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oneforthemunny · 4 months

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yayo (remastered) |older!dilf!eddie munson x reader|

prompt: when your younger sister calls you to pick her and her friend up, it leads you to meeting her friend's dad.

this is the first chapter of the older!eddie remaster! title stays the same, i'm just revamping it :) you can read the original series here!

contains: age gap (eddie is early forties, reader is late twenties early thirties, all consensual), language, teenage stupidity of younger siblings (and their friends) lol, slightly mean eddie but not really.

word count: 3.5k+

“Hello?” A groggy, croak of an answer fell from your lip. Eyelids pulled together, weights of sleep held them closed, pressing the cool screen of your phone to your ear.

There was a pause, nearly timid in response. “Hey.” The familiar tone ridded whatever sleepiness you still felt, kickstarted every instinct of panic, flooding through your veins, right down to your core.

“It’s me.” You pulled the phone away to check anyways, Madeline’s name flashing across the screen, still decorated with a flurry of bright, smiley emojis from when she added them years ago.

“What’s wrong?” Call it older sister instinct, maybe dread, but you knew by the tightness in her tone something was wrong.

“Will you do me a favor?” Madeline sucked in a breath from the other line. “A big favor, like a huge one. Please, I’ll owe you one back forever, and-”

“-What do you need?” You muttered, too groggy to be fully annoyed, legs swinging out of the warmth of your covers to the frigid wood of the apartment’s floor. Using the soft, purple glow of Roku Village on the TV, you stumbled around towards the light switch. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I am. Well, I mean- like physically, I’m fine.” Madeline paused, hesitation filling the line. “Look, you can’t tell Mom or Dad. Do you swear?”

“What did you do?” There was the irritation, falling with a huff of pure annoyance, one only a younger sibling could bring- affection and annoyance, blended together and pouring from your tongue.

“No, you gotta swear. Swear on your life you won’t tell.” Madeline’s voice was fiercer now, that hushed tone that you were too familiar with.

“Ok, I swear. What do you need? Why the hell are you calling me at,” You pulled your phone back, blearily blinking to clear the clouded sleep in your vision. “Christ, at two in the morning?-”

“-Don’t start.” Madeline rolled her eyes. “C-Can you come get me and my friend?”

“From where?” You frowned, stopping in the middle of the room.

“We’re in Chestnut Square, you know the neighborhood that the Henson’s live in? It’s, like, two streets over. I can drop you a pin.” Madeline danced around the request.

“Why are you there?” You knew. Of course you knew. It wasn’t all that long ago you were in Chestnut Square or near the Quarry by Lover’s Lake, sipping on wine coolers and shitty beers that someone got from the gas station by the high school that never carded.

“Why do you think I’m here?” Madeline clipped in annoyance, a huff of staticed annoyance falling from the other line. “I’m at a party-”

“-On a Wednesday?” You scoffed. “You couldn’t even wait until Friday or Saturday like a normal delinquent? On a weekday, Madeline, seriously-”

“-Look, can you come pick me up or not?” Madeline snapped, and you could practically see her eyes roll through the phone. “I didn’t drive. Brielle and I got picked up and the guy who brought us, he’s… he’s not doing great right now, and we just need to get home. Can you please come pick us up?”

The streets were a ghost town as you cruised towards the neighborhood, opposite from your downtown apartment. You had work tomorrow, an early shift. Madeline couldn’t have done this yesterday on your off day, or even Friday when you closed. Your jaw set at the thought, a burst of sleep deprived, inconveniencing annoyance bursting in your chest, burning with bother.

Still, Madeline was your baby sister, difficult as she was, you were glad she called you.

You followed the automated voice towards the end of the neighborhood, the house bright with lights and lined with cars. Madeline was on the curb, arm wrapped tightly around the girl beside her, steadying her sway.

“Hey,” Madeline muttered, pulling the door open. “Thank you so much. Seriously, you’re the best.”

“The best.” Brielle slid in before Madeline. Well, slid was generous, more like fell into your back seat.

Brielle Munson had been Madeline’s best friend for years. A staple in her childhood, and therefore a figure in your own life. Countless sleepovers, birthday parties, you’d even carpooled them to school your senior year when they started middle school.

As well as you knew her, you never took her as the black out on a Wednesday type, but your mother had often made passing, hushed tone comments about Brielle’s own mother. “She’s a little different. Kinda a wild card.” Your mother muttered to you one day, brows raising in a pointed look. You didn’t know much about Brielle’s family, never met them. Brielle always came over to your family’s house- you figured that was why.

“Is she good?” You muttered, pulling the rearview mirror down, angling it towards Brielle. Her head pressed in slopped defeat against the cool window, forehead rolling over the cold glass.

Madeline turned. “Brie, you good?”

“‘M good, ‘m good. Are we gonna get Cook Out?” Brielle slurred, cheek pressed to the window.

You huffed, another thing to add to the mental list of Madeline’s inconveniences- cleaning your windows of the foundation Brielle left behind tomorrow.

“Is she gonna puke?” You huffed, shoving the gear into place, rolling away from the front of the house.

“No, she’s not gonna puke-”

“-Madeline, if she fuckin’ pukes, I swear to God, you will be cleaning it tonight.” You sneer, eyes flickering towards the rearview to see Brielle. “I can’t handle puke, I will not handle puke-”

“-She won’t puke.” Madeline huffed, arms crossing over her chest in annoyance. “Brie, don’t puke.”

“I won’t.” Brielle muttered, slouching down the window.

“She’s almost asleep. She’s good.” Madeline shook her head. “We gotta take Brielle home first. Take a right up here.” She pointed out the window.

“Great, I’m the fucking Uber tonight, too? Madeline, I have to work in the morning-”

“-It’s literally two minutes away.” Madeline rolled her eyes. “She’s at her dad’s tonight. It won’t take that long. I just have to get her back in her room- shit.” Madeline turned in her seat, tapping Brielle’s knee. “Brie, you gotta wake up, ok? You have to get back to your room.”

“Nice.” You threw your hands up, irritation bubbling to a raging boil in your chest. “You’ve got to sneak her back in? How are you gonna do that?”

“She snuck out through her window, chill.” Madeline rolled her eyes. “Turn right at the light.”

“So, you’re going to do what? Shove her back in? I’m not helping you. I said I’d come pick you up, and that’s it-”

“-Did I ask you to help? No.” Madeline snarled. “Brielle, wake up, seriously.”

“I’m literally awake.” Brielle groaned, though her eyes stayed shut.

“Where am I going?” You threw a hand out lightly.

“Keep going straight.” Madeline muttered, body still twisted towards the back. “Brie, do you have your phone?”

“I think so.” Brielle muttered, lazily patting herself before turning towards the seat. “Oh, ‘s right here.”

“Turn left into this neighborhood. Then at the stop sign take a right, her house is on the corner.” Madeline turned back towards you.

You flicked the turn signal on with dramatic irritation, gliding into the neighborhood to the small house on the corner of the street, the edge of the cul de sac. Bloomington Lane, the street sign stood proudly above the stop sign at the edge of the road.

“Cut your lights.” Madeline muttered, climbing over the center console towards the back of the car. You felt like you were in high school again, flooding of your own memories, sneaking your friends back inside, coming through the unlocked window in the guest room. Watching Madeline help Brielle, crouched over her trying to get her sober enough to walk, it felt like a lifetime and yesterday all at once.

Your reminiscent memories were cut short when the porch light flicked on, a blinding cast of warm light cutting through the calm, dark of the street.

“Shit,” Madeline hissed, wide eyed and caught, looking out the window. “Shit, shit, shit, Brie, you gotta get up. You gotta get up for real, your dad is here, Brie.”

“No, he’s asleep.” Brielle muttered, head lolling back against the seat drunkenly.

“Madeline.” You hissed, eyes cutting towards the porch, a silhouette of a man stalking furiously towards you. You weren’t sure if you should look, turn away, drive away, a sweaty, knuckled grip on the steering wheel.

“Fuck, that’s Brielle’s dad.” Madeline whispered.

“Madeline,” You growled through gritted teeth. “What the fuck-” You jumped, bare knuckles rapping furiously on your window. Through the glare of the radio on your window, you could see him on the other side.

“Hi,” You squeaked, rolling down the window. “Sorry, I-I’m just-”

“-Who the fuck are you?” His voice boomed, sharp and cutting as the look on his face. You flinched under the tone.

“I-I,-”

“-Hi, Mr. Munson.” Madeline peeked timidly around your seat. His dark eyes flicked towards her, still narrowed in intimidating challenge. “We’re just, we’re bringing Brielle home.” Madeline’s voice shook, though she tried to swallow it, steady it. “This is my sister.”

You waved, tongue too thick and swollen to say anything. Now you really felt like you were in high school again, scared shitless, caught like a deer in blinding headlights by a furious parent.

“She came and got Brielle and I.” Madeline didn’t offer any more explanation, instead nodding towards Brielle.

“The fuck is wrong with her?” The spitting venom in his tone made you jump.

“She-She just had too much to drink.” You stammered, hands still gripping the wheel.

He tore open the backseat door, Madeline holding Brielle to keep her from falling limply out onto the concrete. “What is wrong with her? Did someone drug her?” He snapped, holding Brielle carefully.

“No, no, n-no, I was there with her all night. We brought our own-” Madeline cringed at the glare Mr. Munson gave her. You cringed for her. “She didn’t get drugged. I-I made sure. I watched her, she just… she had too much to drink, Mr. Munson, I’m so sorry.”

“Where’d you get it from?” He sneered, pulling his daughter out of the car with a gritted grunt. “You buy it for them?” His eyes were back on you, so harsh it had you jumping.

“No.” You and Madeline squeaked in unison.

“I just came and-and got them-”

“-I called her to make sure she’d get us home safe.” Madeline added, head bobbing furiously in a nervous nod.

“Yeah.” You looked at Madeline, then back at the fuming man. Brielle sliding in his arms, limp in his hold. “Here, I-I can help you get her in-”

“-No.” He sneered, pulling Brielle up, ignoring her muttered huffs of protest. “I don’t need your help. You’ve done enough tonight.” You felt small under his glare, biting tone that had you shrinking into your seat.

“I-I’m really sorry.” You muttered nervously, heart drumming with adrenaline, with fear. You didn’t know why you were apologizing, if anything, you’d made the one smart decision of the night. You thought Mr. Munson might appreciate that you’d gone to bring his daughter home safe.

The narrowed eye glare he tossed you before he was dragging Brielle towards the house, told you he did not appreciate your vigilant efforts. Your face drained, a flush of heat and icy fear sinking in the pit of your stomach. He slammed the door so hard, you were surprised the glass swinging door didn’t shatter to pieces right there on the porch.

You turned to Madeline, fists still clenched around the steering wheel. “You owe me. You owe me so much more now, like forever. For the rest of your life.” You sneered, shoving the gear shift into drive, peeling off the curb. You couldn’t get away from Bloomington Lane fast enough.

“You alright?” Lydia’s brows furrow at your third- fourth yawn of the shift. A shift that had just begun, your teeth ground tight in annoyance.

“Yeah.” You nodded, snapping the receipt cover down. “Is there any way I could get off register? I’m just super tired. My brain’s not really wanting to work this morning.”

“Yeah, for sure. You sure you’re alright?” Lydia’s head tilted to the side, snapping the plastic lid to the latte expertly. You and Lydia Allcott had practically grown up together, been in school since Kindergarten. It was lucky, you guessed, that she was your manager. Perks of a small town like Hawkins.

“Yeah, I’m just exhausted. I was up all night because Madeline is a moron. Snuck out and I had to drive her and her friend home, and then her friend’s dad was waiting outside when she got home- it’s just been a night, honestly.” You rubbed the base of your neck, working out a knot that was already beginning to form from your restless night.

Lydia sucked in a breath. “Oh,” She shook her head. “I forget you have a younger sister.”

You snort lightly, pouring the steaming dark roast into the cup. “Yeah, me too. Until she does something stupid like that.”

Lydia smirked, sliding the drink down the bar. “Brooke just got here. Tell her to hop on register, and you can go clean the tables.”

You had never been so happy to be carrying the soapy, black bucket out on the floor, sudsy rag dragging slowly across the empty tables. It was slow for a Thursday, the morning school and work rush dwindled down to a ghost town. Not that you were complaining.

The bell trilled over the door behind you, Brooke’s cheery, fake greeting echoing through the store. You didn’t turn, pushing the rag over the table, dunking it back in the bucket, wringing it out, and repeating. A rhythmic task that had your mind numbed, zoned in brainlessly from table to table.

“Hi.” You jumped slightly, soapy water spilling over the lip of the bucket onto the table.

Your posture straightened, turning with the expectancy of a customer wanting some specific table cleaned that you hadn’t yet got to. Instead, you were met with a familiar pair of dark eyes, not as furious as they’d been last night but burning even in the low light of the cafe.

“Hi.” You squeaked, gripping the rag in your hand, the water dripping between your fingers. “Um, wha-what can I help you with, Mr. Munson?” Fuck, he’d come back to scream some more. And at your work? How did he even know? You didn’t even have it on Facebook.

You were shocked when his lips twitched, a faint pull of smirk on his lips. “I don’t mean to bother you.” He started, hand wrapped around the small cup in his hand. “I’m not here to- I’m here to apologize.”

You couldn’t speak, tongue stupidly thick in your mouth again. Instead you nodded, a soft bob of your head. “And I wanted to thank you for bringing Brielle home last night. For making sure she got home alright. She could have…” He shook his head, looking over at the window.

“She could have done something stupid, and I’m glad you were there so she didn’t.” Your heart leapt when his eyes met yours again, a pounding in your ears that rang through your whole body.

“I-It’s really no problem.” You stuttered, voice wavering on embarrassingly unsure.

“No, it means a lot, and I was a complete ass to you last night, and I’m here to say I’m sorry for that.” Your eyes lingered over the patch on his coveralls, a cursive, embroidered ‘Eddie’ over the faded blue patch.

“I shouldn’t’ve been such a dick, but you go to say goodnight to your kid, and there’s a pile of pillows instead, and- I know you don’t get it. You’re too young.” He motioned at you casually. Your cheeks burned, looking down at your bucket, hand still stupidly gripping the rag under the water.

“But y’know, if you have kids of your own, you’ll get it.” Eddie continued, his own ramblings a little rushed. Was he nervous?

“Yeah- I mean, i-it really was no issue. I’m glad she got home safe.” You smiled softly at him.

A pause fell between the two of you, both of you shifting a little uncomfortably at it. “I hope this isn’t weird.” You looked at him. “Me coming here. I asked Brielle where you worked so I could apologize.”

“No, it’s- thank you. You didn’t need to apologize, I mean. I get why you were mad, I do.” You cringed inwardly at your own nervous rambling. “But, um, I appreciate it. You apologizing, I mean. I’m glad she got home safe.”

Eddie nodded, fingers curling around his drink. “Me too.” He nodded. “Glad she has Madeline too, to look after her. That they’re friends. I mean, Brie’s always been good at makin’ friends. She’s really talkative.” Your heart swelled lightly at the way he lit up when he talked about Brielle, boasting with pride and joy. It tugged on your own heart strings.

“Yeah, Madeline is too. She loves Brie, though. Brielle sees her more than me.” You giggled lightly.

Eddie snorted softly, lips curling in a grin. “Yeah, you too? Thought it was just me.” He shook his head, curls bouncing lightly. You tried not to stare. “Makes me feel a little better, then. At least I know it’s not all me.”

You weren’t sure what to say, offering a nervous smile and soft giggle, adjusting the bucket on your hip. That familiar pause of silence flooded back between the two of you, not as uncomfortable as before but still hinting at discomfort.

“So, I wanted to say thank you, and sorry for being such an asshole.” Eddie nodded, foot tapping lightly against the floor. “But, uh, I’d really like to make it up to you.” Your eyes lifted, snapping towards his own gaze carefully.

“I'd like to treat you to dinner if you're free. Just to show my appreciation for keeping my girl safe.” Eddie started, eyes watching yours carefully.

Your heart hammered, breath caught- strangled in your throat. “Oh,” You managed to squeak out. “That would be f-fine.” Your head was still spinning before you could register what you were even saying.

Saying yes to Brielle’s dad? Her father, much older than you, certainly than the type of man you usually let take you to dinner. Still, he wasn’t unattractive. Coverall sleeves rolled enough to see his inked arms, chest broad under the thick material. He didn’t look old, not shriveled and gross. He was nice to look at, even. You certainly didn’t mind looking at him.

“I-I have to close tomorrow, but I’m free Saturday night.” Your heart jumped, shocked at your own boldness. Eddie’s brows lifted slightly, lips curling on the edge of a grin. “If you’re available, of course. Sorry, I- when works best for you?”

“Saturday night is perfect.” Eddie’s voice was calm, a steady tone that had your rattled nerves soothing, at least to a low roar in your chest.

“Great.” You smiled, a little too eager, far less cool than you would have liked. Why were you so nervous? Maybe excited?

“Um, let me give you my phone number?” It sounded more like a question, setting the bucket on the table, wiping your wet, dripping hand on your black apron. You fished a pen out of the pocket, hoping Eddie couldn’t see the way your hands trembled lightly, buzzing with giddy excitement.

“And you can just text me a-and let me know where to meet you.” You pulled a napkin out of the dispenser, chin dunking to write your digits on the thin paper.

“I’ll pick you up.” Eddie nodded. Your gaze lifted to him, the finality in his tone, firm but oddly not pushy? It was foreign to you, sent bolts of exhilaration trickling through your spine.

You started to protest, lips pulling in a slight frown. Eddie shook his head. “I’m old school, sweetheart. I’ll come and get you.” He smiled, eyes much warmer than you’d seen them, the hinting of dimples creasing underneath his stubble.

Your knees tensed, swallowing down a bubbling of nervous giggles, giving a wide smile instead. Your fingertips brushed when you handed him the napkin, a featherlight touch that had your body roaring with fever.

“I’ll see you Saturday.” Eddie smiled, so effortlessly cool it made your stomach flip-flop. “You don’t work too hard now, y’hear?” He teased, tossing you a wink that did pull out the nervous giggles you couldn’t swallow down this time.

"Bye." You waved, the rag in your hand flopping against your wrist, cringing when the droplets hit your face. Eddie waved back, tucking the napkin in his pocket before he disappeared out the double doors.

The drag in your feet was replaced with a springing pep in your step. Greeting customers with a cheery smile, much less dreadful than your usually forced one. Even the huffy soccer moms ordering with the usual demanding entitlement that would have you gritting your teeth. It didn’t bother you, chest light and airy with excitement, mind racing with giddy excitement about your date.

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thecowinblack · 16 days

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Burning Hearts pt 2

Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3

Pairing: Eris x Reader, Earlier Azriel x reader

Summary: You arrive at the Autumn court and things are no longer what it used to be and without either your brother or Azriel in the way you and Eris start to catch feelings for each other.

Warnings ⚠️: A little agains, Mentions about sex, Alcohol, fluff, Mean!Azriel, mean!Rhysand, Swearing, mentions about cheating.

Word count: 1549

AN: Firstly I want to thank everyone who has supported me. I love you guys and I am ao thankful for everyone who's liked, followed or reshared. I'm sorry that it took such long time for me to finish this but I've had a lot going on. Hope you like the fic! Love/The cowinblack.

You arrived at the autumn court, feeling nauseous after the past events of the day. Azriel, the mate you’d loved ever since you met him so long ago, wasn't yours anymore. Looking up, Eris was already by your side, concern in his eyes.

“What happened, love?” He calmly asked.

“Azriel… Elain'' That was the only words that came out of your mouth, tears streaming down your face. But Eris didn't need anything else, he understood. You had told him about your concerns with Azriel and Elain earlier. Eris pulled you into a hug and you just stood there crying out for what felt like an eternity until the world became dark and you fell into a long dreamless sleep.

__________________________________

It had gone weeks since you got to the autumn court and you and Eris were closer than ever. Since Beron had been assassinated just months before there was a lot to fix here, laws to remove and things to change. You had helped Eris all you could, even if he said that you should rest and regain your strength. But you’d just laughed it off. Working distracted you and when Eris realized that he’d given you your own office and now you could sit all day working and helping people in need.

Suddenly you heard a knock on the door and Eris walked in.

“Good afternoon sweetie, care for a stroll in the gardens? I’ve got dinner so we can have a picnic.” He told you. You hadn't really realized that it was already afternoon. Guess time goes faster when you have fun.

“Yeah, sure” Only now realizing how hungry you were.”I'm starving,” you added with a little giggle.

“Good you really should take more breaks from working, otherwise you're going to get wrinkles all over your beautiful face!” Eris joked and you shared a laugh. A laugh, that was the first time since Azriel cheated you’d actually laughed. Adoration shone from Eris' eyes, he really looked like you were his sun, the only thing that mattered to him.

“Come on, I wanna eat before it gets dark!” You giggled, dragging him out in the fresh air. You and Eris walked around in the gardens for a bit before you got to your usual place, a beautiful orange tree beside a river. As you spread out the blanket Eris took out the stuff that was in his mystery basket. Strawberries, wine, pancakes and even more delicious things that made your mouth water. You sat and ate and talked for a while and when the time had reached midnight the two of you were drunk, like really drunk.

“You look really pretty tonight Y/N” He told you.

“ So do you, handsome.”

As his eyes met yours the both of you leaned forward and your lips met. The kiss wasn't gentle nor sweet, it was passionate, needy. As the kiss deepened something clicked. Maybe you and Azriel were wrong for each other. Because the passion you felt with Eris was something that you never had experienced earlier.

Carefully Eris laid you down on the blanket.

“Is this okay with you love?” he asked nicely.

“Yes, Eris, yes.” You mumbled into his hair. And so you ended up making love in the fresh autumn air.

__________________________________

The next morning you were woken up by a gentle kiss pressed against your forehead.

“Good morning love, how are you feeling?” Eris asked.

“Amazing, how do you feel?” You asked with a sleepy voice.

“Better than ever.” He said, now trailing kisses down your neck. “But we have to talk about us.” He continued.

“Of course, Eris I love you, a part of me always has, as you were the one who took care of me all those months ago when we got back from Under the mountain. You were there for me when no one else was, not even my mate. I totally understand if you don't have the same fee-” Eris cut you off with a kiss, a kiss so different from the one you shared before, this was so much more… Real. He wasn't leaving you.

“I love you Y/n, you're my world, I've loved you for so long, always thinking that you didn't see me in that way, we can take it slow if you want, but you’re the one I want by my side, forever.” Eris declared.

“Your little drama queen.” Was the only thing you could get out of your mouth, to shocked by the fact that Eris, the boy you’d had a crush on since you were so very young, was declaring his love before you.

“Well I'm your drama queen.” He laughed pulling you into another kiss.

