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breakyeol · 3 years

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— WHAT HE LOST

So you got dumped. It sucks, but hey, at least you’ve got your best friends who always seem know exactly what to do to help make you feel better.

┗ Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader x Baekhyun

Genre: friends to lovers au, angst, fluff, smut

Words: 12.8k (I wish I was kidding)

Rating: 18+

Warnings: strong language, drinking, mentions of toxic relationships, mentions of cheating, explicit sexual content ; dom(?)baekhyun, switch sub!chanyeol, switch!reader, their roles ended up being very blurred, you’re the bologna in a chanbaek sandwich, threesome, very mild dirty talk, teasing, oral (f. & m. receiving), gentle throat fucking, hair pulling, multiple orgasms, squirting, yeol just wants to be a good boy but baek just wants to break the headboard

A/N; the poll I did for this fanfic was so fun!!! I seriously love interacted with you guys and receiving your feedback! I definitely think it’s something I’d like to do again in the future! I hope you guys enjoy the results! PS, I low key suck at writing endings sorry loves.

It’s half past two when you show up in front of their door, clothes soaked and heavy from the rain you hadn’t bothered to shield yourself from, heart bruised and aching from the ruthless beat down it had been forced to endure. It’s been a really long night.

Chanyeol is the one to finally open the door, face flushed and swollen, pink lips dry and pouted, dark hair unruly and disheveled with a ridiculous cowlick you would find incredibly amusing if not for the crushing weight of the night’s previous events still weighing heavily on your chest.

“Y/n?” He rasps, blinking hard twice, as if he hadn’t recognized you at first. You wouldn’t hold it against him, you probably look like a drowned rat in your current state.

A shaky grin pulls at your lips, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Hey, Yeol.”

His brows furrow and he swipes a large hand down the length of his face. “What time is it? What– what are you doing here?” There’s no malice in the question, only drowsy confusion as he tries to put the puzzle pieces together in his sleep hazed mind.

Instead of answering, you tip your chin forward and ask one of your own. “Mind if I come in? It feels like my fingers are about to fall off.”

All of a sudden his eyes pop open real wide and he gasps, as if just then realizing that you were standing outside his door in the freezing night air, drenched to the bone. He immediately ushers you inside, appearing genuinely distraught. “Jesus, you’re soaked. Did you walk here or something?”

Combing your wet hair out of your face, you offer a blunt nod of confirmation. “Yup.”

His jaw drops and he splutters in disbelief. “You walked here? In the pouring rain? Are you insane?! It’s the middle of the night! Something terrible could have happened to you! And you’re not even wearing a coat!” He gestures wildly at your waterlogged t-shirt and jeans, all drowsiness gone from his eyes.

“I’m fine, Chanyeol.” You sigh, moving past him and into the warmth of his apartment.

“Y/n, that really wasn’t smart. You should’ve called me.” He insists in that disapproving tone that reminds you of a parent scolding a petulant child.

You turn to him with raised brows, the vague outline of amusement tinging your words, “Would you have woken up?”

“You should’ve called until I did,” he shoots back without missing a beat, following close on your heel as you make your way into the living room and fall onto the couch with a soft grunt, “or you could’ve tried Baekhyun. Or literally done anything other than walk all the way here in the middle of the night in the pouring rain.”

He’s right, of course. It was dangerous walking alone at night, no matter how tough you think you are, bad things can happen to anyone. But the danger of walking the streets at night hadn’t been so much as a second thought when you left. There were far more prominent concerns plaguing your mind.

“Yeah, well.”

A beat of silence passes, and you feel the shift in Chanyeol’s gaze. You don’t dare to look over as he sinks into the space on the couch beside you, though all you really want is to lean into the comforting warmth of his body.

“Hey... are you alright?”

A painful lump forms in your throat at the question. “I—” you wince as your voice cracks, words falling dead on the tip of your tongue. Fuck. Why was it so hard to say?

“Y/n?”

The way he says your name nearly shatters the dam, and you just barely manage to pull yourself together enough to avoid turning into a sobbing mess on his couch. Snagging your lower lip roughly between your teeth, you offer a weak hum that pitches strangely in your throat– which most definitely does not go unnoticed by the boy who knows you too well for your own good.

Chanyeol’s concerned eyes sweep over your expression, those damn eyes that can see right through any mask you attempt to wear, before he speaks again in a voice so soft you could feel the steely grip around your heart ease. “Let me get you something dry to wear. Then we can make some hot cocoa and you can tell me what happened, okay?”

The idea of being dry and warm again was more than appealing enough for you to force the corners of your lips upward and manage a light nod of agreement. “Yeah.”

He shoots you a sweet smile, reaching over with a large hand to affectionately ruffle your wet hair and pushing himself off of the couch before you can retaliate. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move, I don’t need you and all your drippiness flooding the apartment. I’m pretty sure you’ve already ruined our new couch.” He teases lightheartedly, that familiar bubbling laughter erupting from his lips as you swing your middle finger up at him.

You feel yourself deflate somewhat when he vanishes into his bedroom, leaving you alone once more. It was unusually quiet. Though understandable given the time, you aren’t used to the silence of the apartment and find yourself craving Chanyeol’s booming voice and Baekhyun’s obnoxious teasing. Without them, there’s nothing to distract your scrambled mind, and you can’t stop it from lingering on the frustration and sense of betrayal that torments your heart. Squeezing your eyes shut, you sink into the plush cushions, a soft groan escaping your tensed lips.

This. Sucks.

Luckily, you aren’t alone long enough to dwell on it too deeply.

Your head snaps up at the sound of a door thudding shut, a murmur of gratitude on the tip of your tongue, but you are surprised to see a very much still half asleep Baekhyun come stumbling into the living room, donning a pair of plaid pajama pants and a tight white t-shirt that hugs the gentle swells of his chest. His eyes are barely open as he all but throws himself onto the couch, immediately curling up into your side. You only chuckle, nuzzling your nose into his cinnamon scented hair and petting down his unruly bed head as it tickles your chin.

“You’re wet.” Is the first thing he murmurs into the silence, voice thick and hoarse in his throat. You can’t suppress the shiver that ripples down the length of your spine as his warm breath washes over your icy skin, the sharp contrast in temperature startling to your senses.

“I didn’t notice.” You hum, resting your cheek against the top of his head.

“And cold.” He grumbles additionally, arms coiling tightly around the curve of your waist and tugging you flush against him. The heat of his body is more than welcome, and you’re happy to allow him to cuddle into you. It’s easy to find comfort in his familiar embrace.

“Chanyeol is getting me something else to wear.”

His head tips back at that, and you have to draw away to keep your noses from colliding. Hooded eyes drag slowly over your face, warm and searching. You swallow nervously under the intensity of his scrutinizing gaze and quickly turn away, hoping he hadn’t seen the tell tale signs of your internal turmoil. But it seems both of your best friends are more observant than you give them credit for.

You jolt in surprise as he suddenly grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to face him again. The unexpected proximity has warmth rushing into your cheeks, and you clear your throat, eyes looking anywhere but his face. Nonetheless he still manages to read you like the pages of a children’s book.

“You’ve been crying.”

Instinctively, you try to put some distance between you and him, swatting his hand away and plastering an unconvincing scowl across your face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His lips part, and you brace yourself, knowing by the look on his face alone that he’s going to push the matter.

“Ah, Baekhyun, you’re awake.” You let out a breath of relief as Chanyeol steps out of his room, a set of black sweats and a towel draped over his arm. Perfect timing. Baekhyun nearly topples over as you jump up from the couch, quickly making your way over to where the younger boy stands. “Y/n, I got y—”

“Thanks, I’ll go change.” You rush out, cutting him off abruptly as you pull the clothes from his arms. You manage a quick smile of gratitude before you’re hurrying past him and into the bathroom, slamming the door more harshly than you intended behind you.

Very subtle, y/n.

