your throbbing clit into his mouth and applying just enough pressure that the build is steady but aching. You start to rock back and forth against the wet heat, trying to resist the urge to ride his face.

He suddenly pulls his mouth away and you almost weep at the loss of contact.

“You don’t have to be careful with me, y’know,” he points out, the lower half of his face drenched already, “I’ve got a full bill of health, so please don’t hold back on my account.”

“Yeah?” you ask breathlessly, and your clit gives an answering throb when he presses a closed-mouth kiss to it.

“I wanna see you squirm on top of me,” he answers, low and heated now, and so you do what’s asked of you.

Sinking back down on him, you start to writhe as his tongue presses flat against your folds, dragging up to circle the bundle of nerves, focusing solely on getting you as close to the edge as possible.

It goes from feeling too careful to too much . Too intense. It feels like a hot ball of fire building in your core, with every probe of Kishibe’s tongue stoking the flames.

Then, just as easily as breathing, it goes from too much to just perfect.

You weren’t expecting the feeling of his stubble against your thighs at this angle to be so uniquely pleasant. It stings a little as you rise and fall, yes, but it adds a whole new sensation that makes you keen almost pathetically, desperate for everything he’s giving you. Every lick against your slick flesh makes you throb, your swollen clit grateful for the friction.

You sink your fingers into his soft hair. “More, fuck, please. I need more.”

He uses his hands to gently push your lower back, prompting you to bend and change the angle which makes his nose graze against your clit. You feel one, then two fingers slip inside you and work you open, the pressure building in your core as your body desperately chases release, moving in whatever way necessary in order to get it.

Just as you feel yourself approach the edge, you distantly hear Kishibe mumble something between your thighs. As good as the vibrations feel, you raise yourself up to hear him speak.

“Can you - can you -” he mumbles, the words slurring.

“Hmm?” you ask, a little cruelly, running a hand through his hair and admiring the view beneath you.

“Ride me?” he asks. “Please, please fucking ride me … I know it’s not suave or cool to beg, but please, I need to know what you feel like around me. Fuck, I missed it so much.”

You don’t answer with words, instead moving down his body until you’ve reached his thighs. You straddle them, and when you pull him in for another heated kiss. you can taste yourself on his mouth. He moans into it, thrusting his hips up between your spread thighs, and you decide he’s wearing far too many clothes.

You unbutton his pants with one hand, keeping the other at the back of his neck as you deepen the kiss. He opens his mouth and gasps into the kiss as you take him out of his underwear, his cock so hard it seems almost painful as it bobs against his stomach. He shudders when you slip your hand from his neck down his torso, index finger tracing his chest before you take him in your hand, giving his shaft a few lazy pumps to tease him.

“Please?” he asks once more, pupils blown out with desire, and you don’t feel like denying him (or yourself) for much longer.

You position your hips until they’re seated above his, your fingers still loosely wrapped around his cock which twitches against your touch, and you only let go of it to brace yourself on his shoulders.

You circle your hips so the head of his cock rubs against your slit; when it catches against your clit you let out a shocked mewl.

He smiles up at you. You smile back, and then you sink down onto him.

“Oh fu-u-uck,” he groans with every inch that slips inside, struggling to keep from bucking up into the heat enveloping him. “How … how do you feel even fucking better than I remembered?”

You feel the stretch even though you’re soaked, but it’s not unpleasant given how well he prepared you.

He lets you set the pace as you ride him, pulling yourself up until he’s almost slipping out before sinking back down to the hilt, your slick walls coating his cock.

For you, too, it feels better than you remembered. Even though you’re arguably more desperate, more fervent tonight than you have been before, time seems to move slower. It no longer feels as though these are just stolen moments that you need to savour before they’re gone forever.

This feels nothing like that – this feels wonderful, unending.

You quicken the pace as his hips start to buck up into yours. He seems as though he’s resisting the urge to start erratically thrusting up into you, rutting into the heat that’s enveloping him so perfectly. He bites his lower lip hard.

“Can’t believe … fuck …” he whispers, looking up at you with something that can only be described as pure reverence. “... can’t believe I get to have this. Get to have you.”

With that, all measure of self-control is out the window; you speed up your motions and he fucks into you desperately, hands gripping your hips so tightly you’re sure you’ll still feel it tomorrow. Every cell in your body seems to burn hot as you lose yourself in the sensation.

“S-so good, so, so good …”

When his thrusts turn sloppy and his words start to slur, you know he’s approaching his peak.

It’s close, you can tell it’s close …

However, you reach yours first; the orgasm hit you out of nowhere, the usual build-up lost to the overwhelming sensation. Your vision goes white as you throw your head back, crying out his name over and over again until it echoes in your ears. Unending pleasure wracks your body and happily, you let it.

All it took was that sight – you, repeating his name like a prayer as you come undone above him – and he’s spilling inside you with a low groan.

You hear your own name falling repeatedly from his lips as he thrusts as deep as he can, ignoring the aftershocks that start when you keep pulsing around him. He’s so beautiful like this it nearly hurts you.

Exhausted, your upper body collapses against his chest and he wraps his arms around you, pressing your sweat-damp foreheads together as he gives a few more shallow thrusts.

He doesn’t pull out for a little while longer, and when he finally does, he keeps you tucked against him in a tender embrace, filling the room with words of praise.

How wonderful you are, how perfect. How loved.

The two of you have all the time in the world, and you’re more than content to spend it this way.

___

When you wake up the next morning, you immediately notice that Kishibe isn’t in bed next to you. Your heart sinks as you roll over – his side of the bed is still warm so he can’t have gone too far, but you didn’t even hear him leave.

You sit up with a start.

Was this too much? Is he panicking? Is the reality too different from the fantasy you both had come up with?

But before your worries escalate to something more, you pick up some soft sounds coming from the kitchen; pots and pans clanging gently, as if someone’s trying to use them as quietly as possible without waking you.

The faint scent of coffee hits you then, wafting through the gap in the door, along with an aroma you’ve become very familiar with over the past while.

Pancakes.

You let out a short, relieved chuckle. It’s second nature for you to expect the worst and it will take a lot of unlearning, but you figure that there’s no better person to experience that with than your partner.

You yawn as you slide out of bed - you didn’t get much sleep last night, after all - before shrugging on a robe and padding down the hall.

“Really leaning into the domesticity, are we?” you call out as you enter the kitchen, spotting Kishibe by the stove with a frying pan in hand. True to form, he has two mugs of coffee ready and holds one out to you as you approach – you accept it with a grateful squeeze of his hand, lifting the cup to your lips and savouring the bittersweet taste. It doesn’t go unnoticed that he picked your favourite mug.

“Indulge me?” he asks as he flips a pancake, taking a sip of his own brew, and you make a sound of agreement.

“Never said it was a bad thing,” you add with a smile, blowing softly to cool down the drink before taking a seat at the little table in the corner. He has it set for breakfast - a cup of sugar, a little jug of milk, some sliced fruits are laid out in front of you, along with cutlery and plates - and he even has the newspaper folded on the table despite neither one of you ever reading it.

To say that it’s endearing is an understatement; you’ve earned one or two clichés of domestic life.

He joins you once the pancakes are finished - “ how the hell did you manage to not burn a single one?” - and pulls his chair closer to yours. He glances at you when you take the first bite, almost self-conscious in the way he watches you eat, looking relieved when you hum your approval.

“So,” he begins, after taking a bite of his own. “Think you’ll be going to work on Monday?”

Though his tone is conversational, you know the question is loaded. It’s not accusatory in the slightest - you know he will respect whatever decision you arrive at as long as you come home to him afterwards - but he just needs to know, to prepare for whatever course you both choose to take.

You think for a moment. You assume, based on the trajectory this conversation has taken, that you’ll need to look at other prospects. You’re not sure if you’ll quit outright – if that’s even possible – but you think it might be time for an extended hiatus in the devil-hunting department.

The Division would have no hesitation in replacing you should you get injured or be killed in action – they can cope without you for a few months. Or longer.

“I think I’ll call in sick,” you reply in between sips of coffee.

“Really?” he queries with a grin, turning to face you – you can’t help but match it. “‘Cos I think I will too.”

You nod confidently, feeling your heart swell in your chest.

“Sounds like a plan.”

#kishibe x reader #kishibe x you #csm x reader #kishibe #csm kishibe #may tries to write

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angel-eyes05 · 1 year

Text

i remember his hands - chapter 3

PAIRING: kang the conqueror x fem!reader

SUMMARY: after a scientific experiment goes horribly wrong, you've been transported to the quantum realm and have been stuck there for the past decade. with no company, aside from janet van dyne, your life changes forever when a mysterious man in a golden ship crash lands next to your settlement. startled with his initial presence, you two have a rocky start. but as time goes on, you two find each other slowly drawn to one another. you have secrets though, and he has a past he refuses to bring up. can you two make it through navigating an unknown world together, discovering any ulterior motives, and stand the test of time in a place where time has no meaning at all?

INFO: slow romantic burn, pretty fast sexual burn, kinda enemies to lovers????, takes place during that little flashback janet has during quantumania, idk how accurate this is gonna be to canon stuff cause i get very confused about the quantum realm lol, reader is in mid to late 20s while kang is in his “early 30s” (ik he like technically doesn't age or whatever idk the lore but i just made it accurate to jonathan majors age and wanted to give an accurate age range/gap/count), y/n will be very fleshed out like im gonna give her everything lol

WARNING: explicit language, smut (minors dni), masturbation (f), oral sex (fem receiving), cum play, not a very happy ending (guys aftercare is important)

CHAPTER WORD COUNT: 2.5k

NOTES: i just wanna say thank you for all the love recently! idk if ill set a specific schedule for when ill release the chapters or not cause honestly i just work better whenever i write when i want without a time constraint so thats probably what i’ll end up doing. if you want me to write a specific one shot for kang or even another character (i feel most comfortable writing for mcu, star wars, the last of us, and stranger things, but if i know the piece of media youre talking about and feel comfortable writing about the character, im down) just lmk! also i decided at the last second this was gonna be a smuty chapter so..yeah!

PREVIOUS PART

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It had been about two weeks since you found Kang at the crash site. Despite the moment you two had when you first fixed him up, you two had very little interactions since then. It made sense though. Both of you were taking your own separate times to heal, you in your room, bedridden from your horrible headaches, him on the couch, still unable to walk due to his foot and abdomen. According to Janet, he hasn’t been very talkative. He would occasionally respond to her comments about how he was feeling, but wouldn’t say anything about where he came from or why he was here. So she just stopped asking. It took a while for you to open up to Janet about how you got here at first as well though, so you understood why he would be all shut up about it. It got you thinking about how you ended up here. How much you left behind. God you wish you got the chance to leave a note or something. At the very least, for them…

You quickly dragged yourself out of that thought, knowing the path it would lead you down led to nothing but wasted tears. It was late at night, and you laid sleepless in your bed, so it was easy to let your mind wander. To distract yourself, you replayed the moment with him in your mind. You were a little touch starved, in that way at least, so feeling Kang’s hand in that sensitive of an area drove you mad. Thinking about it would always give you the same reaction. Butterflies slowly fluttering into your stomach, roses blooming onto your cheeks, and the near uncontrollable urge to touch yourself. You know your relationship was non existent right now and had a horrible start, but sometimes you wondered what would happen if you walked over to the couch right now and started to kiss him. The only thing you ended up doing though was changing your now soaked underwear.

You always felt bad when you let yourself think like that. Poor guy was probably just looking for something to hold while he was in pain. And you were taking advantage of it. Then again, you remembered how he slowly pulled his fingers away from your thigh once you were finished stitching him up, an act that did seem very purposeful. Again though, he might have done that unconsciously. You always sent yourself into this back and forth inner dialogue with yourself about his intentions in that moment. Whether you liked it or not, during the past two weeks, you’ve only had two things on your mind: your pain, and him.

With the mix of your restless mind, the ache between your legs, and your now grumbling stomach, you decide to get out of bed and go to the kitchen to find something to eat. Also partially because you would get to see him, awake or not. To be honest, you preferred him asleep. You could just admire him from a far, without the complexities of a conversation to mess anything up. You crept into the hallway, adjusting your eyes from the dim light in your room to the rest of the house, enveloped in the darkness. Thankfully, you knew the layout of the house well, so you doubted you would trip over anything. You wandered throughout the cabin until you got past Janet’s room and into the kitchen. You didn’t realize how flawed your plan was, it just now clicking that you wouldn’t be able to see Kang in the darkness. You didn’t entirely mind though. Just knowing he’s in the same room as you put your thoughts slightly at ease.

You finally make it to the counter and put your arms out to find something. They land on a round, spiked fruit. Too scared of accidentally cutting yourself if you use a knife to peel it, you decide just to bite into it. Juice drips down from your mouth as your teeth sink into the fruit. Although the food here was no where near as good as back home, you managed to find a few gems here. The fruits were definitely one of them. Once you finish with the fruit, you use the sleeve of your loose shirt to wipe your mouth. You paced the room a bit, still kind of restless. Your eyes still haven’t entirely adjusted to the dark, but you think you have a pretty good standing of your ground. That is until you trip over the back of the couch. You brace yourself for the impact of flying over the couch and waking up everyone in the process, until you’re suddenly stopped.

It’s a hand. No, not just a hand. The hand. His hand.

Again, it stays there longer than it should have. Placed just below where your sternum meets your breasts. You could feel your heart beating faster the longer his hand stayed there. “You’re a loud chewer” Kang finally said. It was more of a deep whisper though. God you loved the sound of his voice, despite the few times you heard it. “You must be a light sleeper then” you replied in a similar tone. Despite still not being able to see his face, you could tell he was smirking. He slowly push you back up to your normal position. The trick was that he didn’t move his hand. He actually tightened his grip on your shirt. That’s when it clicked for you. He wanted it just as bad as you did.

You then placed your hand over Kang’s, rubbing deep circles just below his knuckles with your thumb. Then, he began to pull you by your shirt to the front side of the couch. You followed his hand until he stopped pulling, leaving you in the same place you were when you stitched up his shoulder. You stood there as he began to move his hand down from your sternum. The feeling of him dragging his fingers down your body at an agonizingly slow pace was enough to get your starved pussy wet. Then he got to your hips, where your loose pants rested. He then took his other hand and used both hands to drag your pants off. Once you kicked them off, he went back up to your panties, hooking his pointer finger around the sides of them and dragged those off even slower than the pants.

He then placed his hands on your bare hips, digging his thumbs into them. A slight moan escaped your lips. In response, he placed his finger over your mouth in a shushing action. “She can’t hear you.’’ You were overcome with embarrassment at the fact you were so enveloped in the thought of having sex with Kang that you forgot that Janet was only a room away. You decided now you had to be silent, however hard that would prove to be later. He put that hand back on your hip and helped you onto his chest. You placed your hands over his shirtless shoulders, being mindful of his left one. You pressed your hands deeply into them and began to massage them. Thank god your eyes had finally adjusted to the dark, because now you could see every emotion playing across his face as you sunk your hands deeper into his shoulder muscles. You moved the massage down his arms, making your way to his biceps. They were massive and tough. All you could think about was how much you wanted them around your neck. Ironic. Once you moved on from those and finally made it to his hands, you took hold of them.

You used them to help you take off your shirt and bra. After tossing your bra to the floor, you placed his hands on your breasts and began to grope them with his hands. His eyes rolled back into his head, and as soon as you could tell he was about to moan, you smashed your lips into his to capture it. You took your hands off of his to cup his jaw to fully envelop yourself in the kiss. He kept one hand on your breast while he moved the other one down and began to run circles around your clit. You softly moaned into his mouth with each rotation he made. As each second went by, the kiss became more intense. More desperate. You had no idea how long it had been since he had touched someone like this, and you knew it had been forever since you were touched like this. You two both had some desperation to your actions. Like this would be the last time either of you would experience something like this ever again. Both of you so starved of touch. You needed this so badly, and part of you knew he needed it too.

As he began to circle your clit with more ferocity, you felt the heat in your chest growing stronger. God he had just started and you were already about to come. You didn’t to yet. If you did, that meant it would be over. Lucky for you, you felt his hand pull away from your clit. He pulled away from the kiss ass well, panting. “I need you to help me up for a second” he said. You reluctantly got up, wondering if he was just going to leave you here like this. It was just now that you realized how naked you were. Sure, he didn’t have a shirt on, but you still felt much more exposed than him for some reason. You helped him up onto his feet, also now realizing exactly how much taller he was than you. Seeing him staring down at you like that. Like you had suddenly become the most important thing in the world to him. Suddenly, he turned you around and shoved you onto the couch. You sat there as he kneeled down and began too kiss your inner thighs.

He moved those strong, dry hands of his to the top of your thighs and sprayed them out against them. He dug his fingers into them as he moved his mouth from your inner thigh to your lips. Feeling his warm breath against them in the cold room sent shivers down your spine. You grabbed the top of his head for leverage as you thrust your hips into his mouth. “Look at you” he said in between kisses. “Being such a good girl and getting so wet for me. Seems like you completely forgot about the fact we were trying to kill each other two weeks ago.” It was strange to you a little. You had convinced yourself you wouldn’t be safe in the same house as Kang, and now here you were, completely naked on the couch with him eating you out.

He wasn’t doing enough though. You weren’t nearly as satisfied as you were when he was circling your clit. He had yet to stick his tongue in you, all he was doing was kissing your folds. He was just teasing you again. “P-please” you said desperately. “I-I need y-you d-deeper.” He removed his mouth from your area and moved his hand to your clit again as he talked to you to keep you stimulated. “Oh thats what you want now? Am I not doing enough for you? Because I could stop if that’s what you prefer.” “N-n-no!” you nearly shouted out. “P-please, I-I j-just wanna f-feel you.” He sat there for a moment thinking, fingers still on your clit. “P-please Kang-g.” You asked again, looking deep into his eyes. “Well, since you asked so nicely. And plus, how could I say no to someone as pretty as you. Sitting there so neat and ready for me.”

Next thing you know, he dives back in, his tongue licking all over your folds and into your pussy. Your strangled moan makes one strange noise, but he must have liked it because he moved his hands up to grab deep into your hips in response. God you could stay here for hours. Layed here sprawled out on the couch with him eating you out. You just wish you could moan and whine for you. You wanted so desperately to scream his name out into the world and let it know how much he had you under his grasp. And you knew he wanted it also. But that was part of the appeal of everything. Knowing you had to stay quite. It made it more enticing. But man you couldn’t wait until you had the cabin to yourself. When he could fuck you through your bed properly, where you could scream his name at the top of your lungs, and him with yours. For now though, you would take this. It was enough for what you needed right now.

As he moved his tongue from your folds to your swollen clit, he begins to suck on it. You felt the heat return back to your core as you itched with pleasure, a roaring tide begging to wash from your pelvis into his mouth. The heat of his breath on you, the tightening grip of his hands on your hips, his tongue fluttering over your folds and clit, the soft hums he would make after tasting you. “F-fuck K-kang. I-I-I’m gonna c-cum” you said, the words barely making it out of your mouth without being mixed with a moan. He nods slightly in approval, gliding his tongue over your folds like silk and moving on of his hands to circle your clit to help pull it out of you. Finally, you feel the wave escape your pussy. You grab a pillow near you and release all your moans and screams into as the ecstasy exits you and enters his mouth. You arch your back as he tries to swallow as much of your cum as he can. You’re blinded by the intensity of your orgasm as your thighs tense up and you can hardly move anything, except to move the noises out of your mouth.