__________________________________

Months past and you and Eris just grew closer. Your family had made several attempts to see you but you didn't feel ready. They had abandoned you when you needed them the most and you couldn't just forget that. Rhysands had said in a letter that everyone was missing me and that Cassian, Mor and Amren almost had killed Azriel for what he’d done. They were all sorry and just wanted me to come home.But the Night court wasn't your home anymore. Slowly you’d begun to love The Autumn Court and Eris and you had gotten married just days ago. Now you’re Autumn's high lady. It wasn't official. Just the court knew and you wanted to wait before declaring it, or at least make it dramatical. You and Eris had discussed when and where and then the perfect opportunity showed up:

A High Lord (and lady) meeting was to be held at the Day Court, to discuss the restoration of Prythian. And you were going to be there, but for the first time you weren't going to stand by your brother's side, no you were going to have your own throne next to Eris. If you were going to see Rhys you were going to do it on your own accord. That was when you were going to reveal your title. And that meeting, that meeting was today. Right now you were packing and planning what to talk about, what to wear and how to act. You’d known Helion since you were a little kid and the two of you’d always gotten along. He was like you, hiding all his troubles with humor and you hoped that your friendship would help to stabilize an official, and well needed, alliance between the Day Court and the Autumn court.

“Love, are you ready? We have to get going now!” Eris said as he entered your room, greeting you with a kiss on your cheek.

“Yeah let me just get changed real quick!” You murmured to him.

“Do you need a hand?” He asked playfully.

“No we don't have much time and I have a feeling that if you help me my dress is probably going off instead of on” You told him and quickly went into your ginormous wardrobe, an adorable chuckle following you. The dress you had chosen to wear was a piece of art. It was a clear beautiful red color which faded out into endless yellows and oranges. The bodice looked to be made of leaves in all of autumn's colors. It was in short just… Ethereal. You quickly got changed and right outside your room you saw the pleasant sight of your husband leaning against the doorframe. He was clad in a stunning tailored suit, a suit that matched your dress perfectly. In his hand he held the tiara version of the crown that covered the top of his head. He sweetly placed it on top of your head and then held out his arm for you to take. You laid your arm on his and a couple moments later you had arrived in Helions favored castle.

Eris had winnowed the two of you to one of the many entrances where the two of you were greeted by a couple guards. They scienly led you into a ginormous, beautiful room with a glass roof painted in gorgeous golden patterns. Around a round marble table 8 chairs were placed. You quickly realized that the two of you were the first to arrive since the only people in the room, beside the two of you, were Helion and a couple guards. When he saw us he strode towards us with softness in his gaze.

“Y/N! Long time no see. I heard what happened in the Night court and I became so worried that I wouldn't get to see you here!” He greeted you coming in for a hug. You wrapped your arms around his broad figure as he lifted you up, spinning you in the air.

“Oh and hello to you too Eris, what a fine Lady you have gotten your hands on.” Helion said as he put you down.

Eris answered with a chuckle and then spoke. “Fine indeed. Helion could you be an angel and ask your guards to get another chair. We can't have Autumn's High Lady stand through the whole meeting!” He announced.

“High Lady? Well Y/N I guess congratulations are in order-” Helion abruptly stopped and you knew what just happened. You spun around quickly, Eris clinging to your arm, offering support, as you uttered the words “Hello big brother.”

Taglist:

@queerqueenlynn @se7enteen--black-blog @@mybestfriendmademe @cleverzonkwombatsludge

An: I've got loooots of ideas for the next part and I hope to see you then!

#eris x reader #eris x you #high lord eris x rhys!sister!reader x azriel #azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #acotar x reader #acotar angst #acotar x y/n #eris x y/n #rhysand sister #eris vanserra #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x y/n

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strawberrysainz · 9 months

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secret garden. charles leclerc

“ charles joining you on holiday was definitely not planned. you begin to have small revelations. is it the wine, or are you truly thinking about his lips on yours? ”

charles leclerc x reader

a warning— crude language, alcohol consumption, mentions of food, slightly mature. some shitty french, italian, spanish.

word count: 4.1k

Your book seems to begin to blur as the lethargy of a Sunday at five o’clock tends to do what it does best; make you sleepy.

That, and your previous glass of wine seemed to be catching up to you.

The universe sends a saviour in the shape of your friend Lila: she pokes your stomach so you that look up through your sunglasses. You shut the book. It’s something about a twenty-something girl in the 1960s, who joins a hippie cult, and the facts make your head spin (you really couldn’t be arsed to focus while the wine makes you drowsy). You pause the playlist on your phone to look expectantly up at her. She’s a little bit drunk too; her hair is mussed up from laying down on the lounger. The Italian sun was perfect today, white wine flowing while you both tanned the day away. Lila had invited you to her fiancé’s (he worked for Ferrari) house in Tuscany for a week in the summer. It was picturesque and romantic, but he had to work for much of it and she wanted to spend the time with a person who was there constantly. With a getaway promised years ago, she finally followed through, and your second day was just as lovely as the first.

“Up for padel?”

“You mean… le sport?” You answer, giggling slightly. “The wine is in my head now, ma chérie.” You tease affectionately and she begins to tidy up her things to go inside. “Yes, le sport,” she mocks, “‘Tonio invited us to play.” “With who as the fourth?” You ask curiously; Antonio had lamented all day yesterday that he was ‘third wheeling, alone’. Lila pauses to focus on the question, delightfully tipsy, and her hand tries to fold the towel as she thinks. “He invited Charles to come stay too, they will train and plot for the season’s second half together. Now we will third wheel on them.”

You nod then, smiling, and pack up, giggling to yourself about the looks you’ll get from those two when you turn up fabulously drunk. “Is it a hazard to play padel with athletes when the wine makes me slow?”

Lila cackles, bumping her sunglasses back up on her face, sliding on her sundress. “Tonio might flip out on us for being useless, he’s so competitive against Charles. Charles is too nice to say anything. I hope I am his partner.” She snorts, and you laugh too.

“I hope Charles brought proper drinks too. Last time we had a party at Lando’s, that tequila he brought…” you sigh at the memory. “I hope he’s also on summer mode. No offence chérie, but your boy cannot switch off unless he has a friend.” You poke fun at the fact that he will only drink one glass of wine with supper and refuse to get drunk as fuck with the two of you. Lila hits you with the pillow.

💋🍷🍝🫂💌

You two Uber to the padel courts Antonio frequents in Italy, too scared to drive (rightfully so, you’re a bit shitfaced). You drink bottles and bottles of water, staring into each other’s eyes to try and sober up, but the dopey looks make you burst out laughing each time.

You end up napping for ten minutes, trying to sleep off the wine. Then you pat each other’s faces, blinking and blinking, but you end up giving up. Padel with two competitive men will be more fun not sober. When the driver drops you off, he tells you he is praying for whoever you speak to in the next minutes. You two end up in tears of laughter from God knows what. It ends with a hefty euro tip, some swear words and catching Lila from falling onto the street. Eventually you make it to the courts, picking up the two racquets the boys left for you on a bench, and you stare at Lila. “I hope we survive this.” You say seriously, and she salutes. You are in peals of laughter when you reach their court.

Charles stares at the two of you with amusement as you nearly trip over the entrance. “Avez-vous bu tous les deux?” He asks, and he receives just a wink from you, pointing at the small wine stain on Lila’s shirt.

He stifles a cackle as Lila goes to kiss Antonio sloppily, who kisses her reluctantly before gently scolding her in Italian. “Tonio, mon rêleuse, we apologise. We have only received your invitation when the wine was flowing. We also bring a level of entertainment.” You announce, brandishing the racquet. Your bluntness makes even Antonio smile. “Alright, alright. I was planning to put you two together, but maybe we’ll each pair with a drunkard, no?” He nods at Charles, who smiles.

“I’ll look after my girlfriend.” He adds, and Lila groans. “No! I wanted to play with Charles, he’s better at padel.” Antonio looks the most hurt you’ve ever seen a man be.

“Le spectacle de merde.” You whisper, at least you think it is a whisper, to Charles. “Ouais,” he giggles. You smack his arm affectionately. “Tu es tellement adorable,” you say, pursing your lips in a sweet way, and he hugs you with one arm, rubbing your back. “Laisse le vin continuer à parler, oui?”

The way in which you solidly keep hitting the ball on the wire makes him laugh.

Antonio cannot keep himself from raging at the two of you being useless, and tries to calm himself down; Lila falls on the court laughing at his aggressive muttering. You cry with laughter every time she misses the ball (which is more often than not) which leads Charles to request a glass of the wine you had been drinking. Padel has never been more fun, in your opinion: your grip gets looser and your shots stronger with every point. Charles carries your team, and you exchange a fist bump every time. Eventually you two win 11-10, and Lila jumps over the net clumsily to congratulate you both. Carlos settles for a reluctant high five. “Antonioooo…” you drag out his name, and the ridiculous grief of a tiny loss on his face makes you grin. “Can you make your tagliatelle?”

Lila clamours for it too, and he groans. “Whatever.” You two jump into each other’s arms; you end up getting another Uber back to shower and change so the boys can stop and grocery shop as well as buy you drinks, ‘not wine!’ under your instruction. When they get back, you’re slightly more sober, having showered and changed into a bikini (for a night swim) and a linen set over it.

Lila is asleep with her head on the kitchen counter while Charles pours you a rum and raspberry. You’re grateful for the different drink, the headache beginning to pound its way into your head. Antonio starts on the pasta, and you three talk about how their training was, how your poolside day went, the tourists in the city this week, paddock gossip and Charles’ new piano song, which he plays a recording of for you.

“That’s very good,” you compliment, and he blushes. Antonio is busy stirring the sauce while you have revelations. Charles clears his throat, locking the phone, and you set the table. “I’m making scones tonight,” you announce, and in the early stages of waking, Lila cheers with a yawn.

“With what?” Antonio challenges, and you wink. “I brought all the ingredients with. Jam and whipping cream. We can have some for breakfast tomorrow.” “Gotta train harder for that!” Lila jokes, flicking Charles’ arm, who giggles in that stupidly funny way.

💋🍷🍝🫂💌

Stomachs full and content, you and Lila float in the light of the pool. Occasionally you swat a mosquito out of your face, and your second R&R slowly slips away. “Still making the scones?” She asks, and you yawn. “Merde.”

You both laugh.

“Ti piace Cha?”

You stare at her.

“Sei pazzo? He’s most likely got some European model waiting for him in Monaco.”

“Ho visto come ti guardava.”

Your head hurts.

“Ma chérie, Cha could not look at me twice. There is nothing.” Lila makes a disapproving sound, and you splash her.

“Ho sempre pensato che non avrebbe mai potuto-“

Charles and Antonio, holding beers, make their way from the house to the pool. You shut up. You notice that they’ve also been drinking quite heavily, like you two- Charles is much too giggly, and Antonio has that drunken seriousness to him. They sit on the edge of the pool. “Where are those scones?” Antonio asks, and you roll your eyes. “Maybe I’ll make them fresh in the morning.” You yawn, making Charles do the same.

“Cazzata!” He replies, and you laugh with Lila. “Promise. I want to go horse riding tomorrow morning, the farm across the way said I could when we went with the dogs.” Lila shakes her head. “¡No puedo enfrentarme a un caballo, especialmente contigo!”

You snort. Antonio downs the beer. Charles is staring at the moon. “You okay?” You raise your eyebrows. “Just remembering last time I went riding.”

There is an awkward silence.

You can’t gauge his tone, and you make eye contact with Lila, frowning. “Well, if anyone wants to come, I would love to have them.” You clear your throat, and Antonio shakes his head. “Gym tomorrow.” Charles groans, putting down the beer. “Putain!” “You’ll have scones when you finish then,” you smile, and make to get out. “I’m going to bed if I want to get up at seven.”

Everyone wishes you a good night, and you make your way up to your room, still uneasy about Charles at the pool.

💋🍷🍝🫂💌

Your third day in Tuscany continues as you walk into the house; you are greeted by the dogs. The door was unlocked - a classic sign of Antonio leaving - so you knew the boys had left. You opened the large windows after taking off your boots, letting the fresh morning air in. You yawn as you put on a playlist, beginning to bake as the soft sounds of music accompany you to it.

About fifteen minutes later the scones are in the oven, and you set out some things to eat them with - as the plates clink, you hear Lila walking downstairs. “Hi,” she drags out the syllable - you smile at her ruffled brown hair - a dog is leaping up at her - and you wish her a good morning, making coffee for the both of you. She comes to sit on a bar stool, and you grimace at the remembrance of last night - where she slept for a moment or so - and she seems to recall the same. “How did you get up at seven?” She laughs. “My head was killing me.”

You laugh. “I have no clue.” “Wasn’t Charles weird last night? Or was I just drunk.” “No, he was so weird.” You are hungry to gossip (you had gone to bed before you could debrief.) “What the fuck was he on?”

Lila covers her mouth, laughing. Yet again, before you can gossip, the loud sound of the front door opening stops you. You groan and take the scones out of the oven. “Good morning!” Antonio says aloud, and you nod at the two walking in.

Lila kisses him on the cheek. “We have been hard at work.”

You grin. “How was neck day?” Charles rolls his eyes. “As incredible as you think it was.”

You laugh then, putting the hot scones on a plate. “Merde, did you do these from scratch? That’s so good.” “You burn eggs and toast, mate. Anything is so good in your eyes.” Antonio nudges Charles, who blushes furiously and smacks his arm.

You stare at Lila. She mouths some unfathomable sentence to you and you shrug as Antonio reaches for a scone. Your phone starts ringing, interrupting this strange situation, and you answer it. “Salut maman.” You answer.

“Ma chérie, comment est la Toscane? Les bons jours d'été avec toi me manquent, mon amour.”

You make a face that’s screwed up with childish embarrassment. “Tu me manques et la famille aussi, oui ? Je dois revenir en France pour visiter.”

“Papa t'envoie du champagne des cousins, et nous allons faire livrer des fleurs. Notre fille nous manque.”

“Pourquoi tant d'amour ?” You laugh.

“Sans raison.” She says innocently, and you stare at Lila, confused.

“Ton frère va se marier!”

“Quoi!” You shout, grasping your chest.

💋🍷🍝🫂💌

The news of your brother’s engagement leaves you still slightly concerned as Charles hands you some sort of cocktail. You take a sip and grimace at the ratio of rum to whatever else is in there. Charles laughs. “Haven’t they been together for a while?”

You shake your head, detailing that you’d met his fiancé - albeit a nice man - only once before. Antonio laughs. Lila smacks his arm. “You haven’t proposed yet, you cannot laugh.” Antonio’s face is a picture as you gasp for breath with laughter.

The sun sets on a slow evening as you laze by the pool with these people; you adore being in their company, you realise. You are still shaking your head with shock. “I can’t believe my brother is the first sibling to be married,” you grimace, and Charles laughs. “Which Leclerc will marry first, you think?” You ask him. “I don’t know. I think Lorenzo, because Arthur’s young. Definitely not me.” He emphasises with a face, and you laugh.

Hours later, you tell stories of your and Lila’s university days while the boys laugh, details of hookups and too much alcohol paint pictures of pure comedy. “Anyone want a scone?” You announce, going to make one in the kitchen. “I’ll come with,” Charles says politely, leaving the couple to themselves.

You end up pouring another R&R while you spread jam and cream, not eager to experience your hangover tomorrow morning. “Je suis un putain d’alcoolique.” Charles dismisses the thought. “S'il vous plaît, vous n'êtes pas spécial.”

You laugh. “It’s nice that you’re here. I always wanted to get to know you better.” You say off topic, switching to English, the languages getting mixed up in your slowed down mind. Charles laughs and pats your arm. “A drink makes you very emotional,” he jokes, and you make a face. “Be quiet.” “Let’s take a picture!” You switch up, mind spinning, and Charles is laughing as he takes pictures of you making scones with slow limbs, dancing, smiling, spinning.

You take a 0,5 of him in return, laughing at the weird expression on his face. You take selfies, air kissing, pulling faces, until your phone tells you you’re out of storage, and the moment is over, lipstick on his face. You laugh. He’s quiet.

“I can wipe it off,” you say quietly, trying not to ruin the comfortable energy in the kitchen. He lets you do it tenderly with a baby wipe, big expressive eyes staring into yours, wide with the relaxation of alcohol flowing through him. He leans in and you lurch back, shocked at the prospect of you two.

He pretends like he didn’t do anything, the little shit, and your eyes narrow as you pinch his ear. He cries out in pain, and tries to get you back, but you’re running with the scones in one hand and the drink in the other, cackling into the dark night, the comfort of the warmth.

💋🍷🍝🫂💌

The next morning is rough.

You’re woken up with a lurching stomach, violently hungover. You decide a swim under the Italian sun is going to help, and change, going to the pool. Antonio is there, swimming laps, and you hover awkwardly around the pool before getting in. He greets you softly, not wanting to disturb the birds chirping down at the vineyard and the peace of the morning. “There’s this song,” you say, dipping your head into the cool water, relishing this delightful feeling that comes with the activity of swimming like a child. “I used to listen to it every day of my last year of uni. It’s this song that makes me feel so great inside. And I realise that I feel that way when I’m with all of you. Thank you for inviting me.” Antonio looks touched, as much as a guy could at that revelation. “You’ve still got three days with me. That could change your mind.”

You laugh, diving underwater.

From the kitchen window, Lila and Charles are talking, unbeknownst to you. She grabs his arm aggressively as he moves to take the fresh cup of coffee. “Do you like her?” He jumps with fright. “Merde- she’s very nice?”

Lila raises her eyebrows.

He groans. “You aren’t going to ask me if I like like her as if I’m twelve.” “Charles!” She folds her arms, and he casts his gaze to you lazing in the pool.

“No.” He says stubbornly, and he might have convinced her but he hasn’t convinced himself. Lila lets out a huff as she turns back to the breakfast she’s making; he looks down at the floor.

💋🍷🍝🫂💌

Charles offers you wine. You nearly smack the bottle out of his hand. “No.”

The early afternoon is the precursor to your declaration of sobriety for the day; you and Lila take the dogs for another walk, getting dragged by their leashes as they leap and bound. You end up at the gym with her afterwards, sweating out your fatigue, and you try not to stare at Charles as he and Antonio walk in. Another game of padel is offered afterwards, and you two accept, playing away yet another lovely day and beginning of the evening. You’re much better at padel when you’re sober.

Then Antonio and Charles want to go clubbing, and you agree wearily, going back with them to change into some little strappy top and skirt. You have never decided your stance on clubbing - you love a night out somewhere, but the thought of it annoys you now, the prospect of a night in after a long bath sounding much better.

You and Lila pretend you’re back in your uni days, dark eyeshadow and dramatic makeup, perfume stinking up the room. You laugh at the two of you as you slip on some high heels, red lipstick everywhere, mascara accidentally smudging as you absentmindedly wipe your face.

You fix it before you’re running down to the car when you hear Antonio shouting about your tardiness. It’s a 4x4, and you slide chaotically into the middle seat next to Charles, Lila hopping in afterwards, your knee touching Charles’, skirt riding up. You let out a breath as Antonio has a bit of a nostalgic moment - he met Lila on a night just like this, with you two, at a club in Madrid.

“I feel nineteen again,” you laugh, seven years ago finding you again, the smell of Charles’ cologne rooting you back in the present. The driver is chattering on about Ferrari as you get Charles to take pictures of you and Lila, posing, then judging the pictures, high-fiving him for his great photography skills. You post one to your story, all wide eyes and pouty lips, and your followers begin to reply things about all those years ago.

You’re at the club twenty minutes later, a Khalid song sending you out of the car. You grab Lila’s arm and hug her, intensely nostalgic. Charles demands more pictures of you - Antonio agrees - you two must look good. He takes more, and then you’re all taking photos in the street light, and you’re handing your phone to some random girl who takes photos of all of you. She mumbles something in Italian and Charles thanks her very much before you’re all bundled into the club.

💋🍷🍝🫂💌

Charles comes to drape his arm over your shoulder an hour later, sweaty, and he’s got lip gloss on his lips. You point at your own lips pointedly and he exclaims something that’s lost in the noise. He lifts up his shirt to wipe his sticky lips and your gaze is caught on his abs as his hand brushes his chest. You look away hurriedly.

A dull ache propels you onto the dance floor, and some guy leans in to kiss you and you let him, annoyed and jealous. But his breath smells terrible, stale, and you’re pulling away, shuddering, and run to the bar for some water.

You’re still retching like a cat with a hairball ten minutes later when Charles finds you again, and he laughs with confusion. You roll your eyes. “I’m gonna go for a smoke,” you shout in his ear, and he follows you, a hand ghosting your back. You shiver and run out into the heat.

You pull out a box of cigarettes and a lighter out of your bag and you light one hurriedly, the taste of that guy still horrid in your mouth.

You offer the cig, lipstick-stained, and Charles hesitates before you shrug. “I didn’t know you smoked,” he said, and you shrugged. “Only when I’m out.”

He nods then; you lift up the cigarette to his lips. He takes a drag, eyes shining outside the fluorescent light of the club. You breathe, and you can see a teenager standing beside you instead of a man in his twenties, sneaking a smile and a smoke in secret.

💋🍷🍝🫂💌

It’s 2:26. You scroll on your phone as Charles talks lowly on the phone beside you (Leila and Antonio found some friends and decided to stay). You stare out at the moon, the light highlighting your face as you look back at Charles briefly. He’s already looking, and smiles slowly, bashful to have been caught. You can’t hide a smile.

His hand is laying tentatively on the middle seat, and your hand is on your knee. You both stare.

💋🍷🍝🫂💌

He’s pulling out a bottle of wine as you tumble into the house, the night welcoming you back to the villa. Your eyes are wide and his focussed on the glasses in his hand, walking carefully out onto the patio. You fall into a slightly uncomfortable metal chair and he pours a glass in the dark, squinting as you hear some crickets. You accept a glass with a quiet thanks and he sits down next to you clumsily, and the wine sloshes out onto his shirt and he curses quietly. You grin.

One of the dogs pad out onto the wood and the click of its nails makes your nose scrunch and it tries to jump on your lap; with a groan you attempt to shove it off and Charles gets up, laughing, pushing, and somehow he ends up staring into your eyes, bending down, and some force of nature propels you to capture his lips with yours. You let out a little sigh as he wraps a hand in your hair, and he’s pulling you up and the glass is forgotten and it’s twilight hours in the dark.

The trembling anticipation of a new lover ignites a new energy there outside. You wrap an arm around his neck and you both push forward against each other. It’s the kind of kiss where everything just works; your lips slot so perfectly, and his hair feels soft beneath your hazy movements.

The dog interrupts by licking your knee, and you move backward with a shudder. He’s moving in again, shoulders taut, and his arms are smooth as your hands grasp them, bodies moving sensually under the light of the crescent moon above.

Your watch beeps and you look down to see a notification from Lila. You ignore it. Charles is instead running fluid hands over your hips, liquid gold, and you’re melting, drowning in the heavy look in his eyes. It’s as if the puzzle piece has just slotted into place. A newfound frenzy causes you to pull him slowly into the house, bare feet meeting the dark wood below. You nearly crash into a glass window before you’re in the kitchen, and he’s bending your back slightly over a counter, finding your neck with his lips, nipping, sucking, and you’re parting your lips with delight, body moving with his.