“Fuck.” You hiss through clenched teeth, silently cursing yourself out.

Moving towards the sink, you stare at your disheveled reflection in the mirror with a weak grimace. You knew you looked like a mess but damn. You really look like you’ve been put through the wringer tonight. Which, of course, you kind of had been, but still.

It takes longer than you anticipated to wriggle yourself out of your wet clothes, nearly falling on your ass more times than you care to admit out loud in your numerous attempts to peel off your jeans. But in the end, it was more than worth it to feel the soft, warm fabric of Chanyeol’s oversized clothes against your skin. The faded scent of his aftershave eases the tension in your shoulders, but you can’t fight the buzz of nerves that come to life in your stomach as you step back out the door.

The rich, sweet scent of hot chocolate is the first thing to greet you upon your return. Noting the emptiness of the living room, you come to the quick conclusion that they’re both most likely in the kitchen. On quiet feet, you shuffle over to the entrance, peeking your head around the wall. They’re facing away from you, leaning against the island and exchanging whispered words, voices just low enough that you can’t make out what they’re saying. Though, there’s little doubt in your mind that you’re the subject of their heated conversation.

Deciding to make your presence known, you clear your throat and step onto the cool tile. Two heads whip in your direction, startled. The looks on either of their faces makes you think of two children being caught doing something they definitely should not be. Exactly... what had they been talking about?

Chanyeol is the first to move, plucking up the mug from the countertop and making his way over to you. “Extra marshmallows and extra whipped cream with a pinch of cinnamon,” he says, a soft smile on his lips and a warm blush on his cheeks, “just how you like it.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, grateful for the warmth of the smooth white ceramic against your palms. “Thanks, yeol.”

“Let’s sit!” Baekhyun exclaims before you can even take a sip, hands finding your shoulders and steering you back towards the couch. You’re too focused on not spilling the contents of your cup to make any sort of objection.

It’s only when squeezed between their two bodies on their slightly too small couch, their concerned but curious eyes burning into the sides of your face, that you begin to wonder if it was the wisest idea to come here. But then remember just how badly you were craving a good hug and sigh, knowing if anyone was gonna give you one, it’d be one of these two dopey boys.

It’s obvious neither of them are going to speak first, probably not wanting to push you incase you weren’t ready to talk about it yet (though, the intensity of their stares were doing just that), so you decide to take the initiative before the awkward tension can get even more unbearable.

“We broke up.”

You bring the mug to your lips, taking a tentative sip of your gradually cooling hot chocolate as you allow them to absorb the new information.

“Well, shit.” Baekhyun coughs. Chanyeol reaches behind you to smack the back of his head, hissing something about being insensitive but you’re already more than aware of how they feel about your boyfriend— ex-boyfriend.

Since you first started talking to him, neither of the boys were his biggest fan. To their credit, they tried their best to be supportive, but it was hard to miss the dampening of the mood whenever you brought him up and the glares they’d shoot in his direction when they thought you weren’t paying attention. You called them out on their passive aggressive behavior on a number of occasions, and they were always quick to defend themselves with the claim of getting ‘bad vibes’.

Looking back, you probably should’ve given their suspicions some deeper consideration.

But you had just liked him so much. It was hard for you to see past the handsome, charming exterior to what really laid beneath. Gilded boys had always been your weakness, always enchanting you with the prettiest of lies only to shatter you with their ugly truths.

You should have known better.

“Are you alright?”

You shrug, sucking your lower lip into your mouth with a heavy exhale from your nose. “I’m fine, really. I’m just... embarrassed, I guess.”

Baekhyun blinks at you in confusion. “Embarrassed? Why are you embarrassed? He should be the embarrassed one for losing someone as amazing as you.”

“I’m embarrassed because—” you wince, bracing yourself for the response that you just know you’re about to receive, “because he dumped me.”

“What?!” Chanyeol erupts, nearly making you spill your hot cocoa from the sheer explosiveness of his reaction, “you let that literal piece of walking human trash—!”

“Chanyeol.”

At Baekhyun’s sharp interruption, the emotional younger immediately slumps, guilt painting his face as he looks at you with remorseful eyes. “I’m sorry.”

You only smile, squeezing his hand in reassurance.

“So,” Baekhyun begins cautiously, “what happened?”

No point beating around the bush now. “We were hanging out at his place. I found a pair of underwear that weren’t mine in his bedroom. Confronted him. He called me a clingy bitch and told me to get the fuck out and never come back.” You say this as nonchalantly as you can manage, but your hold on the cup tightens substantially and an unmistakable thickness rises in your throat. You curse yourself silently for feeling like shit over a guy who obviously couldn’t be bothered to give even half a shit about you.

“He cheated on you?” Chanyeol leaps up from the couch, eyes wide and furious. If you were to look close enough, you were almost certain you’d see fire burning within them.

“That fucker.” Baekhyun all but snarls, hands balling into tight fists. “What’s his address?”

“Baekhyun—” you sigh, leaning forward to set your hot chocolate down on the coffee table.

“No, I’m dead serious, what’s his address?” He pins you with a look that tells you he is very much not messing around. They were being ridiculous, angry over things they couldn’t change. It was pointless and harmful to dwell on things that had already happened. You’d much rather pick yourself up and move on than allow yourself to keep hurting over a stupid boy.

Of course, that’s easier said than done. And your best friends are not the types to just let things go. Not when the people they care about are wronged.

Chanyeol seems to be off in his own little world, ranting furiously to himself while cracking his knuckles in a way that is probably meant to be intimidating (though, to you, the giant puppy is anything but). “There’s no way I’m letting a piece of shit like him get away with this. God, I knew he was a scumbag the moment I laid eyes in him. I should’ve—”

“Guys, please.” Your voice cracks when you finally intervene, and that’s all it takes for their immediate anger to fizzle out.

The tension in their shoulders melts, their features softening drastically as they spot the glistening of tears in your eyes despite your feeble attempts to blink them away. In an instant, they’re cuddling back up against you, murmuring soft apologies and pleading for you not to cry over someone like him. But the dam is already broken, and salty tears are swelling up in your eyes and spilling down your cheeks before you can stop them.

Everything you’d been holding back comes bubbling violently towards the surface. Sobs wrack your chest, and you cling onto the hands of either boy as they watch you helplessly.

Chanyeol, the big softie that he is, has to bite his lip to keep the tears threatening to swell in his own eyes at bay. He’s never been good at holding himself together when he sees you hurting. He feels everything with his entire being, his empathy for his friends and the people he cares about on another level. But that big, stupid heart of his is one of the many reasons you adore him.

Baekhyun, on the other hand, is not the most suave when it comes to comforting people. Most of the time he’ll try to crack jokes and make light of the situation, but he knew better than to break out his usual antics when you were in such a state. So he held his tongue, opting to wrap his hand around yours in hopes of comforting you in even the slightest.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” You groan once your sobs subside into sniffles and you feel the warm flush of embarrassment filtering into your cheeks at your own outburst. You really hated crying in front of people. So it wasn’t too often that your friends, or anybody for that matter, saw such a raw display from you. “It’s just so frustrating and humiliating, you know?”

There’s a moment of silence as you wipe the tears from your face with the hand not held in a death grip by Baekhyun. It’s the nice kind of silence though, the kind you don’t have to fill and don’t really want to, encasing the three of you in a little bubble of comfort. Of course, with these two, you can’t expect it to last long.

“If I ever see him again,” Chanyeol huffs, dropping his chin onto your shoulder, “it’s on sight.”

You laugh at that, the sound hoarse and nasally and just plain awful, but genuine nonetheless. Raising a hand, you comb it through his soft black locks in a show of gratitude.

“Baek?” You turn to him with a sniffle. He hums softly in acknowledgement, tracing comforting circles against the top of your hand. “Do you have anything to drink?”

“What? Is my hot cocoa not good enough for you?” He teases light-heartedly and you chuckle, shaking your head.