Once you finish, Kang stays there, licking off the last of your essence off your folds and feeling your throbbing clit under his tongue. He backs away from your pussy and moves up to your mouth as he kisses you, sharing with you some of your cum. He uses your shirt to clean up his mouth and the remaining bits of cum from your folds. To your surprise though, after that, he tosses the shirt on the floor, stands up, and walks away to your room. In shock, you convince yourself he went to your room to grab you a new change of clothes. Once you hear the door close though, you snap yourself back into reality. Looking down at yourself, naked and trembling (part from the cold and part from the orgasm), embarrassment floods your body. You couldn’t believe how easy you gave yourself up for him. God you knew you were desperate, but you didn’t know you were that desperate. And there he was in the other room, sleeping in your bed. Leaving you there on the couch, laying out naked, waiting for someone to take you away like some fantasy. But there you were. Alone. And really fucking cold.

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NEXT PART

A/N: yeaaaaaaaah, i needed drama so i did that. sucks but i didnt have any other ideas sorry lol. hope you liked the chapter though! this was actually my first time writing smut so i hope i didnt do that bad. looking forward to chapter 4!!! also sorry i didnt really proofread this one either cause it was super late when i posted it so sorry

#i remember his hands #kang the conqueror x reader #kang x reader #kang the conqueror #smut #mcu smut #ant man #mcu phase 5 #mcu fanfiction #marvel mcu #quantumania #fem!reader #fanfic #fanfiction

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whateveriwant · 2 years

Text

Easy Peasy

College AU

Summary: Friday night at the frat house means it’s time for a party. Besides booze, beer pong, and bro-nanigans, the brothers have something else up their sleeves to help get the party going.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x F!Reader

Word Count: ~13.2k (ummmm?)

Warnings: language, alcohol, sickness, slight injury, Captain kink, size kink-ish (muscles kink???), 18+ content

A/N: Hello! This has been a long time coming! About 2 years ago, I put out a fic called Oopsy Daisy. That fic was such a labor of love and is honestly one of my personal favorites. Well now, over 2 years later, I've come bearing this: a sequel! While I didn't originally intend to make a sequel for Oopsy Daisy, you all have the lovely @shythingstudentdragon to thank for this follow-up! They requested "A college au where Steve is showing off to reader. It starts with a push up contest between him Sam and Bucky, before he starts flexing for her and showing her what he can lift. Finally, it gets back to his room where reader questions if he can bench press her, which he does with ease." I changed the order of the events slightly, so I hope that’s ok. And one last thing to note: While technically a sequel, this fic works completely as a standalone (though I encourage you to read both ;p). As always, I hope you all enjoy!

Your heart thumps in time with the music, the heavy bassline resonating through your skin, shaking the very foundation of the house. The track is absolute garbage – some dubstep/techno/house music amalgamation you couldn’t be paid to listen to if given the choice. Under normal circumstances, you'd rather tear your own ears off than listen any longer.

Although it's truly God-awful, right now, it's all just background noise. No, you haven't a care for the monstrosity pounding away at your eardrums, not when your attention is directed miles and miles away.

You twine your fingers behind Steve’s head, keeping him firmly attached to you as your tongues dip into each other’s mouth. Something shatters in the distance, followed by the sound of drunken cheering, but you also pay it no mind. In this moment, it might as well just be you and Steve tucked away in your own little bubble – a small slice of heaven reserved just for you two.

Well… if only that were actually the case.

Just as you start to grind against Steve’s lap, his hands tighten on your hips, halting your movements. “Not now, dollface,” Steve breathes against your mouth.

“What? Why?” you practically whine between kisses. You try to rock your hips again, but are met by an even stronger resistance from Steve’s hands.

“We’re in the middle of the living room,” he grunts as he combats your movements, his fingers digging into the elastic material of your leggings.

Exasperated, you pull back from him and huff, “So? Steve, we have done way worse things on this very couch.”

“Yeah, but not when a rager was going on around us.”

At that, you quirk an amused brow, a specific memory from a few weeks back replaying in your mind. “Y’sure about that?” you smirk.

Steve takes a moment to think before he rolls his eyes, remembering the night in question. “Okay, I was blasted then, so that doesn’t count," he says. "But now I’m basically sober and definitely not in the mood to put on a show for the whole house to see.”

Retracting your hands from behind his neck, you gesture at the party around you. “Steve, look around.” You turn your head side to side, seeing dozens of students half-drunk off their asses as they aimlessly mill about. “Literally no one cares. They’re all focused on their own things and couldn't give a single shit about us.” You turn back to face him. “Maybe we just gotta get a few more beers in you before you stop caring as well,” you gibe, poking him in the pec.

Steve grabs your hand to stop you. “Let’s just wait a little longer until the party dies down, alright? And then we can have a little fun,” he teases. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze before relinquishing it, dropping his palms back to your waist.

You all but pout as you regard him – that steadfast look on his face that tells you his mind is made up. As much as you adore Steve, you hate that he can be such a hard-ass sometimes. You just want to have a good time with your man right now. Is that so bad? Apparently, it is to Steve since you know you'd have a difficult time trying to convince him to see things your way.

Damn him. Maybe if the damn captain of the damn football team wasn’t so used to getting his way on the field, he’d be more open to persuasion off the field as well.

You sigh. Well… come to think of it, there is one thing that renders Steve practically dumb with compliancy. While he doesn't prefer you to whip it out in public, you figure there's no harm in trying it out now. After all, a little teasing never hurt anybody, right?

With your mind made up, carefully, you tuck your face into the side of his neck, releasing slow, even breaths as you pretend you’re relenting to his wishes. But then, ever so delicately, you start nuzzling the underside of his jaw, peppering kisses along the smooth skin.

“Baby…,” Steve warns you, a slight edge to his voice as his fingers curl tighter into your flesh.

“I’m just kissing you,” you mumble against his neck. “Oh, am I not allowed to kiss you now?” your question is thick with sarcasm.

“You—” he starts to reprimand, but as your tongue darts out to taste his skin, he lets out a shaky breath. “Just… don’t try anything funny,” he sighs and softens his hold on you slightly.

“I won’t, I won’t,” you lie.

With a green light, you suck several faint bruises along his neck, feeling Steve gradually relax as the seconds tick by. He makes a choked noise as you hit that spot just under his ear, and it takes all you have not to laugh as you see how hypnotized he is by your ministrations. Amusing as it is, you haven't even started the real fun yet.

Slowly, you rake a hand down his chest, letting your fingertips graze the hard planes of muscle through his t-shirt. Steve shudders and tenses at your touch, his heartbeat picking up as you steadily descend. As he goes to still your wandering hand, you grin and start rocking your hips again, forcing him to keep both hands on your waist to inhibit your movements.

Trailing your mouth upwards, you tease his earlobe with your teeth, nipping carefully before soothing the flesh with your tongue. You moan softly under your breath, practically purring directly into his ear, and when you feel him shudder again, you finally whisper the nickname you know has a debilitating effect on Steve.

“Captain.”

Steve groans. “No, no, no, no,” he rushes the words out. “Don’t start with—”

“This is a party, Captain,” you cut him off, "and I want to have fun now. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do at parties? Have fun? Not wait until after when everyone’s gone?” you let your faux pout seep into your voice, the sound nearly whiny with need.

“Dollface,” Steve grunts, struggling to simultaneously maintain his composure and get you to stop moving. “It’s just a few more hours. You can wait—”

“Please, Captain” you husk. “Let’s have some fun now. I feel like I’ve barely seen you because of practice. You’ve been so busy lately.” Your hand crawls down his stomach, teasing the waistband of his shorts.

“Oh, please don't remind me of that," he begs. "I know I've been a bit preoccupied, but—”

“I just wanna enjoy this time with you now…,” plucking at the elastic of his shorts, you croon, “Captain.”

Steve groans again. “Baby, you gotta stop with the ‘Cap—’”

“Captain, please,” you pretend to beg out of desperation. With your lips against his ear, you let out a series of breathy moans, your voice ascending in pitch with each, “Please, please, plea—”

“That better be apple juice in your cup, Parker!” The barking voice suddenly snaps you from your mischief.

Your words halt as your eyes flit over Steve’s shoulder, observing Sam cross his arms as he glares at something behind you. Craning your neck back, you see Peter chatting with a group of friends, red solo cup in hand. His eyes go wide at Sam’s accusation. Carefully, he places the beverage on the TV stand before putting his hands up in surrender. He backs around the corner – hands up the entire time – until he’s out of the room.

Just as quickly as you were distracted, you redirect your attention to Steve. You go to speak again, but before you can, Steve claps a large hand over your mouth to silence you.

Steve’s expression turns stony as he’s pulled from the near-trance you had him in. “Baby, I’m only gonna say this once so you better listen closely. You need to stop before—” his caution is interrupted as a drunken Scott bumps into the back of the couch, slurring an apology to the furniture as he stumbles away.

Steve watches Scott’s movements for a moment before looking back to you. He continues, “Before it’s too late. You might just do something you’ll regret.” He raises a brow in warning.

Slowly, he withdraws his hand to allow you to speak again. With your mouth uncovered, you lick your lips deliberately, letting your tongue make a lazy pass from corner to corner.

You smirk and narrow your eyes. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that almost sounded like a threat, Rogers.”

Steve purses his lips, giving you a similarly skeptical look. “Who said it wasn’t?”

Amused, you lean forward and drape your arms around his shoulders. “Well, baby, I’ve told you before that I like a little danger.” You nip at his bottom lip, gently tugging at it with your teeth. “So you’re only threatening me with a good time, Captain.”

A hint of a smile pulls at Steve’s lips as he rolls his eyes. “You are something else sometimes. Can’t you go one day without trying to pull some shit?” he admonishes, gently pinching your hip. “Must you always be such a tease?”

“Must you always be such a bore?” you retort and force an obviously fake reproachful look on your face.

Steve’s eyes darken almost imperceptibly at your words. His fingers tighten around your waist, gently divoting your flesh. “Oh, you’ve done it now, dollface. You want danger? I’ll give you da—” His eyes suddenly go wide as they focus on something over your shoulder. “Shit!” Steve unceremoniously lifts you from his lap, all but tossing you onto the empty cushion beside him as he lunges off the couch.

You gape as he dashes to the TV stand – Peter’s abandoned drink having been spilled onto the console, the liquid spreading rapidly. With no time to think, Steve’s reflexes take over and he lifts the impressive flatscreen off the table, protecting it from the expanding pool.

“Lang, what the fuck?!” Steve snaps at Scott standing beside him.

Scott teeters on his feet for a moment before he puts a hand on the wall to balance himself. “W-what?” he hiccups, totally unaware of his clumsy mishap.

Steve lets out a displeased breath and shakes his head. “Dude, just… go lay down before you pass out or something.”

Scott blinks in confusion for a few seconds. He looks between Steve and the puddle like he's trying to make sense of the scene, his face creasing as he thinks. Eventually, something must click in his inebriated brain because he nods. “‘Kay,” he agrees, then stumbles away to hopefully take Steve’s advice.

Steve sighs heavily before shifting on his feet, getting a better grip on the appliance in his hands. He mumbles something, though you don't catch it as you remain seated on the couch, enraptured by the sight before you.

Steve's back strains against his fitted shirt, the muscles shifting as he moves every now and then. He turns to the side slightly and mumbles something else, but again, you don't register his words – instead, watching on as he unintentionally flexes the cords of his arm.

Suddenly, your mouth feels incredibly dry. Not only did getting tossed around like a ragdoll stir something in your belly, but watching Steve lift that TV with ease – witnessing his strength on full display – makes your stomach flip in excitement.

You swallow thickly as the vein running along his bicep pulses against the skin, feeling a pressure similarly throb in your core. You know Steve is strong – for goodness’ sake, just look at him! – but seeing that strength firsthand does something unexplainable to you.

You wonder what it would be like if Steve showed you just how strong he really is. If he threw you around without a care in the world; manhandled you however he wanted; gripped you so fiercely, he left bruises on your hips as he dragged and pulled you onto his coc—

The sound of Steve yelling your name pulls you from your wandering thoughts.

“Huh? W-what?” You bring yourself back to the moment with a shake of your head.

“I asked if you could get something to clean this up.” He nods towards the spill.

“Oh. Y-yeah. Sure,” you mutter.

You run to the kitchen and grab a handful of paper towels before returning to the living room. Dutifully, you sop up the spilled beverage – something that definitely wasn’t apple juice just as Sam had suspected.

As you clean, you chance a peek from the corner of your eye, watching as Steve appears to be completely unfazed by the heavy load in his arm. You try to be covert as you ogle him with your peripheral vision, pretending to be totally focused on your task at hand.

Steve catches you anyway.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

At his question, your attention is drawn up to Steve’s face, seeing him giving you a perplexed look. His brows knit more tightly together when you don't immediately respond, your hand paused mid-wipe as you think of what to say.

While you could be honest and say you were nearly drooling at the sight of his biceps bulging, you know Steve would never let you live that down, especially given the shenanigans you just pulled on the couch. Steve would have a field day if he knew he got you all tongue-tied like you frequently do to him. You don’t want to give him that satisfaction.

“What do you mean? I’m-I’m not looking at you,” you mutter, opting for good ol' denial.

He scoffs, unconvinced. “Yeah, you are. Pretty obviously, too.”

Damn it. Looks like that won’t work.

“I… I…,” you stutter as you scramble to think of an explanation. After a few moments of scatterbrained thinking – bingo! – an idea comes to mind. “I was just remembering how Sam once told me you think with your muscles and m—, well… your muscles before your mind. I guess he was right,” you chuckle.

“Oh, come on," Steve grumbles. "Would you have had a better idea than to lift the damn thing? What was I supposed to do? Whip out my emergency ShamWow I just happen to carry with me?” he asks rhetorically. “Or better yet, power slurp whatever drink that was before it spread to the TV?”

You turn to face him more directly, a smile inching your mouth up. “I mean… you do have a talented tongue, Steve. So that wouldn’t have been out of the question.”

Steve simply rolls his eyes before nodding at the puddle again. “Just finish cleaning, please.”

You give him a mock salute. “Aye, aye, Captain,” you say in a gruff voice, earning you a snort from Steve.

Having narrowly avoided being exposed, you soak up the rest of the drink in a hurry, only stopping to sneak one or two more peeks at Steve during the time. Afterwards, once you’ve discarded the dirtied towels, Steve drags you back to the couch you occupied earlier, plopping you down beside him.

"So… how ya been? How's practice been going?" you question, deciding to pass the time with something other than tonsil hockey.

"Ugh, let's not talk about that," Steve groans. He takes your hand and begins to fiddle with your fingers. "How about we talk about you instead."

As you let Steve play with your fingers, you shrug noncommittally. "Alright, shoot."

“Okay…,” he begins as he thinks of a topic to discuss. After a beat, he asks, “What was the real reason you were looking so intently at me?”

You blanch at his question. “I-I told you,” you insist. “I was remembering when Sam—”

“No, no, no,” Steve cuts your fake explanation short. “I said the real reason.”

Steve sets his jaw and locks his fingers with yours as he waits for your response. Under the weight of his gaze, you start to squirm and babble nonsense as you try to think of another explanation that sounds convincing. As you scour your brain for something – anything – to say, unfortunately, you end up coming short, a heavy sigh falling from your lips at the realization you can’t claw your way out of this.

Since Steve seems to be dead set on finding out the truth, you figure it's only a matter of time before he catches on, no matter how much you try to tell him otherwise. Hoping that maybe he'll take a little pity on you and not poke too much fun if you're upfront, you decide to be truthful.

"Okay, so… maybe I was, um… admiring your muscles not because of what Sam said, but because of my own volition."

"Why…?" Steve prods.

"Because… I like how they look?" your voice pitches up at the end, turning a would-be statement into a question. When Steve gives you a look saying “Go on”, you sigh, but ultimately yield. “Okay, I really like how they look,” you elaborate only just so.

“So, you were distracted and all fuzzy-brained because you were checking me out?” Steve arches a brow.

You sigh once more and drop your head in defeat. “Yes,” you nod.

A few seconds of silence pass as Steve lets your words sink in. Then, a sudden, boisterous laugh bubbles out of his throat, making you snap your head back up at him.

“I knew it!” he chortles. “I just wanted to hear it from your mouth.”

You scoff and roughly pull your hand out of his. “Well… congrats," you say in as monotone of a voice as you can muster. "You got what you wanted. You happy now?”

Steve retakes your hand to briefly kiss the back of it. “Ecstatic,” he beams.

“Yeah, yeah, alright. Don’t get too used to it, Rogers,” you grumble and wave him off. “It’s like I said earlier, I haven’t seen you much the past couple of weeks, so I’m having to readjust a little. You’re a lot to process,” you snark.

“Sure, sure. Whatever you say,” Steve concedes, the sarcasm obvious in his tone. He grins widely as he settles back into the couch. “But I must admit, it’s nice being on the other side for once. I’m just so irresistible that you couldn’t help but be distracted by me,” he jokes, pretending to toss long hair over his shoulder.

“Alright, don’t get ahead of yourself, Narcissus.” You elbow him in the ribs.

Steve laughs and rubs his side for a moment, pretending to soothe his ribs after your assault. But then all of a sudden, he jolts forward in his seat, his face rapidly shifting into a serious expression. “Oh, what’s this?” he exaggerates his voice and movements, slipping into almost a caricature of himself. He stands and rounds the coffee table set before the couch, theatrically pointing at one of the legs. “I think this leg looks a little wobbly. Wouldn’t you agree, dollface?”

You roll your eyes dramatically. “What are you doi—”

Before you finish your question, Steve lifts the table several feet off the ground, jostling around the empty beer cans and various pieces of garbage lying atop. Carefully, he examines the leg in question, the muscles of his arms tensing and contracting as he turns it every which way.

“No, I think it’s okay actually,” he muses, setting the furniture back down with a smirk.

You can't help but chuckle at his antics. “You are such an idiot.”

“Hey,” he faux chastises, “I think the correct term is ‘himbo’, thank you very much.”

You nearly choke on your spit as you laugh. You didn't expect that to come out of his mouth. “I stand corrected. You are a huge idiot,” you guffaw.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Steve puts his hands on his hips and pushes his chest forward, power posing before you.

Shaking your head incredulously, you chuckle again, unable to keep a smile off of your face. “If you keep this shit up, I’ll just leave early. I've got a test on Tuesday I can be studying for,” you warn. Maybe if you threaten him a little – even though you don't really mean it – you can get him to stop acting like a dumbass.

Steve lifts his arm and bends his elbow at a 90 degree angle. “Well, the door’s that way,” he tells you, flexing his bicep as he points unnaturally at the door. “Or… is it that way?” He switches directions, mirroring the pose with the other arm. “I’m not sure. I think I might’ve had too much to drink tonight."