His facial hair is scruffy, and the sensation causes you to arch a little and he slams you back down. You moan.

He grins.

A hand flits up your back, under the shirt, feeling the skin, and you shiver when he rubs a thumb over a piece of your spine, and he’s leaning back to study you, cheeks pink in the dark, and he goes back in for a kiss, smiling broadly.

#f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #f1 x you #charles leclerc imagine #f1 x reader #charles leclerc one shot #charles leclerc fluff #f1 one shot #f1 fic #f1

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misshoneybee · 2 years

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˖ ࣪ 𖥔 𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐇 | 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𖥔 ࣪ ˖

— ℳ𝒾𝓈𝓈ℋ𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓎ℬ𝑒𝑒'𝓈 𝒦𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓉𝑜𝒷𝑒𝓇 —

Pairing: Daddy!Andy Barber x Nanny!Reader Content Warnings: Daddy kink, ddlg undertones, somnophilia, dubious/non consent, age gap (Reader is early twenties, Andy is mid-forties), fingering, oral sex (f-rec), dirty talk, pet names (princess, sweetheart, baby), overstimulation, general smut bc this is kinktober so minors, dni!! Word Count: 4.7k A/N: Here we are!!! This is my first Kinktober and I am nervous to write all these new kinks and characterizations but also incredibly excited. I'm so sorry that this was so delayed, my loves! Work has been hell for the past week but I've finally had time to proofread this. As always, I do my best to keep my reader as inclusive as possible but please let me know if there's anything I can do to improve upon it! There's no use of Y/N or anything else where you need to insert information to read just because that's my personal preference! Anyway, please enjoy and I'd adore some feedback, if anyone feels so inclined! Navigation: Masterpost | Playlist | Divider Credit | Kinktober Masterpost | October Fifteenth Summary: Working as the Barber family's nanny is a piece of cake, but what happens when the dad you've been tip-toeing around all year comes home late one night to find you asleep in his bed, wearing his favorite sweater?

Although, you couldn’t exactly say that you loved your job, the accommodations and compensation made what little aggravation you faced in the course of a workday well worth it. While most students from your college town had picked up odd jobs in busy restaurants or quaint little shops, you’d become a live-in nanny for the Barber family. It was a perfect situation really—your tuition was covered by scholarships, you only worked in the afternoons and evenings, you didn’t have to pay for housing, the ‘work’ was a piece of cake, and your employer was the hottest man you'd ever fucking seen.

Jacob was a pretty quiet kid—and maybe a bit too old to have a nanny, at the age of thirteen—so you were essentially just paid to ensure he didn’t sneak out of the house and ate a somewhat balanced dinner on the nights that his dad got home late from work or other engagements. The family unit was small with only Jacob and his father and, now by extension, you.

District Attorney Andy Barber had quietly left his wife a year earlier and moved he and his son away from their small hometown to start over just as you’d arrived in the city to begin your third year of school. You’d met in the aisles of a dark liquor store as you stood in front of the vast selection of wine, teeth digging into your lower lip as your eyes scanned all the labels on the red varietals: merlot, cabernet sauvignon, Malbec, pinot noir, Sangiovese.

Seeing your hesitation at making a selection, he’d easily swooped in and found you something sweet, saying it reminded him of you with a charming grin. It was an unassuming bottle with a minimalistic label—a vin santo that flooded your tongue with a sweetness that reminded you of warm summer days and cherry jam. It was perfect—and that was where it all began.

You’d crossed paths in your small college town several more times and now, more than a year later, you’d settled into the Barber’s lives seamlessly. The big colonial house, tucked away in the gated neighborhood, was quiet as the clock approached one in the morning. Andy had needed to attend some gala, to rub shoulders and grease palms and do all other sorts of lawyerly things, so after dinner, you had taken it upon yourself to clean up around the house after Jacob had gone to bed.

The kitchen had been cleaned from dinner you’d made, the dishes had been washed and put away, and you’d finished the laundry. All of the linens had been tucked away in the hall closet but you found yourself hesitating at the door of Andy’s empty bedroom as sleepiness began to sink into your bones. There were just a few shirts that needed to be hung in his closet. You rocked back and forth on your heels, deliberating silently as you propped the basket on your hip, looking up and down the silent, empty hall as if he’d appear and chastise you for even entertaining the idea. He’d never said his room was off-limits to you; in fact, Andy had always told you to make yourself at home.

It would only be for a few minutes anyway.

Stifling a yawn, you quietly opened the heavy, wooden door and slipped into the dark room. Flipping the light-switch turned on a lamp, dimly bathing the unfamiliar space in a warm, comforting light. It looked just like you’d imagined it—not that you’d spent a long time picturing your employer’s room.

No—never.

Certainly not when he came down to the kitchen on Saturday mornings in worn flannel pajama pants and made coffee for the two of you to share in silence as Jacob slept in, and definitely not when you lay in your bed, in the room just next door to his, with your fingers slipping beneath the silky fabric of your panties as you remembered the feeling of his eyes on you from across the dinner table.

Feeling your face grow warm as you shoved those thoughts away, you quickly opened the door to his closet. It was as organized as you’d have thought it to be. The hangers and collars were all turned in a uniform direction, the shirts organized by shade and hue from dark to light. Humming softly to yourself, you finished the chore quickly before something on the foot of his pristinely made bed caught your eye.

The fall air that had invaded the New England coast had brought a chill, and along with it, a shift in his wardrobe. It was a deep, forest green sweater of his that had silently become your favorite item in his closet. Cautiously, you picked up the article and bit your lip to stop a quiet sigh from escaping your lips. It was soft and you’d imagined yourself running your hands over his chest while he wore it dozens of times.

The clock on his bedside table read just after one; when Andy had left that afternoon, he’d mentioned that it would be close to two before he’d return home from Boston. You knew exactly what you wanted. Padding softly across the room, you closed the door with an almost silent ‘click’ of the latch. You couldn’t help it; you could feel your heart beating against your breastbone and the way your panties had grown damp at just the thought.

There was a bit of a thrill as you slipped out of your ratty collegiate sweatshirt and allowed it to fall on to the soft carpet without a sound, your short cheer shorts following suit. Bare to the cold room, you felt goosebumps prickle your skin and you weren’t sure if your nipples had grown hard from your admittedly overactive imagination, or the exposure.

Slipping the woven cashmere over your head, you let out a soft sigh as the fabric caressed your skin and enveloped you in a scent that was purely Andy. It was something expensive; you’d seen the bottle on his bureau. A sweet, smoky wood scent that clung to his skin and the fibers of his clothes—fuck, you wanted to be covered in it.

Crawling on to the king-sized bed that took up the center of his spacious room, you couldn’t help but giggle as you sank into the plush, white duvet that covered it. Your fingers and toes curled against the cotton, and, in the back of your mind, you knew you’d have to smooth it all out before you returned to your own room, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care in the moment.

All you could think about was Andy in this bed, his hand working his hardened cock as quiet groans strained from his throat. You knew he did it every night before he fell asleep. You couldn’t help but wonder if he knew that, just separated by a single wall, you listened carefully and covered your mouth, fucking yourself along with him.

Allowing your eyes to drift shut, your fingers trailed down your body, rubbing the damp fabric that clung to the lips of your wet pussy, whimpering softly as you brushed against the hardened nub of your clit. God—you wished it was him. His fingers teasing your cunt, his tongue brushing over your nipple before grazing it with his teeth.

Clenching the duvet, that was covered in the musky, heavy scent of him, with white knuckles, it didn’t take long for you to reach the precipice. Biting your lip, almost painfully, you stifled a cry. The way your walls fluttered around your fingers, as your thighs clenched hard, and your toes curled into the soft sheets made you feel like you were flying. Writhing against the now too-warm bed, you felt that fuzzy, pleasurable feeling wash over you like the sun’s rays as you came back down. Touching yourself had never felt so good before—how could you go back to your normal nightly activities?

Slipping your hand from the sodden fabric, it was like your body was on autopilot. Your breathing slowed as your post-orgasm brain returned from the stratosphere. It wouldn’t hurt to close your eyes for just a minute. One minute, then you’d take off his too-soft sweater and get rid of any evidence that you’d even been here. One minute, then you’d go to your own room and lay down and go to sleep with your little secret.

Just one minute, then…

The lights were off in the silent house. Andy carefully allowed the heavy front door to close behind him, turning the deadbolt as he shut out the rest of the night. Running a hand over his scruff-covered chin, he let out an uninhibited yawn. The day had been long, the night even longer, and he longed for sleep. Leaving his briefcase in his office, and his rumpled jacket folded over his arm, he quietly padded up the stairs and down the hall.

With a gentle knock on Jacob’s door, and no answer in response, he quietly peered inside. A muss of brown hair rested on his pillow, barely visible under the plaid quilt that covered the bed. Jacob hadn’t snuck out since you’d taken on the task of nannying him, but Andy always liked to be certain, not quite trusting the little shit—and for good reason. Quietly closing the door, he continued down the hall before coming to rest in front of your room. He frowned, looking at the floor for that telltale strip of light that usually spilled from beneath the door and tattled to him that you were still awake, usually reading or listening to music or watching something on your laptop.

You were a night owl, and it wasn’t even two in the morning; you never fell asleep this early unless you had an exam the next day and he knew that wasn’t the case. It was the weekend. He’d gotten to know your schedule intimately, getting a copy of your class and assignment schedule from you under the guise of staying in the loop. Truth be-told, he just wanted to know how your days went and where you were. Erring on the side of caution, he gently rapped a knuckle against your door, quietly murmuring your name just inches away from the wooden barrier, knowing you’d hear, if you were actually awake.

Met with silence, he felt a tug in his chest. He knew you weren’t the lightest sleeper; once when he’d apologized for doing lawn work on an early Saturday morning, you’d told him, with a sheepish blush, that you hadn’t even noticed the loud mower outside your window. Knocking once more, louder this time, he called your name with no response. Resting a hand on your doorknob, he hesitated.

Though it was unspoken, he’d deemed your room off-limits…but what if you were hurt? Or sick? What if something had happened to you after Jacob went to bed? Talking himself out of walking away, he turned the cold, metal knob. The door opened silently and he hesitated before taking a step inside, his eyes searching the pitch black for your form.

Adjusting to the dark, his eyes could make out the frilly pink sheets of your still-made bed. With a frown, he flicked on the light and took in the space that he’d only ever caught occasional glimpses of. Through the worry, there was a pique of intrigue. Everything was shades of pastel, a little stuffed bunny propped up against your pillow. It was all so innocent and girly. Sweet and saccharine, just like you.

A light on your nightstand got his attention; a lump in his throat, and the bulge in his tight slacks, grew as the shape registered. Nope, it wasn’t your phone. Fuck. A little vibrator rested on your bedside table, and he had to bite his lip to stifle a groan. He’d heard the quiet vibrations through your shared wall before but seeing the culprit and everything else was something new entirely.

He always knew you were girly, loving cute things and being just as sweet, but you—

You were missing.

He didn’t have time to jerk off as he tried to remedy all of the new things he’d learned about your bedroom. Muttering a curse under his breath, he adjusted his rapidly hardening cock before taking a step back and taking a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as he gathered himself. He had to get a fucking grip—he argued against murderers for a living, for Christ’s sake. Would your vibrator and sweet little bedroom really be his downfall?

Your car was still in the driveway—you weren’t in the living room and the den had been dark when he’d come in as well. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he quickly found you listed under his favorites and allowed it to dial. His brow furrowed when he heard a quiet sound from the next room over. In just three strides, he was in front of his room and with one more, he was inside as the phone call went to voicemail.

The lamp in the corner of his room illuminated the space, as well as your sleeping form that was sprawled over the center of his king-sized bed. A cocktail of relief and arousal flooded him at once. You were safe. You were home.

But you were also in his bed. And aside from his sweater, only wearing a pair of satin-y, baby pink panties that were molded perfectly to your ass which he could plainly see in the warm light that filled the room. You rested on your belly, fingers gripping his pillow beneath your head tight, with one leg hiked up the mattress as you snuggled into the plush bedding. Closing the door quietly behind him, his legs carried him over to the bed without a second thought. His eyes trailed over your relaxed body and affection almost made the corner of his lips tick upwards.

You looked so sweet, your eyes closed gently as your thick lashes brushed your soft cheek. That sweetness was cut when he noticed a damp patch on your panties and the way that soft sighs of sleepy pleasure slipped from your lips as you rocked your hips into the mattress, oblivious to your newfound audience as some dream played out behind your eyelids.

The aquamarine of his eyes caught fire as he watched you shift in your sleep. Draping his jacket over the armchair in the corner of his room, he stalked across the room, pausing as he landed beside the bed. Straight, white teeth digging into his lip, he held back a groan as you shifted, seeking out comfort as his sweater rode up to your waist, revealing more of you to his starving gaze.

He could feel his cock throb at the sight of you and he was almost certain that no amount of deep breathing could resolve it. He needed you out of there before he blew a load in his pants like a fucking teenager. Tucking his length in to the waistband of his boxer-briefs, he carefully sat down beside you. The foam mattress didn’t move you in the slightest and he mumbled a curse under his breath before resting a hand on your thigh, giving you a gentle shake as he softly murmured, “Sweetheart?”

A little groan slipped through your lips, your eyes squeezing shut tighter as you held on to the clouds of sleep that still filled your head. Turning over, you mumbled something incomprehensible before your breathing leveled back out.

Looking at his hand still resting on your smooth thigh, he resisted the urge to give the cushion of your skin a soft squeeze. Slowly trailing his eyes up your frame, his eyes darkened. Your nipples strained against the light knit material, begging to be pinched and laved. If you tempted him when you were awake, wandering the house in those tiny shorts and tight tops, watching you sleep was another circle of hell where he was condemned only to look but never to touch.

You two had danced around one another since you’d met at that liquor store. How could he know you wanted it as badly as he did?

“Princess,” Andy tried once more, his thumb brushing back and forth over your leg as he spoke at a normal volume, “Wake up for me, sweetheart.”

He watched the way your nose crinkled slightly in your sleep and a small smile spread across his lips. It was as if your subconscious was absorbing his words, blocking them from reaching your conscious mind and waking you up. As he gave your leg one more gentle shake, you let out a quiet, whiny groan consisting of one word, “Daddy…”

Andy couldn’t help the way his grip on you tightened at the two-syllable word, the little blood that was left in his head, rushing to his groin. Fuck—there was no mistaking that. He barely noticed the way his hand had drifted further up your leg; he needed to touch you more, to see all of you.

You’d just called him daddy.

He could be your daddy for tonight.

Or, for as long as you’d allow him.

Clearing his throat, he gave one last, half-hearted attempt at waking you, “Baby?”

“Daddy, please…” You breathed out, your fingers gripping the soft blankets as your dreams continued to roll like a film reel, unaware of the way that their subject’s hand had drifted up to your hip, toying with the elastic edge of the only barrier separating him from you. Your voice was so innocent as you whimpered out, “Need you, daddy…”

At that, it didn’t take long for Andy to slip down the bed, gently parting your already spread legs further, leaving enough space for him to lay between them. With a tentative hand, he brushed his thumb over the wet spot that had darkened the light fabric of your panties, begging for his attention. Your hips jerked as he dragged his finger down the cleft of your folds and a low chuckle gently shook the bed.

“Shh…” He shushed your soft whimper, watching as your brows drew together, seeking out the feeling again and rocking your hips upward.

Fuck—he’d wanted this since he saw you standing in that dark store. You’d looked so sweet in your little, frilly pastel dress, your exposed décolletage shining with some body shimmer that smelled like vanilla, even from a foot away. That was you; always so sweet, so good.

Pressing a gentle kiss to the center of your covered, private area, feeling the dampness against his slightly parted lips, he hummed softly, reassuringly as his thumb continued to drift up and down that same spot tortuously, “I’ll take care of you, sweetheart.”

You spent all your time doing things for everyone else: your family, your friends, him, his son—when was the last time that you’d been taken care of? When was the last time you’d let your walls down enough to even allow it?

In that blissful twilight of sleep, you were so soft, vulnerable and receptive to his care. You’d allow it, even if you didn’t know you were.

Holding his breath, trying to stay as silent and as still as possible, Andy gently rolled the lacy, elastic band down your legs as his eyes stayed trained on your face for any hint that you were coming around. Gently maneuvering your sleep-laden limbs, spreading your legs wider for him to fit between, you barely shifted as he draped your legs over his broad shoulders.

Running a finger down the bare, sensitive skin of your puffy slit, he groaned as he collected the proof of your arousal on the tip of his digit. “Oh, sweetheart…” Using his thumbs, he gently spread the petals of your sex and had to bite his lip to stifle himself from cursing at the sight. The low light glistened against the wetness that clung to your skin as your hips shifted and your brows pulled together, feeling the cold air brush against your exposed clit. He cooed, “You’re so wet, baby. This all for me? All for Daddy?”

“Mm…” You mumbled, your cheek pressed against the pillow as your hands drifted up your body, dragging the hem of his sweater up over your tummy slowly. You could feel the last glowing embers of sleep slowly dying, with each brush against your skin pushing you back towards the waking world but you were so comfortable. You were enrobed in Andy’s scent, that sweet smoke that made you feel like nothing bad could happen to you as long as it was near.

Andy’s thumb brushed against your swollen bundle of nerves and he let out a low, dark chuckle as your hips gave a sudden jerk at the direct stimulation. Not wanting to torture you—not yet at least—he traced circles around the bud, careful not to touch it directly again. After several moments, he carefully slipped one finger inside, finding no resistance if your state of need. Giving it a few, agonizingly slow, experimental pumps, he watched hungrily as his digit glistened with your wetness each time it slid out.

With his eyes trained on your blissful expression, he gently slipped in a second, longer finger beside the first and watched hungrily as your body adjusted to the new sensation, a soft whimper breaking through your parted lips at the stretch; his fingers were far larger than your own.

“Daddy’s going to eat your sweet pussy, baby.” As his fingers hooked upwards gently, they pressed teasingly against the spongy pillow of your g-spot, your hips bucking forward again at the sudden pressure that made your squeeze around him. You were balancing on the precipice of wakefulness now, one foot still in that perfect dreamland and the other stepping towards the seemingly real, gentle brushes against your skin.

With a gentle kiss pressed to your hip bone, his tongue finally licked a broad, languid stripe through your folds from your entrance to the red button of your clit that continued to beg for his attention. “Fuck, you taste like candy…” Watching the way your tight hole clenched around nothing; he immediately imagined filling it with his cock, Andy groaned, “Sweetest little cunt I’ve ever had.”

Closing his eyes, he groaned as he leaned back down, using his tongue to lave over your sensitive skin; he needed to taste you. Sleep was slipping away, and you weren’t certain if it was a dream when your hands threaded through a head of hair that rested at the apex of your thighs. The grip of your fingers tightened almost painfully in his hair as his lips finally wrapped around you swollen clit, giving it a hard suck before letting it go. The scrape of your nails over his scalp mixed a quick lick of pain into his pleasure.

“Oh god—fuck!” You felt your body begin to shake as an orgasm barreled towards you, forcing your sleepy eyes to finally open.

“Watch your language, princess.” Andy’s eyes found yours open and he grinned wolfishly at the surprise and arousal that filled your expression, “Good girls don’t talk like that.”

The wet muscle dipped inside your channel, his nose nudging against your clit before he dragged his tongue slowly up again to the swollen nub. He traced the tip around it before sucking hard then soft and letting go and repeating the movement again and again. He could feel your body tensing as an orgasm quickly approached and he slipped his fingers back into your soaking cunt, your thighs quivering at the added feeling.

“Andy—ah!” A whine was pulled from your throat, silencing your sweetly confused question as you fell over the edge.

He grinned against your skin at the shattered cry, sucking your clit just slightly harder than a moment earlier before gently scraping his teeth over it and making your thighs squeeze around his head. He murmured against your wet pussy, his voice sending vibrations through your body, “What’s my name, baby?”

Your mind was floating away and all you could concentrate on was his touch and the way he made you feel so little and taken care of as he played with you. Shaking your head, your sweet voice came out shakily, “I don’t—”

“I know I haven’t made you that stupid, baby.” His thumb circled your clit, tugging up on the hood of it and exposing the pearl to his greedy eyes before they flicked back up to yours as you leaned up on your elbows to watch him, “What’s my name?”

Capturing it between his lips, he sucked hard, and you felt the wetness dripping from your hole onto his duvet, “Daddy!” You finally cried out, failing to silence yourself as he dipped his tongue into your entrance, collapsing back onto the bed as he played you like a violin, feeding off your every reaction. “God! Oh—feels so good…Daddy, please!” There was a pout on your lips that contrasted with the way your hips rocked against his every touch, unsure if you wanted him closer or to stop the sensations that were becoming too much.

“You like when Daddy plays with your princess parts while you sleep? Yeah?” He let out another deep chuckle against your cunt as a little chirp was pulled from you at his naughty words. He continued lowly, “You know I had to when I found this beautiful little girl in my bed, cunt soaked and waiting for me to come home.”

You moved your hips, chasing that pleasure with each changing angle. The sounds were almost depraved; every lick of his tongue and brush of his fingers forced a wet noise into the room that was mostly quiet aside from the constant melody of your breathy moans.

His hips rocked into the mattress, seeking out his own pleasure as you whimpered, “Fuck, that’s my good girl—wearing my sweater and those slutty, little panties. Gonna keep those, baby. Never getting them back.” Slipping two fingers back into your tight cunt, he pumped them as his mouth focused on your little pearl, “Now come for me again, sweetheart.”

“Can’t!” You cried out, your lip quivering as your second climax barreled towards you, and you shook your head, begging, “No! Too sensitive, daddy…”

“You wanna be sensitive?” He landed a smack to your overworked button with three fingers.

“No!” You whimpered, feeling tears well in your eyes, sniffling as the pleasure made your body shake.

“Better make that sweet little pussy squeeze my fingers or Daddy’s gonna give you a lot more than this…” With dark eyes, he watched as the pleasure finally took hold once again, dragging you under.

“Daddy!” You whimpered as he pressed against your g-spot with two thick fingers, sucking your clit at the same time and shoving you over the edge. Your fingers tightened in his hair as you finally squealed, “Oh! I’m coming!”

You felt your walls flutter as he helped your body ride the crest of the wave of your second orgasm, licking you slowly as a new flood of wetness coated his tongue like a nectar that he never wanted to stop drinking. He could live and die between your thighs, happily.

Your toes curled as your thighs clenched around his head, it was almost as if you were trying to force Andy away when the stimulation became too much but he held your thighs open despite the pleasured cries that filled the. room.

“That’s it…Good girl, sweetheart.” He murmured, helping you come down from the edge that you’d been balancing on for far too long. Watching through half-hooded eyes, you hummed softly as he rubbed your still trembling thigh with one hand and cleaned the fingers of his other with his mouth, a sly smirk on his full lips.

“I…” You trailed off, your cheeks burning as you finally came back from that floaty place where your head had been since waking.

‘Holy shit.’