“It’s delicious. But I was thinking of something… a little stronger.”

A mischievous grin upturns the corners of his lips as he realizes what you’re suggesting. “I’ve got just what you need.”

“You know what, FUCK MEN. They’re all stupid. Who needs ‘em? Not me.”

“Yeah men are assholes!” Baekhyun agrees loudly, thrusting his empty shot glass in the air, before pausing and reconsidering his words. “Wait, I’m a man.”

“You and Yeol are the only exceptions.” You reassure, slapping your hand down on his shoulder. He grins widely at that, satisfied. “But every other man— they can all suck my dick,” you continue your tirade, swinging your hands around animatedly, “they’re all liars and cheats and idiots and I’ve had enough of they’re bullshit to last three lifetimes.”

Chanyeol giggles softly from where he’s situated on the floor between your legs which are draped lazily over either of his broad shoulders, his head resting on your thigh, obviously amused by your tipsy antics.

The first shot went down hard, more bitter than your resentment for your piece of shit ex-boyfriend. The second soothed the ache in your chest and allowed for the tension in your muscles to gradually ebb away. And the third? Well, you opted to take your time sipping on that one, not wanting to completely lose yourself in the intoxicating buzz.

You were never the biggest drinker, but sometimes a few shots of something a little stronger than beer helps take the edge off. Right now seems as good a time as any for some liquid courage.

“You wanna know the worst part?”

However, one of the biggest reasons you erred on the side of caution around alcohol was because you had a tendency to spill things that didn’t necessarily need to be exposed. Especially not to your tipsy best friends at three in the morning when emotions ran high and couldn’t be easily stifled.

“What?” Baekhyun leans closer, eyes wide and burning with curiosity at the sudden somberness of your voice. Chanyeol tilts his head back at the shift in tone, looking up at you through dark lashes.

“In the three years we were together,” the two boys strain their ears as your voice drops into a careful whisper, as if someone other than them was around to hear the secret you hadn’t dared to share with a single soul up until this point, “he only ate me out once.”

For a moment, you think the disbelief that flashes across their faces is because you’ve brought up something of a sexual nature. But that thought is quickly squashed.

“Once? In three years? Is he insane?!”

“Shows what kind of man he really is.” Baekhyun scoffs, clicking his tongue. “Did you go down on him?”

You nod in reluctant confirmation, still sober enough to feel the slightest pinch of shame at your admission.

“That’s not how it works! Sex is about give and take, balance,” Chanyeol enunciates the word carefully, and you can’t help the upward twitch of your lips at the seriousness of his expression and the passion behind his words, “You can’t just receive without giving anything back!”

“He said he didn’t like it. And he only did it that one time because we fought on my birthday two years ago and he felt bad.” You explain, pouting heavily as you recall all the times he refused to go down on you.

Baekhyun blanches, jaw dropping. “You haven’t been eaten out in two years? Oh, baby...” you can feel the empathy rolling off of them in thick waves as they allow the new information to really sink in.

“I know, I know! Please don’t make me think about it anymore.” You whine distraughtly, rubbing your hands roughly down your face as frustration and annoyance bubble up inside of you. “I’m already pent up enough as is. That selfish bastard— he couldn’t even make up for it with his stupid dick either. He was all talk when it came to things like that. He only ever cared about getting himself off. It didn’t matter if I felt good as long as he could get his dick wet. What bullshit! Do you even know how many orgasms I had to fake?!”

Everything you’d kept inside comes exploding out of you in a rush of fiery passion, refusing to remain bottled up for even a moment longer. But of course, the moment it’s out and unable to be taken back, you regret saying anything about it at all. Red hot embarrassment floods your senses and you sink in on yourself, slapping a hand over your offending lips.

Damnit. You really shouldn’t have taken that third shot.

“Fuck. I’m sorry. That was— I shouldn’t have—” you attempt to backtrack, mouth twisted into a grimace.

There’s an exchange of glances that you don’t see, too wrapped up in your own humiliation to notice.

Then, a gentle hand slides over your thigh and you jolt in surprise, head snapping up to find a very serious Baekhyun looking back at you. You’d never seen this kind of expression on his face before. It was different then his usual playful grin or teasing smirk. Darker, somehow... dangerous. Like he was looking right through you and seeing everything you’d kept so carefully bottled up inside. It incites within you a vulnerability you had long forgotten.

“When was the last time you came?”

The question catches you off guard, to say the very least.

“Shit, i-it’s not like I keep track.” You laugh weakly, trying not to focus on the warmth seeping into your lower belly or the proximity of their bodies. But then his fingers are feathering over the curve of your knee and your heart is picking up speed and you’re left wondering at which point this conversation took such a turn.

Between your legs, Chanyeol shifts and your gaze snap down just in time to see him turn to face you fully, something dark and unfamiliar stirring within those big brown eyes. On instinct, you try to close your legs, but the sheer largeness of his body nestled comfortably between them prevents you from doing anything of the sort.

There’s no ignoring the rush of heat that ignites in your core, the closeness too much for your body to process all at once, only fueled by the long neglected desire for some kind of release.

And the fact that all he needed to do was get just a little bit closer—

But those are most definitely not the types of thoughts you should be having about your best friends. No matter how attractive they are. No matter how good Baekhyun’s pretty hand feels, slowly edging it’s way higher and higher up your thigh. No matter how cute the look on Chanyeol’s face is, a searing blush turning his full cheeks a fiery shade of red that easily consumes the entirety of his handsome face.

Fuck. Why was he looking at you like that?

“Y/n…”

Oh god. Why did your name have to sound like that coming from his lips?

Baekhyun’s fingers find your chin, gently coaxing your attention away from the man kneeling before you and back onto him. Your breathing has become shallow and fast, the insufficient amount of oxygen making you feel somewhat lightheaded. But the sensation is not a wholly unwelcome one. Not when his own smooth, liquor stained breath is like ambrosia on your tongue— heavy and rich and dangerously tempting.

“That piece of shit couldn’t make you feel good, could he?”

“No.” You swallow around the word, willing your treacherous eyes away from the entrancing curve of his pink mouth.

“No…” he repeats softly, tracing his thumb lightly over the flesh of your lower lip, “but I can— we can.” He lowers his gaze, tempting yours to follow as he ticks a brow at the younger boy. “… can’t we, Chanyeol?”

“Yes.” Chanyeol breathes without a moment’s hesitation, nuzzling his nose against the inside of your knee, warm fingertips teasing the cool skin of your ankles before he’s quickly amending, “if it’s what you want.”

Baekhyun’s lips feather over the shell of your burning ear and you feel consumed.

“Do you want it?”

“This is crazy.” It’s a deliberate avoidance of the question and you both know it.

He cocks his head, the corner of his lip curling into a teasing little grin that makes you feel like he can read your mind. “Is it?”

Yes. The word is on the tip of your tongue. But you would be a dirty, filthy liar if you said it had never crossed your mind.

The thought of you and them.

Usually one... sometimes both.

But those had just been fleeting fantasies when nothing else could satiate the unrelenting heat in your belly, shameful fantasies that, for the most part, you kept locked up tight in the furthest corner of your mind and only let out at the darkest hour of the night, when the midnight winds carried away the trembling breaths of their names, a whispered secret shared only between you and the moon. Only then would you dare to bask in their phantom caresses, allow your mind to conjure up images of their faces, twisted in beautiful bliss.

It was a dangerous game you played, but god, it felt too good to be wrong.

Or maybe that was just you trying to rationalize getting off to the thought of your best friends.

After a few moments of you grappling for the right words, Baekhyun tentatively intervenes with the thick, tension-filled silence that had encased the space around you. “It’s okay if you don’t want to. No pressure from us, sweetheart. I understand two at once can be a bit... intimidating.”

Though he started out in a tone that suggested reassurance and understanding, that last phrase, donning an underlying pitch of provocation, gives you pause.