Though a small part of you wants to stop and admire Steve's physique, all you can do at the moment is laugh at how ridiculous he looks as he tries to show off. Steve, on the other hand, schools his own expression in order to play up his act and not break character.

"But you can leave whenever you want, especially if you’ve got stuff to do," he finally declares. "Though… you might want to stay for the show. I’ve heard it's quite an experience," he baits you.

Your eyes feel like they're about to pop out of your skull from how hard you're stifling the need to roll them. But, you decide to humor him. You cross your arms and lean into the couch. "And what show is that, Steve?" you ask.

He smirks and drops his voice an octave. "The gun show."

Steve swiftly raises both arms to put his muscles on full display, switching back and forth to flex each arm in turn. He leans side to side to give each bicep a loud, sloppy kiss, prompting an ungodly cackle to erupt from your mouth as you watch.

He gives you an intense look as he turns his attention back to you, keeping his voice at a low baritone to really sell his macho man act. “Welcome to the gun show, baby. You're in for a treat,” he croons. “It looks like you’ve got yourself a front row seat, so you better strap in and hold on tight before—”

"Man, what the hell are you doing?" Sam’s voice comes out of nowhere, interrupting the scene playing out before you.

Steve is quickly snapped from his tomfoolery as he's caught red-handed by Sam, his friend just so happening to wander into the room during the peacocking.

Steve drops his hands back down by his sides and returns his voice to its normal timbre. "I, uh, I was just… um…," he trails off, not having an excuse for his actions.

"Look, we get it," Sam says boredly. "The gym rat’s got muscles and wants to show them off. But this ain’t a Men’s Health magazine, so cut the shit, man,” he chides as he rounds the couch, coming to stand before Steve.

Steve shakes his head and goes to speak, likely to clarify that he was just fucking around for your amusement, but not before Sam adds, “I mean, it’s not like you see me parading around here showing off all of this," he gestures up and down at himself.

Steve’s mouth snaps closed, his expression twisting into a mix of amusement and incredulity. “Uh… well… maybe that’s because you haven’t worked out in two months,” he tries not to chuckle as he speaks.

Sam’s brows shoot up to his hairline. “Excuse me?” he asks, stunned. “I’ll have you know, I do 100 squats every. single. morning,” he states matter-of-factly, punctuating the words for emphasis. “And I know I can definitely outlift you, head quarterback or not.”

Steve snorts and reaches over to pat Sam on the shoulder. “Sure ya can, man. Sure ya can,” he encourages as if speaking to a child.

“Man, fuck you. Don’t patronize me,” Sam spits, stepping back out of arm’s reach. “Newsflash, Dorito Man. Strength doesn’t have to be confined to just your upper half.” He makes an upside down triangle in the air, mocking the shape of Steve’s body. “Ever heard of lifting with your legs, huh? You see these thighs?” He pats his quads. “They’re like tree trunks. Solid. Strong. A.K.A. can absolutely outlift your little slim-hipped ass.”

Steve’s mouth pops open at the boldness of Sam’s declaration. He goes to retort, but before he can, you speak first.

“Yeah, baby, I’m with Sam on this one. He’s got some pretty nice thighs… and ass for that matter. I think he can take you,” you smirk, fighting the urge to laugh as Steve’s face contorts with more shock.

While Steve had originally been worried about “putting on a show for the whole house to see”, for the past several minutes, he’s been doing just that. You’ve been getting a kick out of it – as well as a few other feelings – so you’re not ready to let the show come to an end just yet. And what better way to do that than by inciting a little brotherly competition between the two frat members.

“Thank you, sweetness,” Sam says smugly before sending Steve a shit-eating grin. “See, Rogers? Even your girl agrees with me.”

Steve looks at you in disbelief, putting his hands on his hips. “Whose side are you on?” he accuses.

You shrug nonchalantly as you sink deeper into the couch. “I just call ‘em like I see ‘em, baby,” you further egg him on, hoping to ignite that competitive nature in Steve.

As Steve’s eyes darken ever so slightly, you know you’ve done it.

“Alright, Tree Trunks,” Steve looks at Sam, voice devoid of humor. “Let’s see if you can take me.”

Sam cracks his knuckles and his neck, rolling his shoulders to warm up. “Oh, it’s on, Dorito Man.”

They settle on the living room furniture as the events for their impromptu strongman competition. Taking turns, they lift various objects around the room: the end table, the armchair, even going so far as to ask you to stand from the sofa so they can have a hand at that. And when they both miserably attempt to solo lift the three-seater, you can’t help the ugly laugh that watching their struggle elicits from you.

During the course of the theatrics, a crowd of onlookers gradually appears, watching on as the two idiots manhandle every object in sight. At some point, Natasha and Bucky also join the group of spectators.

“What are they doing?” Natasha asks, sidling up beside you along the wall.

“Trying to determine who’s stronger,” you snicker. This dick-measuring contest has been going better than expected, and you’re thoroughly amused by that fact.

You and Natasha exchange knowing looks before shaking your heads and rolling your eyes in sync. “Men,” you both mutter under your breaths.

“Well, remind me to call them when I need help moving. I won’t have to hire a service that way,” Natasha jokes.

“Hey, what about me?” Bucky questions her, sounding a little wounded that she didn’t mention his name. While Bucky may not be as burly as Sam or Steve, he could probably be of some assistance when helping his girlfriend move.

“Don’t worry, babe, you’ll be there, too,” she reassures him with a gentle rub to his bicep. When Bucky smiles and goes to thank her, she elaborates, “After all, your truck can hold a lot more than my Bug.”

Bucky’s face falls at her statement, realizing she means to use his truck rather than him for labor.

She continues before he gets a chance to voice his dejection. “But… that sucker’s gonna have to be deep cleaned at least twice before I put my stuff anywhere near it,” she winces, thinking about the filthy state of his vehicle.

While you’ve, thankfully, never had to endure a ride in Bucky’s truck, you’ve heard enough horror stories to last a lifetime. You’d be willing to bet that some yet undiscovered species of insect has made home in the pickup.

Bucky raises a finger in objection and opens his mouth to speak, looking as if he’s going to argue with Natasha’s statement. But, after a second of self-reflection, he closes his mouth and lets his hand fall back to his side, nodding in defeat as he knows she makes a valid point.

Natasha gives Bucky one more reassuring pat before turning back to you. “So… think they’re gonna be done anytime soon?” She indicates the still ongoing competition. “Because some of us want to use the living room not as a home gym.”

You shrug. "Beats me. I was just thinking of making some popcorn.” Dinner and a show. That’d be pretty nice.

Natasha lets out a deep sigh and leans against the wall, deciding to patiently wait for the men to finish up. She stands with you for several minutes, tapping her foot the whole time. But, as Sam and Steve try and fail to lift the sofa for a third time in a row – causing you to seriously consider making that popcorn – Natasha finally decides she’s had enough.

“Well, guys, congratulations. You did it,” she says, directing everyone’s attention towards her. “You proved you’re both equally as strong as each other… and equally as dumb,” she deadpans as she nods at the couch. “It looks like you’ve come to an impasse so, unless you want to move to the kitchen so you can try lifting the fridge,” she rolls her eyes, “I think there’s only one way to decide the winner of this… whatever it is.”

Steve and Sam look at each other – both slightly sweaty and out of breath from their deadlocked battle. After a moment of sizing each other up, Steve waves for Natasha to continue, telling them what she has in mind.

“A push-up contest,” she states plainly, drawing a few cheers from the crowd. “Whoever does the most push-ups in 60 seconds wins.”

As people start whooping in encouragement – numerous "Hell yeahs" and "Do its" being tossed around – Sam and Steve finally take note of the sheer size of the crowd they've attracted. They’d been so invested in their competition that they didn’t even notice how a majority of the party-goers had gathered around the scene, watching the two men go head-to-head.

With a crowd that size, the stakes of their competition has increased tenfold. Now, instead of one of them simply having to concede to the other, they'd have to lose in front of several dozens of people.

Talk about a blow to the ego.

The reluctance is obvious on both men’s faces as they eye the group of spectators. They start mumbling various excuses as to why they're unsure about Natasha's idea, trying to dissipate the crowd’s desires to avoid further embarrassing themselves. As they continue to show their hesitation, Natasha takes the opportunity to speak again.

"Like I said…," she draws their attention to her once more, "…there's always the fridge." She smirks and cocks her head to the side, raising a brow in challenge as she waits for their response.

Natasha knows it's an impossible task, but she also knows the two frat members are too stubborn to end their competition in a stalemate. Thus, whether they move to some other room of the house or take part in the contest Natasha proposed, no matter what, the living room will soon be freed up for her use. Win-win for her either way.

The crowd starts cheering even louder, making Steve and Sam more and more uncomfortable as they fidget in their spots. As the noise crescendos into a frenzied cacophony, both men finally put their hands up in surrender.

“Alright, fine. A push-up contest to determine the winner,” Sam relents. “But… uh…," he looks around the crowd, his eyes widening in delight as his gaze suddenly focuses on Bucky. "Buck, you’re joining us, too.” He waves Bucky over with two fingers.

“What?” Bucky blinks in confusion at the command. “I don’t want to be involved. Don’t drag me into this.” He shakes his head firmly.

“C’mon, man. You can… act as the control,” Sam says, seemingly making up the excuse on the spot.

Bucky gives Sam a confused look and raises his palms to the ceiling. “What is that supposed to mean?” He looks around the room exasperatedly, as if he’ll find the answer written on the walls.

“He wants to juxtapose his strength to yours,” MJ pipes up, her and Peter having entered the room just as the contest was announced. “So, win or lose, he'll still look good in comparison.”

Bucky sends an accusatory look at Sam. “Screw you! No, I’m not doing that,” he pouts and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Look, you do this and I’ll call off the debt from when something bit me in your truck,” Sam narrows his eyes, tempting Bucky to take the offer.

Bucky cringes as he remembers the incident in question. He slowly uncrosses his arms, letting a none too pleased look overtake his face. “Okay, fine,” he grits and reluctantly walks over to join the two men in their contest.

The crowd backs up to allow ample space for the competition. The men lower themselves and plant their hands on the ground, waiting as Natasha readies everyone for the countdown.

“On my mark,” she begins.

Steve suddenly looks up from his place on the floor, catching your eye as you stand before him.

"Get set."

You wink and give him a thumbs up, mouthing, “You got this."

"Go!"

Right out of the gate, Sam and Steve start pounding out push-ups, already leaving Bucky behind in the dust. Per Natasha's orders, you're Steve's spotter, counting out loud along with each of his movements. The crowd grows rambunctious as the seconds quickly tick by, watching and listening as the counts climb higher and higher.

"Eighteen, 19, 20…," you keep time with Steve, barely able to hear the sound of your own voice above the din.

"Seventeen, 18, 19…," Wanda counts beside you as she spots for Sam.

Though he stands only a couple of feet away, you can only just discern Clint counting, “Seven, eight, nine…,” for Bucky – the wall of sound surrounding you too noisy to be able to think through, let alone hear.

But none of those distractions matter anyway as your attention is focused on Steve and Steve alone.

Sweat glistens his hairline as numerous droplets slide down his temples and the bridge of his nose, dripping onto the wood floor below. You watch over and over again how he extends his arms to raise up, only to rapidly descend as he lowers himself once more, his chest nearly brushing the floor with each bend of his elbows. The harder and further Steve pushes himself, the more his muscles strain against the fabric of his shirt, his biceps threatening to tear right through his sleeves.

As you watch on, an unbidden warmth starts to slowly spread in your belly, growing hotter and needier by the second. The adrenaline and endurance and excitement of the scene almost reminds you of something you know all too well, and it nearly distracts you from the task at hand.

You're forced to press your thighs together as you continue to spot Steve, feebly attempting to quell the throbbing in your core. It's all but totally unsuccessful. But, thankfully, someone saves you from the torture of having to watch this display of virility any longer than necessary.

"Ten…," Natasha starts counting down, alerting everyone that the competition is about to come to a close.

It seems to kick the men into overdrive, encouraging them to give strong last-ditch efforts to try coming out on top. They push themselves more and more, their faces becoming flushed and ruddy from exertion, their breaths coming out in harsh puffs.

"Seven…."

As the clock winds down and the men give it their all, Steve’s panting quickly turns to grunting, his muscles on fire as they protest what he’s subjecting them to.

The sound of his groans shoots straight to your core, making you choke on your words, your count faltering for a beat. You dig your nails into your palms, trying to get yourself to focus.

"Three…."

The crowd goes into an uproar in the final seconds. The sound of their cheering is nearly deafening, filling up every square inch of the frat house, almost drowning out the sound of Natasha finally yelling, "Stop!"

At her command, the participants drop to the ground like flies, heaving like they just ran a marathon. While you weren't even one amongst the now-exhausted competitors, you feel similarly winded to them, several shallow breaths falling from your mouth.

Wearily, Steve and Sam rise off the ground to sit back on their heels, leaving Bucky to lie face-down on the floor alone. Dripping in sweat and panting heavily, Steve looks at you for assurance. The sight of him makes you bite your lip, a small voice in your head telling you to jump on him right then and there.

You fight the urge to pounce, though, and instead flash him a thumbs up in response. While it was difficult to concentrate with all of the activity around you – as well as the inner buzzing you were experiencing – with the number you ended on, you figure you know who the winner is.

"Well, I think we all know who won," Natasha agrees with the internal remark you just made. "But, to make it official, let's have our spotters call out the final tallies," she announces, gesturing for the crowd to calm down and give you all the metaphorical mic.

"Bucky's final count was 19," Clint states, drawing a few "Awws" from the crowd.

Sam reaches over and claps Bucky's prone form on the back – Bucky not even having the energy to wave him off or grumble some kind of angry remark for being strong-armed into this competition.

"Sam's was 46," Wanda declares, being met with several "Whoops" from the party-goers.

As all eyes then turn to you, it seems like a hush rapidly takes over the crowd, the party silent for the first time this evening. You look over the spectators in turn before facing Steve once again. Ever so slowly, a smile grows on your face as you gaze directly into his eyes.

"Steve did…," you pause for dramatic effect, drawing out the palpable tension in the atmosphere, "…53."

A similarly wide grin spreads on Steve's face – the winner of this ridiculous but impressive competition. With the cocksure smile still plastered on, he raises his hands in victory, ready to welcome the inevitable flood of congratulations he's about to receive; ready to bask in the praise about to rain down on him; ready to—

"Sixty-eight," a voice calls from the corner.

All heads immediately snap towards the voice in question, seeing MJ leaning against the wall nonchalantly. "Peter did 68," she states again, nodding at Peter who stands beside her – looking slightly breathless and a faint flushed, but otherwise normal.

Your jaw drops in shock. You'd been so distracted by the commotion that you hadn't even noticed Peter was also participating just a few feet away. Apparently, Sam and Steve didn't notice either as their mouths also slacken in astonishment.

Peter shrugs and looks bashfully around the crowd. "I-I started a little late," he says, sounding almost embarrassed for not having done more.

Natasha smiles and shakes her head. "It’s okay, Peter, you did great,” she reassures him. “So, like I said, I think we have a clear winner on our hands." She brings one hand up to her mouth to mime holding a microphone while the other extends towards Peter. “Your winner, ladies and gentlemen: Peter Parker!”

The crowd once again erupts into cheers as dozens of people suddenly swarm Peter to congratulate him. While everyone else celebrates, Steve and Sam appear to be less than pleased that the underclassman won – both sulking and grumbling under their breaths.

“What’s that, gentlemen? Have something to say?” Natasha asks them, cupping her ear in a dramatic manner.

Sam raises a shoulder as if he's unbothered – though, that doesn’t keep the pettiness from seeping into his voice. “Just don’t think it was very fair,” he mumbles.

Natasha raises a skeptical brow at his words, putting a hand on her hip. “And why’s that? He did the competition, didn’t he? Did more push-ups than both of you? In less time, might I add,” she emphasizes, a smirk slanting her lips. “So how is that unfair?”

“Well, uh, we… we were… we were tired from all of the earlier lifting we did,” Steve offers, giving an excuse for why they’d been bested by the freshman.

“Yeah,” Sam nods vigorously. “I-I think I threw my back out trying to lift the couch. Ooh, ouch,” he hisses, contorting his face into a pained expression as he rubs at his lower back. “Yeah, that’s gonna be sore tomorrow.”

Natasha simply raises her brows as if to say, “You can do better than that.” At her sardonic expression, the men begin to spout more excuses for their loss. Natasha purses her lips and nods exaggeratedly as they talk, her motions drenched in sarcasm. After a solid minute of terrible justifications, the men eventually fade to a quiet lull, seeing she remains unconvinced.

“Mm-hm. Yeah. Of course,” Natasha says, continuing to nod along as if they're still speaking. When the men simply look at her in silence, only then does she stop the charade and let her expression return to normal. "Oh, are you finished? I don't want to interrupt you or anything."

Sam and Steve give her a guilty look before nodding gently, telling her they’re done with the bullshit.

"We can’t all be winners. You guys lost. Just accept it," she states, somehow managing to not roll her eyes as she speaks. "And while you might wanna sit on the floor and pout all night, I'd suggest getting up before you get trampled by the stampede." She gestures at the rowdy party-goers still floundering about, clumsily bumping into one another. She then turns to you and points to Bucky still splayed out on the floor. "Pumpkin, a hand?"

You nod and make your way over to help her. As you go about trying to pick up Bucky, you see Sam and Steve shoot each other disgruntled looks – brows furrowed and mouths downturned as they come to terms with what just happened. When Steve turns that grumpy look to you, you find that all you can do is hold his gaze in response.

Should you comfort him or give him some tough love like Natasha? Soothe him or scoff? Honestly, you’re not sure what to say in this moment, so you decide to say nothing at all, opting for a simple shrug instead.