Covering your body with his, your eyes widened innocently before he caught your lips in a surprisingly soft kiss. He tasted like whiskey and you, and it felt like a drug that you’d easily become addicted to. Andy’s hand landing a smack on your ass made you jump, pulling away from the kiss that had lulled you into a false sense of security.

He chuckled as you let out a quiet whine at the sting his hand left behind, sitting back up and undoing his belt with dark eyes that were still focused on you, “Now get that little ass in the air. It’s time to let Daddy use this sweet little hole, princess.”

#andy barber #andy barber fanfiction #andy barber smut #andy barber x reader #andy barber x reader smut #chris evans character #chris evans character smut #kinktober #maddie writes spice #maddie writes #honeybeeskinktober2022 #kinktober 2022 #reposting this bc it won't show up in the tags :(#mine

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archangeldyke-all · 1 month

Note

hihi angel! i’m sorry tumblr keep eating ur asks 😔 i sent in a few but i don’t think you got them so here’s one!:

so, let's say that r and sevika have been married for a few years now. things have definitely mellowed out so they try something new!

every once in a while sev and reader will play a game. the rules are: go out to a club/bar, act like we don't know each other, one of us tries to seduce the other, whoever manages to get the other "in bed" wins.

how would this play out?

🌕

i love this so much.

men and minors dni

you sigh, taking another sip of the wine in front of you as you shuffle through the papers on the bar. it's finals season, and as a professor, you're swamped with grading.

you rarely take work outside of school or your little desk at home, but you needed a change of environment after grading papers for six hours straight in your apartment. so, here you are, a little tipsy and trying to keep your grading as harsh as usual as the alcohol mellows you out.

"professor?" a voice rasps out. you look up from your papers, pushing your reading glasses up to sit on your head, and blink at the woman in front of you.

you recognize her, vaguely. you teach five different classes, the average class size is close to 200 students. so you don't know her name. but as you study her face, she becomes more familiar to you. you smile.

"you're the one who's always cracking open a red bull in the middle of my lectures." you accuse, pointing at the woman in front of you.

she chuckles and nods, ducking her head in embarrassment.

"sorry. three hour lecture at five o'clock... i get sleepy." she admits. you chuckle.

"i'm not entertaining enough for you?" you ask. she gasps.

"no! y-you're very entertaining! my favorite class! i just have to get up early on tuesdays so i'm tired by the ti--"

"relax." you cut her off, giggling. "i hate the evening classes too. mostly, i'm just sad you've never brought me a red bull."

she grins. "i'm sevika." she thrusts her hand forward. you shake it, smiling at her.

"hello, sevika. i think i remember your paper." you say, chuckling.

"really?"

"mhm. just graded it an hour ago." you nod.

she sits in the stool next to you, grinning. "well?" she asks. you chuckle.

"well, what?"

"how'd i do?" she asks. you smirk at her.

"well, i can't tell you that." you say. she pouts.

"no?" she asks. you shake your head no. she hums, then turns around and flags down the bartender. "another, for her. and a whiskey for me." she requests. he nods and walks away, and you raise an eyebrow at your student.

"i'm still not telling you your grade."

"what, i can't buy my favorite professor a drink at the end of the semester as a thanks?" she asks. you roll your eyes and lean back in your stool, willing to entertain this for a few minutes before you go back to grading. you need a quick break anyways.

"am i really your favorite, or are you just saying that?" you ask. the bartender delivers your drinks, and you take a sip while sevika answers.

"no, you're my favorite by far." she promises. you snort.

"so, sevika, what're you studying?" you ask.

sevika chokes on her whiskey, glares at you, and then composes herself. you have to bite back a laugh. "uh... math?" she guesses.

you burst into laughter. "'re you guessing or telling?"

"telling." she decides, nodding. "math."

you have to bite your lip to keep from surging forward and kissing her right here and now. her eyes catch on the action, and you have to kick her under the bar to keep her from doing anything stupid. "and how did you find yourself in an english class, math major?"

sevika grins, and scoots even closer to you. "i heard the professor was a stunner." she says. "wanted to see for myself. i would've dropped the fuckin' class if it wasn't you teaching. i hate writing. but... it's nice lookin' at you for three hours a week." she whispers.

you gulp, reaching forward to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. "that explains your horrible paper."

sevika bursts into laughter, then downs the rest of her drink. you do the same, sensing that your night might be headed somewhere else. "is there anything i can do for extra credit?" she asks, her eyes trailing down your body.

butterflies explode in your stomach. you tilt your head to the side, examining your student and licking your lips. "i think i could figure something out." you say.

thirty minutes later, you're back at your place, sevika on her knees in front you as she helps you get into your strap harness.

you help her stand again once she's done, and then jump on her bed and make yourself comfortable in the middle. she blinks at you.

"what?"

"why're you laying down?" sevika asks, as she crawls onto bed after you. you chuckle as she hovers over you, pulling her down for a kiss.

"honey, if you want the extra credit, you gotta earn it." you mumble against her lips. you have to bite your tongue to keep from laughing at the way sevika's eyes go all wide and glossy. "now be a good girl 'n ride it."

sevika's breath trembles, and she scrambles to follow your instructions, quickly straddling your hips and lining your cock up to her.

sevika doesn't hesitate to sink down and take you in a single go. it makes you whimper. she grins, her eyes rolling in the back of her skull as she adjusts to the stretch. you sink your fingers in her hips, grinning up at her. "there you go, baby."

"f-fuck." she whines as she starts grinding small circles against you. "fuck. been dreamin' about this."

you giggle. "yeah?" you ask. sevika leans forward, planting her hands on either side of your shoulders as she starts to ride you. you both groan.

"y-yes. god, fuck, it's your voice. i re-watch the lectures you post online 'n touch myself to the sound of you." she whimpers. you gasp, pleasure coursing through you at her revelation, and start thrusting in time with sevika's movements, desperate for more.

"shit, baby, tell me more." you whine.

your eyes are locked on her tits-- swaying in time with her movements. sevika's muffling her moans against the top of your head. "ffffuck-- fuck, love those glasses you wear." she whines.

you chuckle. "yeah?"

"and those fuckin', shit, ah, those blazers." sevika whines.

you smack her ass. she gasps, pulls away to glare at you. you smirk up at her. "keep goin' baby, you got a D on your paper." you encourage. sevika rolls her eyes and flicks your forehead, and you burst into giggles pulling her in for a kiss.

"pause." she whispers against your lips. you hum, nodding up at her, waiting to hear what she needs to tell you as your real-life wife.

"you okay?"

"i'd never get a D on a paper, babe. c'mon." she huffs. you burst into laughter, smacking her ass again before pulling her in for another kiss.

"how's C sound?"

"fine." she grunts, before sitting up and starting to ride you again. "unpause." she grunts. "so, where's my grade at now, professor?" she asks.

you giggle up at her, palming at her tits. "well, you started at a C." you emphasize. sevika nods, grinning down at you. you chuckle. "i'd say you're at a solid B+ now." you say. she grins.

"yeah? how do i make it an A?" she asks. you grin.

"well, for an A i wanna see you cum on my cock, baby. for an A+, you'll make me cum too." you shrug.

sevika loves a challenge-- and it's not like either of you are too far from cumming. she readjusts, bringing her hands down on your tits to steady herself as she starts to bounce on your dick.

the new angle makes you both moan. the base of the strap's pressing on your cunt over and over, and from the way she's shivering you know it's hitting sevika's g-spot, too. you reach between your bodies to start rubbing her clit. she groans.

"professor!" she exclaims. you giggle a bit. "fuck, i'm gonna--"

"yeah? gonna cum all over my cock, baby? go ahead, honey, i know you want it. know you've been dreamin' about it for weeks. sittin' in class, watchin' me work. when you'd go home after-- were you wet?" you ask.

sevika whimpers and nods. you grin.

"good. cum on this dick 'n show me how wet you can get for me." you demand. sevika growls, bites your throat, and cums on top of you. you try your best to keep thrusting into her as she shakes, whispering encouragement to her as you do. "there you go, baby. there you go."

eventually sevika stops moving and whining, and you smack her ass a third time. she grunts against you.

"you okay?" you ask, dropping your proper professor voice. she nods against you.

"i gotta get my A+." she mumbles, smacking your shoulder with a limp hand. "take your strap off so i can eat you out."

you snort. "you gotta get off the strap before i can take it off, babe."

sevika groans. "nooo." she whines. you kiss her cheek.

"stay here, baby. 's long as you need." you say, wrapping your arms around her and scratching her head. she huffs.

"'m just gonna nap for, like, ten minutes." she promises. "n' then i'll get to you. wake me up, okay?" she asks. you snort and pepper her head with kisses.

"alright." you giggle.

sevika's just about to start snoring when she blinks back awake, looking up at you.

"i love you." she says, smiling. "this was fun and all, but. i'm glad your my wife 'n not my professor."

you grin. "i love you too, baby."

taglist!

@fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner @shimtarofstupidity @love-sugarr @chuucanchuucan @222danielaa @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther @gr0ssz0mbi3 @ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @leomatsuzaki @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @vikasub @glass-apothecary

#sevika #sevika imagine #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #sevika x you #soft sevika #sevika smut

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boxofbonesfic · 11 months

Note

ransom + “You twitch in your sleep. It’s honestly one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen.” from the sleepy prompts list 🥰✨ dark or not ur choice

Title: Sleaze

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Reader

Warnings: Just a bunch of implications really, Implied Infidelity, Mentions of drunkenness, Ransom being a creep

A/N: i wrote this in twenty minuted hiding my phone under my desk, please excuse any typos 🥲

Your mouth feels dry and cottony, the taste of wine still bitter on your tongue. You shift without opening your eyes, your borrowed gown bunching uncomfortably beneath your hips as you do.

The night returns to you in alcohol soaked flashes; answering your childhood friend’s last minute summons with forced enthusiasm—after all, Louise only seemed to remember you existed when her flakey friends left her high and dry.

“What are you doing right now?!”

This time it was her engagement party, an extravagant affair planned by Louise’s overbearing mother, and her equally overbearing soon-to-be mother-in-law. You had already been in for the night, settled onto your couch with a glass of wine when your phone had gone off.

Louise had begged you to come—her maid of honor and two bridesmaids had both cancelled last minute, leaving her down one scheduled speech and gracious toast. And you’d gone, despite the ugly bitter feeling at not having made it into the bridal party yourself—and really, you’d understood the decision, considering your relationship had devolved into getting coffee once every few months.

You had thrown together a speech on your way over, practicing the padded list of platitudes in the rearview, about the “best friend” who was really just more of an extended acquaintance. She had a dress for you to wear, of course, striking down your department store cocktail dress with the same thinly veiled mixture of pity and disapproval that had caused the distance in the first place. You shrugged it off the way you’d been doing for over a decade—you couldn’t expect someone born with a silver spoon in her mouth to understand the taste of cardboard.

Your head is pounding, and you lift a hand to it, pressing your fingers to your temples. You’d drunk far too much, unsuccessfully drowning the feelings in a sea of red wine and bubbly to chase away the bitterness. How could you not be? You were staring down your third year at the Times, with no articles of your own and too much debt. Meanwhile, you doubted the majority of Louise’s guests—Louise included—had ever actually needed to work.

And then there was her fiancé… You shudder, lifting yourself from the plush pillows beneath you with a groan. You suppose to Louise’s credit, she had a type and stuck to it fairly religiously—assholes. And Ransom Drysdsle didn’t seem to be any different.

You shudder, your disgust re-surfacing at the thought of him. The crafty, shit eating grin on his too-handsome face as he’d brushed up against you for the fiftieth time, the palm of his hand slipping brazenly against your ass through the dress with an exaggerated “Oops”.

Sleazeball.

You groan again as you stand up, the slinky hem of your evening dress pooling at your feet. The heels and purse you’d worn—also courtesy of Louise’s closet—are in a heap at the foot of the bed. The room itself is as unfamiliar as the rest of the estate and boasts the same sort of heedless opulence that you’d noted in the rest of Louise’s fiancé’s sprawling manor; expensive original art, furniture that you suspected was both older and more expensive than anything in your meager apartment.

Through the tall windows the sky is dark, pinks and oranges are just beginning to eat away at the dark edges.

Why am I still here?

Vaguely you can remember being led up the grand staircase as the world shifted with every step, and a voice like smooth honey—

“You sleep it off in here, Sweetness.”

You debate whether or not to take the shoes and purse, considering your own are in the trunk of your car. Which is, of course, valet parked somewhere on the massive property. After a moment of hesitation, you decide to leave them—how far could the car even be?

You remake the bed to the best of your ability before heading for the the intimidatingly large door. You reach for the brassy handle, but to your surprise, it turns without you touching it. You gasp, stepping out of the way as it swings open. Ransom is on the other side, so close you can hardly believe there was a door between you only seconds before.

“Oh—well look at you. Didn’t think you’d be up so early.” You can feel the weight of his gaze as it travels down the line of your exposed throat and shoulders. “You drank like a fish, Sweetness.”

Louise’s fiancé is draped across the doorway like a sleazily suited curtain, his blond hair swept back from his handsome face. He’s still dressed in his party clothes, his expensive suit jacket slung over one shoulder and sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Embarrassment thins the smile you force yourself to return.

“I—yeah,” you mumble, rubbing the back of your neck. “Sorry about that.”

“What? No, don’t be,” Ransom shakes his head with a little laugh. The cruel curve of his lips makes it seem mocking, even if it isn’t directed at you. “By the time Lou’s friends are through, the staff is usually pulling heads out of toilets halfway through the night.” You grimace at the mention of Louise’s other friends, the ones who’s absent places you’d been called in to fill.

Ransom doesn’t move, remaining planted in the doorway like an annoying weed. For a moment, you stare at one another, until you clear your throat.

“Well, I guess I’d better—”

“How’d you like my room?” He asks suddenly, cutting you off. “Bed’s pretty comfortable, I think.” It’s something about the way he cocks his head, his lopsided smile spreading once again across his face, that makes you feel like he knows something you don’t. “Well, old room.”

“I, um. It was fine.” You say haltingly. “Comfortable. I’d like to—”

“You know, you’re nicer than Lou’s other friends,” Ransom says slowly, sliding one foot over the threshold and then the other. “I like a nice girl.”

“I should leave.” You say it plainly this time, but he continues to ignore it, like you hadn’t spoken at all. The tightness in your chest grows painful as he kicks the door shut behind him. You’re confused as he begins to work at the pearl buttons of his shirt, undoing them slowly as he speaks.

“You twitch in your sleep, you know.” He replies as he lays his jacket over the back of a chair. The diamond cufflinks at his wrists join his blazer as you stare at him in abject horror. “It’s honestly one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen.”

#bones drabble #ransom drysdale drabble #ranso drysdale x reader #ranso drysdale x you #ransom drysdale x y/n #ransom drysdale imagine #darkfic #dark AU #cevans #cevans fandom #cevans fic #chris evans #chris evans fanfiction

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twst-drabbles · 2 months

Text

Scarabia 7

Summary: An iridescent feather was all it took for Kalim to pack up his bags and drag Jamil to the kingdom of the faeries. Jamil has trouble understanding this odd fascination he has. In fact, it’s almost scaring him a bit.

(Trust me when I say this AU has not been exiting my mind. It’s been floating around in there, but for some reason my fingers could not get it out. The fingers and brain would much rather churn out other things. Weird weird brain. Hate having to wrestle with it so. Also excuse the errors, I am kinda sleepy.)

From birth until death, Jamil will always be expected to entertain all of the wills and whimsies of Kalim. He cannot deny him any request if it is within his means, nor should he scorn him when he clearly is making mistakes. A servant, a guide, and a source of comfort all wrapped up in one. And all he has to do is keep this facade perfect until the day Kalim dies.

…what a joke, such a thing won’t happen. His services will likely be passed onto Kalim’s child, if he even makes it to that age. And if not his child, then the next sibling. Retirement is a dream meant for the privileged, and so long as those privileged few exist, Jamil will be made to serve them.

Jamil cannot ask too many questions, especially when it carries the possibility of offending the master.

He cannot ask Kalim of the origins of that iridescent feather. Cannot question why Kalim has spent the entire week simply gazing at it. Cannot even ask if he can look at it, no matter how familiar it may seem to him.

His dreams, they don’t matter, so he must always stifle them.

Clearly this wasn’t his place, and all Jamil can do is sigh in frustration when Kalim locked himself in his room. And sigh even deeper when Kalim burst out his room one day, claiming he wished to vacation in the main kingdom of faeries. Wanted to see the sight where the most beautiful feather came from.

And off they went on a personal caravan. And onto the dark stone they walk.

“And what will you do with this bird, if you end up finding it?”

How silly. Jamil already knows the answer to it already.

“Hmm? Ah, well I’m gonna keep it of course!” And the smile on Kalim’s face was as big as ever. Any wider and it would seem manic, but that’s simply the way his happiness works. He feels it in all of its intensity, even should it warp his features into something almost unplesant.

“Though, with how big of a cage you purchased, I’d predict I’ll have to take care of it sooner or later, won’t I?” As everything does. Cute novelties always lose their luster within half a year. Such was the fate of Kalim’s private zoo when he asked for it for his birthday. There were other servants to take care of it, but it never sit right with Jamil to just, let them do part of the work when he can perfectly take care of it himself.

That and his parents scolded him for daring to slack off, even though he pulled multiple muscles in his back. He could never quite lay back on his chair the same way ever since.

“Oh no, I don’t want you to touch them.”

Jamil stopped his tracks, the frankness of Kalim’s tone and the never wavering smile on his face almost had him believing he imagined it. “…Kalim?”

Kalim paused himself, blinking before his mind was pulled from his thoughts. He waved his hands, fumbling about in his nerves. “Ah, I’m sorry! That didn’t come out right, did it?”

“Whether it came out right or not doesn’t matter. If you don’t want me to touch your newest pet, then so it shall be,” Jamil shook his head, sighing out in hopes the urge to bit his lip will also pass.

“Sorry sorry…”

What Kalim doesn’t know won’t hurt him. The role of the perfect servant isn’t something that Jamil can simply be. It’s an act, a mask, and every so often Jamil has to pull it off.

Kalim was always a heavy sleeper, even more so when he’s been drinking from the various wines he had Jamil bring. Under the guise of some jovial fun, Jamil coaxed Kalim into drinking much more than usual. No thunderstorm would be able to wake him up. Kalim once almost drowned outside in a storm like that, napping without anything to protect him.

Jamil doesn’t sleep in the same room as Kalim, but here he was nonetheless. He took a glance to Kalim splayed out in his pile of pillows and blankets, sighed, then continued digging through the various bags and luggage.

Finally, Jamil’s fingers hit something. He pulled out a large, gold gilded, black box with a keyhole in it. He didn’t have to look for the key. It was tied with a silk ribbon right at the bottom of the box. Really, Kalim needs to be more careful, but Jamil certainly won’t tell him so. Perhaps later, but not now.

He opens the box and he was almost… disappointed at the sight. The feather was dull. All the rainbow light that would scatter upon the surface of the walls when daylight hit it wasn’t there. The plumes still pulsed with those delicate colors, but it didn’t hold the radiance that Jamil knows he saw when it was Kalim’s hands.

From his dreams, the shape was the same, and yet it was missing just about everything else. What was it, beyond its glow? The lack of numbers? The sturdy feeling of wings against his body? The face that was connected to it?

Face… what face? No matter how hard Jamil tried to claw through his memories, that face he wanted to see was no clearer.

Even with his disappointment, Jamil plucked the feather and held it in his hand.

Only then did its glow come back. A kaleidoscope of colors flowed forth and blinded Jamil’s unprepared eyes. He winced and held the feather to his chest, just in case it woke up Kalim.

He waited, but only heard a snort and a shifting. He’s still asleep.

Jamil blinked, tears dotting the corners of his eyes from the brightness of it all.

There it was, the beauty he’s been seeking, that Kalim had been hoarding all to himself.

How silly. How stupid to be so taken by a feather. To have this simple item that was nothing more than a gift from a pen pal to Kalim to haunt Jamil so. To haunt both of them, actually.

Even with all those reservations in mind, Jamil lifted that feather and laid a gentle kiss on the body. It felt nice, feeling the plumes brush against his lips.

…he should put this away and go to bed. Kalim must never know what he just did.

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst-drabbles #ask #drabble #scarabia #kalim #kalim al asim #jamil #jamil viper #valkyrie au #reader insert #yandere

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hearts-hunger · 1 year

Text

with your head on my shoulder || danny wagner x reader

Read on AO3 | Masterlist

Summary: You have a bad dream, and Danny's there to take care of you. | Standalone fic in the Four Weddings universe

Pairings: Danny Wagner x Reader | Genres: fluff, hurt/comfort, slight angst | Word Count: 1.7k | Warnings: none! | Title song: “Strawberry Wine” by Noah Kahan

A/N: Of course Danny and Sunny are what gets me out of this writing dry spell! This is just pure fluff with no plot to speak of, but I hope you like it ♡

You woke with a start, heart pounding, your breath catching in your chest. You sat up in bed and tried to find anything familiar in the darkness of your room, needing to ground yourself on something other than the horrible images racing through your mind.

You made yourself take a deep breath. It was only a nightmare. You were safe in your own bed; despite the storm that sent heavy rain against your window, everything was quiet and peaceful. You were home, and you knew Danny was close by. You were safe.

Those realizations, as comforting as they were, didn’t erase the fear of the nightmare. Your heart was still racing, adrenaline making you ill; you wished you weren’t alone in your bedroom. But Danny was sleeping on the couch, driven out of your bedroom by a fight you’d started.

You felt awful now for what you’d said. It had been so stupid, so needlessly unkind; you’d been tired and frayed from a long, frustrating day at work, and you’d taken it out on him. Instead of being sweet to him when he came home, you’d started in on him for how late he was, and it had quickly escalated from there.

You’d stormed off to bed, and he hadn’t joined you. Now, when you wanted to go to him for comfort, you didn’t know if he’d even want to talk to you.

You walked quietly out to the living room and saw Danny asleep on the couch, as comfortable as he could get with his lanky limbs either scrunched close or hanging off the edge. You felt a pang of guilt as you looked at him; you should have been the one to sleep on the couch, since you’d started the fight in the first place. You bit your lip and debated just going back to your bedroom, wondering if he’d be even more upset with you if you woke him.

Lightning flashed outside, and all thought of going back to your bedroom alone went right out the window. You fairly flew to Danny’s side, unsettled and frightened and needing comfort.

“Danny,” you said softly, standing by the couch and nervously twisting the fabric of his t-shirt you were wearing.

He turned his head towards you. “Wassa matter?” he mumbled.

“Danny,” you said again, a little desperately.

His eyes fluttered open, and worry and surprise colored his sleepy expression when he saw you.

“Sunny?” he said, his voice gravelly with sleep. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m — ” All of a sudden, seeing him look up at you with such care and concern, you felt terrible for waking him over something so silly. You wrestled with regret and wanted to be close to him so badly you ached with it.

“I — I’m fine,” you managed. “It’s stupid. I’m sorry, Danny. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

You turned to go, but he took your wrist in a gentle grip to make you stay.