“Are you suggesting you don’t think I could handle the two of you?” There’s a low scoff to your words, a spark of competitiveness that only Byun Baekhyun himself could draw out of you igniting in your stomach.

He smiles at you innocently, walking two fingers up the length of your thigh. “Not at all.” Something about the glint in his eye tells you that that is exactly what he was suggesting.

A light pout touches your lips and you lower your gaze to the man on the floor. “Chanyeol?”

You don’t need to elaborate for him to understand what you’re asking, that familiar boyish grin curling across his face as he props his chin on top of your knee.

“I think you could handle me just fine.”

A shiver ricochets down your spine at the divine way the words drip from his lips, thick and honey like, sensual in their suggestive nature. You hold his burning stare for a few moments longer than you probably should have, feeling yourself slowly being devoured by the dark, ravenous hunger that swirls within it. This was a fire you were not accustomed to seeing ablaze in Chanyeol. You were used to the fire of his competitiveness, the searing flame of his imperishable passion.

But this— this was something new all together.

If you were to touch him, you wonder if you would be able to feel the savage heat of it against your fingertips.

At your sides, your hands itch to find out. But a gentle tug at the string of your- er, Chanyeol’s sweatpants pulls your mind away from that specific thought. You can’t help the shaky gasp that catches in your throat at the sight of Baekhyun’s hands hovering dangerously close to your heat. You can only watch, melting into a puddle of pure need as he twirls the string nonchalantly around his beautiful fingers, slipping his two middle digits into one of the loops and proceeding to curl them in a way that made your mind jump to highly inappropriate possibilities.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

His teeth graze the shell of your ear and the wetness forming between your thighs increases tenfold as the smooth tenor of his voice thrums through your skull.

“I’d love for you to prove me wrong.”

You’re not sure who leaned in first. But the next thing you know, your lips are on his. There’s no time to dwell on the fact that you’re kissing your best friend, your mind rapidly growing hazy from the unexpected intensity. There’s a certain viciousness in his ministrations, a brutality to his lust that he breathes into your lungs and sends blazing through your veins. It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced before.

You can’t help the surprised moan that escapes you when he takes your tongue between his lips and sucks, a low content hum reverberating through his chest before he releases you with a lewd ‘pop’.

“Fuck,” he groans languidly, “You taste like chocolate, baby.”

Calloused hands are curling around your jaw before you can fully recuperate, drawing your attention away from Baekhyun just in time to see Chanyeol’s rapidly approaching face. His dark eyes are hooded and wanting, the faintest of pouts residing on his red-bitten mouth as he breathes in an almost whining tone, “I wanna taste.”

You can think of no reason to object.

His lips slip over yours with a gentleness that is almost staggering. Despite his impatience, there’s an underlying hesitance to his motions, an uncertainty that gives you the feeling that… he’s waiting for you to take the lead. And you do such with fervor.

Raising a hand, you slip gentle fingers up the length of his throat and give an experimental squeeze, not hard enough to do anything other than apply a bit of pressure, but just enough to get your message across.

I’m in charge.

The delighted moan he produces in response makes your lips curl devilishly.

But you’re not given the opportunity to relish in the hot rush of power long, a second pair of lips attaching to your throat making you waver. A hot tongue laves over your collarbone, followed by the sharp pressure of teeth and your jaw goes slack.

Did Baekhyun just bite you?

And… why didn’t you hate it?

Chanyeol takes your open mouth as an invitation, smoothly tilting his head and deepening the kiss. Fuck. He tastes like cinnamon and liquor, a combination you had no idea could be so addictive.

Mind dazed and sufficiently distracted, you don’t notice the hand slipping beneath the fabric of your sweats until a shock of pleasure bolts up your spine. You gasp, breaking the kiss as your eyes drop in order to see which of the two boys is the culprit. Baekhyun lets out a low groan, feathering gentle touches over the soaking fabric of your underwear.

“You’re so fucking wet, baby.” He growls dangerously in your ear. “We’ve barely even started. Are you already that excited?”

You shudder involuntarily, only managing a hoarse moan when he grinds the heel of his palm against your clit. He chuckles tauntingly, as if you’ve just proved his point, but you can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed with the way his skilled fingers are stroking your clothed heat.

The heaviness of Chanyeol’s gaze boring into you, devouring every detail of your blissed expression, only serves in making the sensations all the more intense. You attempt to grind yourself down into Baekhyun’s touch, seeking more friction, only to whimper in dismay as he withdraws completely, leaving you cold, unsatisfied, and aching for more.

“Baekhyun—”

“Take them off.” The abruptness of the command has your breath catching in your throat and a telling warmth fluttering through your core. You weren’t accustomed to hearing Baekhyun’s voice like this, so different from his usually light hearted teasing and playful jibes that it throws you for a moment. He cocks a brow amid your stunned silence, licking over the seam of his lip. “What? You need help?”

Snapping yourself out of it, you swing your gaze over to Chanyeol, offering him a cheeky, lopsided grin. “Can’t say I’d mind it.”

“I’m happy to lend a hand.” He hums, shooting you a playful wink that has a wide smile breaking across your face. He makes quick work of your borrowed sweats, easily tugging the loose fabric down the length of your legs and casting it aside carelessly. You watch the way his eyes flit greedily over the expense of your bare thighs, relishing the low, strained groan that flutters from his gaping lips when his attention fixes on the thin, black, lacy material that separates him from your soaking pussy.

“Those, too,” you instruct softly, sinking your teeth into the inside of your cheek. He swallows, and goes to reach for them, only to draw back abruptly when you swat his hands away with a sound of disapproval, “uh-uh. Do it with your teeth.”

Chanyeol’s breath hitches, a severe blush rushing into his cheeks.

Beside you, Baekhyun grins wildly. “That’s my girl.”

You smirk to yourself at the praise, but don’t remove your eyes from Chanyeol’s for a single moment, absolutely loving the pretty shade of red his handsome face has taken on.

Slowly, he dips his head, not daring to break your gaze as he latches his teeth onto the thin black lace on your underwear and begins to drag them down the length of your legs. Goosebumps erupt across your skin, soothed by the press of his hot palms as they trail his descent down your thighs, over the curves of your knees, down your calves, until you are left bare and exposed before them.

Fuck. That was so hot.

“Cute, isn’t he?” Baekhyun hums playfully against your jaw, like the whisper of the devil in your ear. You let out a trembling breath as the younger boy presses a gentle kiss to the inside of your knee, nodding with an airy sigh of ‘ so cute’. Baekhyun nips at the juncture of your throat, and you can only watch with bated breath as he reaches a hand between your thigh, dragging his long middle finger through your folds, teasing at your entrance. “Want your sweet Chanyeollie to eat your pretty cunt, baby? Hm? Want him to make you feel good?”

Your chest rises rapidly, fast, shallow breaths swirling into your lungs. His filthy words curl beneath your nose, thrumming in your ears, intoxicating and disorienting in their deadly temptation. Desperation tugs at every nerve in your body and your hips buck and roll, chasing his caress. Want pools, dark and heavy, in Chanyeol’s hooded eyes as he watches his friend’s teasing ministrations. He licks his lips, full and pink and glistening in the low light of their apartment and you feel yourself clench around nothing.

“Fuck yes.” The words are nothing less than a growl in the back of your throat, a sound you never thought yourself capable of producing.

Baekhyun suddenly reaches forward, weaving his fingers through Chanyeol’s thick hair and tugging him forward. The younger gives no resistance, bracing his hands on your lower thighs as he allows himself to be guided to you. His lips part, tongue peeking out, and your anticipation skyrockets. But then he stops just short, and all you’re left with is the faint caress of his warm breath to soothe the insatiable ache between your hips. You almost whimper.