You'll deal with Steve later. Right now, the only thing you're concerned with is how you're going to peel Bucky's limp, sweaty body off the living room floor.

~~~~~

“There you are! I was wondering where you wandered off to.”

You smile as you find Steve in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as he nurses a beer. After you and Natasha successfully got Bucky off the ground and over to the couch to recover, you’d found that Steve had slinked away somewhere. You've been searching the house for him the past 20 minutes, only to just now stumble upon him in the kitchen.

You expect he's been taking the time to decompress and mellow out, but as you near him, your smile falls when you get a closer look at his expression – looking as crabby and brooding as ever.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, tilting your head as you look him over.

Steve shrugs a shoulder and brings the bottle up to his lips, ignoring your question in favor of taking another swig of his beer.

You narrow your eyes and study him more closely. You haven’t seen Steve this annoyed since a certain bucket incident all that time ago – though, that same scenario is obviously not the cause of his current chagrin.

Well, given the unexpected turn of events from the night, you figure that likely has something to do with his demeanor. But that alone seems a bit petty if you’re being honest. Sure, Steve might understandably be a bit upset about losing the competition, but you highly doubt he’d throw a whole hissy fit because of it, and especially not almost half an hour after the fact.

Come to think of it, Steve’s been acting a little off all night. Could there be a reason for that besides losing a dumb, drunken competition? You wonder if perhaps there is.

“This isn’t just about the push-up contest, is it?” you ask in a delicate tone, trying to carefully broach the topic.

He shrugs again and takes another heavy gulp of his drink – not directly answering you, but nevertheless all but confirming your suspicions. There is something deeper at play that’s souring Steve’s mood.

You sigh and lean a hip against the counter beside him. “You wanna talk about it? You seem pretty upset,” you note, watching as he downs the rest of the beer.

He shakes his head as he pushes off the counter with a grunt. He discards the empty bottle before reaching into the fridge for a new one, popping off the cap and coming to lean back against the counter again.

“Y’sure? We can talk. I’m all ears,” you offer once more.

Unlike after ‘The Incident’ where Steve was left to silently stew in his thoughts all afternoon, you’d rather him get whatever this is off his chest here and now before it has a chance to boil over later.

Steve shakes his head again before tipping it back, guzzling the new beer in his hand. As he gulps and gulps and gulps without coming up for air – seemingly going to finish the bottle in one breath – you suddenly reach for the drink, pulling it from his hand and earning you a disgruntled look.

“What the hell?” Steve finally speaks, his empty hand outstretched.

“That’s enough of that,” you say before bringing the bottle up to your own lips, downing the remainder of the beer. Once you’ve finished, you set the bottle down with a grimace, the bitter taste of the cheap liquor coating your tongue. “Now, talk to me. What’s the matter? What’s going on?”

Steve blows out an exasperated breath and tosses both hands up in the air. “Shit, I don’t know. It’s… it’s just a lot of things, I guess.”

Okay, he’s willing to talk. That’s a good thing; that means you’re making some progress. You nod for him to continue, encouraging him to speak his mind.

He lets out another breath and shakes his head before beginning. “This whole week's been shit, really,” he sighs, his chin dipping to watch as he traces his palm with his thumb. “First, Coach has been on my ass relentlessly. All ‘Pick up the slack, Rogers. We’re only as strong as our weakest link’. And then tonight, I just wanted to kick back and forget about all that shit, only to get showed up by some punk freshman in a fucking push-up contest.”

“Hey,” you say, the sharpness in your tone drawing Steve’s eyes back up to you. “Don’t blame Peter. This isn’t his fault.”

Steve tucks his chin again as he nods guiltily. “No, yeah. You’re right, you’re right,” he agrees. “It’s just… I’ve been getting berated all week in front of my team, and so now to embarrass myself in front of the whole house, it’s…,” he trails off with a sigh, his eyes falling shut. “It’s a lot.”

A frown overtakes your face as you regard his sulking form. So that’s what this all stems from. Not just some ridiculous competition, but a much deeper-seated feeling of inadequacy. That explains a lot. The way he avoided talking about practice, the gloomy or otherwise abnormal behavior he’s had all night, the showboating he did to try to overcompensate… It all makes sense now.

“Baby, look at me.” You bring your hand up to his cheek, encouraging him to lift his head and open his eyes.

He takes a moment, but eventually, he relents, carefully bringing his attention back to you. You smile when his gaze once again connects with yours and you rub your thumb over his cheekbone.

“You… are incredible,” you say slowly; deliberately. “You are smart. Strong. Kind. You’re a damn great leader if I’ve ever seen one,” you emphasize, drawing a small, amused huff out of him. “You are worth so much more than what a contest, or Coach Phillips, or anyone says of you, alright? Fuck all of ‘em,” you gesture vaguely towards the doorway, indicating not only the party going on a room over, but anyone else who’d criticize Steve.

You bring your hand down to rest over his heart. “You. Are. Incredible. And you should never forget that.”

As you press your palm against the center of his chest, you see Steve slowly process your words, the sincerity in your voice hopefully having its intended effect on him. To your delight, a small smile gradually brightens his face, replacing that somber look he just had.

“Thank you, baby.” He takes your hand from his chest to place a kiss across your knuckles, then drops your intertwined hands down to your sides. “But I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

His rejection surprises you, making you blink in confusion. “Wha—”

“Even if I tried to ignore what everyone thinks of me, I can’t help that there’s still one person whose opinion I care about,” he says, some vaguely playful expression on his face.

You let the tension leave your body as you realize Steve isn’t completely disregarding everything you’d just said to him. That would’ve been discouraging to have your words tossed aside like they were useless.

And his latest statement in conjunction with the look on his face. Does he mean…? Is he really about to say…?

“You,” he admits, confirming your suspicions.

“Me?” Your brow quirks in question.

“Mm-hm,” he nods. “You’re right that it doesn’t matter what those drunks or that drill sergeant thinks. But you… well, your opinion matters greatly to me. I think sometimes it’s even more important than my opinion of myself,” he chuckles.

You smile with him and squeeze his hand a little tighter in yours. “I’m flattered. It’s nice that someone holds me in such high esteem,” you say, partially joking and partially earnest. While you know he’s being a bit hyperbolic when he says your opinion is the only one that matters to him, it’s still endearing to know that he thinks so highly of you.

“So… what do you think of me? Honestly,” Steve probes.

You tilt your head in slight perplexity. “I just told you. You’re incredible, and smart, and—”

“Well, those are just facts,” he jokes, a smirk curving the side of his mouth. “What do you think of me?”

You take a moment to search your brain, trying to come up with a succinct answer to appease him. “I… think you’re pretty great,” you remark.

“Just 'great'?” He raises a taunting brow. He steps closer to you and wraps his arms around your lower back, enveloping you within his embrace. “Just a step up above ‘good’? That’s all?”

You roll your eyes in jest. While you’re glad he’s obviously in a much better mood than he was just a few minutes ago, his cheekiness leaves something to be desired. Still, you'll humor him for a bit.

“I think you’re absolutely amazing.”

“‘Amazing’?" He winces in faux pain. "Ouch, you wound me."

You sigh and shake your head, biting the insides of your cheeks to keep from smiling too widely. He’s really milking this for everything he can, isn’t he?

Bringing your hands up to his chest, you rest your palms across his pecs, leaning into him slightly. “Steve, I think you are the sweetest, strongest, sexiest man I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

“‘Knowing’ as in a… Biblical sense?” he grins devilishly.

You can't help the derisive tsk that involuntarily leaves your mouth. "Uh… I was thinking more of a general sense, but… sure. We can go with that," you chuckle, shaking your head in feigned admonishment. "Hmm, but… now that you mention it,” you start walking your index and middle fingers along his chest, dancing on the planes of muscle. “You know what, Captain?"

The sound of his nickname makes Steve squeeze you a little tighter in his arms, his pupils dilating marginally. “What?”

“Of all the men I’ve ever 'known'," you emphasize, telling him you're still talking about that kind of 'knowing', "by far, you have got the absolute biggest… thickest… most gorgeous-looking co—”

“Bleeeegh!”

Yours and Steve's attentions are rapidly drawn towards the sink, finding Scott bent over the counter puking his guts up.

"Bluuuuh! Blaaargh!" he vomits, the sound violent and entirely unpleasant.

You and Steve untangle yourselves from each other as the moment’s now unfortunately been ruined. You grimace as Scott continues to blow chunks just a few feet away, counting your blessings that you’re too far to be able to see or smell anything that’s coming up out of him. When he pauses for a moment to catch his breath, you call out to him to check up on how he's doing.

"Scott, are y—"

"BLEEEEGH!"

"—ou okay?"

Even as he continues to hurl, Scott manages to put a thumb up in the air, signaling that he's alright. Or… as alright as can be expected.

When there's another cease in the vomiting, Steve carefully approaches Scott at the sink. As Steve reaches the basin and looks down, he retches, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. His Adam's apple bobs as he pushes back a gag, forcing himself to hold his breath as he gently pats Scott on the back.

"You good, man?" Steve asks him, looking upwards at the ceiling instead of at the mess below.

Scott nods like his head is made of lead, his movements slow and heavy. "I-I think so," he slurs, the alcohol lacing every drop of his blood.

"Okay. Good." Steve nods, trying to sound pleased. "Now, why don't you—?"

"BLUUUUH!"

"Oh, come on!" Steve jumps back to avoid the splash zone. "I can't. I can't do this. I’m a sympathy vo—" he heaves, nearly joining Scott in the dramatics by spewing his guts across the kitchen tile. He takes a few deep breaths to collect himself before looking to you. “Dollface, can you…?”

“Me?” Your eyes go wide at the unspoken question. “No, no, no. He’s one of your brothers. And as such, you should take care of him.”

At that moment, some poor, unsuspecting underclassman walks into the kitchen, making Steve's eyes immediately light up.

"Luis, c’mere. I’ve got a job for you,” Steve waves him over, swallowing back another gag. When Luis is within arm’s reach, Steve grabs him by the collar and shoves him beside Scott. “Watch Scott and make sure he finishes up here. Then, go make him lie down. Okay?"

Luis nods vigorously. “Yeah, man, whatever you say. You know, one time back in highschool, I looked after this one sick kid. A week before, I was practicing my trick shots on my hoop in my yard. I’m normally more of a point guard, but I had just gotten some new Jordans and didn’t wanna crease ‘em, you know? My sister saw me and was like, ‘Wow, nice J’s, Luis. I think Daniel has a cousin with a pair just like them.’ Daniel had been my sister’s boyfriend at the time, but they broke up after he cheated with this girl who had a mole the size of a nickel on her—”

“Yeah, that’s great,” Steve cuts him off with a clap to his shoulder. He swiftly grabs your hand and ushers you towards the door. "Make sure you put him on his side!" he adds as he pulls you after him, taking you far away from the disgusting scene still playing out in the kitchen.

Your arm nearly feels like it’s going to be ripped out of its socket as Steve whisks you up the stairs towards his room. Once you’re pulled inside, Steve kicks the door shut behind you, muting the sound of the party still going on below.

Finally secluded from the chaos and mess of the night, you let out an airy breath as you turn around to face him. It’s just you and him now, and you’ll be damned if anything else tries to get in the way of you finally having a good time with Steve.

You take a step closer to him, hoping to backpedal to when you'd been interrupted in the kitchen. “Now… where were we?” you muse, letting your hands drift up his arms, across his shoulders, behind his neck.

Steve mirrors your sentiment by placing his hands on your hips. Luckily for you, he seems to be on the same page of picking up right where you last left off.

“Ah, I think I remember,” you say. “We were right… about… here.” You tug him down to you, connecting your mouths in a heated kiss, your tongue instantly lashing against his, tasting the alcohol still lingering on his taste buds.

“Mmm, mmm,” Steve mumbles against your lips, his fingers tightening on your waist. He pulls back a smidge, breaking the kiss but still keeping his hold on you. “I don’t think we were quite there yet, actually,” he teases. “I believe you were saying something about me having the biggest, thickest… what exactly?”

You roll your eyes and sigh, letting your hands come down to his shoulders. If he wants to continue to be a goof, then two can play at that game.

“Heart, Steve. You have the biggest, thickest, juiciest heart of anyone I’ve ever met," you smile innocently, knowing you both know that wasn't what you'd originally meant to say.

"Whoa, slow your roll there, Hannibal. Don’t go whipping out the steak knife just yet," he laughs. "But is there anything else about me that's particularly well endowed?"

"There is," you nod, still grinning. "That wonderful brain of yours, Steve." You touch his temple lightly, earning you an amused snort. "And don’t forget your big, bright smile, your larger than life charisma, your out of this world leadership skills—”

“Okay, now you’re just giving me a big head.”

“—and… I guess… your muscles aren’t too shabby either,” you say with mock indifference, squeezing his impressive biceps beneath your fingers.

“Oh, what’s this now?” he asks, voice piquing with his curiosity. “Weren’t you the one that was shamelessly ogling me earlier in the night? Practically objectifying me in front of everyone?”

You pull your brows together as if deep in thought, pursing your lips as you pretend to reflect for a second. “No, I don’t recall doing that.” You shake your head.

Steve scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Okay, sure,” he says sarcastically. “But weren’t you the one who, once upon a time, remarked that I could probably ‘throw you around like you weigh nothing’?” He raises a daring brow, reminding you of your words from long ago.

“No, I don’t recall that either,” you lie and shake your head again. “But, if I had said something like that, I’d also note that you’ve yet to prove it to me. I’ve experienced an utter lack of manhandling in our time together,” you faux pout, donning your best ‘wounded puppy’ look. “Maybe you’re not as strong as I thought you were.”

Steve all but groans as he shakes his head incredulously, his expression rapidly clearing of all humor. “What, do you want me to suplex you? Would that do it for ya?” He pulls you closer to him, nodding to his bed over in the corner.

Seeing the way his demeanor switches from silly to sober has you quickly putting a hand up in defense. “Okay, no, I don't actually want to get tossed around like the ol' pigskin,” you snap from your feigned sadness, shifting away from him slightly. Despite how you might joke, that doesn’t sound very fun. It sounds more like a recipe for disaster.

"Then what? What do you want me to do?" Steve releases you and places his hands on his hips. His face reads entirely serious as he stares you down expectantly.

Uh-oh. Now you've done it. You just had to go running your mouth. Now that you've brought it up, you know Steve won't simply let it go; he never does. You've just lit a fire under Steve's ass, and it won't be extinguished until he thinks he's finally proven how strong he is.

"I… I don't know…," you murmur under your breath. You’ve never really thought it through before, and being put on the spot now doesn’t help.

"You want me to rip a phonebook in half? Crush a watermelon with my bare hands?” he offers, taking a step in your direction.

“No, I— Well…” you stop and consider. Can he really do that? Is that even possible?

“Then something else? Cagefighting? Mud wrestling?” He takes another step, another few inches closer.

You step back. “Steve, I don’t know—”

“Then what?” He's right in front of you, practically breathing on you. “What?”

“Bench press,” you say, blurting out the first random thing that comes to mind.

He halts. “Bench press?” he repeats as if he didn't hear you correctly, his brows pinching together. Honestly, you don't blame him for being confused. Where did that come from?

You nod, albeit stiffly.

Steve's eyes rove your form for a moment, his head tilting inquisitively. "You mean you? You want me to bench press you?" he clarifies.

You swallow a sudden lump in your throat. “Mm-hm,” you confirm, though it doesn't sound confident at all.

Seriously, where did that idea come from? Bench pressing? You don't know where or how you got that in your head. Maybe it was because of the competition from earlier, or maybe it was something you overheard someone say, or hell, maybe it's a secret, unconscious desire of yours that Freud would love to psychoanalyze…

Either way, as soon as the words left your mouth, you immediately regretted them.

The second guessing only worsens as you watch Steve lower himself with zero hesitation, drawing his knees up as his back and feet rest against the carpet. You stay firmly rooted to your spot as he gets himself situated on the ground, the uncertainty curdling in your gut.

This is a fucking terrible idea. This is a rush to the ER waiting to happen. This is your fault if – no, when – things go badly.

You’re such an idiot. Why’d you have to spew the first dumb idea that entered your thick skull? Or rather, why’d you have to poke the bear in the first place?

Though you know you won’t be able to sway his mind entirely, maybe you can still suggest something a little less precarious. But what? What should you say? What would be an equal challenge that not only proves Steve's strength, but doesn't involve you cracking your head open as you inevitably tumble to the—

“Well?” Steve prompts, stopping your train of thought.

Fuck. Too late. You're out of time.

He stares up at you, eager to proceed. “What are you waiting for?”

It looks like your bed is made. Now you have to lie in it.

Cautiously, you take small steps as you round Steve, eyeing him as he lays by your feet. Are you really going to do this? Are you really this crazy? This stupid?

Just as the tips of your shoes come to his flank, you find yourself stopping. It's like you're completely frozen – unable to move or even speak.

What's the matter with you? Why are you so scared? You trust Steve, right? He wouldn't let anything happen to you, correct? So really, what do you have to worry about?

A vision of you riding in the back of an ambulance flashes across your mind, and you're quick to whisk it away. Oof.

“C’mon, I don’t bite,” Steve gibes, either not noticing or not caring about your unease. “That is, not unless you—”

“Alright, alright,” you cut him off before he gets a chance to finish the cliché. This was your idea anyway; you might as well get it over with.

You go to lower yourself, but before getting too far, you pause once more. “Just… don’t drop me. Please,” you beg, sending him an anxious look.

“I’ll try not to,” he says genuinely, though that smirk on his face gives his words a teasing edge.

Releasing a pointed breath, you carefully lower yourself into a crab position, your torso hovering over the expanse of Steve’s shoulders. Steve brings his hands up to your body – one high up between your shoulder blades and the other to your upper thighs.

“You ready?” he asks from below you.

Staring up at the wood-paneled ceiling, you nod once, feeling your palms start to sweat as they rest against the shag carpet.

“Okay, on the count of three,” he tells you.

You hold your breath, your heart practically beating out of your chest.

“One… two…”

You yelp as Steve suddenly lifts you into the air, completely ignoring the last number in favor of catching you off guard. He laughs at the surprised noise you make, his hands firmly planted on your body, perfectly confident as they hold you high.

“See? All fine,” he snarks as he begins to lower you to his chest. “Easy peasy.”

You swallow raggedly, your stomach flipping. “Alright, don’t get too coc—” you yelp again as Steve lifts you once more in the air, only to lower you back down not a moment later.

“I’m sorry, what was that? I couldn’t quite hear you,” Steve’s devilish grin bleeds into his voice.

Your nerves fray as shock and fear course through you, the adrenaline streaming through your veins. You want to snap at Steve for toying with you so, for purposefully frightening you, but instead find you can't say anything at all, your lips parted in silent disbelief.

That… wasn't too bad. Of course, you could've done without those initial scares since you didn't find them as funny as he did. But as you catch your breath now, you feel the anxiety slaking away from your body, being replaced by something else entirely. Something akin to warmth. Excitement. Thrill.

Maybe you'll enjoy this more than you thought.

“Again,” you chirp, a grin cresting your mouth. “Keep going!” you urge and reach down to tap Steve’s thigh in encouragement.

“Whoa, careful!” Steve’s hold on you quivers for a moment as your fingers brush a little higher than you expected. “I don’t wanna drop you.”

“You won’t, just keep going!” You give him one more slightly lower tap before bringing your hand back up. Crossing your arms over your chest and extending your legs into a straight line, you wait for Steve to proceed, practically giddy with anticipation.

With an amused ‘hmph’ at your eagerness, Steve obliges and continues with his reps – this time, raising and lowering you in quick succession, not bothering to snark in between.