“Hey, hold on,” he said. He tugged you towards him, and you knelt beside the couch.

“You’re not bothering me,” he said gently. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

You felt a rush of tears, and you rested your head against his chest to hide them.

“Bad dream,” you said in a small voice. “And the storm.”

“Oh, honey.” He stroked a hand over your hair. “I’m sorry. Come here.”

He moved over to make room for you on the couch, and when you raised your head to look at him, your vision was blurred with tears.

“Are you sure?” you asked.

He looked a little stricken. “What do you mean, am I sure?” He brushed a few tears from your cheek, and you leaned into his touch.

“Because of our fight,” you said, and your voice was watery and tight. “I… I understand if you’re still mad at me, Danny.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked over your face with all the tenderness in the world as he brushed your hair back from your face.

“Come here,” he said again, and you did as he said. You cuddled as close to him as you could get, burying your face in the crook of his neck as he wrapped an arm snugly around you.

“My sweet sunshine,” he said gently, and it was comforting to hear the soft rumble of his voice in his chest.

“I’m not angry any more,” he said. “And even if I had been, you can always, always come to me when you’re scared or need my help. No matter what. Okay?”

You nodded, feeling more tears come. “Okay.” You pressed closer to him. “I love you.”

He ran a soothing hand over your back. “I love you too, sweetheart.” He pulled the blanket up over you and tucked you in next to him. “Try and get some rest, sunny. I’m right here.”

You didn’t say that you didn’t think you could get back to sleep; you knew he was tired, and you were content to snuggle close to him and rest in the love he gave you so generously. You played with his hair, twirling his soft curls around your fingers, and felt yourself relax by degrees.

You were almost dozing when a roll of thunder broke the quiet, and you jumped and pressed closer to Danny.

“Hey, hey,” he soothed, startled out of sleep by your sudden movement. “It’s okay, sunny. ‘S just thunder.”

“Sorry,” you said pitifully.

“That’s okay, baby,” he said softly. He kissed your forehead. “Did you sleep at all?”

You shook your head. He propped himself up on his arm, looking down at you; his curls were a little frizzy around his head like a halo, and his eyes were tired.

“Hi,” you said.

He gave you a crooked smile. “Hi, sunny.” He brushed his thumb over your cheek. “I’m sorry you can’t sleep.”

“I’m sorry I’m keeping you up,” you said.

He shook his head. “I don’t mind.” He carefully untangled himself from you and the blankets as he got up from the couch.

“Where are you going?” you asked, hesitant.

“Bathroom,” he said. “And then I thought I’d make you some tea.” He stretched and gave a little groan. “We ought to get a more comfortable couch.”

“Maybe I just shouldn’t start fights with you before bed,” you said in a meek voice.

He chuckled and leaned to give you a quick kiss. “Maybe.”

You huddled into the blankets and pillows still warm with Danny’s body heat, listening to the loud patter of rain on the roof and the occasional peal of thunder. They didn’t bother you so much now that Danny was up; even though you were grateful for the way he’d taken care of you already, it made you feel better to not be the only one awake.

“You want to watch a movie?” he asked. You heard the soft clink of mugs being taken down from the cabinet, and you sat up to watch him over the back of the couch. He’d found one of his comfy sweaters and tied his hair back in a messy bun, and you liked how the kitchen looked even more homey with him in it.

He looked over his shoulder. “Sunny?”

“Hm? Oh, sorry.” You propped your chin in your hand. “Sure. What do you want to watch?”

He poured two mugs of tea and stirred a little bit of honey into each of them. “We could watch Planet Earth,” he said. “That’s a good one to fall asleep to.”

You smiled. “Yeah, but which one? We can never agree on which episode is the best.”

He gave a soft laugh. “Let’s put on your favorite one, sunny. The forest episode, right?”

You hummed in agreement, and you followed him with your gaze as he carefully brought your tea over. He set the mugs on the coffee table and got comfortable beside you, searching through Netflix for the episode you wanted.

“Hey, Danny?”

“Hm?”

When you didn’t say anything, he looked over at you. “What is it, sunny?”

You reached a hesitant, apologetic hand out to him; you touched your fingers to the worn shoulder seam of his sweater.

“I’m sorry I fought with you when you got home,” you said in a quiet voice. “I shouldn’t have taken my frustration out on you.” You met his eyes. “I’m sorry, Danny.”

He leaned close and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Thank you. I’m sorry too, for arguing when I could have tried to help. Forgive me?”

You rested your head against his shoulder. “Of course.”

The two of you drank your tea — Sleepytime Honey, Danny’s favorite for late nights — and listened to David Attenborough narrate the wonders of forested tundras.

“Sunny,” Danny ventured after a while. “Do you want to try and sleep in the bedroom?”

You didn’t answer right away, knowing you wouldn’t give the answer he wanted to hear and feeling guilty for it. He read your hesitation and gave you a tired smile.

“You’d rather stay out here, wouldn’t you?” he asked.

“You don’t have to stay,” you said. You didn’t want to go back into your bedroom tonight, worried it would remind you of your nightmare, but you knew he wanted to. “Why don’t you go lay down, honey?”

“I don’t want you to be alone,” he said. He tucked the blankets more closely around you. “So if you want to stay, I do too.”

You gave him a wobbly smile. “Thanks.”

He gave you a gentle kiss. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

You watched the episode in companionable silence for a while as the storm continued outside. Danny started to doze with his tea in hand, and you gently took his mug from him and set it next to yours on the coffee table.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, half-asleep. “You okay?”

“Yes,” you said softly, giving him a gentle kiss on the cheek. You snuggled against him and leaned your head on his shoulder, tucking your hands under his arm.

“Wake me up if you need anything,” Danny said after a moment, his voice heavy with sleep. “You promise?”

Your throat felt a little tight. You were so thankful for the way he cared for you; tomorrow, he’d have gotten a night of broken sleep and be sore from sleeping on the couch, but he loved you enough to stay with you when you needed him, even when it was less than comfortable.

You cuddled close and let yourself rest against him. “Yeah, I promise.”

danny taglist:@tearsofbri@busybeingtrash@myway-late@gotavansleep@gretavanbri@stardustchxrds@pxppylove @mariegvf @bajabule69 @radmads-gvf

gvf taglist:@malany-gvf@spark-my-nature@eearevee@madneedshelp@demonrat444@josh-iamyour-mama @honeyandsweettae @mydarlingdanny@gretavandann@sacredjake@myleftsock@joshskittytickler21@hellowgoodbye@watchingovergvf2@fearfulspirit@mywaysoon@carbondancingthroughtime@caprisunsister @eraofstardustchords @sacredthefran@shesawomaninadream @serendipiti @demonrat444@wildflowerxx-x

@gvfrry@ohhey1293@the-chaotic-cow@mountain-in-springtime@xserenax-13@stardustjtk @brooke-gvf@weightofdreams-gvf@jakeydoesit@gretasmokerising@hayley1623@doodle417@finestoflines@brokenbellz@bowievanfleet@s0livagant@strugglingtodoshit@s-u-t@kay-jordan@gretavanfleas@jakeyboiiiiiii@gretavansteph@gretavanbitches@myownparadise96@luverleaver@weightofdreamz@greatervanfleet@maedesculpaeusoubi@jakekiszkasbestie@pineapple-photographer@baguettejuliette@alexxavicry@levi-wants-ur-bones@carlybubs@cowboysamkiszka@dannyandthekiszkas@jordierama@slutforsteve@starshine-wagner@quartzzzzzzz@edgeofdreams@writingcold @lostoverseer @catharu77 @mackalah @jaketlove @haileygvf @blacksoul-27 @ur-m0ms-blog

sorry if tumblr didn’t tag you — it’s stupid sometimes. but i’m real thankful for you, sweet peaches! and if you’re a new bestie and would like to be added to my taglist, check out the form right here!

#hi here's some danny and sunny fluff for your evening muah <3 #danny wagner x reader #danny wagner fluff #greta van fleet fanfiction #gvf fanfiction #danny wagner #danny x sunny #four weddings and a funeral fics #maddie writes stuff!

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beanghostprincess · 5 months

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Adding on to generalized chronic pain issues, specifically Devil fruit users-

The human body is about 60% water.

There's water in bone too, sorry Brook, no saving yourself there.

DF users have to keep up on hydration, but what if their inability to tolerate water includes ANY kind of water.

Luffy v Crocodile last fight in Alabasta, fighting with his blood - it affected him.

Tears? Big impacts.

Humidity? Rain? Storms? The affects are relatively minor but they are Still There. Most DF users, after an overexposure to water/rain/heavy humidity, will at best have a slight headache. At worst? Those old wives tales of staying out in the rain leading to sickness are REAL.

With my Buggy obsession, I am leaning heavily into impacts to him and those around him. So Buggy's immune system is WACKED out, both bc hus nervous system never quite got with the program of his powers and genetic predisposition. It's one of the reasons he got sick just before Laugh Tale. Fevers weren't uncommon for him AT ALL which is why none of the other Rogers were very concerned.

Shanks, though? He knew. He and Buggy had a whole ass SYSTEM for dealing with it. ((A system he drunkenly regaled Mihawk with often enough for the swordsman to have it committed to memory.))

Buggy studies medicine a bit, and so any Devil fruit users on Karai Bari have a specialty medicine made specifically with their abilities, biology, etc, in mind - including Crocodile. He doesn't let them suffer alone, bc he knows how it is and he refuses to let any of HIS be subjected to that.

Buggy just also doesn't reach out himself when he isn't doing well - enter Mihawk being like "Hello, I - stop screaming - I brought you your tea. Shanks waxed poetic about your teas for hours. Yes, I am aware of the time. No, I do not care that you are under dressed. Lay back down. I brought medicine for your headache."

Cue goth swordsman awkwardly going through the motions of caring for a sick, needy but very hesitant clown. And eventually he even finds the other... rather cute, all sleepy and smiling and soft spoken.

Gross.

Crocodile eventually catches on and swings by, intending to bully Buggy a bit, but then he ALSO get charmed and reminded of the balms for his scars, the specialty drinks Buggy had made for him, and he just... can't.

It becomes p normal when Karai Bari has a higher humidity level or rain incoming for even the regular, standard officers to remind the DF users among them to take it easy, not push it, and it's silly and over the top bc they can't he expected to do anything less.

((Bonus silly idea, Buggy is out helping with muscle work before a big storm hits, even the typical human mercs can feel the moisture in the air, and one dude just. Scoops Buggy up, all sunshine smiles like "let us handle this, Chairman Buggy! Someone as incredibly kind and courageous as yourself can rest easy with us here!"

Buggy is both flattered, offended and flustered in one go. Flattered bc "oh they DO care...", offended bc this guy did NOT just baby him did he???, and flustered bc aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaBeingHeldHELP?????

Croc would either choke on his cigar or just scoop buggy up from the other guy like "i got this, carry on"

Mihawk thought would probably shatter his wine glass, expressionless, and grab n go.

No they are NOT jealous, no they did NOT think the blush was cute on their clown- THE CLOWN, no, everyone shut up, the rain is getting to their heads, fuck off.))

This is awesome. The whole concept about DF users being affected by regular water too is great because it just adds more angst to the whole thing and it becomes more of a risk to eat the fruits. Gonna skip directly to the Cross Guild thing and say that I am SO soft and weak for Croc and Mihawk to end up smitten by Buggy somehow when they weren't planning on it. And they're so protective and take care of him and,,,, That's their boyfriend idc idc idc.

#my beloveds #they're so silly #i absolutely love cross guild asks #i am sorry for the lack of passion in this one i woke up at 6 am to go to work and i am tireeeed #but i absolutely love this idea #one piece #buggy the clown #dracule mihawk #sir crocodile #cross guild

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chiibi-chaan · 7 months

Text

- Kinktober 2023 - Masterlist -

- Pairing. - Bokuto Kotaro, Haikyuu.

- Warnings. - I'm so late lmao sorry, +18 (MDNI), drunk!Bokuto and tipsy!reader, slightly jealous!Bokuto, love-struck!Bokuto, oral (sixty-nine), not proofread.

The sky was already dark when Bokuto and you stepped through the door of your shared house, a little tipsy after drinking with old friends from high school. Bokuto couldn’t stop giggling, his low tolerance being the cause of his behaviour, even though he only drank some cans of beer.

It was hard not to laugh with him, he looked so happy, his arm draped over your shoulder and his body bumping against yours with each step he took. He wasn’t even able to walk straight, and you were not too far from being in the same state as him, because Kuroo, Bokuto’s best friend, was quite eager to make both of you drink until you ended up in this poor state.

You dragged Bokuto to your shared bedroom and let him fall on the bed, gasping as he pulled you down with him. You both looked at each other before bursting into laughter, tears forming in your eyes from laughing so much. After calming down a little, Bokuto wrapped his arm around you and smiled, his fingers slowly stroking your arm up and down. He looked at you with such warmth, such affection, that it had your heart melting with equal love. "You’re so pretty…" He mumbled, his eyes focusing on your face and taking in the sight of you, your face feeling warmer due to the alcohol, your disheveled hair and your smile… Such a pretty smile, it made him fall in love all over again.

"You know… Sometimes I realise how lucky I am… so lucky… ‘cause I’m yours… and you love me… only me…" He murmured, his voice a little raspy as he talked slowly. The alcohol running through his veins made him sleepy, but he blinked his drowsiness away and pulled you closer against him. "Why are you so pretty… I don’t like it… other guys keep looking… mmh… mine…" He rambled and pressed kisses against your face, before biting your cheek gently, making you laugh slightly.

He continued babbling nonsense, his hands gripping your hips and massaging the soft flesh while he held you closer. But after a few seconds he became quiet, staring at you silently and biting his lip. "Hey…" He murmured, his hands moving to your ass and gripping it gently. "Hey, sweetheart." You cooed softly, your fingers tracing his jawline as you looked at him with a tender gaze. "Mmh… wanna sit on my face?" He said bluntly, making you eyes widen and your eyebrows raise in surprise. "What?"

"Yeah… wanna taste your sweet little pussy…" He mumbled and licked his lips, laying on his back and staring at you with glazed eyes. You sighed and removed your pants and underwear, struggling a little as you slid them down your legs. He whined softly at the sight of your half naked body, his fingers hitching to touch you and his mouth watering. You ran a hand through your hair and went on top of him, your knees digging into the mattress on each side of his head. His hands immediately reached for your hips and he pulled you down, breathing deeply and groaning at the smell of you.

He parted your folds with his tongue, circling your clitoris and pushing inside you. His hands held your hips firmly, steadying you as he began to pleasure you. You moaned and your back arched slightly, small gasps falling from your lips and your fingers grasping his shirt while he groaned against your core.

"Fuck, yes... you taste so good, baby..." he murmured, his voice muffled as his tongue worked faster, lapping up your juices before he suckled on your swollen clit. You wined and your hips bucked, your gaze falling down to his erection straining his pants. He moved his hips unconsciously, his hands moving to hold your thighs as he continued eating you out. You felt dizzy, pleasure clouding your mind more than the alcohol in your blood. Your fingers fought a little with the button of his pants before pulling them down along with his boxers, freeing his aching cock. He groaned again, his voice vibrating against your cunt as he bucked his hips, his body aching for you to touch him too.

You wrapped your hand around his shaft, pumping him a few time before leaning forward and sucking him into your mouth. Bokuto whined, his eyes rolling back and his nails digging into your thighs as he pulled you down harder against his face. he was messy, but he couldn't help it, you tasted so good, so good he thought that he could cum just from tasting you. It would be so embarrassing, coming undone from just having you sitting on his face, but he wouldn't feel even an ounce of shame, not when he had you like this, not when you let him relish in the taste of your sweetness. It was addicting, you were addicting, and he couldn't help but want more.

You moaned and rocked your hips, grinding against his face while sucking him off, feeling him mumbling dirty words of praise against your flesh. He growled, the sound rumbling in his throat as his tongue lavished attention on your sensitive clit, drawing shuddering moans from you. One of his hands gripped your hair, pushing your head down and making you take more of his length into your mouth, his hips bucking up at the same time. "Fuck, you're amazing," he breathed, his voice rough with desire and his tongue darting out to taste more of you. His sounds were muffled by your folds, his eyes rolling back as deep groans and quiet whines fell from his lips, his thick shaft pulsing in your mouth. He was close, you could tell, his hand gripped your hair tighter and his hips jerked forward erratically, beads of precum coating your tongue. His hands gripped your buttocks, kneading the flesh as he suckled on your clit again, not caring about how sloppy he was while eating you out, your juices coating his cheeks and chin. With a few more hard suctions on your clit, he had you coming undone on his face, your moans becoming high pitched and your breath coming out in muffled gasps. It took him a few more thrusts into your mouth to reach his own climax, his cock throbbing as thick ropes of cum spurted on your tongue, beads of his seed dribbling down your chin.

You panted and rolled on the bed next to him, still trembling with the aftershocks of your orgasm. Bokuto mumbled your name, his hands pulling you against him. "'m sleepy..." he murmured quietly, nuzzling his face in your neck and holding you tightly against his chest, his strong arms firmly wrapped around your waist. You smiled softly and kissed his temple, your fingers running through his hair. Soon, you felt his breathing slowing down and he started to snore softly, fast asleep in your arms, where he belonged.

#x reader #female reader #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #bokuto kotaro #bokuto x reader #bokuto smut #haikyuu smut #bokuto kotaro x reader #kinktober 2023 #bokuto #kotaro #haikyu x reader

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 1 year

Text

The Other Half Part Six

Previous Part | Masterlist | Next Part

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

Notes: This is going to feed into an ask that was sent to me. Just needed to build that bridge, ya know.

Warnings: Some fluff; mostly angst. Soz. Whoops. Not beta-read.

Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only. Minors interacting with this work will be blocked.

Summary: You can’t know what he does—you can’t ever know. You could be in enough danger as it is if you’re ever connected to Bruce Wayne; he can’t imagine the repercussions if you were somehow associated with Batman.

“So, who is she?”

Liz asks it with a knowing, cat-like smile on her lips, brow arching. The question raises Bruce’s hackles, but he manages to keep a calm, serene smile on his lips.

“Who’s who?” He bats back unblinkingly. It takes everything in him to hold still, to keep his gaze on Liz’s, his hand steady on his glass of wine. She doesn’t blink first; she doesn’t laugh it off or change the topic. She waits. For ten long, uncomfortably quiet seconds, they both wait—until her boyfriend asks Bruce to pass the bread, and the date that Liz arranged for Bruce comes back from the bathroom, asking what she’s missed.

“Why are you still up?”

“Why are you calling if you didn’t want to talk to me?”

Bruce can’t help but smile. Sure, he’d asked a stupid question, but you sound so damn sleepy and soft. He can just imagine you at his place, curled up in his bed, wearing another one of his borrowed shirts. He leans against the wall of one of Liz’s bathrooms, eyeing the door.

“I want to talk to you,” He murmurs. “But I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t. I was just watching tv.”

“You sound like you were sleeping.”

“I was just resting my eyes.”

“Sure you were.”

“Don’t get sassy with me, Bruce Wayne. I know where you live. Hell—I am where you live.”

“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need anything. If you do, tell Alfred, he’ll—”

“It’s late. I’m not makin’ Alfred do anything. ‘Sides, if I want anything, I’ll get it for myself.”

“So stubborn.”

“Stubborn?”

“Stubborn, yes you are.”

“This from a man who rented out an entire restaurant and then took me to Burger King because I said he wouldn’t.”

“That’s not stubbornness. It’s being decisive.”

“Well I have decided that if I want anything, I’ll get it myself, and I won’t ask Alfred.”

Bruce chuckles softly, scrubbing his hand over his eyes.

“Alright,” He concedes, nodding and looking down at his feet.

“Are you having a nice time with your friends?”

Bruce glances toward the door, pursing his lips and considering.

“Yeah,” He says, “Liz’s boyfriend is nice.”

“Mind telling the paparazzi that?”

Bruce smiles. “I’ll send out an email.”

“Perfect.”

“‘Liz Wyatt is unequivocally not dating Bruce Wayne’.”

“Should be enough to satisfy Mich.”

“Is that what matters to you?”

“No, of course not.”

He tries not to find the way you rush over your words so precious.

“I was teasing,” He offers before you feel the need to explain yourself.

“Ugh—That is not nice, Wayne. Wake a girl up and you start teasing her.”

“I thought you were just watching tv.”

“...I’m hanging up now,” You grumble. “Go—Be fancy-schmancy and rich and attractive with your fancy-schmancy and rich and attractive friends.”

“Text me if you need anything before I come back. ‘kay?”

“Not Alfred?”

“Not Alfred.”

“I will. Keep it down when you come in?”

“Sure,” Bruce smiles, shifting from foot to foot. Then, against his better judgement, “Get some sleep, sweetheart.”

“Don’t tell me what to do…Mwah.”

Bruce chuckles before he hangs up, lowering his phone. He looks down at your contact, and the little photo he has of you there. He draws in a deep breath before he reaches down, unlocking the door and opening it.

“Shit—” He hisses, jumping as he catches sight of Liz standing there, waiting. “This apartment is huge. Do you not have any other bathrooms?”

“So who is she?” Liz plies.

“How thin is that door?”

“Bruce.”

“...Just someone I’ve been seeing.”

“Who is…?”

“What’s it matter?”

“Explains why you didn’t so much as glance at Cici at dinner.”

“That’s not true. I glanced at her plenty.”

“C’mon, Bruce, you know that that’s not what I mean.” She glances over Bruce before proclaiming: “I wanna meet her.”

“What for?”

“Because when was the last time you ever dated someone? You didn’t even do that in college. Besides, you’ve met my boyfriend.”

“And that was your choice.”

“Are you ashamed of her or something?”

The question punches him in the middle of the chest, his expression hardening. He’s taken hits from crowbars, guns, and baseball bats that have hurt less.

“Of course I’m not.” It leaves him with a thread of steel that he’s never heard in his own voice—not outside of the suit, anyway.

“Good,” Liz’s smile is as bright and as steady as ever. “I wanna meet her. Bring her over here for dinner, we’ll double.”

“If I bring her, I don’t want this to be an interrogation.”

“It won’t be an interrogation. It’ll be dinner.”

Liz is still pointing that smug, satisfied little smile at him. She knows he won’t back down from a challenge, not like this.

He’s too damn stubborn.

Dawn is just beginning to creep over the city as he climbs into bed with you at the penthouse. The room is pitch-black; he can hardly make out your form under the sheets. He feels your warmth as he lifts the covers; he cuddles in close, curling his body around yours. He smiles as you stir, as you press back against his chest and rest a hand on his.

“Bruce?”

You're mumbling, and your voice is a little rough in a way that it wasn't on the phone last night. Maybe you had only been resting your eyes when he called, just on the edge of sleep on his couch.

“Mhm,” He hums, gently wiggling his fingers against yours.

“You just gettin’ in now?”

Bruce rests his head between your shoulder blades, pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck.

“Of course not.”