Chanyeol’s nostrils flare, eyes sharpening in annoyance as he shoots a glare up in Baekhyun’s direction. He only grins and arches a brow. “What? You’re not gonna ask for it first? Where are your manners, Yeol?” He gasps mockingly, eyes twinkling with mirth.

You don’t expect Chanyeol to give in at first, not with how competitive he could be and especially not with Baekhyun acting so damn condescending. But then he does, and you forget how to breathe.

“Please, y/n,” he pants hotly against your skin, “I wanna taste you so bad. I wanna make you feel good, baby. Let me make you feel good. Please. Fuck, please.” A low, needy groan trembles in the back of his throat, clinging to that last ravenous plea. He snags his lower lip between his teeth and you feel yourself throb. The man looks down right sinful, Baekhyun still clutching onto his inky locks, forcing a slight strain in his neck as he looks up at you with those damn eyes that make your stomach churn and your mind spin.

God, he’s so beautiful.

Overwhelmed with the need to touch him, you nudge Baekhyun’s hand out of the way and replace it with your own, immediately loving the feeling of Chanyeol’s soft hair sliding between your fingers. His eyes flutter under the gentleness of your grip, lips parting as he breathes a delicate sigh, gazing up at you expectantly.

“Come here, Yeolie.”

He’s more than happy to comply.

The first stroke of his tongue sends sparks of electricity shooting through your entire body, a silent gasp shaping your lips. He looks up at you through dark lashes, encouraged and invigorated by your responsiveness to him, licking eagerly at your cunt. Soft moans flutter through his chest, and you shiver at the faint vibrations that are sent pulsing through you.

“Fuck, Chan,” you hiss, rocking your hips forward when he laves over your clit. The friction makes your skin tremble, a dangerous heat rising beneath it. If you knew he was this good with his mouth, you would have jumped his bones a whole lot sooner.

Another moan builds in your chest, but it’s abruptly stifled when Baekhyun tangles a hand into your hair and pulls you into a kiss that doesn’t fail to knock the air out of your lungs. Having both of their mouths on you makes your head spin and you can’t decide which to focus on. You’ve never been with more than one person at the time and it’s slightly overwhelming to suddenly have two men— two gorgeous men at that, both eager and willing to give you more pleasure than you’ve ever experienced.

Warm fingers suddenly slip beneath the thick fabric of your sweatshirt, and you shiver as they glide over your skin, light and teasing in advance towards your chest. A tremor wracks your spine when he pinches a nipple, squeezing his digits around the shape of your breast. Your back arches unconsciously, and you feel him smirk. Distracted, you don’t feel the burn of Chanyeol’s impatient glare until his teeth sink into the soft flesh of your inner thigh.

Yelping in shock, you snap your gaze back down to the younger boy, disbelief coloring your features. He has the audacity to smirk at you, cocking a brow in a manner that has a mixture of annoyance and arousal flaring up in your gut. Any glimmer of smug accomplishment is quickly washed from his face when your hand shoots down and roughly grips the hair on the back of his head, yanking him upwards until your nose to nose.

“Watch your teeth, Yeolie.” You murmur darkly.

“Or what?” The corner of your mouth twitches at his gutsy response.

“Or I’ll make sure to edge you until you cry.”

His eyes widen at the threat and he swallows thickly. From your peripheral, you see the crotch of his grey sweatpants rise.

“Oh? But it looks like you’d like that.” A deep crimson flush rushes into his ears and tinges the tips of his ears and he lowers his eyes, unable to hold your mirthful gaze any longer. “I guess I’ll just have to think of a better punishment.”

“I’m sorry,” his voice comes out airy and desperate, the natural rasp making the knot in your stomach tighten, “I promise I’ll be good.”

“Will you?”

“Yes.” You search his blown pupils for any sign of dishonesty, but find only sincerity and intoxicating lust. Satisfied, you release your tight grip on his hair in favor of gently stroking your knuckles over his blushing cheek.

“Then be a good boy and show me what this pretty mouth,” you trace your thumb gently over the soft, pink flesh of his lower lip, “can really do.”

The moment he’s released from your entrancing gaze, his mouth is on you again, eating you out with a fervor you’ve never before experienced. Your hips buck against him, your head tipping back as you let out rasping groans.

“Fuck, Yeol. That’s it, baby. Good boy.” He moans against you as spill praise after praise, lapping hungrily at your soaking pussy.

“That was so fucking sexy.” Baekhyun growls roughly, kissing you hard once before he’s pulling away to speak again. “Watching you boss him around, take control like that…” his voice drawls into a low groan, “really does something to me.”

“Yeah?” You ask shakily, mind whirling as Chanyeol buries his tongue inside of you. Baekhyun grins, humming lightly in confirmation. “Maybe you should let me boss you around, too.”

“Not a chance.” He chuckles. “Maybe next time. But tonight…” your mouth falls open in a silent gasp as he wraps a hand around your throat, squeezing ever so gently, “your mine, sweetheart.”

Next time. He said next time.

There’s going to be a next time.

The amount of joy you receive from those two simple words borders on irrational.

“I— oh fuck!” You can only cry out in bliss as Chanyeol wraps his lips around your clit, sucking roughly. Your hips jerk and grind, moving on their own accord as he draws you closer and closer to your high. God, you’re so close you can taste it. Your trembling hands find purchase in his hair once more, desperate to hold onto something as the coil in your stomach grows tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment.

“You gonna cum all over Yeolie’s tongue, baby? You gonna cum for us?” Baekhyun coos encouragingly against your jaw, and you can only whimper and nod frantically, unable to speak when Chanyeol sinks a long finger into your wet cunt, fucking you skillfully with his digit while he focuses his mouth on abusing your throbbing clit until your reduced to little more than a trembling, whimpering mess on their living room couch.

“Yes— oh god, yes.”

When the coil snaps, it snaps hard. You can only manage a strangled whimper when it crashes over you. How long had it been since you last come on something other than your own hand? Weeks? Months? You can’t recall. But honestly how much does it really matter when your best friend’s face is nestled snug between your thighs?

The muscles of your legs seize and tremble beneath the force of your release, only held open by Chanyeol’s strong hands. He is unrelenting even as you come undone around him, tongue rolling over your clit, finger curling against your walls as his heady, hooded eyes devour you. You only manage to get him to detach him from you when you give a weak tug at his hair, the post-orgasm sensitivity proving too much for your body to handle.

“F– fuck.” You shiver, panting as tendrils of residual pleasure lick at your senses, the cold phantom of his tongue making you clench around nothing but empty air is pathetic greed. “Fuck, come here.”

Chanyeol is quick to rise onto his knees, obedient as ever, letting out a soft gasp of surprise as you cup his face and draw him into a heated kiss. He melts into you, large hands finding purchase on your thighs (which are still shaking) and caressing them soothingly.

“Thank you,” you breathe against his mouth, “thank you. Thank you.”

You feel him smiling as you continue to express your gratitude in gentle words spoken between deep, passionate kisses and it’s not long before his smile turns into something wide and toothy and uncontainable and he’s bursting into a fit of giggles as you resort to peppering the rest of his face in playful kisses.

“Easy now, sweetheart. Save the aftercare for when we’re done, yeah?” Baekhyun’s lilting hum draws your attention, and you look at him with wide eyes.

“We’re not done?”

His brows jump, that familiar lopsided smirk offsetting his pretty lips. “Are you kidding me? We’ve got two years worth of orgasms to make up for. We’re nowhere near finished.” A shiver of excitement ricochets down your spine at the promise laced into his words, and you have to bite your lip to keep a wide grin at bay.

Suddenly, Baekhyun rises from the couch and it’s with immense effort that you refrain from staring directly at the prominent bulge straining against the thin fabric of his plaid pajama pants. Swallowing thickly, you look up at him as he extends a hand. “Come on. The bedroom is much more comfortable to get your brains fucked out in. Speaking from experience.” You scoff at the sleazy smirk he shoots you, but slide your hand into his nonetheless.