He maintains a brisk pace as he effortlessly lifts you again and again, showing no sign of slowing down or tiring out. In fact, the only indication that Steve is exerting any real energy is the sound of his breathing – a solitary harsh breath pushed out every time you’re raised up, followed by a deep inhale during your descent.

It's hard to contain your excitement as you let him show off. Why were you so apprehensive about this before? This is exhilarating, damn near electrifying. This might be the most fun you've ever had.

As you hear his breathing start to rasp more, you try to remain as still as possible, wanting to ease his task so you can draw this out for every second available. That, in turn, ends up being a feat all on its own – your legs trembling as you keep them upright, your abdomen tensing in time with his pants, your thighs clenching as his touch gradually inches higher and higher.

A shiver runs through you as Steve’s fingers suddenly curl around your inner thigh, his grip readjusting so he has a better hold on you. The heat of his palm seeps through the thin barrier separating your skin from his, and you feel a similar warmth bloom in your core, his caress igniting something deep within.

Blood pounds in your ears as your focus centers on his hold, his hand wandering dangerously high. You gasp as his fingers suddenly brush the apex of your thighs and your breathing picks up the pace to match Steve's.

You're unsure if he even registers the placement of his hand – those thick digits pressed firmly against you, practically cupping your most intimate area – but fuck if it doesn't feel good. If he does notice how he's touching you, if he feels the way your panties slicken, he makes no move to stop. He just goes on and on and on and on, and it's almost too much to bear.

Your throat constricts as a knot forms in your belly. As much as you're enjoying yourself, you feel like you should say something. You're getting feverishly worked up, and you're not quite sure that's a good thing. The sounds, the sensations, even the smells you're experiencing… It's nearly overwhelming your circuits.

Perhaps you should tell him to stop; tell him you need a break; tell him that if he continues to touch you like that any longer, if he doesn't move his hand away right now, you're afraid you're gonna c—

"Hey, man, do you still have those— Christ!"

Startled, Steve's hold on you slips, Sam's sudden arrival surprising you both. You teeter in the air for a moment before the ground is rapidly coming up to meet you, your head narrowly missing Steve's bed as you tumble. The carpet absorbs little of the impact as you come crashing back down to earth, your hip taking the brunt of the fall. You groan and roll onto your back as Steve quickly sits up, running a hand through his messy hair.

"Damn," Sam says, averting his eyes from you two. "You guys could at least put a sock on the door or something. This room is half mine, you know." The corners of his mouth downturn in disgust, his gaze directed to the upper corner of the bedroom.

"That's not— We weren't—" Steve mutters.

"I don't wanna know," Sam declares with a sweeping hand motion. He sighs deeply through his nose like he's trying to muster up courage. Then carefully, as if he's afraid to look, he peeks back at you two. He relaxes when he realizes you're both decent, and turns to face you more fully. "I just wanted to see if you still have those waxing strips from last year," he says.

Steve's brow furrows in confusion. "I— Why?" That's an odd request.

At the question, a mischievous smirk curves the president's mouth. He leans against the doorway, crossing one arm over the other. "A certain someone might be passed out drunk on the stairs right now, and that someone might wake up with one less eyebrow tomorrow morning."

You can't help the snort that catches in your nose. Oh, that is evil. Hilarious, but evil.

Steve, on the other hand, doesn't seem to find it nearly as amusing. After all, he's had a first-hand encounter with those sticky bastards. "Who?" he asks.

"Don't worry about it," Sam supplies.

"Who?"

Sam rolls his eyes, but relents to Steve's insistence to know. "Let's just say they'll be languishing for weeks to come." His eyes twinkle wickedly.

Steve sighs and shakes his head. For a second, you think he isn't going to be an accomplice to Sam's scheme, especially since he knows how painful those strips are. But after a beat, he says, "Bucky had them last. Go check with him."

Satisfied, Sam nods and quickly backs out of the room. As he pulls the door behind him, he adds, "Make sure you guys air out the room this time. I don't wanna be smelling your funk after you're done."

"We weren't—" Steve tries to explain again, but is cut off by the snap of the door closing.

He sighs again, annoyed, and then turns to you. His eyes narrow as he takes in your disheveled figure, his focus zeroing in on the hand cradling your hip. Sam's interruption apparently made him forget all about dropping you on your ass because his eyes go wide as he finally remembers.

He springs into action, crawling over to you to ghost his fingers over your side. "Shit! Are you alright? Does it hurt?" He touches a particularly tender spot, making him retract his hands as you hiss.

Despite a lingering throb, honestly, it's not too bad. It's definitely not as horrific as you had imagined beforehand. It'll probably just be a minor bruise that'll greet you tomorrow, nothing too serious.

"I've had worse," you say, shifting to lean on the opposite hip.

Steve shakes his head, drawing his lips into a thin line. "Let me get you some ice." He's on his feet in an instant, rapidly making his way to the door.

"No, it's okay," you try to reassure him. You feel fine. You don't need him to go out of his way to fetch you anything.

Unfortunately, your words seem to go in one ear and out the other.

"We should have some in the freezer," Steve notes, more to himself than you. He's just about reached the door when you call out to him.

"Steve," you stress, making him stop dead in his tracks.

As he turns back to face you, you see the concern etched in his brows, the lines framing either side of his mouth. He's worried for you, and it's clear in his tense expression.

"I'm fine," you promise. For emphasis, you sit up a bit, hardly even feeling the dull pain that hammers in your side.

You can tell he doesn't quite believe you, though – his body still poised to run out the door – so you repeat yourself, a little firmer. "I'm fine. Really." You smile tenderly, affectionately, and emit the truth through your eyes.

That seems to do the trick.

Cautiously, Steve takes a small step towards you. "You sure?" he checks one more time.

You nod. "Positive."

Steve breathes a relieved sigh as he returns to you, kneeling beside you on the carpet. "I'm so sorry, baby. I didn't mean to drop you."

Looking into his eyes, you see how remorse streaks his irises, the emotion running deep and wholly earnest. The sight tugs on your heart.

"It's okay. I know," you tell him gently.

You know he would never mean to hurt you, and you know he feels awful for unintentionally doing so. But you're not upset with him; not even a little. Even though you did get a little banged up in this instance, it was technically your fault for suggesting it in the first place. So really, you're not mad.

"Besides," you begin, lounging back down on the rug, "I actually had a lot of fun." Well… right up until the end that is. But that's besides the point.

Steve cocks an intrigued brow, slightly wary of your words. "Really?"

You bite the edge of your lip and nod. "Yeah. While I was a little nervous at first, by the end, I just… I don't know, I…" you trail off, diverting your eyes from his as the memories flash in your mind.

That free feeling as you were suspended in the air, weightless but grounded at the same time; that comforting reassurance of his hands on you, strong and sturdy against your body; that delicious warmth burning in your stomach, hot and hopelessly needy.

You press your thighs together.

"I really liked it," you conclude, meeting his gaze again.

Steve's eyes flit down to your legs before rising once more to your face. A knowing smirk pulls at his lip. "I'll bet," he taunts, a dimple forming in his cheek. He leans closer. "So, does this mean you're convinced? Was that enough manhandling to satisfy you?" he reminds you of the reason you got into this predicament in the first place.

"Mmm…," you hum, feigning timidity that you both know is a ruse. After a beat, you shrug. "I suppose."

"You 'suppose'?" His smirk deepens at your poor attempt to seem indifferent. He huffs and sits back. "Well, I'd be happy to do it again… and again… and again. As long as it takes until you're satisfied," his intonation hints at a double meaning behind his words.

At his innuendo, you quickly shake your head in dissent, and Steve's smile immediately falls.

"As much as I had fun and wouldn't mind trying again in the future," you say, telling him this isn't the last time, "I think, at least for the time being," you husk and bat your lashes, "it'd be better if you’re on top."

Now it's your turn to smirk as you let your own double entendre sink in. It doesn't take Steve long to get it, and when he does, his mouth similarly curls at the corners.

Steve seems to be right in line with you as he extends his hand to help you to your feet. Glad to see his enthusiasm, you reach for him, excitement tingling in your fingertips.

Your hand grazes his, but before you can grab on, Steve reaches past you to plunge his arm under the bed.

Your face twists in confusion. "What the hell?" you gasp as you watch him root around under his bed, apparently in search of something.

After a moment, Steve pulls his arm back out, a discarded gym sock clenched in his grasp. He stands and makes his way to the door. "Sam told us to put a sock on the door, so I’m grabbing the one for 'special time'," he explains. Quickly, he ties the fabric around the outside handle, closing and locking the door once finished.

You roll your eyes as he turns back to face you. You thought that only happened in movies.

"Hey, just be glad I didn’t grab Sam’s ‘special time’ sock," Steve says, reapproaching you. "That has an entirely different purpose."

Before you have time to cringe at the thought, Steve lifts you around the waist and tosses you on the bed, knocking the wind from you. He crawls up after you and covers your body with his, eyes smoldering as he nestles between your legs.

"Me on top, huh?" he repeats your words back to you. Brazenly, he lowers his hips so they rest snug against yours, rocking gently so that fire is quickly stoked inside you again.

The action makes your voice catch in your throat. Rendered mute, you find all you can do is nod in response, watching as he grins and dips his head closer.

With his lips a hair’s breadth away, fingers sliding up your sides, Steve whispers, "Sounds easy enough to me."

__________

A/N: You know what else is easy, Steve? *points both thumbs at self* This girl…

Anyway, I'd love to know what you thought! Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!

#steve rogers #steve x reader #steve rogers x reader #steve x you #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers smut #marvel #mcu #oneshot #female reader

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gleeandshame · 7 months

Text

Gbbo botanical week 2023

Liveblogging for myself and one friend

Botanical weeks seem to replay the random nationalities, probably smart but something not common huh!

Abbi woulda thrived, huh?

Usually it’s like an old man who has a garden in past seasons who do it for fun

Gotta be real, I’m not sure how cardamom tastes

I forget spices are like… natural lol

Mulled wine to egg is so grey, looool

Quite a dangerous thing to do. “Thank you”

Go Tasha, lol, I wish her the best tho

We fight Paul here

Dana, girl, not spicing a bun but just the filling? Good luck

Was Josh also a garden boy earlier… eh we’ll see

I’ve not really baked a bread besides banana so I never had to prove anything. Seems a rough bit with their time always

That did look nice Dana, the twist

Oh I forget they might use Celsius? Or do they use F for baking. Wow I know nothing

Alison “lean on these buns” I’m…

Yes Tasha prove Paul wrong (was prove a pun)

Welp, called it with Dana

Saku works in accounting, her maths!

Like Josh’s lemon and blueberry representative frosting swirl

Good job Cristy

Alison did tell matty to prove longer lol

1 hour 30 doesn’t seem enough. They like the pressure dramas now I feel

Matty and Alison as lemon and time

That’s a big cake for each person, hope the crew gets to enjoy

Noel is actually singing “Entrance of the Gladiators” what a song for clowns huh

I don’t know crystallizing

Matty being completely confused and Tasha just watching when not supposed to

Noel and Saku messing around

Enrichment in his enclosure

Judged the technical well into the night? I don’t notice sundown often

Matty you referenced HP, unfortunately we must throw you in a pit now

Dan made something hmmm

Alison…. Hahahahhahahaaaaa

Saku is making something ambitious

Tasha just signing to be more comfortable, let’s gooooo

Is hibiscus like really popular over there???

I mean we have them where I live, like in people’s yards, but I only had a hibiscus drink like once

That box should be nice

It looks like resin

Shark attacks! Lol, Dana is fun

Yeah that’s like a sunflower texture… I didn’t notice cristy buttering the mold, oh it’s the chocolate

Dan no…..

Tasha what

Why is there tragic disasters and there’s no commentary. What a time suck!!!

Oh Tasha’s back up, plot twist!!! Good for her

Tasha is so tall… (me being normal about it)

Thank you for the help Josh!

Cristy nooo, I mean idk if there’s anything practical to do

Saku saying bless her

Cristy no… no offense to her, but she gives off the vibes of someone would would start crying so like… :(

They can eat it… this is sad. Someone mentioned if old hosts were around they would cuss up a storm to make this footage unusable

Cristy, I think you should be safe you did well earlier….

Group hug and lots of encouragement from others though

Starting out they’re judging Tasha a little too kindly on look, I think… the inside does look nice tho and do trust it’s yummy tho

That’s a nice flower and the layers are clean, Saku

Very nice flower, Josh

Josh is quite good. He just doesn’t have much personality comparatively to others

Dana’s decoration is very cool, shame about the rest

Good on ya Josh

Ah, knew she was gone, but RIP. She’s kept a great attitude. Goodbye :(

Yay calling mums

Saku asking about time off to someone named Charlotte, looool

#gbbo #gbbo spoilers

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runesandramblings · 1 year

Text

"To The Ends of The Earth"

Word Count: TBD / ongoing

Content Warnings: none, follows the events from The Hobbit so there will be the expected violence from the movies

Pairings: KilixOC

Themes: crossover Marvel x Tolkien, romance, fanfic, canon-ish events

Summary:

In the wake of The Blip, the multi-verse has expanded knowledge of the universe in ways no one thought possible. For the first time, journeying between realms and realities is a tangible possibility.

Ex-SHIELD agent and Avenger, Lilith Lenore, is hiding from her past, shunning the life she once led. But when an offer from a wizard of another world is extended, she cannot refuse.

Chapter 3: Into The Woods

I awoke the next morning to sunlight beaming into my eyes through the window I'd yet to buy curtains for. I sat up slowly and rubbed my eyes, still feeling as though the evening before had been a dream. I looked around my room slowly, taking in the almost empty space. It would likely be a while before I saw it again. Well, technically it would only be a day or so in this timeline. According to Gandalf, time moves differently between realms. It would feel like several months to me in his world; in this world, I would only be gone for a couple of days.

I continued to replay the conversation from the night before as I allowed the sleep to slowly fade. Gandalf had said he didn't intend to overwhelm me, as the full explanation was a bit much. The details, he'd said, would come as things moved along.

I threw my feet over the edge of the mattress and stood up, crossing the room to the lone dresser on the opposite side of the room. I rummaged through the drawers for a moment before settling on a plain gray t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Gandalf had assured me I'd be outfitted in more appropriate clothes for our journey once I arrived in his realm. Still, I couldn't show up in nothing.

I picked up a small backpack from the floor and paused, contemplating what, if anything, I should take. I'd been told I could bring a few small personal items from home. Evidently where I was heading, our modern technology didn't exist. My phone and any electronic devices would be rendered useless from the moment I arrived. I didn't really have any personal, sentimental belongings I felt necessary to bring. I mused over practicalities for a few moments before stepping into my small bathroom and packing my hairbrush, toothbrush, and a few other hygiene necessities. I wasn't entirely sure what I was heading into, and being able to keep some small form of a routine would be nice. I doubled back into my bedroom and slid open the top dresser drawer. I'd considered bringing the hidden gun from the living room, but given what Gandalf had told me about his realm and technology I was fairly certain firearms were a no go. I pulled the blade I always kept hidden on me from its hiding spot, tucked behind crumpled t-shirts, and tossed it into the bag.

I checked the time on my phone one last time before sticking it in the drawer, in the same hiding spot I usually kept the knife. It was five till 9; almost time to meet Nick. Despite my insistence that he could stay -after all, he'd already gone to the trouble of breaking into my apartment- he'd informed me he'd already made arrangements for the evening prior to his arrival.

I double checked the doors to the balcony before slipping quietly out of the apartment, locking the front door behind me as I did so. I would only be gone for a few days, so I hoped no one would come snooping around my vacant apartment in that short amount of time. I slid the note I had written to Mrs. Figueroa under her door as I passed her unit. She was a bit of a talker sometimes, so I was hoping to save myself the trouble by leaving a note in place of an actual conversation.

Mrs. F,

Got a call from back home, family emergency. Had to leave in the middle of the night. Should be back in a few days. Didn't want you to worry.

Samantha

I skipped down the staircase and rounded the corner into the lobby to find Nick already standing there already, arms crossed.

"About time you showed up." He started, gesturing to the watch on his wrist. "It's 9:01."

I grimaced as he held the door open for me, nodding for me to step outside before him.

"Nice to see you too."

"We're lost, aren't we?"

I glanced around us at the unfamiliar surroundings. I'd been following Nick through the woods for well over an hour. Gandalf had given us specific instructions on where to meet him, which was approximately three miles into the forest on the outskirts of town. Somewhere inconspicuous, as I could imagine whatever means he had to transport us into his realm wouldn't be the most discreet.

"We aren't lost." Nick muttered, turning the scrap of paper over in his hands. He studied it carefully in silence for a few moments, his forehead furrowing in frustration. Gandalf had given him a scrawled out, hand drawn map. It looked pretty straightforward; that is, until Nick had taken over navigating.

"Why do I have a feeling GPS won't be available where I'm going." I joked, looking up into the trees that surrounded us.

It was peaceful. A welcome reprieve from city life. I'd been toying with the idea of moving again before Nick had shown up. I was growing tired of the city, of the constant noise and commotion. The forest was still and, most importantly, quiet.

I closed my eyes for a moment, listening to the sounds of small creatures skittering across the treetops above me. There was a light breeze I could hear rustling the leaves. I inhaled deeply, willing myself to relax as I listened to the sounds of the forest. I was more nervous than I cared to admit. Despite the fact that I'd been through hell and back on Earth, there was something about leaving my world entirely that was more frightening than anything I'd been through before. More than Thanos, even. I felt my heart begin to pound as I reopened my eyes. So much for relaxation.

"Do you want me to take a look?" I asked, gesturing to the map in an attempt to distract myself from the nervous pit bubbling in my stomach.

"Nope, I see. Here we are." Nick said quickly, gesturing to a section of the scribbled map and directions. "This is where we are now, which means-"

"Which means, Master Fury, that you should have been here half an hour ago."

We both whirled around to find Gandalf approaching from the direction we had just come. I would have sworn on my life he had appeared out of thin air. And, well, given that he was a wizard he just might have.

He looked more like a wizard now than he had in my apartment the night before. His gray suit had been replaced with a long, flowing gray robe. His hair had been loosened from its band and now flowed freely, and somewhat wildly, around his shoulders. He carried a staff in his right hand, and wore a pointed, also gray, hat on top of his head.

"I was beginning to think you weren't coming." He said, smiling coyly at Nick and I.

Nick glanced, somewhat ashamed, down at the paper map in his hands. I felt a smirk tug at the corners of my lips. I wasn't used to seeing Nick flustered.

"I, uh-" he started. "Sorry."

Gandalf shook his head, waving his hand dismissively.

"No apologies needed, I'm sure my directions were not the most convenient for you." He gave Nick a kind look as he turned to face me. "I don't mean to cut this short, but we are a bit behind schedule. Are you ready?"

I nodded, gesturing to the backpack slung over my shoulder.

"I packed light."

Gandalf nodded in return, gesturing for me to step closer. He extended his arm out to the side, indicating I was meant to stand beneath it.

"Very well then. Let's be on our way."

I moved to stand underneath his outstretched arm, hesitating for a moment. Despite the past twelve hours, it was beginning to feel real. I was really going on this journey, whatever that meant. I truly had no idea where I was going, or what lay ahead. I looked back at Nick for reassurance as he nodded wordlessly in approval. I nodded back and stepped fully into the wizard's side.

Gandalf rested his arm on my shoulders and pulled his other arm, the one with the staff, in front of us.

"Hold on tightly now. You may want to shut your eyes."