The lie is as blatant, as plain to him as the nose on his face. But you can’t know what he does—you can’t ever know. You could be in enough danger as it is if you’re ever connected to Bruce Wayne; he can’t imagine the repercussions if you were somehow associated with Batman.

“Just got up to use the bathroom,” He tacks on. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“S’okay,” You murmur, pushing back against him again.

“Go back to sleep.”

“Mmmkay.” Your grip tightens on his hand, your fingers intertwining with his. Bruce smiles, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. He’ll worry about Liz and everything else in the morning…Well. Later in the morning.

“You busy tonight?”

“You sound like you’ve been gargling with rocks,” You laugh, glancing up toward the door of the stockroom. “Are you just getting up now?”

“No. No, been up before, and then uh…Down again. What time is it?”

“It’s almost two in the afternoon.”

“Oh, that’s not so bad.”

“Frickin’ billionaires,” You mutter, scrubbing your hand over your face.

“So?” Bruce pushes on, “You busy?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“What you have in mind.”

“Dinner with Liz?”

You blink slowly, stunned. Dinner with her? Why the heck would Bruce want to bring you to dinner with Liz Wyatt? She’s all glamorous, and cool, and you’re…You. You work in a store, you’re not like Liz. You’re not even like Bruce. You don’t realize how long you’ve been in your own head until Bruce says, “...Hello? Are you—” The words drift away, like he's looking at his phone, then back in, “Are you still there?”

“Yes! Yeah, sorry, I was, uh—” You clear your throat. “I got distracted.”

“So? You busy?”

“Uh…” You glance around the room, like there’s a good answer scrawled on the wall somewhere. Your mouth works wordlessly for a moment before you manage, “N-no. I mean, no, I’m not busy.”

“Great. I can pick you up from work?”

“I should get changed after work, not, uh—My place? I mean, what time does she expect us over? Should I bring something? I can get a—”

“Okay,” Bruce chuckles on the other side of the phone, halting your panicked questions. “We don’t have to go.”

“No, we can go, I just—”

“Take a deep breath, sweetheart.”

“I’m breathing just fine—”

“We’ll do it another night—or not at all, if you don't want to.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t wanna go, I just—You know, I’m processing.”

“Sounds like you’re freaking out.”

“I’m not freaking out! I’m asking questions. I am asking relevant questions.”

“You’re also repeating yourself.”

“...We can go,” You insist. “I just need to get ready.”

“Alright.”

“How fancy should I dress?”

“It’s just dinner at her place, you don’t have to get all…you know.”

“Well, what are you wearing?”

“Right now? Not much.”

“Bruce.”

“You should come back.”

“What, right now?”

“Mhm.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I’m hanging up now. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Alright—Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“...It’s gonna be fine.”

You nod, though Bruce can’t see you.

“I know,” You agree. “I wasn’t worried. I’m not worried.”

“You’re doing that repeating thing again.”

“Really hanging up now.”

You draw your phone away from your ear, peering down at it warily for a moment. Dinner with Liz Wyatt. What do you wear to a model’s house? What do you bring to a model’s house? Oh, there’s gotta be answers for this all over Quora.

“You look beautiful.”

“...Well don’t sound too surprised,” You grumble, straightening your sweater before turning to go back into the apartment. “I need like two more minutes, I just have to get on my earrings and my shoes.”

“Those flowers for Liz?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Nice choice. She loves carnations.”

“I know. I did some googling,” You admit guiltily, taking up one of the earrings from the table and putting it in.

“Are they in a vase?” Bruce tacks in, tapping his finger against the glass of it.

“Mhm. Keeps her from having to go and find one when we get there.”

“Clever.”

“I’m very smart.”

“I know that.”

You smile as you raise your other earring, fastening it. You glance back as Bruce cuddles up behind you and pressing a kiss to your neck.

“...We really don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

You’re quiet for a moment, brow furrowing.

“...You’re making me think that you’re the one that doesn’t want to go,” You manage after a moment, glancing back at Bruce. He shakes his head, resting his hands on your hips.

“I’m just making sure...Guess it’s time you met a couple of my friends, anyway. I’ve met yours.”

“You’ve met one friend,” You argue, chuckling.

“Mm. Where is Michelle?”

“Work.”

“She know where we’re going tonight?”

“Nope, I just said we were getting dinner.” You reach out, taking up your jacket from where it’s hung over the back of your kitchen chair. “If Liz is amenable, I’ll send Mish a selfie later, maybe surprise the shit out of her.”

“All set?—I’ve got them,” Bruce reaches out, taking hold of the flower vase before you can pick them up.

“Thanks. Is Alfred downstairs?”

“Nope, I’m drivin’.”

“Fancy.”

“...Is Liz’s apartment like yours?” You ask, shifting in the passenger seat.

“What do you mean?”

“Just, you know…Big, and…Nice.”

“Yes, it’s both of those.”

“Okay.”

“Why?”

“Just—Need to prepare myself so that my jaw doesn’t drop when I get inside.”

“Your jaw didn’t drop when you got to my place.”

“It was frozen shut at that point...Speaking of which,” You tack on, “Power’s fully up and running again, so I’ll get out of your hair.”

“...You can stay if you want.”

“In your hair?”

Bruce casts you a side-long smile. “I just mean you can stay over whenever you like.”

You smile, sliding down in your seat a little. “Noted, thank you…And you’re always welcome at ours, though it’s not as nice.”

“Your bed’s comfy.”

“That’s true.”

You glance out of the tinted window, watching the swankiest skyscrapers in Gotham fly by. You feel Bruce take your hand, and a smile unwittingly grows on your lips.

“Shouldn’t you have both hands on the wheel, Mr. Wayne?”

“I’ve got it,” He reassures. You hum in concession, grasping his hand with both of yours. You close your eyes, drawing in a deep breath.

“We can—”

“Don’t say we can still turn around,” You warn.

“Alright.”

You open your eyes, tipping your head to the side and watching Bruce.

“Do you want to turn around?” You offer.

“No.”

“Okay, so…We’re agreed.”

You loosen your grasp on Bruce’s hand, sliding down in your seat a little more and resting your head on your hand. It’s a moment before Bruce pats your thigh, then draws his hand back. You’d actually managed to shake some of your nerves, but Bruce’s repeated insistence that you don’t have to go to dinner is making you more and more nervous. You draw in a deep breath and hold it for a few moments before you slowly push it back out.

“Okay,” You hear Bruce mutter. You frown as he pulls into a street space, and glance around.

“We can’t be here already,” You frown as he puts the car in park.

“Listen,” Bruce turns in his seat to face you. Your stomach flips with nerves, and you brace yourself. “I’ve never introduced anyone to Liz—Or, to most of my friends. Not anyone that I've been more serious about.”

Your brows raise at his admission. He's serious—about you? Bruce reaches out, taking hold of your hand again.

“I’m sorry if I’m freaking you out," He adds, "But I don’t know what we’re in for, either.”

“...You’re nervous?” You realize, stunned.

“Am I not allowed?”

“Come on, you know that that’s not what I mean,” You mutter. You sigh, looking down at his hand again, turning your hand over in his, intertwining your fingers.

“...I didn’t even consider the fact that you might be nervous,” You admit. You raise your hand, pressing a kiss to the back of his hand. Your nerves flare as Bruce slips his hand from yours, but he takes hold of your jaw, turning your head and leaning in. He gives you a gentle kiss, thumb sweeping your cheek. You smile, patting his cheek as he draws back.

“We’re gonna be fine.”

Dinner’s not bad—in fact, it’s quite nice. It’s catered. You’d typically ask if there’s anything that you could do to help with prep, but there’s an officious staff of three flurrying around Liz’s restaurant-grade kitchen. Liz is quite nice herself, but she and Bruce can sometimes make you feel a little on the outside. You don’t think they’re doing it on purpose—they have a shared history, a longer history than you have with Bruce.

On the other hand, Liz’s boyfriend is lovely. He gives you smiles when the two of you are in the same conversational boat, watching as Bruce and Liz chatter on on topics that neither of you are familiar with. He lobs easy questions at you, backs Liz down from touchier questions, and keeps the wine and conversation flowing. You actually start to enjoy yourself, until—

“So you two are going to the gala together, of course.”

Liz’s boyfriend grimaces, eyes flicking to you apologetically. It seems he can’t back her down from that one quickly enough. Your brow furrows, a smile frozen on your face as you repeat, “Gala?”

“For the Wayne Foundation! Oh, don’t tell me Bruce didn’t tell you,” Liz glances between you and Bruce chastisingly. You turn your head to look at Bruce. He still has a smile on his face, but it’s that plasticized smile he gave your manager, and accompanied by a tight jaw. He won’t even meet your eye—hell, he’s not meeting anyone’s eye.

“Bruce,” Liz tacks on scoldingly, “You haven’t even given her time to prepare. She’ll hardly have time to get a dress now—Leave that to me,” She adds, leaning in and resting her hand atop yours. “I know all the designers in Gotham, I’m sure they can rush something by the 21st.”

“Oh,” You force yourself to laugh, shaking your head, “You know what—He did, but I’ve got work that night.”

“Surely you can take off.”

“I really can’t,” You insist. “My manager doesn’t like me very much. She barely forgave me for disappearing with Bruce for my lunch hour.”

“What!” Liz’s eyes brighten as she leans back. “Oh, I have to hear that story.”

It’s a safe enough diversion. You feel Bruce watching you; you don’t dare turn to fully meet his gaze, though you glance at him every now and again. Your mouth works on autopilot, but your mind is racing. Was Bruce even going to tell you about this? Or was this going to be one of those things that he does—those nights when he just goes off and acts like Bruce Wayne at before crawling into bed with you just before dawn?

Frankly, you’re not sure which you’d prefer.

Next Part

#Bruce Wayne x Reader #Bruce Wayne x You #Bruce Wayne/Reader #Bruce Wayne/You #Bruce Wayne fic #Bruce Wayne imagine #The Other Half

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pearl-blue-musings · 8 months

Note

yipee wine night!!!

ok so byakuya togami coming home from a long, rough day at work. hes incredibly stressed out and needs you to help him. you talk to him and cuddle him. basically the whole night :3

Yes please more byakuya togami I am very normal about this person 🥴

Since joining the future foundation, Byakuya has found himself away from home more often. Despite the fact that he enjoys what he does, it can still really get to him. He may not always show it, but having to undergo the killing game took a toll on his mental health and stability. Sometimes he’s able to handle it and move on, akin to his family name and prestige of course.

However, other nights are like tonight.

He’s absolutely drained. How can people still want to give in to despair when they’ve been shown the destruction of it? Any possible traces of Junko Enoshima and the remnants of despair should have been eradicated. Why, after all their years of hard work, do more of these types of people keep showing up? It makes no sense to him how-

“You need to close your laptop and come to bed.”

Your voice startles him a bit but he soon relaxes under your gentle touch. Your hands immediately begin to massage his shoulders and the tension in them begin to ebb away. Byakuya sighs as he rests his back against the sofa, getting lost in the sensation of the massage. He takes off his glass to rub at his eyes before leaning his head back to catch your gaze.

“I’ll be there shortly,” he breathes out, “I have to find where this new faction is meeting and-“

“And that can wait for a few more hours. Babe, it’s 2:30 in the morning.” You lean down to peck his lips, your hands still massaging his shoulders. “Come to bed. You’re already getting bags under your eyes.” His eyes shut then as he weighs his options in his head. Byakuya can already feel the tension and stress leaving his body at your touch and he doesn’t want you to stop. Maybe taking a break is the right move. It’s not like they can make a move right now…

You’re met with his sleepy green gaze as his hands come atop yours. “Fine,” he exasperates, attempting to feign being upset, “I’ll come to bed, as long as those hands don’t stop doing what they’re doing.” You try to hide your giddiness as he closes his laptop. He holds your hand as you guide him back to the bed. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was hoping you would come distract him. With the state of the world in its rebuilding era, something he’s a part of, his level of stress his increased almost ten fold. He takes your hand and kisses the top of it before heading into bed with you for a relaxing night, well few hours, of sleep.

Elle’s Wine Night!

#elle’s wine night #Elle’s anons #byakuya togami #byakuya togami x reader #danganronpa togami #togami byakuya

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l4long-winded · 8 months

Text

v. concealed feelings and abstract attitudes

summary: the morning after your drunken fiasco is not any less awkward than you could have guessed. there seems to be a strain on your relationship with sherlock that seeps into the trips you go on together for his investigation. you don't know why he's acting the way he is, you just know that it's angering you (cavill!sherlock x afab!reader)

reflection: this took a bit of time to put together, but as i have previously stated, i have a certain vision for this story. we are nearing the end of it and i hate to depart from these two emotionally stunted beings, but i am also glad to begin offering them what they deserve. i hope everyone enjoys and as always, feedback is welcome and greatly appreciated!

warnings: seamstress!reader, conflicted!sherlock, sherlock is in denial, reader has a nickname, arguments, sherlock is rude, close proximity, investigation, enemies to lovers, shame, miscommunication, sexual tension, cockblocking, original characters, sleep deprived!sherlock, kissing, escalation (please let me know if there are other warnings i need to add)

word count: 10,017

previously: the distraction of rising temperature

( this work has been cross posted to ao3 )

Sunlight pours in through a crevice of the curtains ahead of your sleeping face, warmth melting into your eyelids, sinking into your cheeks and your nose that scrunches up in reaction to the beam’s discomfort. You rightfully turn away from the brightness with a gruff, an ache you’re now extremely aware of settling into the base of your skull, pounding away against the fluffed pillow beneath your hair. Everything feels like a blur, you can barely bring yourself to open your eyes. You don’t recall your pillow being this comfortable, smelling of peppermint and bark and something familiar you can’t quite place in your sleepy haze, but you do nuzzle your face further into it in an attempt to get back to the appetizing thrall of cloud filled dreams and undemanding realities. Your knee raises up bending your leg into an acute angle on the bed that you seemingly have more of than usual, the edge not nearby despite how you try and stretch it out into the vast material of blankets that smoothly graze your skin and beckon you to explore the contrasting cooling effect beyond. You answer it in kind by scooting towards the relief away from the heat your body’s generated from being in one spot for too long, maneuvering until your toes flex out and finally greet an edge that you don’t venture out towards because you would much rather catch up on the winks you’ve been unable to for over a month.

Despite this willingness and acceptance to remain where you are, there’s this nagging feeling pressing down into your chest the more coherent you become. You’re not sure what possesses you to open your eyes in this instance, but when you do, you come to a shocking realization, and that is the realization that this is not your bed, this is not your flat, and by how memories begin to come forward in fragments, you know exactly where you are, or more so, exactly where you aren’t.

You shoot up seconds after your revelation with a heaving chest, the sudden movement too much for your brain to catch up with, dizziness overtaking you and joining alongside the migraine forming as the wine from last night’s bitter parting gift. In reaction, the palm of your hand nurses your right temple and you’re forced to control the pace of your breathing then to calm your spiking blood pressure. It helps with your equilibrium (though, you’re literally only sitting up), but it does little to help the racing thoughts vying for attention inside of your head. From the images you’re gathering one by one, you remember leaving your flat and ascending the stairs. You can’t for the life of you remember whose door you knocked on or if they let you in or not, they clearly did, but you do remember climbing into bed and nodding in and out as the fumes of black tea flooded your nostrils. You can still smell it. It was masked away by that maddening aroma coming off your [not yours] pillow, but now you’re awake enough to register the tray at the bedside table. The tea’s cold, but you reach for it anyways needing some kind of hydration that isn’t wine or the dryness your mouth’s succumbed to while you let exhaustion get the best of you in a stranger’s flat.

A knock resounds at the door during your second gulp. At the same time, you glance up at the wooden barrier and sputter on the tea, coughing to clear the liquid from the wrong pipe it chose to pour down in your distracted manner. A muffled “Is everything alright?” comes through the door and you recognize that voice all too well. A string of memories float by, pigmented photographs and images of Sherlock’s arms assisting you in your balance, guiding forces into his home as you babble about who knows what. You don’t know if anything transpired between you two, if you did anything to offend him. You just know that you’re occupying his personal space while he’s on the other side knocking as a gentleman should, checking on your well-being when you’re the one who turned up here without warning. In a fit of shame and guilt, you stumble out of the agonizingly pleasant mattress. Your overcompensation for your headache manages to knock your knee into the bed frame and you unwillingly squeak because of it, hand flying to your mouth, but it’s too late. As if sirens went off, Sherlock comes bolstering in and you can see his shoulders rise and fall from what appears to be relief that you’re unharmed. The sudden stop of his momentum awkwardly shifts his weight back and forth from one foot to the next. You’re unsure what caused the hurry, but you preoccupy yourself with taking him in.

“Forgive me,” he begins, fully dressed, one arm having an azure robe hanging off of it as his hands’ knuckles meet in front of him, “It sounded like you needed… aid.”

“No, I,” you grasp at your knee, a dull pressure in it from the bump it took against his bed frame. “I’m not used to your bed, evidently.” You chuckle, but it fades out as quickly as it comes into fruition. It’s humorless, a half-hearted attempt to try and make this normal when it’s anything but. It doesn’t help the nature of the situation any when Sherlock doesn’t laugh and cooperate with your failed gesture out of common decency.

In this refractory period you’re both in now, you both take advantage of the silence to look over one another. At least, you sense Sherlock glancing down and then at the top of your head and it causes you to think that perhaps you’ve done something wrong. The only time he’s looked at you in such a way, respectful and yet cautious, it was when… oh, it was when you answered the door fresh out of the bath. At once, you take a long look down at your current state and much like that incident, you’re clad in a dainty chemise. Which means, either you came in this attire last night or you stripped yourself of your clothes. With that possible alternative in mind, your head snaps around in search of any of your usual layering, but there’s nothing around for you to consider the possibility. But really, you don’t know which is more embarrassing. Showing up at your neighbor’s door in such a scandalous setting or removing your clothing in front of said neighbor who’s only recently decided that he didn’t hate you. Overthinking and almost drowning from the waves of implications, no thanks to your imagination trying to cram in puzzle pieces where they don’t belong, you drag off Sherlock’s duvet from his bed in order to hide your body from his eyes. The damage’s been done, but it’ll help soothe your psyche and maybe lower the chances of what Sherlock may think as attempts to seduce him with unladylike measures. You can see his smile lines quiver from how he reinforces the narrow shape his mouth has formed.

“Here,” he extends the robe at his arm. It’s warm from what you can tell and most definitely his size. You almost squirm at the thought of him surrounding you in fabric as if you didn’t just spend a slumber already in that position. “I brought it for you.”

Gingerly, you eye the robe he offers and can feel the tension rising in the room by the minute. It seems to grab the both of you so forcefully and yet neither of you make any efforts to confront whatever it is. You won’t be the one to do so, not when you’re scrambled, when you hardly know anything of what transpired last night, if anything at all. This, in your mind, is an intimate gesture. You wonder if there were other intimate actions to warrant this.

As if hearing your thoughts, Sherlock jostles the robe slightly. “I don’t wish for you to get back to your flat without some kind of security.” It hardly answers any of your questions swarming your head. It’s kind… as long as nothing happened, something you’re far too afraid to ask about for fear of looking like an imbecile, for forgetting him of all people, for bringing up what could’ve been a harsh/lovely night. And if something did indeed happen, touchy, feely, invasive, his reaction is rather worrisome. It appears he wants to get rid of you and that could mean your drunken mess has scared him away, the sole person you’ve interacted with outside of work, the sole person who you consider a friend in this trivial city.

“Thank you,” you murmur as you retrieve the robe from Sherlock’s hand. Your knuckles graze his, your skin lighting up from the contact. You don’t dare to snatch your hand away since you don’t want to show him how much that alone affected you, but an odd motion comes from him. His hand jolts like it’s been burned and he immediately catches himself, a mere centimeter in drawing the arrow back, but you noticed it nonetheless. It does nothing to appease your negative thoughts. If anything, it fans the flames of the notion that you’ve offended him, that maybe you took things too far, that your actions have crossed boundaries. You turn away from him then to conceal the disappointment in yourself setting in your features, his duvet discarded so you could mask your intent through putting on his robe sleeve by sleeve. What have you done? echoes in your head for a moment. Only a moment passes when you realize just how soft his robe is, just how much more overpowering his scent is now that you’re engulfed by it, by the extra fabric that bunches around you, by warmth so intense that you realize he perhaps wore it himself very recently, perhaps before he came in here. You swallow hard thinking about it, tying off the robe in an instant to busy your hands and maintain your cover-up. It goes past your knees and then some. You don’t recall when the last time was when you didn’t wear something fitted to your body, you had your profession and mother to thank for that, but it doesn’t dispel you or make you feel out of place. You try and smother how right it feels on you as you pivot back to look at Sherlock again.

“Better?” He asks. His hands are stuffed in his pockets.

His robe soothes you more than you can admit. You nod your head, “Better.”

“Good… good.” He looks to the ground, and you can see his thinking features setting in. He must want to say something. From previous affiliations and altercations, you understand how he can have plenty to say at any time. He’s biting his tongue and it just spells further bad news for you. You don’t know if you wish to have this conversation so early, with a bottle-ache pounding on your brain, in a humiliating white flag in the form of a cozy robe he’s given you to hide away your sin. Either nothing occurred or something occurred and it’s maddening to you no matter how you can imagine it. Your hand slowly comes up to the wall behind to steady yourself because you’ve unknowingly held your breath for too long.

“So, I… I wanted to speak with you about last night—”

“We don’t have to talk about last night,” you blurt suddenly, against your own will. It seems the fear of the unknown has won this round and decided this as the best route. The surprise on Sherlock’s face would mimic your own if you let it seep through. You, instead, half smile and wave off the awkwardness collecting. “We can pretend it never happened.”

Sherlock blinks at you and waits. You know he’s expecting an explanation for you to continue on, but you have nothing more to say. You already improvised this to mend whatever faults you may have committed and this is as far as it goes. If he deems this incorrect for his conversation, then he will tell you so. From what you have gathered, Sherlock could not resist the chance to correct someone. But, he merely looks at you. His talents, as grand as they were, could not read your scurrying thoughts. You don’t give him the option with your smile still present and how confidently you stand your ground. He observes and you won’t give him anything to read into.

“Are you sure?”

Success. You chose the right response. “I’m sure. I’ll be on my way.”

“Oh, alright. Yes. I’ll walk you out.”

You don’t want to rush out of there, especially when you don’t know what you turned down, but it’s difficult not to run out of the room and avoid him. You take gentle steps out from there, a soft expression you give him as he steps aside to let you pass through. Your shoulder brushes his chest. To you, even with the robe, it’s the same spark that carried over your knuckles when your hands touched. You don’t wish to contemplate this any further and opt to ignore it, but you could swear you hear Sherlock exhale as you make it past the first threshold, past his body that generates almost scalding heat. You don’t turn around as much as you think you should. You just keep walking forward with his front door in your sights, your exit to get back to where you can remove your veil and panic away from him. As you get near the door, he maneuvers in front of you. You immediately pause in your tracks as he presses a hand up into the air sitting between you.