The moment you’re on your feet, your knees buckle and you nearly topple. Luckily for you, Chanyeol has remarkable reflexes (when it counts) and catches you by the waist, pulling you flush against his chest.

“Shit, Yeol. You really did a number on her.” Baekhyun remarks teasingly. A feverish blush rises up your neck and you shoot him a glare.

“Shut up.”

He bites the corner of his lip, gives you a heated once over that leaves your skin burning and trembling, before spinning on his heels sauntering in the direction of his bedroom door. He stops in the frame for a brief moment and shoots you a sultry wink from over his shoulder. “Come make me.”

Fuck.

Chanyeol let’s out a yelp of surprise as you lace your fingers through his and tug him hurriedly in the direction of his roommate’s bedroom. The very second that you’re through the door, lips connect with yours, stealing the very air from your lungs and obliterating any last remaining bit of your sanity. Hands seize your half naked body, eagerly exploring the expanse of your feverish skin. They tug at the hindering fabric of your sweatshirt, until all at once it is being pulled over your head and cast off carelessly somewhere in the darkness. You don’t even shiver, the heat of their bodies surrounding you and warding off the cool air.

Chanyeol takes the opportunity to slide a hand beneath your chin and tilt your head back so that it rests on his shoulder, the tip of his tongue flicking over your lips until they part, welcoming him in. Reaching back, you grab hold of his hips, tugging them forward and guiding them in a slow grinding motion against your ass. He moans hotly at the frictions, kiss turning sloppy as pleasure rushes through him.

You’re distinctly aware of the pressure of Baekhyun’s own mouth beginning a slow descent, starting from your jaw, gliding down the length of your throat, pausing to lick and suck at your sensitive nipples, kissing with a staggering tenderness over your belly. Then you hear his knees hit the floor. All at once, his tongue flattens against your clit, and you have to break away from Chanyeol as your body jolts violently in response. There’s still lingering sensitivity from your first orgasm, amplifying the pleasure tenfold.

And god, it’s so good.

“F– fuck, Baek—” your voice breaks off into a trembling whimper, hips bucking as he sinks a finger into your heat. Followed shortly thereafter by a second. Then a third. The stretch has you keening, leaning the full weight of your body against Chanyeol’s sturdy chest. He’s the only thing keeping you upright at the moment. Had you been left to your own devices, you would have already collapsed.

“Gotta make sure you’re ready for us, baby.” Baekhyun hums with a lightness entirely unfitting for the current situation, nipping at the inside of your thigh. He supplies you with a slow, calculated thrust, biting his lip harshly as he watches your glistening arousal coat his digits. “Fucking hell, your soaking.”

You whimper shakily, head tipping back as Chanyeol nips and sucks at the juncture of your throat, his large hands gliding over the shape of your body as if he intends to commit it to memory— caressing every curve, fondling every edge, touching you, worshipping you with a reverence that pours into your very soul. You’ve never been touched like this before. Most men just think they have a right to you the second your clothes are off (some even before that). There’s no respect, no appreciation, nothing but dirty lust.

But this— this is different. It’s a feeling you can’t quite put into words. The way he’s touching you, like you’re a precious work of art, it makes you feel good. It makes you feel… beautiful. Something you rarely, if ever, felt when you were with your ex.

Baekhyun swirls his tongue around your clit and simultaneously curls his fingers, successfully stroking that long neglected bundle of nerves inside of you. The sensations it sets off inside of you are intense and overwhelming, and within seconds you’re coming for a second time. This orgasm comes completely unexpectedly and without any real warning outside of the breakneck explosion of pleasure that has stars scattering across your vision.

“Baek—!” you can only manage a broken yelp of his name as your body convulses above him, wracked and disoriented by the sudden, explosive burst of ecstasy. Now your shivering, trembling and gasping violently, but not from the cold. He watches in wonder as you unravel, clenching so tightly around his fingers that he can only begin to imagine what you’ll feel like coming around his cock. Shit, he can’t wait to be inside of you. He’s throbbing at the mere thought of it.

Chanyeol’s no better off, barely holding himself back from rutting against you like some kind of animal. But he wants to impress you, show you he has some semblance of self control even when it feels like he might burst in his pants at any given moment. He wants to be good for you. So for now, he can only watch with bated breath, painfully hard in his sweats, as your face contorts into an expression of pure bliss. God, you look so beautiful like this he almost can’t stand it. How could anyone let someone like you go?

“Holy f-fuck.” You whimper, attempting to catch your breath as your high begins to fade. Baekhyun has plastered a cocky grin across his face by the time you look down at him, though his eyes still sparkle with something indecipherable.

“That was a good one.” He says, carefully retracting his fingers from your heat as Chanyeol hums in agreement, nuzzling his nose behind your ear comfortingly when you shudder and whine at the emptiness. “We’re gonna break her at this rate.”

“Not a chance,” you interject firmly, albeit somewhat breathlessly, “I’m a lot tougher than you think.” It’s the truth, but the quiver in your voice begs to differ.

“So you can handle another one?” Baekhyun asks, rising to his full height.

You hold his fiery gaze. “I can handle anything you give me.”

Something in his eyes darkens. “Careful, sweetheart. You have… no idea the kind of filthy, depraved things I want to do to you.” His voice drops an octave, and, despite having already come twice (twice as many times as you were used to), your greedy cunt still throbs with need.

Boldly, you extend a hand, caressing over his clothed length, and feel a surge of pride when he inhales sharply, hard gaze faltering.

Leaning forward, you feather your lips over his, teasing. It’s a dangerous game you're playing, you know that. But you’re enjoying it far too much to stop now.

“Show me.”

Those two little words are all it takes to break Byun Baekhyun.

“Bed. Now.”

Perhaps you’re just a little too eager to comply, barely biting back a grin of excitement as you turn tail and scramble to his king sized bed.

The disheveled sheets welcome you into their embrace, still warm in the spot Baekhyun had occupied prior your unannounced visit. They smell of him, you notice, the coconut of his shampoo, the milk & honey of his body wash, the soft vanilla of his perfume. You recognize the latter as the bottle he “borrowed” from you a few months back and had yet to return. Not that you really mind. You secretly like the fact that he smells like you.

Chanyeol is first to round the side of the bed, ridding himself of his clothes along the way. Shirt first, then pants, and you can’t help but giggle as he hops clumsily out of his boxers, nearly bumping into the nightstand before he falls gracelessly onto the mattress beside you, offering up a sheepish grin.

“Sexy, aren’t I?” Sarcasm bleeds through his tone, embarrassment hot on his cheeks, though it’s quickly soothed as you draw him into a gentle kiss.

“Excruciatingly.” You enunciate teasingly, nipping at the tip of his nose.

The bed dips around your ankles, and you peer down to see a very primal looking Baekhyun crawling towards you, like a predator honing in on his prey. The carnal hunger pooling in his hooded eyes hits you straight in the chest, and for a moment you forget how to breathe.

Slotting himself between your hips, you could easily make out every inch of his length resting against your stomach, hot and hard and throbbing. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anyone inside of you this badly. His head lowers to your throat and he sets your skin ablaze with open mouthed kisses. Chanyeol makes sure the opposite side of your neck isn’t neglected long, feeling the erratic pulsing of your carotid artery beneath the slow strokes of his tongue. Your head falls back into the pillows, a sigh fluttering from your lips as you’re bathed in their affections.

Baekhyun slips a hand beneath your knee, hooking it over his hip. Your lungs tremble with excitement when he slides his tip slowly through your wet folds.

“I’m gonna fuck you until you see stars.”

“I already have,” you smirk lazily in response, snagging the corner of your lip between your teeth, “Twice.”

He doesn’t seem discouraged, curving a hand around the shape of your jaw and feathering his mouth over yours as his eyes glint with something sinful and electrifying. “Then I’m gonna show you the goddamn galaxy.”