There was a flash of blinding white light, so bright I could feel my eyes burn despite keeping them shut tight. It was followed by a sense of weightlessness, and for a moment I lost the feeling of Gandalf's arm around me. It lasted for what felt like an eternity and no time at all. I squeezed my fists tightly, grasping his robes. Was it possible to be lost between realms? I didn't want to find out.

"Lilith? You can let go now."

I felt myself slowly unclench my fists, my fingers sore from how tight my hold on the wizard was. I was afraid to open my eyes. The momentary weightlessness had left me feeling disoriented, and I was certain I'd fall over if I opened them. Or throw up.

I slowly opened one eye, allowing myself to feel grounded on the earth beneath me before I slowly allowed the other one to open. I let go of Gandalf and stepped back.

We were in the middle of another forest; upon first glance it was not too different from the one we'd just left. If I didn't know any better I wouldn't have guessed we'd left my world at all. Despite the familiarity there was also something different about it, something I couldn't put a finger on. But the longer I looked around, the more I realized it was like nothing I'd ever seen before.

It was...breathtaking.

It contained all the familiarity of home. The trees looked the same. The sky was still blue, the grass still green. Despite the similarities, I felt as if I were experiencing shades of those same colors I had never seen before. The grass was impossibly green, a deep and rich shade that didn't feel real. The blades were thick and soft underfoot and as it stretched around me as far as I could see, it didn't appear to have a single blade out of place. Throughout forest floor there were clumps of vibrant red and white spotted mushrooms, and clusters of purple and yellow wildflowers. Even in the most beautiful forest I'd been in back home, it was never so beautiful and picturesque. The blue sky peeking out from between the treetops was dotted with fluffy, perfect white clouds. I would have believed I was staring right up into a painting if someone had told me so.

And the smell. I inhaled deeply, breathing in as a passing breeze tickled my nose. It was so fresh and clear, I could almost describe it as sweet. I hadn't ever considered how polluted the air on Earth was, but as I breathed in deeply over and over I felt as if I were properly taking a breath for the first time. It felt clean, and as I took another deep breath in it felt as if I couldn't fill my lungs enough.

As I looked down at the ground around me a second time, I noticed my clothes were different than the ones I had left home in. At some point in the move between realms they'd been transformed into something that, I guessed, was more appropriate for this world.

Instead of my old, worn in sneakers I was wearing knee-high, lace up black boots. They appeared to be made of some kind of leather, though I couldn't be certain. My jeans had been replaced by fitted, black trousers. The top I now wore was also black and had sleeves and a hood; it came down slightly below where a shirt would normally lay. I supposed it was more of a tunic than a blouse. Both the trousers and tunic were an unusual material, and my best assumption was that it was a sort of wool, or maybe an unfamiliar fabric from this realm. Around my waist was wrapped a fitted, black leather belt. It was thick, and laced up in the front; more of a short corset than a belt. My backpack had also been transformed into a black and brown leather satchel that was slung across my body and rested at my side.

"I hope you find the clothes appropriate." Gandalf started. "I took the liberty of asking Master Nick what your usual wardrobe was and made some adjustments."

I nodded wordlessly, still feeling myself lost in a stunned silence. I couldn't seem to find words to speak; it was more overwhelming than I thought it would be.

Gandalf smiled knowingly, seeming to understand my awe and disorientation.

"I hope you also find the choice of weapons appropriate. I was told you're quite deadly with a blade."

I immediately moved my hand to my side and felt the hilt of some weapon, and feeling further down it was housed in a leather sheath. I looked down to find a sword strapped to my side. Looking on my other hip I found two smaller blades concealed in smaller sheaths on my thigh. I followed the trail of a leather strap wrapped around my torso and chest, reaching around to feel what was strapped onto my back; it felt like a bow. I hadn't used one with the Avengers, but Clint had given me lessons and I'd picked up on it pretty quickly. I hope it was the same as riding a bike, and the knowledge would come back to me with a little practice.

"Thank you." I started, finally finding my voice. "But I've never used a sword before."

Gandalf chuckled.

"With your skill I'm sure you'll make quick work of learning. Our traveling companions are warriors, I'm sure they wouldn't mind teaching you. You'll also find a few more blades in your pouch, should you need them."

I nodded absentmindedly as I toyed with the hilt of the sword. I was curious about these traveling companions he kept telling me about. From the little bits I had gathered in my apartment the previous night I would be the only human on this journey, aside from Gandalf. He hadn't been entirely clear yet on what that meant.

"Where are we?" I finally asked.

"About an hour's journey from The Shire." he said simply, as if I knew exactly where he was speaking of.

I stared at him for a moment, wondering if I had heard him correctly.

"The Shire?" I questioned.

Gandalf nodded. "Yes. We are looking for a hobbit by the name of-"

"A hobbit?" I interrupted.

Gandalf paused, seeing my confusion. He seemed to realize I was still missing several important details of our quest.

"Mm yes. I see. Well, we have a long walk ahead of us, my dear." He gestured for me to follow him as he began to walk. "Let me start from the beginning."

#marvel fic #marvel fanfiction #lotr fanfic #lotr fanfiction #the hobbit fanfic #the hobbit fanfiction #kili durin #kili fanfic #kili durin fanfic #kili fanfiction #the hobbit #lord of the rings #marvel crossover #the hobbit crossover #kili romance #kili x oc #kili

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msmarvelwrites · 3 years

Text

Make Your Mark On Me

Summary: 'if you stepped through that threshold, the comfort of friendship would be something not so easily retrieved again.'

Pairing: Sam Wilson x agent!reader

Warnings: friends-to-lovers, angst, Explicit sexual content, Oral (f receiving), fingering, vaginal penetration, size kink, Sam has shmeat.

Word Count: 2.8k

Authors Note: Words cannot describe what this man does to me. Sam Wilson, sir, thank you for your service. And thank you @sweeterthanthis for all her help and support✨🖤

The crystal chandelier bounced iridescent sparkles through the bustling ballroom, shimmers of glimmering light twirling around as if you were in a kaleidoscope. You scanned the area, careful to not make your presence known. You were meant to blend in -- to fade away into the background. It was a job you had done easily for years.

You were never meant to leave your desk. Infact, when you had agreed to take the job as the Avenger’s personal technical analyst in the first place, your only request was to never see any real action. You were more than happy to stay put, in the ears of your colleagues rather than actually holding the gun.

Your job was safe, predictable, routine.

That was until Sam Wilson came crashing into your life.

The mission, for anyone qualified, would have been easy. Dress up, play pretend, hack into a terrorist database…

Okay, that part you could do with your eyes blindfolded. Though, that wasn't the point.

“Don’t suppose you know who I’m supposed to be looking out for?” You spoke under your breath into the small comm snug in your ear. You stumbled for a moment, the heels Nat made you wear proving to be less than ‘easy-peasy’ as she so casually put it.

“Big guy in the corner.” Sam echoed in your ear. “And may I just say, you are looking gorgeous tonight.”

You rolled your eyes, as if he was standing right beside you and not somewhere blended into the crowded room.

“We’re working, Wilson. Besides, I know you're out there charming the pants off of some model.” You retorted, the remark intended to make him laugh but he only scoffed, as if the idea wounded him.

“Babygirl, you think so little of me. I’d much rather take your pants off.” Sam’s words were smooth, well rehearsed and at this point, expected.

It’s the way it had always been between you two. Of course, you’d never let anything come of the innocent banter, except the occasional burning cheeks and lingering touches. Sam was your best friend, and that was how it was always going to be.

Besides, Sam Wilson could, and had on many nights, pulled any woman he set his sights on. You weren't about to be added to the ever growing list of women that hobbled out of his bedroom at three in the morning.

“Well, jokes on you. I’m not wearing any.” You mentally facepalmed yourself for the awful retort, a smile pulled across your lips at the melodic sound of your friends' laugh.

“Grab a drink, gorgeous. Loosen up for me.” He cooed, his tone playful as you swiped a champagne flute off a passing waiter. “The office you want to get to is upstairs. Last door on your left. You can meet me around back when you’ve secured the file.”

You nodded your head, bringing the glass to your lips and letting the liquid quell your nerves. You could do this.

Easy in and out.

Carefully you made your way through the crowded room, hyper aware of your surroundings as you quietly slipped through the masses. You smiled politely at a group of men who let you through, though it didn't go unnoticed how one of the strangers lingered their hands on your hips a little too long as you slid by.

“Don’t be nervous. I got you.” Sam’s words caught you off guard, the earnest in them causing you to fumble with your retort.

“You watching me, Wilson?” You mumbled, making your way up the stairs and towards your mission. It was almost over.

“Told you before we left, I’m not letting you out of my sights.” Sam chuckled softly, adding, “I got eyes everywhere baby. Your ass in that dress, by the way-”

“Watch it Sam.” You warned, but you couldn't help the smile that formed on your mouth, his words warming your cheeks. Because with Sam it never felt like objectification. With Sam there was always so much kindness behind his words, you almost took it for honesty.

Which, of course, it couldn't be.

“Okay, I’m at the door. How do I-”

“Is the little lady lost?” A deep gruff voice startled you as you spun on your heel only to come face to face with the same handsy stranger.

You cleared your throat, shaking your head quickly and trying to steady your voice. “N-no, sir. Just looking for the washroom.” You answered a little too quickly. There was radio silence on Sam’s end, and that made you a little nervous.

“Sir? I like the sound of that. Why don’t I escort you, and you can come up with a way to replay my kindness when we get there?” He toyed with the idea, his words crass as he gripped your forearm.

“Uh- no thank you. I can find my own way.” You stuttered, suddenly aware of how alone you truly were in this dark hallway with him.

“It wasn't a question.” He snarled, pulling you against him but before your body could even collide with his, he was on the floor.

You opened your eyes, a very worried Sam standing where the stranger once was. His eyes scanned you for a moment before he realized how startled you truly were.

“Did he touch you?” He spoke, and though he meant well, his tone came out dark. It was a side of Sam you very seldom saw, and now, watching his jaw click back and forth into place, you couldn't help but shiver. The stranger was lucky he only knocked him out.

“Only here,” You rubbed your arm where he had grabbed you and instantly Sam pulled you against his body, his hands running small circles in your back. “I’m fine, Sam. Really.”

Sam chuckled softly, pulling himself out of his rage and back to you. “Course’ you are. That’s my girl. Now let’s finish this thing and get you home.”

After you hacked into the computer database and retrieved the file your team needed, you and Sam slipped into the small black car. The ride home was one filled with silence and though it was usually comfortable with your friend, this time was anything but.

“He really didn't hurt me.” You finally spoke, trying and failing to reassure the nervous man.

“I know, but-” He began, but you squeezed his hand, the touch shutting him up instantly. If only it was always that easy. You chuckled softly at the thought.

“Baby, you had my back. Just like you said you would.” You bolstered, your eyes fleeting from his only for a moment as they landed on his lips. You mentally shook your head, averting your gaze to his lap, which wasn't really much better.

This strange warmth that began pooling in your stomach coaxed you into an unease you couldn't shake until you got back to the compound. Sam walked you to your room, resting on the door frame as you shuffled in, your eyes trained on the floor.

There was something different brewing between Sam and you tonight.

Something you had buried deep down and seldom let out. Maybe for fear of rejection, but deep down you knew he would always let you down easy. So perhaps it was the notion that, if you stepped through that threshold, the comfort of friendship would be something not so easily retrieved again.

“Why haven't you just kissed me?” The words tumbled from your lips before you could stop them. They seemed to slap Sam across the face, halting him in his place.

“Excuse me?” He managed to speak, words caught in his throat.

“I- I just mean… You look at me the same way you look at them. Hell, I’ve seen you pull the same lines on me you use on them. So why haven't you-”

“You want that?” He questioned. Now facing him, you could see a glimmer in his eyes you could only place as mischievous.

You worried on your bottom lip taking in Sam’s muscular form. It wasn't as if you hadn't noticed how incredibly beautiful he was before, but someone you had downed your attraction under a list of excuses. But now, in the dim lighting of your bedroom with the years of built up tension sizzling around you, you couldn't think of a single one.

“I just think I’d like to know what it’s like. At least for the night.” You spoke in sincerity, padding across the room towards him. You could tell he was bewildered by your sudden confidence, and to be fair, so were you. You could blame it on the champagne or maybe the bodycon dress Nat had squeezed you into, but you knew it was just Sam.

“Baby girl, if you cross this line, there’s no going back.” He warned, a false seriousness in his words. But there was honestly there, and you knew it, too. There would be no back peddling, but there was something in the way your hands were shaking; body vibrating with the notion of Sam close to you that had you wondering if you even cared.

“Show me.” You couldn't help the smirk that pulled at your lips when Sam sucked in a breath, his eyes never leaving yours.

You expected him to buckle. Turn away and walk out of the room, desperate to hold onto whatever reminisce of a friendship you still had. But he surprised you as he closed the distance, one hand sliding onto your waist and pulling you flush against his chest and the other cupping your jaw.

His thump traced your bottom lip, coaxing a soft gasp to spill from your throat.

Sam smiled softly at your reaction, his tongue flicking out to dampen his lips and -

You could have passed out right there. All the air in your lungs dissipated the moment his soft lips touched yours. Your hands instinctively wrapped around his neck, pulling him in, craving more, urging him on.

You could feel his smile in the kiss as you moaned, completely lost in the way his hands roamed your form. He was intoxicating, the heat of his body mixed with the warm smell of vanilla and nicotine incinerating any worry that had been floating in your head. You could only feel him - and the mattress as you fell backwards onto the bed.

Sam’s fingers found the bottom of your dress, dipping underneath the fabric as he pulled it up around your ass. His lips left yours, only to connect with the column of your throat, teeth gracing your jaw as you breathed him in.

The tension in the room changed suddenly when he caged you down onto the bed, his forehead resting on yours as you caught your breath.

“If you want me to stop-”

“Stay, please.” You gasped out, his eyes meeting yours and seeing the same desperation mirroring back.

“Fuck.” Sam growled out, eye rolling back in his head as you watched any hesitation melt away.

You were on your back moments later, his lips on your thighs and he held your knees apart. His mouth on your clothed cunt, tongue lapping against the wet fabric as he stretched it and with a snap, he tore it away. You gasped arching your back as if to soften the blow as he caught your clit in his mouth.

“Stay put, gorgeous.” He hummed against your sloppy folds, his nose rubbing against your clit as he devoured you; tongue puncturing your dripping hole as he drank you in.

You slapped your hand over your mouth, not at all eager to be added to the list of screamers Sam had come home with, but it was easier said than done. And by the way he was eating you out, it was only a matter of time before you were a whimpering mess.

“Don’t hold back those beautiful sounds.” Sam encouraged, a finger curling inside you, pulling at your walls as you choked on a moan, eyes rolling back in your head when he found your throbbing clit again. With only a few more twirls of his tongue, you were pouring out onto him, your first orgasm ripping through your body as he ate up every last drop.

“Fuck. You taste so sweet, babygirl.” Sam gasped, wiping your come from his lips as he flipped you over, instructing you to get on your knees and hold the headboard. “Gunna’ fuck this pussy so good. Gunna’ ruin you, gorgeous. Want you remembering that you asked for this.”

You could only whine in response, most of your will fucked away by his skilled tongue. But you had no idea what was to come. Sam lined himself up with you then, stroking his warm head in your slick folds as he began so rip you open with his cock.

You were no one near a virgin, but you probably could have fooled Sam as he coaxed himself further into you. On instinct, you arched your back away from him, terrified of his size as he began to slide deeper and deeper -

Sam grabbed you by your waist, holding you still as the tip of his thick cock kissed the deepest parts of you. “Nuh-uh, you're gonna’ take every last inch, baby girl. I know you can. Be my good little thing.”

You bit back a scream, letting go as you sunk back down onto his cock. You knew for a fact that you wouldn't be sitting comfortably tomorrow. Or for the next few days…

Before you could beg, Sam bucked his hips against you, pulling a gargled sob to vibrate from your chest as he fucked into you. There wasn’t any possible way he could get any deeper, but as he dug his fingers into your hips and speared you against his base, you swear he discovered a new part of you.

With one hand holding you steady and the other tangled in your hair, Sam made you his. You throbbed, pussy fluttering around his cock as he kept his brutal pace.

“That’s my good girl. Fuck.” Sam couldn't contain himself, a smile forming in his lips because he finally had you. Not only that, but he was balls deep, spanking your ass and coaxing screams from your beautiful lips. “Taking this cock so good.”

You didn't have the ability to answer him, gripping the headboard for dear life as you began to come undone for the second time tonight. And he knew, too; the cocky bastard.

“Thatt’a girl. Hold onto that for me. I know you’re close, but hold on .” Sam grunted against you, his large hands gripping your ass and watching your puckered hole glisen with your come. If he had it his way, he’d make another meal out of you, but he knew you were only moments from soaking his cock.

“I cant- oh- Sam!.” You screamed, your body betraying his demand. “Yes, yes…” You chanted the word, on the brink of complete destruction as your orgasm began to-

With a whine, he pulled out of you, flipping you onto your back and folding you in half. You gripped your knees, and gasped and he sank back down into you. With a few deep pumps you were right back where you were, whimpering and pleading with him to make you come.

“Just wanted to see your pretty face when you come apart.” Sam admitted, a crooked smile forming on his mocha lips and your swear, it was the sweetness of it that had you tumbling over the edge. He was just so beautiful, you couldn't hold back.

And just like that, the golden God between your legs turned you into a screamer. His name left your lips so many times, you swear it became your new religion. A prayer you only spoke for him.

“Where do you want it?” He suddenly sounded vulnerable, but then again, so were you. Cockdrunk and flushed from his assault. You lost yourself in his question until you noticed how hard he was gripping your thighs, holding back his orgasm as he shook, slowing his thrusts.

“Fill me up, Sam.” you pleaded, and just like that, he crumbled. A broken growl left his lips, one hand coming to wrap around your throat and hold you steady as you consciously make the effort to speaze your used cunt around him.

“Fuck, yeah. Just like that” A few sloppy thrusts later and he was painting your throbbing walls with his hot spend. The both of you shivered, panting against one another as you took in the mess you’d made. You had shattered everything platonic in a matter of minutes, and yet the goofy grin plastered on Sam’s lips was unyielding.

“You’re my best friend.” He grinned, still catching his breath. He stroked your face, tucking your damp hair behind your ear as he kissed your lips tenderly.

“I don’t want you like a best friend.” you puffed, framing his jaw in your hands as you took him in.

In this new light, Sam looked ethereal.

Like something otherworldly and for a moment, you knew that even if everything would change the moment you left the confines of your bedroom, Sam would always be yours. And that would always be enough.

#sam wilson x reader #sam wilson #sam wilson x you #sam wilson x y/n #Sam Wilson x reader smut #Sam Wilson smut #captain america x reader #tfatws #sam x reader

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bluemoondust · 2 years

Note

I saw your Professor Birch post and was wondering if you could do either Headcanons about Professor Elm or even a small snippet.

He researches Pokemon Breeding so I’m curious if that would eventually rub off onto him, especially if he was pining really badly after his darling. Professor Elm with a breeding kink perhaps?

ANON I HAVE HAD THIS THOUGHT EVER SINCE I FOUND OUT WHAT EVERY PROFESSOR RESEARCHED lsjsjwjn

Post Writing Message: I deeply apologize for what I will bestow upon you all. （⌒▽⌒）