“Wait here for a second.” Sherlock opens the door and steps out, the obstruction shut enough to block out the hall. Curiously, you stare at the crevice he’s left and ironically taken up with his frame. He soon comes back in, this time, widening the door open for you with a movement out of your path. “The coast is clear,” he confirms.

It’s not what someone wants to hear if they had intimate relations with an individual. If you and Sherlock slept together, whatever sense of the word, you have every right to slap him across the face from the shame he seems to feel at the idea of someone finding you leaving his flat. You refrain because it was your conception to not speak about last night.

With this point of contention floating around your head, you stop in front of him. “We’re alright, right, Sherlock?”

He smiles. It’s a half smile, but you have a feeling he isn’t done with you and for some reason, that’s enough for you. It’s odd how much you wish to keep a person around that you haven’t had much time knowing. “We’re alright, Lily.”

You crack your first genuine grin of the morning and then step into the corridor. “I promise I’ll return your robe,” you reply, and the corridor leads you to the staircase which then leads you to your flat. Much to your chagrin, the door is unlocked. You mutter your lashings to yourself as you get inside, soon finding the empty wine bottle that brought you into this mess. Nothing looks like it’s been tampered with save for your clothes on the floor that you haphazardly took off last night. You can ditch the theory of stripping in front of Sherlock, but the image of you showing up at his door in barely any clothing is mortifying enough for you to trudge over to the bath to scrub yourself clean to the bone. You can move on. You and him don’t need to have any ailments in your friendship, whatever the context of last night.

This is the same belief Sherlock hangs onto as he busies himself in his flat. He’s not thinking about last night, hell, he didn’t want to talk about it, either, not really. He was getting ready to tell you how you two were only friends, anyway, how he throws himself into his work, how he has no time for nothing but his private practice. He’s not thinking of how you asked him to lay with you. He’s not thinking of how close he came to doing so, how he paced the floor wrestling with whether he should climb into bed with you or not for almost as long as you slept. And he’s certainly not dwelling on the fact that you regretted it. No, it doesn’t bother him. It can’t. It won’t.

It’s noon when the bell at your shop’s entrance rings. You can’t help but spring up from the back room. As it’s been for weeks, work is slower. Your usual clients come in, get their pieces, and then leave. They have kept you in business with their rampant commissions, but it’s rare for you to gain new customers steadily. You would like to see new faces, perhaps younger ones at that, but you’re also aware that the person who rang that bell isn’t a new prospect. As you almost skip from the back of the shop to the main counter, you see Sherlock standing around, his gaze on a yellow dress you’re saving for a client.

“Right on time. You’re very punctual, you know?” Your smile broadens, but peculiarly, Sherlock acknowledges you with a noise, a half-breath half-grunt. Strangely, with that alone, you could hear his tone beneath it agreeing with the statement. Or, more so, seeing it as a fact that is perhaps not worth exploring any further than the greeting.

“Did you acquire that list of names?” He confirms your assumption by bypassing it altogether and diving straight into this planned meeting’s purpose. As much as you wish to read into it, you compose yourself, nod, and then retrieve a piece of paper scribbled with the list he requested in your prior discussions of what he needed from you for his investigation. His hands are quick to steal away the paper. You could see his eyes studying every name on the list, every address associated, every curve of your handwriting as he mouths it to himself. From what his lips form and from how you guess through the position of his eyes on the paper, you can tell where he is and just how far he is from reaching the end of it. You can’t resist twiddling your thumbs as you wait for his further direction, occupying them as strings of pure nerves bounce around through your digits.

When he finishes, Sherlock doesn’t say anything like you expect. He doesn’t say anything at all. He holds the list higher to himself and then turns away from your counter heading straight for the door, not bothering to bid you any form of goodbye or grant you his appreciation for your compliance. You’re so flabbergasted by his antics that it takes you two seconds longer than normal to step from behind your counter and start after him, “Sherlock?!”

You call for him at the same time that he exits your shop, but you don’t let that stop you from hurrying outside and repeating his name. One hand lands on his left shoulder and he instantly pivots around to look at you. And it appears… it appears as if he looked disturbed by the action.

“Yes? What is it?”

The hard lines surrounding his eyebrows add onto his exasperated expression. You’re not sure where this attitude is stemming from, but from this morning’s exchange and how eggplant rings decorate in half wreaths under his eyes, little sleep can possibly be the scapegoat. Your patience with him is higher than it would usually be with anyone else through this understanding. That and you didn’t plan on lingering in your empty shop for the rest of the day when Sherlock’s holding an opportunity to venture out into London.

“I thought you required my expertise?”

“It contrived me this list, did it not?” He raises the parchment into the air. You stare at it with a hardened gaze before you dare to look back into the intensity of Sherlock’s now royal blues. You’re not like him. You can’t read him as well as a book like he can read you so you stop your searching (for whatever the fuck it was) and snatch the list out of his hand. It slightly irritates you how his exasperation seemingly deepens.

“When you asked me to scribe you a list of the names of those who’ve purchased that particular exported fabric, I trusted that you understood of just how much I was implicating myself offering private information regarding my father’s—m-my clientele…” Your slip displaces your uneasiness in your hands to your throat. That familiar lump begins to form in your neck, your head repeating No, not here as you try and quickly collect yourself. Sherlock’s expression softens at the mention of your father and the inner corners of his eyebrows upturn. You set your jaw, No, not here, not in front of him, and clear away the cobwebs of grief to return to your point. “You’ve made it perfectly transparent how you don’t wish to divulge the details of this case to me because of the entanglement it could garner, but please,” you gesture to your list, “allow me to assist you in this. I know these people better than you do and I doubt they would be keen on welcoming a stranger into their homes, much less a snooping one.”

Sherlock’s gaze hasn’t moved a centimeter from you. The tone of his intensity has shifted, but not in the pressure it engulfs you with. The sympathy expanding in his tired pupils causes you to cringe inwards because you didn’t want to bring your father up in the first place, but it had happened so organically. As organically as the bystanders passing you both by. They chance singular glances at you and Sherlock, some curious about the endeavor because you’re halting traffic, others brushing by you without a care of who you are or what you’ve been through. Perhaps being invisible could have its perks, perhaps then you would feel normal and not a scared girl desperate for an escape an emotionally-stunted man could provide.

Said emotionally-stunted man relents and sighs. Thankfully, without you telling him to stop staring at you like that, he drops his gaze and readjusts his gloves. “Fine, but at any sign of risk, you will do as I say.”

A smile blooms on your features. You can feel the excitement building inside of you and before you realize what you’re doing, you take a step forward and then hop on the next step into Sherlock’s frame. Your arms wrap around his neck, the scent from this morning, the one from his robe sitting in your flat and from his pillow sitting in his, radiating off him. It permeates your senses immediately. It haunted you until you scrubbed yourself from it in a bath, but now you have this fleeting desire to sink further into it. It’s Sherlock’s hands gently acquainting themselves with your hips that causes you to remember how you’re both out on the pavement in public and not in some otherworldly dimension you two keep finding your ways towards.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, gradually lowering yourself down to your heels that elevated in efforts to match his height. Your arms slide from his neck, linger at his chest, and then detach altogether. Sherlock’s pace is about the same in removing his hands from you. You can feel tension as you both initiate eye contact.

“I’m going to go… close my shop for the day.” You point with your thumb to the establishment behind you. You almost forgot about it, but it seems like as good an excuse as any. “Wait for me?”

It’s hard to explain what it is between you two. It sits as thickly as ever as you look awkwardly at each other with looming responsibilities to attend to. Sherlock looks at your shop instead of the obscure air in the space occupying the gap your bodies share. Maybe he’s using the same excuse as you.

“I’ll wait for you.”

Mrs. Blanche Thomas’s living space is full of cat figurines from the arms of the sofa to the nearby desk perched next to a windowsill with semi-drawn cherry curtains. Sunlight invades the room with a vengeance and illuminates the porcelain of each figurine while the rest of the room is draped in a fuchsia pigment, no doubt from the curtains, that naseates your head. All of your clients were rich in so many senses of the word, but at least they didn’t lower themselves to buying endless streams of knick knack felines. You almost think you’re going to knock some over with where you sit on the sofa, the skirt of your dress ruffled along the lace doily you’re on top of. You cross your legs to try and limit the space you take in order to save the figures, but in doing so, your knee brushes against Sherlock’s. He doesn’t budge from where he sits, seemingly doing the same thing as you in attempting to minimize himself for the sake of Mrs. Thomas’s decor, but it’s of little use with someone his size. You can read his discomfort on his face, but a small part of you can’t help but feel triumphant over it.

All day, he’s found a way to antagonize you. It started to occur around the second house you visited. During the first visit, he barreled into the house with hardly any warning and began to investigate the Newtons’ hearth wordlessly to their horror. After you lectured him on how he couldn’t just go full detective mode with these individuals and their prized possessions, he pulled away the friendliness you two engaged in at your shop more and more, bit by bit. As you two arrived at the second house belonging to the Jeffersons, he departed from you to roam their rooms while you kept up in conversation. You tried to be casual, but they soon caught wind of the antics and asked you both to leave. On your way out, you glared at Sherlock while he stared forward with his chin turned towards the air. You couldn’t believe how he blatantly ignored your input and carried on with what he saw fit. His haughty demeanor turned away from you showed you that he knew he did it too.

“Didn’t I just tell you how you couldn’t do that? They were mortified and—”

“They had nothing worthwhile. It was a complete waste of time.”

He grunted his words out at you, not only cutting you off, but speeding his gait so he could maintain a clear lead ahead of you. Your annoyance grew as you followed after him.

It didn’t end there. From today’s length, you would guess that he was purposely trying to get under your skin. He played ball at the third house and made small talk with you to persuade the Porters, but when it came time to observe, when you accidentally bumped his frame in crossing each other’s paths towards written letters sitting atop furniture, he leveled you with a glare of his own.

“I didn’t bring you along to get in the way.” You gulped the hurt that it gave you and replaced it with your heightening vexation. Your eyes shot daggers into the back of his head as he took items into his hands and carried on as if nothing happened. You’ve learned more and more about how Sherlock does not apologize for his ramblings, much less for the ones that sting the most. Keeping your composure, you donned a fake smile and discussed taxes with the Porters until he emerged from a hall and stated, “We’re done here.” You wondered how moronic you appeared chasing after him because after his assertion, he walked right out the front door without any preamble, the same fashion he underwent this afternoon at your shop. It forced you to apologize on his behalf, a parroting dialogue as every house you attended from that point felt the wrath of his attitude and severe lack of manners. Your word was also at stake since you were defying trust.

You didn’t say another word to him for fear of further adding onto the weight of the enormous chip sitting on his shoulder. Fortunately, you two found a rhythm of talking to your clientele and continuing on with the investigation. You didn’t know what exactly you were looking for, but there were times where the trust of your clients meant that they left you two alone to investigate to your hearts’ desire. You dreaded this trust at those moments. Not wanting to sit idly, you busied yourself looking around, searching for ways to ensure you entertained yourself and stayed firmly out of Sherlock’s way. In one instance, you lifted up a handbill discussing an upcoming ball. It was an event you kept seeing in the other houses, but seeing as it was a common thread, you felt excitement spur within you at the prospect. It almost made you forget about how Sherlock was acting and how he was treating you. Almost. Almost since he quickly reminded you.

“That ball has no value to this investigation.”

You could’ve shrunk into yourself at his dismissal. He didn’t even look at you, just continued to flit through items, scrubbing the tips of his fingers clean against one another from the dust he found.

And now at the seventh house, the one belonging to Mrs. Thomas who insisted you two sit down and have tea and perhaps something to eat for your troubles and the journey there, you’re caged in and all alone, the door to the area shut behind her as she stalked off to fetch the necessities she spoke of. Minutes passed. Only minutes. Minutes of silence sans for the movements the two of you made to try and get comfortable on her tiny couch (which would be fucking easier to do if it weren’t for the mammoth of a man sitting beside you). You can feel every brush of his bicep the more he tries to adjust.

“What’s taking her so long?” Sherlock blurts, but from how today has gone and from how he’s furrowing his brow at the empty space ahead, you assume he’s talking more so to himself. He fidgets, much like he’s been doing this entire time, and again, your knees touch. This time, he doesn’t hold his impassive demeanor, his eyes flitting down to the point of contention, where your skirts don’t hide away the skin. You notice his reaction and to try and assuage him, you bring your knee away from his. You think it’s what he requires seeing that he can hardly find comfort in this position and you really don’t want him to harm you with another illy-thought sentence, but as you have been all day today, you’re wrong.

He stands to his feet in an instant with an audible scoff. If you didn’t know any better, you swear it was directed towards you. Your patience is running thin for the detective, watching as he stands and husks out another noise as he simultaneously lifts an orange cat from the table in front of you both. He won’t find anything there, and you know he knows that, so you’re aware the action is because of how he’s avoiding talking to you like an actual person. He would rather waste time doing something miniscule than engage you and it’s this discovery that has you mimic the sounds he’s made all day and stand from the sofa yourself. Fine, if he doesn’t want to talk or be near you, then you’ll increase the distance. You stubbornly walk away with your back towards him in the direction of Mrs. Thomas’s desk, your arms crossing against your chest, shielding yourself from whatever onslaught possibly lurking on his tongue. But you don’t want to be caught off guard again and you certainly won’t let him get to you as he has before. The fire inside of you has been tempered all day and you don’t want to remain quiet.

“That cat have all the answers does it? Was it at the crime scene? Are you questioning a real, live eyewitness?” You can feel Sherlock’s eyes on your back and can hear him shuffling. A tap of glass on wood tells you he’s put the cat down. So much for the eyewitness.

“Don’t speak of things you know nothing about.” Your smirk shifts into a grimace. Still, even as you hear Sherlock’s heavy footsteps across from you, he must be digging for something to remark in the background, you don’t turn around. You hug your arms tighter into yourself.

“I would know of such things if someone wasn’t so greedy with the details.”

Much to your chagrin, Sherlock doesn’t reply. You can hear his fumbling, but he doesn’t even offer you a sound of acknowledgement. You should be happy that he’s not falling into the trap of a brewing argument, but for some reason, you’re having trouble accepting it. After how much he’s tested you today, you feel a misguided desire to test him back.

“Have you found anything yet? You know, with me out of your way.” You’re bitter in droning your words, your glance at your shoulder to turn your ear towards Sherlock. You hear the shuffling come to a sudden stop and you can’t help but smile to yourself knowing he’s staring hard at you. You can feel the heat of it.

“If you have something to say, then say it.”

Oh, it’s at the tip of your tongue, choice words to bring a sailor’s cheeks crimson, you can feel it, but you relent on that sentiment and continue on. “I’m just reflecting on the obvious, Sherlock. Or do you really think you haven’t found any clues because the distance between us hasn’t been enough?”

You wait a few beats for something, any kind of response, but you’re met with silence. Growing impatient with the circumstances yourself, you turn fully to look at him to find him already looking back. His jaw’s set tight, the molars of his teeth accentuating the chiseled line of it as he holds still. It appears as if he has something to say himself, but he’s holding back on purpose, much like you are. You’re about to coax him to it, ready for venom, when he removes his eyes from yours and beelines towards the door.

“Perhaps more distance will be sufficient, then,” he mutters cruelly under his breath. It’s the opposite of what you wanted. Though, as much as you would like to face this head on even if it’ll lead to a fight, you don’t have enough of the physical fire present to saunter after him. You stay where you are, your heart throbbing with something in your chest at the thought of being left alone stranded with Mrs. Thomas in the other room.

You almost call his name to halt him, but he doesn’t get far. You hear the door handle rattle under Sherlock’s hand. From your annoyance, confusion replaces it. You slowly walk towards him as he releases the handle and grunts out another deep noise.

“It’s fucking locked,” he croaks, backing away from it and you. His hands land on his hips, perplexed eyes glaring at the door as if he could burn a hole through it if he tried hard enough. “Why would it be fucking locked?”

You reach for the handle yourself and much like Sherlock’s luck, the same goes for you. “Yes, I just tried that,” he sarcastically reminds you and you have to inhale and exhale slowly so that you don’t remove your heel and throw it at him. It agitates you and just like that, you remember how he tried to leave you here. You groan your displeasure and sulk from the door back to the desk near the window. The furniture’s the furthest thing away from Sherlock in the room so you sit on top of it, cautious to avoid the figurines, and your arms return to crossing over your chest.

“Serves you right,” you sneer, “after trying to abandon me when you’re the one who’s been a belligerent oaf all day.” You hear him scoff and he says nothing. You take this is as a means to continue since the both of you couldn’t go anywhere until Mrs. Thomas returned. “I should be the one storming out.”

You don’t expect anything from Sherlock. He’s thick and stubborn to avoid conversation with you. Just seconds ago, he tried to leave in order to avoid a discussion, so you’re thinking you can get more of your issues with him off your chest in the silence he offers you. Only, he doesn’t offer you silence when you’re expecting it. No, he’s unpredictable that way. You’re not even looking at him when you hear, “Mhm, just like you did this morning.”

Your head whips in Sherlock’s direction. That’s the last thing you’re thinking about and it’s rather ridiculous to bring up now in this context, but his expression is dead serious. You don’t know if you prefer him ignoring you or him boring his eyes into yours like he’s doing now.

“Me? You couldn’t wait to get rid of me! You didn’t even want people to see!” You’re aware of how you’re raising your voice, how Mrs. Thomas might hear, but at this point, you don’t care anymore. You’ve been poked and prodded at for hours and you’re at your wit’s end. Sherlock takes two steps in your direction.

“How the hell was I supposed to keep someone around who was that ashamed of their own actions, actions that put them in that situation in the first place—not me,” he comes closer and closer as he talks, his footing carrying him forward after every three words or so. You don’t feel intimidated by how much bigger he appears the closer he gets to you, how his voice is getting louder and not because of how he’s lessening the space between you, nor how the vein in his neck strains against the collar of his undershirt sandwiched underneath his vest.

“Oh my god, I told you that we can pretend last night never happened, you can save me the responsibility speech.” You roll your eyes, the huff that falls from your lips being the gust that pushes your hair strands out of your face. They land right back, but your attention is solely on Sherlock. There’s less than a meter between you and him, you can pinpoint the burning in his eyes now from the lack of sleep and from the agitation.

“You are so… stubborn. And defensive. And meddling.” His hands reach the edge of the desk. You surmise it’s to support himself as he leans forward in incredulity of your words. It brings him closer than before, the lines on his face more apparent, the passion simmering in his gaze that he refuses to rip from you.

You hate how small he makes you feel. Always having to show off intellect as if no one knows he’s the smartest person in the room. Your hand lands on his chest in efforts to push him away, but it just stays there limp. “And you are improper, pompous, brash, impatie—”

The last syllable of the word “impatient” doesn’t resonate any further into the atmosphere, instead lost to the plushness of Sherlock’s lips, muffled by his contact, cut loose by a noise you fail to suppress as your eyes slip closed to relish in the feeling. His mouth bruises yours, robs it and your mind of the English language and the unpleasant choice words you had for him. Normally you don’t take kindly to being cut off, but as your other hand joins your left on his chest, you can feel the thrumming heartbeat in his ribcage accelerating almost as quickly as your own is. It somehow greets your palm beyond the hard lines of muscle you tread over, the same ones you trace blindly without your vision, without the breath in your lungs Sherlock is currently kissing away and swallowing into himself. Dizziness overtakes you and you don’t trust your body to support you and you lean back to try and find the desk as a means to help you here. To Sherlock, he views it as you backing away from him and he reluctantly brings his mouth away from yours. He knows he’s overstepped.

You both utilize this time to breathe heavily as you stare into each other’s eyes. You don’t know what came over him to act so boldly and from how he’s hesitant, you don’t think he knows either. Something plays at his lips, the very same that just grazed over yours, and you know he’s about to say something else. Whatever it is, you decide at that moment it can wait and you grasp the collar of his shirt in your fingers to pull him in once more. This time, you’re rewarded with a lecherous noise from the back of his throat and one arm wraps around your waist, his bicep and forearm deluging the small of your spine. It’s just the support you require to keep you upright, whimpering as he licks into your mouth, doing so immediately when he mashes the word “again” against you in a straining command. You’ll leap off a building if he keeps kissing you this way, if it means he’ll slip his tongue along yours and leave your mouth reddened and swollen from your affairs.

Sherlock wants, needs, to get closer. Every touch and caress is driving him mad, to the brink of an area he hasn’t really explored before. He’s not completely inexperienced, but he doesn’t recall ever being this eager, eagerness you meet with earnest of your own through those beautiful sounds he’s muting, through the tilt of your head that allows him to deepen the kiss. “Part your legs,” he requests, bass in his tone, never neglecting the lock you currently have on each other. Obediently, you do as he says, your knees separating to make room for his frame that he instantaneously occupies, as if he was made to be there. Your skirts bunch up at your mid thighs and the sensitive flesh of them rubbing along his trousers’ material has you reeling. He groans as he steps in, contrasting to the idea of being made to fit between your legs because his width forces them even further apart, his concealed arousal bumping into your thigh, scraping into your flesh as he lowers you onto the desk and bends at the waist to ensure the connection of your lips.

The cat figurines lining the desk fall to the floor, thumps that resound one after the other as they are pushed off sporadically with the movement of your bodies. Your leg wraps around Sherlock’s waist, heel digging into his back, and your lips fall open to a silent gasp as he descends and kisses down the column of your neck. The sensation almost tickles, his stubble catching along your skin almost as frequently as his teeth do. As he rises back up to greet your mouth with his, you forgot to use the opportunity to breathe. It didn’t matter, you would rather be empty of oxygen than miss out on how Sherlock renders you simple-minded, on how he generously lets you moan into his mouth, you depraved thing, on how he slams his hand into the desk beside you because your body intuitively rolled your hips up into him without realizing, sending more figurines flying off the wood to their far drops. Your fingers run up from his collar to the hair at the back of his head, clutching his curls like they will ground you into this moment in time permanently. But it barely helps. Luckily for you, it’s Sherlock who grounds you down. Who covers your body with his. Who subjects you to the durable surface below as well as his muscle mass.

There’s a knock on the door and a laugh. “Oh dear, I hadn’t realized I locked the two of you in here!” Mrs. Thomas taps the door. “This old handle is broken, would either of you mind helping me open it?”

The two of you have refrained from kissing, looking at each other in disbelief. Disbelief of being interrupted, disbelief of how far you two were going in someone else’s home, an old woman’s at that, and disbelief of what you had just done. Neither of you move, catching your breaths, exhales hitting at both of your mouths from how Sherlock is still half on top of you, your faces startlingly adjacent. Clearing his throat, he pushes off the desk to his feet and reaches a hand out to you.

You clear your throat the very same and capture his hand to sit up, your chest heaving from that intense interchange. You, as well as Sherlock, got caught up in it all and now the repercussions were waiting in anticipation. Neither of you say anything to each other, you simply stare. Sherlock, in all his faults and issues with social cues, knows he should say something that could help you both. It can’t be an untouched subject, not when bottled feelings came up earlier and led you two to argue… led you two to whatever that was thereafter.