There’s no time to respond before his hips are rolling forward, filling you to the hilt with one smooth stroke. A breathless gasp trembles from his throat, “fuck.”

“Does she feel good?” The question that escapes Chanyeol is weak and needy, strained and rough, coming from somewhere deep in his chest. He almost sounds like he’s struggling, battling with himself internally as he watches his best friend’s cock disappear inside of our cunt with a lewd squelch. The searing heat of his gaze makes you whine in pathetic desperation, no longer unable to form coherent words to express your desire.

“Fucking Christ, Yeol. She’s so tight a-and wet— ah, fucking perfect.” Baekhyun’s shoulders arch, a tremor rippling down his spine as your walls constrict around him, squeezing so tightly he almost loses himself then and there. But he manages to hold back, bracing a hand on your hip as he pushes himself up right.

“Baek, please.”

There’s no need for elaboration. He knows exactly what you’re asking for. And hell, he’s more than happy to provide.

The first thrust of his hips has your back arching off of the mattress, mouth opening in silent bliss. The pace he sets is punishing, fast and deep and rough. His blunt nails dig harshly into the flesh of your hips, but you relish in it, pain and pleasure coming together to create the perfect cocktail. The lingering sensitivity from your two previous orgasms only serves to heighten the ecstasy that you're experiencing. And with Chanyeol pressed against your side, large, calloused hands and gentle lips making sure each and every inch of you is receiving attention, it doesn’t take long at all before you feel that coil in your stomach tightening.

“I’m not gonna last.” You moan weakly, clinging to Chanyeol like he’s your one and only lifeline.

“Fuck, come on, beautiful. Be a good girl and come on my cock.” Baekhyun growls, snapping his hips roughly into yours. You cry out desperately when Chanyeol trails a hand down your body, circling a careful finger around your clit.

“Oh god, please. Please, Yeol. Harder. Baek— fuck, please.” You’re on the verge of tears, muscles shuddering violently as the white hot pleasure pulses through your veins.

“Who are you begging, sweetheart?” Baekhyun grins down at you devilishly, licking at his teeth as his eyes glow with something dangerous and powerful. Your stomach whirls, and you nearly headbutt Chanyeol when your body lurches, entirely overwhelmed. It’s so much— too much— but, somehow, not enough.

Your legs squeeze around Baekhyun’s hips, heels pressing into the swells of his ass, urging him deeper as you implore him wordlessly for more. You want everything, however selfish that may sound. You want it all. Every last piece of him.

This time around, you’re more than grateful that he can read you so well.

Simultaneously, the two boys fiercen their ministrations: Baekhyun, fucking himself into you so hard that the headboard is slamming into the wall; Chanyeol, applying enough pressure to your sensitive clit that your sanity nearly flies out the window. Within seconds, entangled in the staggering heat of their bodies, you come undone.

Damn. Baekhyun wasn’t kidding about showing you the galaxy.

Never in your life have you experienced an orgasm like this. One that tears through your very being like a raging tsunami. You feel it rippling through every cell, igniting every nerve ending in fiery ecstasy.

Baekhyun is barely able to hold himself together as you unravel beneath him, his entire body trembling and sweating with the effort of fighting back his own high, which is threatening to break over him at any given second. The mere sight of you is almost enough to do him in, but he wants to make sure to ride you through yours before he allows himself even a taste of his own. Harder said than done when you look so good and feel ever better, clenching and pulsing around him and god he’s about to lose his fucking mind.

He’s panting and groaning, rolling his hips deeply into yours, keeping himself teetering dangerously on that edge. But it’s you, your voice whimpering his name, your fluttering, teary eyes barely able to keep themselves open looking up at him, that finally breaks him. He bucks into you sharply, hips spluttering, body shaking as he spills himself. It’s sudden and it’s messy and it’s the most goddamn beautiful thing you’ve ever witnessed.

The moment he’s finished, he collapses on top of you, completely out of breath and red in the face; thoroughly fucked out. But that doesn’t stop him from bathing you in whispered praises.

“You’re so amazing. You did so well. You’re so beautiful.”

His words warm your heart, which is just barely beginning to return to a more natural rhythm. They lick the wounds from the nights previous events, soothe the ache that was long forgotten in the thralls of your best friends’ soothing touch.

Baekhyun pulls out of you carefully, and you have to physically stop yourself from pouting at the emptiness and loss of the weight and warmth of his body as he rolls off of you, flopping onto the mattress at your side with a huff of hazy laughter.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs, a dopey smile plastered across his face as he tosses an arm over his eyes, “that was amazing.”

“So fucking amazing.” You emphasize, trying uselessly to catch your breath.

It’s only when you feel something nudging at your opposite hip that you're able to refocus your bleary mind on the unfinished task. You turn, finding the adorable scrunched face of Chanyeol, cheeks red, eyes wanting.

The younger boy chews on his lower lip, swallowing a groan. He’s trying his best not to come off as too desperate, but you see right through him. You see how hard he is, veins thick and throbbing beneath the angry red skin, his flushed tip weeping with precum. Honestly, you’re surprised he hasn’t touched himself yet. It looks like it hurts.

Licking your lips, you can’t help but to wonder what he might taste like, how he’d feel against your tongue, the kinds of sounds he’d make when his body was overwhelmed with pleasure. You bet he’s loud when he comes. Fuck, that deep, raspy voice would sound so good moaning your name.

… perhaps you are feeling just a little greedy.

“Yeol,” he snaps to attention at the wispy call of his name, inhaling sharply when your fingers graze his thigh, “come here.”

He blinks in confusion, not understanding what you want him to do. Recognizing the lost puppy dog look, you chuckle before elaborating in far more blunt terms to avoid further misunderstanding;

“I want you to fuck my mouth.”

If he were to open his eyes any wider, you were certain they’d fall straight out of his head. “I– I can’t– you just—” he stutters clumsily, shaking his head, but you can feel his body practically trembling in excitement at the implication of your words.

“Please. You’ve been so good for me. I wanna make you feel good, too, baby.” You coo, tugging at his knee once more before leaning up to graze your lips over the shell of his flushed ear. “Let me make you feel good, Yeolie.”

He shivers violently, a strangled moan breaking from his swollen mouth, and you smirk to yourself, knowing you’ve got him. He seems nervous as he pushes himself up and crawls to kneel next to your head before hesitating, blinking as he tries to figure the right way to position himself.

He’s cute when he’s concentrating.

“Like this—” you chime in. Chanyeol gasps and flushes a deep red when you guide him forward until his knees are on either side of your head, his hard length swinging proudly above your nose.

Reaching up, you take his large hands in yours, interlacing your fingers. “If I tap on the back of your hand—” you demonstrate, “it means stop, okay? You have to stop immediately when I do that because I won’t be able to speak.”

He nods, expression serious, “I understand. I’ll stop if you tap on my hand.”

“Good,” you pause, a gentle smile upturning the corners of your mouth, “I trust you.”

His breath hitches. “Thank you.”

Instead of responding, you tip your chin up and trace your tongue over the underside of his cock. His hips stutter forward, a surprised moan escaping him at the unexpected contact.

“Stop teasing and feed her your cock, Chanyeol. Can’t you see how bad she wants it?” Baekhyun chuckles mockingly, sliding a lithe hand around your jaw and squeezing, forcing your mouth open even wider. Chanyeol looks down at you through blown pupils, chest heaving, lust practically radiating from his every pore. But it’s only when you offer a nod of reassurance and a look that you hope gives of even the faintest of glimpses into your immense desire for this, for him, does he finally move.

With a tenderness only Park Chanyeol could possess in a position such as this, he guides himself between your awaiting lips. You moan unabashedly as the bittersweet taste of him hits your tongue, tipping your chin up to make more of him in. A shuddering moan pulses from his chest, pitched and broken on red bitten lips. The sound is somehow even more beautiful than you imagined.