Warning(s): 18+ CONTENT, MINORS DNI, Breeding Kink, F!Reader (no pronouns mentioned), Unhealthy Lifestyle (On Elm's part, Lack of Eating and Sleeping), Hints of Jealousy, Obsessive Behavior/Thinking

Another sleepless night.

Normally the usual cause of such would be overworking, but Elm couldn't use that excuse in this case. He rubbed his eyes before pinching the bridge of his nose, letting out a heavy sigh. Clearly he was exhausted. A friend of his had taken notice that he was rarely leaving the lab and the noticeable dark circles under his eyes. Had he even eaten at all? It was a question directed at Elm, who unfortunately is terrible at lying under pressure.

He needed to get himself together... Or else you'll notice too. Now, Elm isn't one to pin blame on others, and it's technically half true and somewhat his fault as well... but he can say that you're the reason why he isn't doing so hot. You're not a bad person by any means, absolutely not. Elm finds you the most pleasant person he's ever had the pleasure of conversing with.

Which is the reason why he can't get you out of his head.

Almost every second of the day Elm's thoughts are flooded with you. Everything from wondering what you do in the morning to how your sleep schedule is compared to his. It's all about you. It's gotten so bad that he finds himself writing in spare notebooks little details he discovers about you just so he can dump all his thoughts; empty his mind. It's all for naught when these thoughts soon become... Self indulgent fantasies.

Harmless, is what he claims when they first start. They won't wander into unspeakable barriers, he insisted. It will only stay as wishful thinking and wondering what it'd be like to hold your hand, eat dinner with you, cuddle—but by Arceus he is so close to pulling his hair.

He hadn't thought this way about anyone in a while. He feels guilty since you're highly unaware of how much he'd like to sit you up on his desk everytime you visit the lab. Elm is so quiet about the inner storm stirring within him. No one ever expects this type of behavior nor thinking from him since he was not one to stand out.

How would you react? Arceus, he couldn't let you know what filthy thoughts resided is his mind that revolved around you. Certainly... You'd be uncomfortable and he would lose his chance. Elm believes this would be the worst case scenario, knowing you'll find someone else. Someone else. The mere thought of that peeves him off a bit, but also breaks his heart. He has been doing his best, right? So why should one slip up change anything? Why can't he just suck it up already and finally let you know?

Then maybe... Those fantasies can become a reality. Elm swallows a bit, embarrassed but aroused at the idea of you under him. Squirming, whimpering out his name as he f.ucks you gently but firmly. He wonders how'd you sound. He always replays you voice in his head but he's curious on what it'd be like under those circumstances.

Would you ask him to go faster? A little rougher? He'd be happy to do so. Anything for you. You're always so good to him. You'll be good for him and take all his cum, right? Absolutely cute and pretty looking so full with all of it stuffed into you. Maybe to the point where some leaks out, but he'll make sure none leaves from your fucked out hole.

Elm groans into his hand, his face getting hot. Even after that, he might just want to keep going, thrusting the cum more into you. It'd be nice... To see you cry from overstimulation. He'll kiss your tears away, tell you that you're taking everything so well, praise you on how great of a mothe—

The sound of his computer receiving an email makes Elm jolt from his seat. Oh... He lets out a sigh of frustration.

He's got work and his sexual frustration to deal with now.

#yandere imagines #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere pokemon #yandere pokemon x reader #yandere smut #yandere professor elm #tw: breeding #☆bittersweet.sins☆

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aenaxes-moved · 3 years

Text

reverie

[crosshair x f!reader] kashyyyk is beautiful at night. crosshair takes advantage of the moment of peace to sneak away. you follow.

warnings: none, just some snoggin’ with cross (you can technically read this as gn!reader if you disregard the petname)

w/c: 2.2k

a/n: NO SPOILERS! this is me coping with the current crosshair situation :’-) i wanted to explore his softer side because dammit he’s got feelings (he might be a little out of character but my house my rules heheh)

“Nice hideout you have going on.”

“Had,” Crosshair corrects without looking up, too focused on carefully wrapping a rag around the scope of his firepuncher laid carefully across his lap.

Had you heard him speak one short year ago, when you were fresh out of GARMC orientation and shunted straight onto the Marauder, you would have certainly taken the sniper’s curtness for frigidity. And you had, for your first few months with Clone Force 99, taken his flat intonation and pointed tone with a timid squeak every time he’d come in for a bacta patch or hypodermic needle.

But things were different, now.

There is no deflated resignation that he’s been discovered, hidden a good few paces away from where Tech sits entranced by the wizened green Jedi master. Nor is there icy snarl curling at the edges of his lips, that you might deign to interrupt his alone time with Darling (nobody got between Crosshair with a microfiber cloth and Darling, not even Wrecker). Instead, he acknowledges you in his cool nonchalance, beckoning in the most backhanded of ways. You grin, seizing your welcome and ducking under a thick loop of vine into the small clearing where he sits perched on a boulder.

“Was Master Yoda talking too much?” you laugh, dropping down onto the balls of your feet as you peer up at Crosshair (who still won’t tear his laser focus from polishing over the dark metal of his rifle). You wrap your arms around your knees and grin when he groans.

“General Yoda is fine; it’s Tech that keeps prattling on with him,” Crosshair mutters, scrubbing a touch more aggressively at the base of the scope.

“Oh, Cross, let him have his fun,” you chide playfully, finally earning you a disdainful glance and a raised brow. “It’s not every day that you get to interrogate one of the oldest sentient beings in the galaxy.”

“Did you just call the general old?” Crosshair snorts, flipping his toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other.

“Crosshair, how dare you accuse me like that!”

“You said it,” he shrugs, and you catch a glimpse of a fleeting smile before he turns his head back down, away, towards his rifle.

You huff, and for a moment after, there’s silence. Mostly because you know that even your best retort would be effortlessly shot down, but in part to just indulge, to look quietly at the ornery sniper you’ve come to call a dear friend, to take in him and all of his tall, confident quietude. You both know that he knows what you’re doing, drinking him in, but he says nothing every time.

It’s in these brief reveries that you catch him in his softest, purest, state, methodically cleaning the firepuncher, disassembling, reassembling, replaying the soothing knowledge and practice that every piece had its rightful place. Things would align. Even with his chin turned down, his features nearly obscured by the shadows of the jungle canopy, there’s just enough light yet to make out the slight upward turn of his lips, a wry smile around his toothpick as he unclips his scope.

“So why are you here?”

The daydream is broken, and you flicker your eyes up to his with an embarrassed cough when you notice he’s been staring back. And if his smug half-smile has anything to say, it’s a triumphant and coy I caught you.

“Well,” you laugh, quietly pushing down the rising heat high in your neck. “I wanted to try to see the night sky on Kashyyyk before we leave, but I’m too scared to go alone.” You plaster on the sickliest of smiles you can, batting your lashes up at Crosshair in the way that would have Wrecker at your beck and call in seconds, but one that you know has no effect on his brother.

“Bullshit.” Crosshair rolls his eyes, but he’s already snapping the scope back onto Darling and sliding down from his perch. “Only things in the galaxy you’re scared of are porgs,” he says as he fastens his rifle into his pack and slings one strap over his shoulder, offering his free hand down to you.

“They—they have weirdly sentient eyes, okay!” you snap a bit hotly. You blame the warmth blooming across your cheeks on the fact that only Crosshair knows about your fear of the terrifying little fellows, not that he’s squeezing your hand and hefting you onto your feet.

“Why not ask Wrecker to take you?” Crosshair asks, letting go of your hand—to your relief and dismay all at once—and brush off whatever undergrowth sits dusted over your shoulders. “He’s sappy.”

“He’s busy making friends with the Wookiees.” And butchering Shyriiwook while he did it.

“And Hunter?”

“He’s also making friends with the Wookiees.” It’s not entirely untrue, if learning how to whittle blades out of branches counted as friendly bonding.

“Echo?”

“Also... making friends... with the Wookiees.”

You both know Echo has probably long since fallen asleep after a dose of painkillers for his fall during a particularly messy bit of the firefight. You could have actually told Crosshair the truth, but a part of you won’t take your chances—depending on Crosshair’s mood, he’d send you back to wake up his newest brother and return to shining up the stock of his rifle. But instead of calling your bluff, Crosshair simply shakes his head and sighs, extending his hand to you.

Mind suddenly and miserably blank, you stare mutely at his outstretched palm, an offering, then up at him.

“Come on, you said you were scared,” Crosshair teases, a lazy, sloping smirk curved over his features. He beckons you with a single flick of his fingers. Smug bastard, you think.

“My hero,” you snark back, but you’re quick to close the distance. Even if it takes bearing a bit of his snide sideswipes, you’re surprised at how easy it is to set aside your headstrong pride and simper for the sniper’s attention (though he’s giving it much more freely than you had anticipated). Palm to palm, the cool fabric of his blacks between you, you secure your grip around him as snug as you can.

Crosshair leads you quietly through the underbrush, going so far as to lift drooping vines and push aside especially tall ferns for you, all the while keeping as secure a grip on your hand as your grip on his.

It’s comforting, even while tamping through the darkness. You trust all of his brothers with your life, but maybe, just maybe, you trust Crosshair just that much more as he leads you deeper into the jungle.

After an short trek, you arrive at another clearing, the ground barren and drier than the damp, brush heavy terrain you had come to know during the Kashyyyk campaign. It’s no bigger than the armory floor spread on the Marauder, but as Crosshair pulls you into the clearing, you realize it’s not the earth beneath your feet that commands your wonder.

Crosshair nods his chin up, and your eyes are quick to follow. It’s the pearlescent glow of the three moons high above the treetops, shining clear and soft down through the canopy skylight.

Two moons float above in the bluish gray darkness of the galaxy, the third moon peeking from behind a few trees, in between them, a delicate freckling of stars, twinkling planets, comets ambling quietly through space. You’re barely aware of the grin spreading across your face as you soak in the night sky. It’s everything you had hoped it would be.

And with Crosshair at your side, it’s just that much more.

“Found it while I was scouting,” Crosshair’s voice comes, soft through the ambient silence of the jungle. Even in your rapture, you can feel his eyes on you, lingering on the green earth and watching your wonder far up in the sky.

“It’s amazing,” you breathe, and you squeeze his hand. You tear your eyes away from the starscape above to meet Crosshair with a smile. “Thank you, Cross.”

The sniper is quiet as you meet his gaze, trained on you with an indiscernible expression, a depth in his dark eyes you have only seen once before when you caught a glimpse of him at the helm, looking quietly into the expanse of space laid out before him.

It’s peace, you decide. A stillness, a calm, the quietest respite in the midst of this war. You gently rub over his knuckles.

“Close your eyes, y/n,” Crosshair finally murmurs, barely above a whisper, his gaze unwavering. And your eyes are already fluttered shut when you hear something hit the underbrush and a crunch of dirt under his boot as he steps forward and loops an arm around your waist. You squeeze your eyes shut a bit tighter as you press up against the battle-worn plastoid of his chestplate and feel his fingers splay over your hip.

Warm, rough fingertips gently pinch your chin and tilt your head up just so. A soft breeze wafts over your cheeks, carrying with it the woody musk and cloying pollen of the forest around you, and it is in that moment that you realize that he had dropped his glove onto the forest floor, had left it there and chosen to hold you in his bare hand, smoothing his thumb over your skin.

“There’s a good girl.”

The only warning you get is a ghost of a breath gently exhaled onto your skin before there is warmth, pulled close and steady and sweet as Crosshair gently tugs on your bottom lip.

He’s soft, you think mindlessly through the blissful haze between your ears. You faintly register the taste of the lavender balm you had bought him planetside on Crucival as he trails his hand up from your hip, over the dip in your back, and up to cup the base of your neck, pulling you closer.

All that teething’ll dry you out you had told him, and he’d scoffed something along the lines of soldiers—especially clones—not needing or wanting luxury goods. And yet you taste the telltale floral notes on his skin. You foggily wonder if he keeps the little tin on his ammunition belt as he kneads firm, steady fingers into your neck. You’ll gloat about it later.

There’s lavender, and then you taste him, just a trace, when he drags his tongue over the plush skin of your lips. At some point, you’ve brought your hands up to curl at the base of his head, threading through neatly cropped silver strands, and you part your lips. Finally, finally you can taste him on your own tongue.

He’s battle weary, laced with the slightest tang of synthetic wood treatment bleached into his toothpicks, anxiety bitten and jaw clenched. But here, now, only the faint residues of that tension remain in his impossibly gentle, unhurried motions. Running his thumb from your chin to the corner of your jaw, he tugs, tilting your head and gently tugging your tongue into his mouth.

Warmth blooms through your chest, steady and soft, a pulsar light glowing through the darkness, and you pull him closer.

He pulls away first, if only by virtue of your fervent wish that this moment might never end, nipping lightly your bottom lip in parting. And when the heat radiating off his skin is no longer close enough to warm you in the cool forest night, you slowly open your eyes, hoping that you won't wake to the durasteel ceiling of your bunk glaring down on you.

It's not a dream, Maker bless.

Crosshair stands before you, barely half an arm's length away and already flicking another toothpick between his lips as he smiles, open and soft in the moonlight. Without his persistent scowl, his piercing gaze, he looks so, so achingly young. And, if only for a moment, free of the burdens of war. Just a simple man bathing in the starlight in the jungles of Kashyyyk.

He's beautiful.

"Hi, Cross," you whisper, voice doing little to hide your lingering daze, and you watch, eyes wide with starry wonder, as Crosshair shakes with quiet laughter, eyes closed and shoulders sloped low.

"Hi, y/n," he chuckles. He fixes you with another unreadable look, this one different from the first. It's softer and mellow, vibrant in thrumming waves of bliss, content.

But before you can decide, he reaches down to pick his glove off of the jungle floor, tapping off the dirt on his hip and then, without hesitation, stuffing it into his ammunition belt. There's a brief flash of purplish metal in the pocket he chooses. The balm. You were right.

He catches your astonishment with a soft huff and clips the pocket shut.

"All that teething does dry me out," he teases, but there is only quiet acknowledgement, gracious and still as he extends his ungloved hand to you in the waning moonlight.

You stare at him, dumbstruck.

"The general probably knows we're gone. Come on," Crosshair's smile shifts, assuming a much more familiar smirk to accompany the sharp, snarky lilt that washes over him. He flicks his fingers at you, rolling his toothpick between his teeth. "Be a good girl for me."

There's the Crosshair you know.

"You're insufferable," you mutter, the heat blazing on the tips of your ears as you duck your head. But you reach for him anyways, reveling in the slow slide of your skin over his palm, your fingers finding home intertwined with his.

"Such a good girl," he chuckles, lifting your knuckles to his lips for the barest of chaste, fleeting touches.

"I will make your next hypoderm hurt like hell," you grumble.

"Oh, I look forward to it."

#vietnamese coffee is so good but so strong and for what #did i want to pull this all nighter? perhaps #should i have pulled this all nighter? no #crosshair x reader #bad batch x reader #yaej.writes

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misspearly1 · 2 years

Text

Be My Redemption

Chapter x11

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

WC: 2200

Warnings: NO MINORS 🔞 18+ Content.

Smut to begin with. Somnophilia, Oral (Fem Receiving). More interrupted sex, we will there eventually folks 😋. Little bit of Fluff and sad conversations.

Sunday the 20th of October marks the day today. It's been exactly one week since Solomon has died, one week spent travelling since his death. Your group tried to continue along the coast but warning signs of Rhode Island being blown up, had you doubling back and moving inland instead.

Diego has been in and out of it. With the rest of you taking turns driving and stopping only when necessary, it’s a week before the car finally runs out of gas. So, now your located at Springfield, MA, in its Technical Community College looking for shelter for the night.

The college itself is situated on the Connecticut River, so after clearing the infected living inside and finding a room suitable for Dee, you tell the group you’re going for some water, alone. Joel tries to stop you “You aint going out there, by yer’self.”

“I’ll be okay, you can see me from the window in the canteen. I just need a moment on my own.” Making your way to leave, Joel doesn't try and stop you again. He goes to the window instead, and watches you walk towards the railing, lowering a rope connected with a bucket, into the water.

After filling the bucket with water, you place it on the floor beside you and lean over the railing, looking over the river as you think about everything that has happened this week.

Exactly two weeks ago to this date, you were walking along 5th avenue when you and your group got ambushed, knocking the first domino for each event afterwards. In the first seven days, you’ve slept in parks, you’ve travelled through subway tunnels, fought day and night to stay alive and nearly gotten blown up. You’ve driven out of the city to your friends, only to fight more to save them, but Solomon dies.

Solomon dies, in the streets of Fairfield, laying in Jackies arms. After spending the early morning hours crying in the street with her, Joel had to take the lead and pull you both away. Burying Solomon as Diego lay unconscious, he couldn’t even say goodbye.

This week, you’ve taken turns at the wheel, consoling Jackie and tending to Dee. A single tear rolls down your face as you replay these events in your mind.

Quickly wiping them as you hear footsteps behind you, “I thought I told you I would be okay”

“Thought I could use some fresh air myself.” Jackie spoke out, turning around to her, you express a smile. “Hey, sorry. Come stand with me.”

She stands alongside you and wraps an arm around your waist, looking over the river. Jackie see’s that your thinking, analysing something behind your eyes and asks “Do you blame him?”

You close your eyes, knowing exactly who and what she means. She’s asking if you blame Joel for everything that has happened, answering “Maybe I should.”

Jackie cocks her head for you to elaborate. You hesitate before telling her -

“Joel is a Hunter. He was part of that group in New York.” Admitting that to her, you don’t expect how she reacts. “If he’s a Hunter then why is he here now Y/N? .... He was a Hunter and he was part of that group.”

You look between her eyes and gulp back the lump in your throat, telling her “He saw us entering the city. When we got ambushed, he chased after me and I thought I was done for - He didn’t kill me, Jackie...” You pause as your voice breaks and lip trembling.

“...Should I blame him? Because I don’t think he intended on staying with me, but he’s spent every day since 5th avenue saving my life and helping me find you. I wouldn’t have made it this far without him.”

Jackies arm around you, squeezes. Leaning her head on your shoulder, she’s now consoling you “I don’t blame him for Solomons death, Y/N.”

Instantly relaxing when she says that, Jackie continues “In fact, I thank him for reuniting us, cause’ I don’t think I'd be able to go on without you too.”

You tried to inject “But if we didn’t show up at the Airport, Marcus wouldn’t ha-”

Jackies shushed you, “Marcus was going to kill us anyways Y/N. Gave me a very detailed description on how he was going to hurt me and Solomon. You saved us. You, Johnny, Dee and Joel saved us. It could have happened to any one of us, so don’t blame yourself for this or him. The only person to blame is Marcus, and he’s dead now.”

Looking away, shaking your head “I can't help thinking if I had done something different, then maybe I could have stopped it”

Jackie agrees with you “I know, me too. But we can spend the rest of our lives wondering ‘what if’ or we can finish what we started and make it to Boston. For Solomon.”

You nod your head to her and you hug. Holding each other for a long time as the sun begins to settle. Feeling a cold, harsh breeze blowing through both of your hairs, she suggests going back inside and so you do. Grabbing the bucket of water and bringing it along.

Water bubbled and steamed over the portable gas stove, quickly turning it off and removing the pot as you set it aside, leaving it to cool. With all of your group residing in the same wing of the College, you chose the one on the end that has a view of the river.