“Can you hear me?” Mrs. Thomas asks. Remembering where you are, you nod at Sherlock and, reluctantly, he slowly walks to the door away from you. You scoot off the desk and compile the fallen heroes on the floor into your cradled arm. You then place them messily back on the desk, not sure if there was any particular order or not (goddamn were those things uncomfortable on your back).

You adjust your clothes after as you hear Mrs. Thomas talk with Sherlock through the door: “Alright, son, you are going to push the handle in and then open it while lifting upwards…”

You’re in the middle of fixing your corset when you spot a glint of indigo hanging out of one of the desk’s drawers. Interestingly, the sun’s rays cause it to glimmer and you don’t know how many things can shine like that besides… the fabric.

Your fabric.

You dart your eyes to Sherlock, unsure if you should follow this lead because everyone’s house you visited also had this fabric as you kept inventory and created your list, but he’s not paying you any mind. His attention is on trying to get the door open with Mrs. Thomas’s guidance. The problem, or perhaps lucky circumstance, was that Sherlock couldn’t get the door open. Mrs. Thomas kept changing her damn instructions.

“I thought you said to pull up!” Sherlock exclaims at the door, no doubt annoyed by the obstruction, by his already pent-up frustration, by being cockblocked, and how he doesn’t hide his agitation of poor Mrs. Thomas who’s forgetful in her old age.

“No, dear, I said to push down!”

You try to open the drawer, but it needs a key. Searching around the desk in a frenzy, you alternate between snatching papers and promptly placing them back to avoid suspicion when you catch another glint at the floor beneath. The sun bounces off it when you align your eyesight and it flashes a weaponized beam straight into your vision. You kneel to pick it up, while blinking away a memory of light imprinted, only this isn’t illusion-ally reflective, this is golden and small, exposed by a sun taking its time to set. It was hidden by the shadow at the corner of the desk that you and Sherlock accidentally knocked off. Blushing, you lift the key and work on the drawer.

“I have pushed in every direction, are you confident this is how you open the door?”

You twist the key and hear a soft click. Excitedly, you pull the handle and stuff the fabric into your bodice, alongside the envelope that was left with it. You close the drawer and lock it when you finally hear a loud noise crash into your perception. You stick the key into your corset at the same time that your head snaps up to see the door’s handle sitting in his hand… detached from the door. Sherlock’s looking at you now, his eyebrows knit in, his eyes closing in irritation of what he had just done. You could tell he’s forcing himself to breathe manually so he could keep a hold of his agitation. You round the desk and politely curtsy to Mrs. Thomas, who enters the room now that the door is broken. She shakes her head at Sherlock on the way in and you point to the desk.

“Oh, dear, Mrs. Thomas, we accidentally knocked over your figurines! We’re sorry,” you exclaim and she’s distracted from the door to tend to you. She rests her hands in yours and chuckles as she always does. Sherlock raises an eyebrow as he watches the scene unfold.

“It’s alright, thank you for telling me! They were due for a reorganization, anyhow.” She squeezes your hands and then walks to the desk. You think you might be in the clear, but then she looks at you puzzled on her way there. “Wait, how did you two knock them over?”

Sherlock releases a breath of amusement that both you and Mrs. Thomas hear and turn your heads towards. He can hardly believe it since she can hardly hear anything else.

You give Sherlock a look and then raise your hand to rest on Mrs. Thomas’s shoulder to get her attention back. She turns to you and you offer your best smile. It’s hard on you to smile in general after everything, but these days, it’s easier and easier. “We were… we were dancing.”

Mrs. Thomas gasps and both of her hands go over her mouth. She looks back and forth between you and Sherlock and then she reaches her arms out to hug you. Sherlock’s confused by the reaction, and honestly, you are as well since the excuse was so bad. You shrug your shoulders as subtly as humanly possible without alerting Mrs. Thomas. He notices.

“I am so proud of you, you deserve to be happy.” She squeezes you without any real pressure. Real pressure would be suffocating, but it’s what her strength is allowing and such a thing makes you think about the fact that she may be trying her best to convey it and something in you feels blanketed.

“I remember when Edmund and I would dance randomly… being in love and all… made you spontaneous.” She laughs to herself, as if remembering right before your eyes. There’s a lump in your throat again, you have fought these off so consistently, but it’s there because Mrs. Thomas cares for you. Even if it is a lie, she could think you and Sherlock arrived here together because you were in fact together. He seems to look at you with shock at the lack of denial on your end. He doesn’t know what to make of it, if you’re saving him from trouble with the door, if you’re tricking her so she wouldn’t ask questions of the desk, but he stays quiet and trusts your judgment. Because it’s obvious you’re hiding something and chances are, it didn’t involve the affection and intimacy of what occurred on that desk.

“Mrs. Thomas, we apologize for the mess, but we have to go. The sun will set soon and we are a long way from home.” You reassure her and she looks at you and then at Sherlock.

“I promise to fix this door in the near future,” he states and she actually laughs at it.

“Do you feel better now that you’ve eaten something?” You ask as you walk alongside Sherlock, your shared building close in distance. Your feet ache from all the walking, from trying to keep up with Sherlock, but you’re glad he’s calmed down. Mrs. Thomas sent you both off with bread and since you felt slightly guilty, you lost your appetite and gave the rest to Sherlock. You’re joking, clearly since you both know he’s lightened up even before Mrs. Thomas gave you bread. Who knows the reason. The unsaid, unexpected, wonderful reason.

“Yes, actually. She’s lousy with her timing, but she knows how to bake bread.” You laugh at his reply, your hands pulling his coat closed that he gave to you after you complained about the cold. The two of you have been switching nonchalantly in conversation since leaving Mrs. Thomas’s house. You told Sherlock you needed to tell him something and he asked if it could wait until you made it back to Baker Street. With your agreement, you didn’t talk about it or what happened. You were afraid to. Sherlock didn’t want to ruin it again. It was nice to just walk and enjoy each other’s company on the way home, the occasional question asked.

Once on Baker Street, you nudge Sherlock and he pauses for you to continue. There are hardly any people walking around the two of you so you feel secure and you bring forth the scrap of fabric that you hid in your bodice. Sherlock recognizes it, to your surprise, and reaches for it, to which you hand off and watch as he examines it with great interest.

“Where did you get this?”

“I found it locked in a drawer. While you were trying to get the door open, I,” you jump as Sherlock grasps your upper arm.

“You unlocked the drawer and took this along with something else, didn’t you?”

You blink, the envelope folded in your bodice the next thing you were going to share with him.

“How did you know I took two items?”

“Three,” he corrects, “you took the golden key that’s currently resting in your corset’s left breast.”

You glance down and just at that moment, a street lamp flashes the shine at you. Sherlock couldn’t have missed it. Not when neither of you have let up on looking at each other fondly on the walk home. At all of each other. You then look to your envelope’s hiding spot and yes, it’s peeking out from under your corset since you attempted to place it between your skirts. All the layering worked both for and against you.

“I didn’t catch the fabric, but I caught the other parts while you were chatting up Mrs. Thomas.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Honestly? I didn’t think they were that important to discuss, separately, of course,” he corrects himself since he saw your face fall for a brief moment, “but altogether? It means something. I… I appreciate it.”

You smile at him, overwhelmed by a feeling to gravitate towards him, but there’s still tension between you two. It’s confusing and you know it’s magnetic for a reason, but there’s still a bridge that links the two of you. Tonight, you met each other halfway, but you also barged into each other’s sides with aggression and hostility intended. Kissing didn’t magically make everything you both said and did okay and that frightened you, what could lay beyond that.

After handing him the key and the envelope, you glance up at him with something new dazzling in your eye. He walks you into the building. “Goodnight,” you kiss his cheek, ending the evening with a pleasant exchange, on a beautiful high note. “Until our next meeting, Shoulders.” Sherlock’s heat warms your mouth and he glances at his coat, opting to let you have that as well since he didn’t want you heading into your flat freezing at any moment. You took it with you and didn’t look back.

Sherlock read the letter again. It’s probably the 50th time since he’s opened it. His game was off today. He couldn’t focus, not with you around. Every time he looked at you, all he could think about was why you regretted staying at his flat. He assumed you were ashamed of your behavior, but did that mean you were ashamed to ask him to join you in bed as well? Did it mean you held an attraction for him or comfort solely under alcohol’s vise?

The worst part about looking at you today, however, is by far how much he enjoyed it. There he was, in his effective functioning and bidding as his occupation demands, tenfold, and then there’s you who always stole his attention away, your honey sweet voice erasing his thoughts and replacing them selfishly with you. He thought about the embrace, he thought about your chemise, he thought about your smile at the library, your sleeping face, your gentle hands on his chest, how his robe wrapped around you, how he couldn’t think of anything but you if he didn’t actively catch himself. You hovered over him and he retaliated to deter you away. He changes when he’s trying to solve a case. He keeps to himself and does it his own way and he knows it’s flawed, that’s why he prefers people staying away when he gets like that.

At the same damn time, he had an urge to get closer, a physical instinct that would lead him to you like a tired horse requiring a drink of water. He acted on both his anger and need back at Mrs. Thomas’s, a combination he’s never felt before you. It’s worse for him now. This is his 56th time reading this letter all because his mind is sailing back to you, you and your lips, you and your arching spine, you and your delectable noises, you who’s just downstairs, a staircase and a few knocks away, you, you, you.

He relaxes his shoulders to regain his focus. This is vital to his case, he can feel it, he knows it. The envelope reads “For Blanche, with love” and the signature on the letter itself reads “Love, Edmund” for Christ’s sake. Everything is interconnected, the pieces showing him what is there, and he cannot for the life of him focus to read this damn letter to make sense of it all. He does enough to catch the line “I will see you at the ball.”

He chastises himself at that and he remembers your comment about the upcoming ball these elites were attending.

“I owe you an apology, Lily,” he says aloud, to no one in the space but himself so he can deliver one first thing in the morning. It makes sense now that he’s contemplating on it, but you were making it difficult to put logical thought together. It’s not your fault. It’s his fault for not sleeping. He can’t read this letter and he acted like an ass today because he’s running on pure fumes. The words are starting to melt together and he tries to blink the sleep out of his eyes only to find that he’s been blinking the sleep out of his eyes for the past hour. Grunting, he folds the letter and decides he will solve this case in the morning, it’s Thursday and the ball isn’t until Saturday.

Sherlock stands and walks towards the corridor when he hears a knock at the door. He wasn’t expecting anyone, especially not at this hour. He turns his head to look at it and he only stutters a second before he rushes to it and brings it open. Just as he suspected, you’re standing there in front of him, in his robe, fluttering your lashes at him in an innocence he cannot believe. As you reach up to kiss him, he catches you by the waist, by your momentum, midair as he directs you into his flat and firmly pushes the door closed with his other hand.

#henry cavill #sherlock holmes #henry!sherlock #sherlock holmes x reader #enola holmes #beyond answers #l4l.writes #henry cavill sherlock

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ladylooch · 1 year

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WAIT can you do Nico smut about letting him go without a condom for the first time? maybe he finishes quick and reader expects him to be done so the reader is a bit disappointed

A Night of Firsts- Nico Hischier

(say thank you GIF makers of Tumblr. We love you. Plz GIF more Nico at Worlds. Thx!)

A/N: So. I almost feel like I should apologize here. This is.. yeah. Whew. I’m a lil tomato here posting this cause it’s pretty smutty. Also, I’m getting on my soap box. As a.. mature (yuckie) woman, this may be an different opinion but it is fucking HOT when a man is like… omg I’m not going to last long and comes in a few strokes. I’m going to pat myself on the damn back about this 100% of the time. Now, our partners have a responsibility to handle it a certain way after and I think Nico does that here 😉 Enjoy bby.

World Count: 2.3k

Warnings: SMUT 18+ Content, Swearing, toys of the adult variety.

I sit on our bed in a plush robe, staring at the door to our master bathroom. Flickers of light are waving under the door at me from where my boyfriend is inside. It’s been quite the day for us. After the Devils were eliminated in the second round by the Hurricanes, Nico needed a day like this. We both did. What has the day entailed? Absolutely nothing. Except for soft touches that are igniting a need between the two of us. We had coffee in bed. Lunch at our favorite restaurant just down the street. We napped. Made Baked Ziti for dinner- the long two hour from prep to finish one- and indulged on hot chocolate chip cookies right out of the oven.

After all that food, we were sleepy, but opted to watch a comfort movie: The Holiday. Nico secretly loves this movie and often puts it on when he sees it as an option on our various streaming platforms. Armed with a blanket and dressed in comfy sweatpants, we snuggled together under a fortitude of warmth. I was almost asleep when his hands started to wander. At first, just his finger tips dipped below my sweatpants, but it didn’t take long for him to begin stroking fire just above and below his favorite places.

When I started returning the favor, Nico begin to writhe beneath me.

“Let’s take a bath.” He blurted out suddenly once I finally skimmed my fingers over the tent in his pants.

“What’s in the bath that we don’t have here?” I asked. He bit his lip, looking at the two distinct points in my shirt.

“You wet and naked with a glass of wine.”

That sounded like heaven, so here I am, waiting patiently for him to open the door and let me in.

“Ready?” He asks when he finally cracks the door open. Just one of his eyes pokes out to look at me.

“Was five years ago.” I joke. He rolls his eyes.

“Welcome to paradise, babe. Right here in Jersey!”

I grin as I step into the low, flickering light of the candle lit room. The smell is a combination of lavender and lemon. The bath is drawn perfectly and the warmth from it’s water fills the bathroom. Nico turned our towel warmer on to get our towels ready for when we inevitably dash out. He comes behind me, kissing the back of my neck as he gathers my hair up. He makes an awkward bun on top of my head, securing it with my purple scrunchie.

“Ooo, that’s bad. Don’t let me do your hair when it matters.”

“Wasn’t going to.” I laugh as he works the tie of my robe apart. “Would ask Timo before you.” Nico considers and nods in agreement as he pushes the robe off my shoulders. He sighs when I’m naked in front of him. He brings me to the tub and steps in, then guides me to move between his legs. I settle back into his chest, feeling him grow hard beneath me. I look at him over my shoulder, gnawing on my lip aggressively as he hands me a glass of red wine.

“Thank you.” I murmur in appreciation. I lean back to rest my head against his shoulder, sighing at how good he and the water feel on my skin. I could stay here forever. I close my eyes after resting my wine glass back on the edge. Nico’s fingers trail from my hips up my stomach to my breasts. He holds them both in his hands, swiping the peaks into stiff points. My lips part with a pleasureful sigh.

“We’re gonna play tonight.” He whispers in my ear. “Wanna worship every part of you.”

“Okay.” I respond.

He plays with my nipples longer, letting the soapy water lap at them when his fingers take a break. I wiggle against his thick thighs, scratching my nails along them as he becomes stiffer against my lower back. His touch moves down my chest to glide between my legs. He fingers my opening then rubs a few, welcoming circles along my clit. A heavy moan falls from my mouth as he pushes my legs wider.

“This thing waterproof?” Nico asks me, bringing my vibrator in front of my face.

“Uh.” I sputter in surprise. “Yeah.”

“Can I use it on you?”

“Yes.” I whisper, eyes wide as he brings it into the water with us.

“Show me which setting you like.” He presses it against my folds and I suck in shallow breaths as I bring my hand over his on the device. It’s a clit focused vibe that has air suction with it. I turn it on, moving his hand back to adjust the intensity so we can build together. I feel Nico’s dick pulse against my back as I moan, setting the sucker over my clit. “Just hold it here?” He whispers into my ear. I nod, breathing in deep as he presses a bit further in. I jolt and he pulls back, sensing it’s too much.

My legs widen further, one of them extending out of the bathtub. I dip further down Nico’s chest. The hair at the base of my skull gets wet as I dig my finger nails into his forearm.

“That mean more or less?”

“More. Next setting.” He increases one press and my loud moan rattles off the bathroom walls back to us. Nico grins into my hair, savoring the way I grind against the toy and his hand.

“That feel good?”

“Yeah. Ohmygod.” I yell, arching off his chest as his unoccupied hand comes to my breast. He rolls my nipple while biting my ear lobe.

“Mmm, good girl.” He praises. I’m gone after that. I shutter against the bathtub, pushing the toy away as I pulse rapidly. Nico drops it to the bottom of the tub gently rubbing my clit through the waves.

“Holy fuck.” I moan to him as he kisses along my bare shoulder. I turn to capture our lips together.

“I’ve been wanting to do that to you for a long time.” He admits.

“You should have asked sooner. I would have let you.” I murmur against his mouth. His tongue snakes out, lapping at me. He tastes like desire and red wine- my favorite things. I turn in his arms and work my way to straddling him. We make out. Nico’s hands trailing up my back. Between his touch, the orgasm, and the cooler air, goosebumps form along my skin. I shiver a bit, causing us to break apart. He lets me sit back further into the water, still mounted on his thighs.

“Maybe…We could have another first…” I trail off, smearing the bubbles on his chest as he places his wine glass back on the edge after a sip. His hands then grip my hips before trailing up to my ribs, just below my breasts. “Maybe I could feel all of you tonight?” Nico looks into my eyes, confused. “No condom.”

“Yes.” He says immediately, sitting up straight. “Yes and yes and yes.” I laugh as he leans forward to stuff his face between my breast, getting sudsed up in the process.

“Nico.” I murmur, wanting him to think with more than just his dick.

“Baby, yes. We’re clean. We trust each other. We are in love. I want you pregnant with my baby as soon as possible. Just yes.” He knocks off all the worries I have in my head without them even being expressed. I bite my lip, not quite believing he’s real, even as his fingers run around to my ass cheeks, spreading them and working my hips into his hard cock. He’s just too perfect.

Nico stands, our bodies dripping obnoxiously as he walks us from the tub. He sets me on the bathroom counter, grabbing his towel and tossing me mine. We wipe as much water from us as we can before he’s hustling us into our bedroom. My damp back hits the comforter hard. I work my way up the bed as Nico follows me eagerly.

He strokes his head once through my folds then shoves himself deep. The feeling of his bare skin stroking mine is everything. I can’t even describe the feeling that rocks through my body. Nico shakes above me, mouth open to breathe as he watches my eyes. I bite my lip, breaking eye contact to groan in ecstasy.

“Fuck.” He whimpers, breathing ragged as he strokes. It feels incredible, I agree, but I’m a little worried about how much his words quiver as he tells me how good I feel. He’s close already.

“Oh shit. Ah, I can’t. I’m sorry.” He pants abruptly from above, sliding out to come on my stomach. I purse my lips against the laugh at the way his face is distorted in pain and pleasure. “I’m sorry.” He moans as he strokes himself. I can’t help it and start to laugh, clasping a hand over my mouth to muffle the sound. “Oh god, now she laughs.” Nico hangs his head, squeezing his eyes shut with a final grunt.

“It’s okay. It’s hot. I came without you earlier.” I assure him, rubbing at his thick thighs. The hair there tickles my fingers as I stroke him.

“You felt so good, baby. Fuck.” He mumbles against my lips. He hovers over me making it hard for our lips to stay connected while he tries to not get cum on himself. “I’ll be right back.” He says, walking off to grab a towel. I laugh as he swipes along my stomach, digging into my belly button and making me cackle. He tosses the used cloth onto the floor, then comes back to give me a real kiss. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” I say back to him, biting down on my bottom lip. I feel a little disappointed that it’s already over. We spent hours teasing each other for it to end without the ultimate high for me. “Wanna finish the movie?” I move to sit up, pushing those thoughts aside. Nico gives me a put off look.

“Uhhh… we aren’t done.” I look down at his softening shaft and then back into his face. I open my mouth to respond but then shut it again, not sure what to say. “Because I’m done we are done?”

“Well, yeah isn’t that usually how this works.”

“Not with me, baby. You’re not leaving this bed anytime soon.”

“Neeks, it’s okay you don’t have- oh.” I startle, snapping my head back into the pillow as his mouth moved between my thighs. He places teasing kisses all along the plumped lips. In the past, when old boyfriends would come early, that would be the end of this. Nico seems to have a different perspective. “Oh wow.” I whisper to the top of his head, threading my fingers through his hair. I pull his strands, mouth falling open to suck in a deep breath at the incredible circle his tongue forces along. I startle forward, quivering. He moans against my clit, making me buck harder into his face. His light stubble creates a friction that begins to slowly drag my orgasm to the surface. It’s incredible, deep and soft laps, then swift circles that make it hard to breathe.

Without me even asking, he slips his middle finger into my entrance, curling it up to hit the velvety spot I need him to. My abdominal muscles quake. I reach for his other unoccupied hand, placing it on my breast, so he can rotate my nipple between his fingers. I come hard against his lips, shaking into the tender kisses he leaves on my inner thighs. In a quick twist, he gets me to my stomach, then encourages my hips up into the air.

“I’m more than just a hockey all star.” He tells me as he strokes his plumped head through my sensitive folds. He’s rock hard, ready to dunk into the abyss again.

“Yeah you are, baby.” I groan as he slides in to the hilt. He’s so thick and deep. My head claps all the way back, lips parted and sobbing at the ceiling as he moves.

“Ugh.” He sounds tortured again. “You are so wet. Wish you could see how beautiful you look like this.” The slickness of me eases his thrusts and allows for him to pump deeper without any protest from my body. I reach around, gripping his wrist that holds my right hip. He leans forward, working his left hand around my stomach to press in a bit, making his cock feel so much deeper.

“Ooooo.” I breath out, quivering at how damn incredible he feels against my cervix. My teeth chatter in my mouth as Nico whispers in my ear.

“You’re taking me so good. Can you handle a bit more?” I nod and he presses deeper in. I become limp in his arms as my orgasm rocks through me. It’s so intense, Nico has to hold me up from collapsing off the bed. I pulse agressivly around him, pulling Nico off the cliff with me. He comes inside of me, smearing my walls unexpectedly.

“Shit. I’m so sorry.” He sputters for a completely different reason. He pulls out, stroking the last little bit of cum out of himself in a half ditch effort to save the moment. “I am so sorry. Baby. Shit.”

“Nico.” I reach around, holding his thigh so he can’t leave the bed. “I’ve got an IUD. We are good. And that was perfect. Don’t ruin it by freaking out.”

“I just.. I love and respect you and we didn’t talk about that being okay-“

“Consider this me saying it’s okay.” I grunt as I fall onto the bed, melting into the mattress and looking up into his face. “Tonight and every day after this. Don’t change a thing for next time.” Relief relaxes his shoulders and face. He looks down at me, eyebrows pulling together in adoration of me. My face is pink, hair curly from the dilapidated bun and our hot bath. My skin is peppered in gooseflesh from his strokes. “What are you thinking?” I ask. HE is quiet, eyes get deeper, fingers stroking at my face.

“That I’m looking at the rest of my life.”

I smile back, knowing I’ll remember this moment with him forever.

#Nico Hischier Smut #Nico Hischier #Nico Hischier Fan Fiction #New Jersey Devils #Hockey writing #My writing #writing request #you're welcome or im sorry

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