Standing in front of the window now, you begin to undress so you can clean yourself up with hot water and a rag. Pulling your hoodie off first, then your shirt and just as your reaching the hooks of your bra straps, two cold hands run up of your back, “May I?”

Dropping your arms, you lean into Joel nodding your head. He unclips your bra, letting it fall to the ground as he kisses your shoulder. Your breath shudders when he kneels down and dips the rag in the water. Standing back up, he wipes the rag across your back, whilst holding you in place by the shoulder, rubbing little circles with his thumb.

Your muscles start to loosen under his touch, leaning your head against his shoulder when he brings the rag round to your stomach and closing your eyes as he brings it up, under your breasts. Whispering to him, “Thank you.”

Running the rapidly cooling rag across your chest he replies, “S’okay, least I could do. After you’re finished, go lay down, you’ve had a long day.”

Nodding your head to him as he dips the rag again, you unbutton your pants and he cleans your bottom half too. When you’re done, he begins to undress himself, looking in your tired eyes he shakes his head when you go to help, “Go lay down baby, don't worry bout me”

Asking him, “You sure?”

Joel pulls his shirt off then plants a kiss to your lips, “I’m sure, go on.”

Turning around, you start to walk towards the bed, not bothering with redressing as you draw the sheets back and climb in naked. Facing him now and watching him clean himself up, you jibe to him “Don't forget the ears and the toes”

He laughs to you as he’s running the rag across the back of his neck, then across his chest, water runs down his pecks and his muscles flex. Repositioning yourself when he turns his back to unbutton his jeans and closing your eyes just as they fall.

Your eyes sting too much to reopen them, so instead you just listen to the sounds of water dripping and the steady breaths he exhales. Pretty quickly, those sounds start to drown out, the last thing you remember before falling asleep is the feeling of the mattress dipping beside you, as Joel climbs in.

In the morning hours the next day, you’re troubled in your sleep with a tension in your stomach, pulling lightly. Breathing heavily and stirring, when you snap awake and look down, your already orgasming as Joel is in between your legs, licking your pussy.

As you throw your head back on the pillow and covering your mouth because he doesn’t slow down. That tension builds once more, pulling quickly and you buck your hips when he enters a finger inside your hole, coming undone again.

Breathing heavily into the palm of your hand, to muffle your moans, Joel crawls up your body, kissing you along the way “How you feeling, Y/N?”

Placing his weight down evenly on your body and feeling his hard length pressed against your inner thigh, you rub his hair and kiss him “Wet... I'm feeling pretty wet right now.”

He chuckles into the kiss, smiling “Did this cowboy make it up to you?”

You nod your head and just as he places his length between your folds, someone knocking at the door stops him and he drops his head to your neck.

Johnny speaks out “Hey, lovebirds, you awake?”

Joel yells “No. Fuck off.”

You stifle a laugh to Joel and he raises his eyebrows at you, grinding his hips and notching at your entrance, stopping again when there’s more knocking. Johnny barks through the door, “Diego is awake. He wants you in the canteen, now.”

You exhale, biting your lip and placing a hand to your forehead “Joel, we-”

“I know, baby. We should get dressed...” Joel places another kiss to your lips, pulling his hips away and then sitting up on the edge of the bed, “He probably has a lot of questions, let’s not keep him waiting.”

Expressing a half-hearted smile, you both redress quietly, the feeling of dread hanging above you both, thinking on how you're going to break the news to Diego

When you reach the canteen, Diego is outside pacing back and forth, shaking his head. You went up to Jackie and asked how he is, she replies “I told him everything. He was a little mad, but I told him everything that has happened.”

Diego turned and saw you, opening the door he came through and hugged you tightly “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you all, I’m sorry for what happened Chica. Thank you for taking care of me.”

He breaks the hug and before you could speak, he’s already stalking towards Joel. He stops in front of him and holds a hand out, Joel raises his brows before taking it.

Diego, shakes his hand before tightening his grip and pulls him in, placing his other hand to his shoulder, saying “Thank you, Hermano...” Nodding his head to emphasise as he repeats “...Thank you.”

You’re a little confused as to what’s happening, Dee tells Joel he needs to speak to you and now you’re even more confused. Walking out the canteen, back near the water, you chance one more look to Joel, he looks worried.

Dee begins, telling you what’s wrong, “I don’t like him. He is a Hunter and a killer; I didn’t want him around you and told him to leave after we escape the Airport...”

You raise your brows and try to speak but he continues -

“...But, when I was shot and I was laying there on the ground, he could have left me for dead and spun some shit to you an’ the others. He didn’t Chica, I watched him kill men trying to get to me before I blacked out. Jackie told me he carried me to the boat and when those men followed us to the house, he took control and led you all to safety.... and he buried our Solomon.”

Diego shook his head now again, trying to reason with himself “I thought he’d bring out the worst in you, thought you’d fall back into that angered and vengeful girl when I found you. But I was wrong, I see now that it is you who is changing him.”

Speechless at everything he has just said, everything he has admitted, you don’t know what to say. Now you understand why Joel looked worried, you understand why Diego was sceptic of him at first.

Dee see’s your fluster and hugs you again, patting your back and you look to Joel now, nodding and smiling.When you both re-enter, Johnny greets out, “Hey daddio, all good I hope?” Diego growls at him as you both walk past, ignoring his comment.

He relaxes himself, giving you a smile back and acknowledging that Diegos ‘thankyou’ was genuine.

Handing you over to Joel, he addresses him “I still don’t like you, but I see how you bring the best out in each other. You saved my life and theirs, therefore I am in your debt.”

Joel wraps an arm around you, then shakes his head. “Don't mention it, old man”

You all smile to each other and then jump upon hearing thunder. Seconds later rain begins to batter against the windows heavily. Looking outside now, you see the sky is black, and in the distance, lightening lights up the sky.

Diego looks to you all “So, do we still have a car?”

Jackie and Johnny cringe, looking to you and Joel, you scratch the back of your head, announcing “Erm, Kind of?...”

As Dee goes to find his map, Joel’s hushed promise in your ear has a new slick of arousal dampening your underwear, “One of these days I’ll have you all to myself. When that day comes, you won’t be able to walk straight baby.”

Chapter 13 HERE

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goldentournesol · 3 years

Text

The Receptionist and the Profiler (Seven)

Chapter Seven: Sweet Fulfilment

(Spencer Reid x f!Reader)

Series Masterlist

General Masterlist

The silence that fell upon them in Rossi’s backyard was so heavy, no one dared to break it. Derek was brave enough to stand and follow Y/N into the house, most likely to drive her home. The rest received the message and began to dwindle away, until only Ashley and Spencer were left.

Spencer absentmindedly fiddled with the top of his cane, still stunned into silence from Y/N’s heavy confession. He could feel Ashley’s eyes on him, but didn’t bother looking at her. His mind was racing ten times faster than it ever had before.

Ashley breathed out a sigh and kept it simple and straightforward, “Do you love her?” She asked softly.

He wished to hear some malice in her tone, thinking it might make him feel something other than shock, but all he heard was curiosity. He didn’t even have to think to find the answer, but which answer was he willing to give?

“Yes.” He said, not even having the audacity to see the reaction it brought upon her eyes.

He should have felt horrible for hurting Ashley, but he couldn’t bring it upon himself to feel anything but relief as he replayed Y/N’s words in his head. He heard her move to stand up and remained motionless as she left him on the couch. She went inside and Spencer deduced that she’d probably already taken her car and returned home. He’d have to find a different ride home but that was the least of his problems right now.

No one knew what to tell him as he passed them in the spacious living room a half hour later. No one knew where to start with him, but their unrelated hushed conversations continued on. Y/N had stupefied them all, but him especially. His heart should have been soaring because of her confession, but he knew he’d have to give Ashley a proper goodbye. She deserved one, even though he had quite literally used her in the most ungentlemanly of ways. He hadn’t let themselves get too invested in the relationship, though. He’d always kept her at arm’s length for fear of getting too attached.

The next day, he’d promptly gone to her apartment and given a heartfelt apology. She’d let him know how hurt she was and that she was not going to be returning to the BAU. He still felt bad, but once again, he felt like he could breathe. Like the air knew its way back to his lungs.

The weekend came and went, silence on both ends. Both lovers just stewing in their own pots. Both pots teeming with unadulterated, unconditional love and affection for one another. It could barely be contained at this point. Time seemed to float by and before they knew it they were back in the office. A new month had just begun. She felt new, she felt like she’d peeled off a layer of her skin, one that had been holding her back, trapping her within the confines of herself.

With the new month, she was called in early to have the routine monthly meeting with Hotch where they went over the itinerary of the next month. They liked to plan whatever they could given that half of the BAU’s job was unpredictable.

“So, I have here the form that Strauss asked for. Also, the 6th floor’s printer is a literal piece of junk and I’ve typed up a formal proposal so that maybe we could get a new one? I coordinated with Penelope about the funds and she says there are sufficient funds for a new printer.” Y/N said, handing Hotch a typed document.

Even after all these years, her dedication to this job continues to blow him away. He’d come to see her as a work-daughter. He has taught her so much over the past few years and he’ll always have a special place in her heart. He nodded, glancing over the document.

“Great, I trust you and Penelope will pick an adequate printer.” He paused, sending her a smile. He noticed the slight glimmer in her eye, “I know you’ve been having a rough few months, Y/N, and it’s not technically my place to get involved in your personal life, as your boss, but as your friend, I hope you know that I am available to help you in any way I possibly can.”

Her whole face formed into a fond smile, “Thanks, Hotch and yes, I know.” She chuckled slightly.

“You are a dedicated employee and a wonderful person. If you ask me--” He was interrupted by his office door slamming open, showcasing an absolutely beaming Dr. Spencer Reid in the doorway.

“Hotch, I am so sorry to interrupt your meeting,” Spencer’s eyes flew from Hotch to Y/N, his attention now zeroed in on her. He leaned into the office, not fully entering, “are you free for dinner tonight?” he asked in a rushed manner, as if not getting a fast answer would somehow make him lose all the confidence he’d mustered up.

“M-me? Yes! I mean, yes, I’m free tonight.” Y/N answered, flustered at the interruption as well as the question. Spencer’s face split into a grin and he tapped the doorframe once awkwardly.

“Great, then...it’s a date.” He raised his brows and tried to lessen his grin as he snuck a glance at Hotch before gracelessly forming his lips into a line and scurrying out of the small office.

Y/N turned back to Hotch quickly with eyes widened with disbelief and a face totally failing to contain the utter joy she felt, “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

Hotch only responded with a knowing smile at the precious interaction he’d just witnessed firsthand.

First dates were supposed to be awkward, however, their first date was anything but. Spencer had showed up with a fresh haircut, his shoulder length hair cut into a dreamy, swoopy style that sat along his forehead comfortably. It was so much more attractive than Y/N could outwardly-or inwardly- admit. His knee was now fully healed and no longer needed his cane which allowed them to walk around the city freely.

They’d both realized how stupid and blind they’ve been over the years. Y/N confessed to feeling especially stupid for staying with Anderson for so long, even when she had realized her true feelings for Spencer. Time had passed them by like it was nothing.

Spencer, like the true gentleman he is, insisted he’d walk her home. He’d feel more comfortable knowing she was safe, not to mention that he was extremely curious about her new apartment. He hadn’t expected Y/N to invite him in, but of course she did, because that was who she was. She was warm and inviting, and if she was being honest, she didn’t want the night to end yet.

“I’m sorry about the mess, I haven’t really been in the right headspace these past few weeks.” She said, walking him inside. He took a look around and noticed a few unpacked boxes out of place but he definitely wouldn’t characterize it as messy.

He chuckled softly and shrugged, “Trust me, it’s fine.” Her shoulders dropped with relief slightly and she returned his lightheartedness by smiling and flopping onto the couch.

“It’s been so long since I’ve lived on my own. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the silence.” Y/N said, but only realized how sad it must have sounded after she said it. Spencer took a seat next to her on her small, but comfortable couch.

“I feel quite the opposite, I think I’ve been living on my own for--for a long time.” He said, thinking back to his days but pushing away the especially dark parts.

She dared to glance at him, seeing him in her space was so...different. So refreshing. It’s like this apartment needed Spencer in it for it to feel complete. Or maybe that was her heart speaking. Maybe both the apartment and her heart needed Spencer to feel whole. Her glance had long been forgotten and had turned into a longing gaze instead.

“Spencer, I-” She gazed at him, feeling the words get caught up in her throat before she could have had the chance to voice them. Besides, what words would ever be able to convey the way she felt towards him?

Words escaped her when he looked at her like that--all soft eyes and a fond, lopsided smile, despite his curiosity at her interrupted sentence. She made the mistake of glancing at his lips, the lips that were so appealing, practically calling her name. The ones she’d caught herself daydreaming about for years and years on end. His proximity was intoxicating and before she could doubt herself, she closed the gap between them, her hands attaching themselves to the lapels of his blazer to pull him ever so slightly closer.

His lips were just as warm and inviting as she’d remembered them, but this time the kiss tasted sweeter, it was no longer tainted with suppressed guilt and confusion. His lips tasted like certainty. It was clear that she’d finally found what she’d been missing all these years. The gentle push and pull of the kiss was invigorating to them both. His slightly calloused hands found her flushed cheeks, each thumb delicately caressing the delicate skin beneath the pads of his fingers. They’d savored the kiss so much that when they pulled away, two, three, four tender, short kisses followed the initial one.

Almost as if they’d never get enough of each other. Like if the world was ending, it wouldn’t matter, they’d go peacefully, knowing that this is what it was like. That this is what quenched thirst felt like.

“I love you.” She murmured against his lips, breath uneven. She’d known it for as long as she could remember and he’d known it too, but she was past the point of timidness to admit it now. There’s no use in prolonging it, not when she was this certain.

The pad of his thumb traced a line across her jaw slowly as he heard the words. His face couldn’t contain his smile, teeth almost clashing into each other from their closeness. His warm, amber eyes flitted to hers, visible comfort and reassurance filling his irises. He was transported back to Rossi’s garden when he’d first told her he loved her. She knew, she knew he loved her too, which is why it was so easy.

“I love you, too.” He murmured back, pressing another passionate kiss to her lips, as a quiet admission of love. She could feel the tears gather underneath her closed lids almost as quickly as relief flooded her chest.

They’d decided to keep things under the radar for a while, neither of them too eager to showcase their relationship to the world just yet, excluding Hotch of course. They did their best anyway--or at least they thought they did. Their recent smiley faces and cheery attitudes were not invisible to America’s top profilers and well, Penelope, who was perhaps the sharpest of them all, despite not being trained to analyze behavior like the others.

Exactly two weeks after their first date, Penelope cornered Y/N at her desk around lunchtime, right before the two lovebirds took their daily lunch walk.

“Spill.” Penelope demanded, her colorful teapot earrings swayed, contradicting the sternness in her voice.

“What are you talking about?” Y/N gazed up at her with genuine confusion.

“Uh-uh, don’t give me that. I know something fishy is going on. I can smell it.” Penelope leaned in closer and began pointing fingers. Y/N barked a laugh.

“Garcia, nothing is going on. Please tell me what you’re talking about.” She laughed, amused at the sight of her friend being so outwardly nosey.

“You think I haven’t noticed you and Boy Wonder--” She was interrupted by a loud clearing of the throat noise from Spencer to announce his presence.

“Garcia, Derek said something about making hot chocolate in the kitchenette and you know how he dips the sugar spoon back into the chocolate mix? Yeah, you should probably--” Spencer lied through his teeth but Penelope wasted no time in rushing off to the kitchenette, groaning about how she hated finding extra sugar in the chocolate.

Spencer caught Y/N’s eye and they both burst out laughing. They quickly made their exit, whispering about how close of a call it was with Garcia. Little did they know, Rossi had caught every little bit of the very tender, intimate kiss they shared before the doors of the empty elevator had closed, leaving him shaking his head at the obliviousness of the two.

The team decided to make a game out of it very quickly when they all realized. They wanted to see which of them could expose the couple the quickest.

JJ found extreme joy in trying to set Y/N up with one of Will’s friends right in front of Spencer.

“Come on! This guy’s totally your type, Y/N.” JJ pushed, showing her a picture of a man on her phone, leaning towards her over the top of her desk. Y/N laughed uncomfortably and glanced with panic at Spencer who was watching curiously.

“I don’t know, I d-don’t think I have a type, JJ.” She tried to brush her off, continuing to laugh in discomfort. Emily and Derek almost split their lips as they bit them to try and keep from laughing. They watched Spencer shift nervously in his seat.

“I’m just not interested.” Y/N said, “Thanks, though.” JJ finally gave in and accepted that she’d lost the bet.

Emily tried her hand at “girl-talk”, hoping that maybe Y/N would slip up and tell her about Spencer, but to no avail. That woman’s lips were sealed shut.

Derek and Penelope both tried to follow them around but Spencer and Y/N were far too cautious at work now. Derek actually had to convince Penelope to take the moral high road and refrain from tracking their devices or hacking into their messages.

After trying and failing for so long, the team finally gave up on trying to rat them out and instead decided to respectfully wait for their announcement.

Y/N realized that she hadn’t technically invited anyone over to her new apartment and decided to throw a somewhat delayed “welcoming party” for herself. She’d cooked dinner, which Spencer did his best to contribute to, decorated the place nicely, and invited the whole team over.

“Thank you all so much for being here. I know this has been a long time coming. I’ve missed our little get-togethers and thought it’d be fitting if I finally host one, given that I now have my own apartment.” Y/N spoke from her place at the head of the dinner table which had barely ever been used before this night. It was a tight squeeze, but her heart soared as she saw the faces of her caring coworkers and friends staring up at her. They all lifted their glasses and gave her a silent toast of appreciation.

Spencer stood from his seat that was to the right of Y/N’s and cleared his throat, “Also, we have an announcement to make.” He timidly began, catching the eager smiles. “Y/N and I are, finally, together.” He waited for the cheers of excitement but nothing but an eerie knowing silence befell the dinner table.

Something clicked in Y/N’s brain as she spotted Rossi handing Hotch something under the table not-so-discreetly, “You all knew?!” She gasped in disbelief. The team broke out into fits of laughter.

“The whole time!” Garcia guffawed. Spencer and Y/N shared a look of incredulity before breaking into laughter themselves. Y/N shyly hid her face in Spencer’s shoulder as he wrapped an affectionate arm around her back.

“You guys thought you were so sneaky.” Derek threw his head back, laughing.

“Wait, so what was all that about?” Y/N asked, referring to Rossi handing Hotch something, “You guys had a bet going?”

“Technically there were two bets going. Everyone else was determined to expose you, which they all failed at, thankfully, while Rossi and I had a separate bet. I said that you’d announce it first and Rossi apparently had more faith in the team.” Hotch explained, smirking triumphantly at Rossi, who appeared delighted despite having lost the bet.

“Bet or not, you two deserve each other. I’m glad you two are happy together. To the lovely couple.” Rossi raised his glass and everyone followed in pursuit.

Spencer turned to Y/N to place a sweet but chaste kiss on her lips, leading everyone to cheer in response.

There was little he could compare to the feeling he had then, but if he had to, he’d compare it to being whole.

previous chapter/epilogue

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