Languidly, you swirl your tongue around his weeping tip, eliciting a strained whisper of your name as the grip he has on your hands tightens substantially. He offers a slow, shallow thrust, his head dropping forward as his length slides deeper into the warm cavern of your mouth. The pressure of your tongue against the underside of his cock and the heavy reverberations of your soft, encouraging moans invigorate him to set a careful rhythm, hips stroking gently forward.

Your knuckles dig into the messy sheets as he pivots his weight forward, and you quickly relax your jaw when you feel him inching closer to your throat with every thrust. Chanyeol is even more considerate than you thought he’d be, pulling out far enough between steady strokes that you can swallow lungfuls of oxygen before sliding smoothly back in, deeper and deeper each time. Tears pool in the corners of your eyes, mouth straining in order to accommodate his impressive girth. But hell, it’s worth it. Totally worth it.

His breathing became harsh and labored, filling his lungs with sharp, ragged inhales that shudder through the deep cavity of his chest. “F– fuck, y/n,” he groans hoarsely, head dipping as his eyes squeeze shut, “your mouth is— s- so good.”

Your core tightens around nothing at the rasping whimper, the faint caress of his warm breath rousing goosebumps across the damp skin of your belly. The subconscious clenching of your thighs is wholly unintentional, but it does not go unnoticed.

Chanyeol lets out a choked gasp as a hand slides into his hair, his upper body suddenly forced downwards.

“Come on, Yeolie,” Baekhyun coos tauntingly in his ear, “you were the one going on and on about balance. So why don’t you provide some… ‘give and take’, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he barely whispers, but you still feel a rush of hot breath over your core and moan throatily around his cock. He tenses and shudders in response to the delicious rush of vibrations, tightening his grip on your hands as Baekhyun guides him lower.

Honestly, you aren’t sure at first if you have another one in you. Three orgasms in one night was unimaginable before tonight. Four seemed simply unrealistic. Your poor pussy is still pulsing and trembling from the last. But the moment Chanyeol flicks his tongue over your clit, the most delicate of kitten licks, you know that you do.

This time though, it’s like molten metal boiling in the pit of your stomach, a wholly unfamiliar sensation. Each press of his lips and roll of his tongue fans the fire blazing through your veins. You try your best to keep up, hollowing your cheeks and swirling your tongue, but it’s difficult when it feels like your brain is short circuiting. The pleasure is fiercer, more intense, rolling over you in thick, devastating waves. You’re reduced to little more a moaning, writhing mess beneath him, barely able to keep yourself from choking on his cock.

Chanyeol’s hips buck frantically as your throat constricts, his own ministrations getting rougher and sloppier the closer he gets. You feel his teeth against your clit, then two long fingers slipping through your slicks folds and fucking themselves into your pussy. Baekhyun can only groan hotly at how easily you take his digits, squeezing his opposite hand around the base of his hard dick.

“I’m gonna come,” Chanyeol whimpers hurriedly, “oh fuck I’m gonna come.”

Suddenly, his hips pulse and your bottom lip make contact with the flat of his pelvis. It takes every ounce of control you have over your body to push back your gag reflex, but the way he trembles and breaks above you is undoubtedly worth the strain. A jumbled mess of words tumble from his lips as he comes, though only your name and a select few curses are intelligible between the deep, violent moans that burst from his chest.

Tears fall from the corners of your eyes as he fucks himself into your mouth, motions stuttered and sloppy. But you swallow around him eagerly as he fills your throat with his release, which only serves in prolonging his orgasm until he’s shivering and whining and hell— each sound, each tremble has the coil in your stomach squeezing tighter and tighter.

All the while, Baekhyun’s fingers are loyally exploring your silken walls until he once again discovers that small bundle of nerves that make your head spin. Combined with Chanyeol moaning and growling against your clit— you're a dead woman.

This final orgasm is the equivalent of having a bucket of ice water dumped over your head. Every hair on your body jumps to stand at attention, oxygen suddenly igniting into flames in your lungs. You scream around Chanyeol’s cock, back bowing off the mattress, eyes rolling to the back of your skull. It’s so intense you honestly feel like you might pass out. But it’s so good, too good —fuck, it’s the best you’ve ever had!— and you want to relish in every mind numbing moment.

All at once, Chanyeol is gone from between your lips and you gasp, a rush of cool air like a glass of ice water in the torrid desert flooding into your lungs and soothing the angry blaze.

“Holy shit.”

You’re too gone in the high to make out who the strained whisper had come from, or to notice the sudden substantial amount of wetness painting the insides of your thighs and seeping into the sheets below. Your brain feels thoroughly scrambled, effectively stupefied by the prodigious pleasure and you can do nothing but bask in it.

“Have you ever done that before?” It takes you a few extra seconds to realize that the question is directed at you.

“Hmm?” You hum blearily, not bothering to try and lift your head.

“Squirting,” Baekhyun clarifies, voice thick with wonder, “have you ever done that before?”

“Squirting? No, I’ve never—” your head snaps up, eyes bulging, “I squirted?!”

If the excessive arousal currently coating (and dripping from) Chanyeol’s astonished face and the unusually large wet spot staining the sheets is anything to go by, the answer is a clear yes.

Panic strikes your chest. “Oh my god. Oh my god, I- I am so—”

“Don’t apologize! Don’t you dare apologize.” Baekhyun abruptly cuts you off, splaying a hand over your belly. “That has to be the most— amazing thing I have ever seen. No girl has ever squirted on me before. I’m honestly honored.”

“Baekhyun, please.” You whine, pulling a pillow over your feverish face and snapping your legs shut.

“I’m serious!” He yelps indignantly, tugging the pillow away from you and tossing it to the side despite your noisy complaints. Two strong hands find either of your thighs and pry them apart in spite of your stubborn resistance, revealing the slippery mess you made on the sheets below.

Heat rushes up your neck as Chanyeol falls into position between them like it’s the most natural thing in the entire world and begins licking at your wet skin. The muscles of your thighs shake and tighten uncontrollably under the intimate ministrations, the post orgasm sensitivity extending beyond your core and into each of your limbs.

“Chan,” you whimper remorsefully, clenching your fingers in the duvet, “I can’t. I can’t.”

He smiles against your skin, licks turning into gentle kisses that make your heart flutter and melt in ways it definitely should not in response to your best friend’s big, sweet eyes. Then again— this entire situation is remarkably unconventional in regards to a typical friendship. Not that you’re complaining because really, how could you? Four orgasms? In one night? Unheard of. A part of you wonders if they were actually just trying to kill you.

While Chanyeol bathes you in his limitless affection, Baekhyun vanishes from your side and into the attached bathroom, returning only moments later with a towel saturated with hot water. You hum gratefully as he carefully scrubs away the sheen of sweat and sticky arousal clinging to your skin. And he’s considerate, too? Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable.

“You guys are going to ruin all other men for me, fucking hell.” You huff out a hoarse chuckle. Chanyeol suddenly flops down beside you, nuzzling his face into the juncture of your shoulder.

“Who needs other men when you have us?” He rebukes, large hand finding yours and intertwining your fingers.

You can honestly find no reason to disagree.

“Guys,” Baekhyun chimes once finished scrubbing you down, “let’s move to Chanyeol’s room. I need to throw these sheets in the washer before they get crusty. Made that mistake once. Never again.”

“I would totally do that but I’m pretty sure my legs are numb.”

“Ain’t no thang, pretty lady. I’ve got you.” Chanyeol chirps gallantly, slipping his arms beneath your legs and back. Before you can make any kind of protest, you’re being swooped off the bed and pressed into a warm chest. Shrieks of laughter peel from your lips as the gentle giant spins, and you throw your arms around his neck just for extra precaution.

“Yeolie,” Baekhyun whines mockingly, stomping his foot childishly as he plasters an exaggerated pout across his face, “you never pick me up and twirl me around like a pretty princess.”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” you tease, extending a leg and pressing your toes against his chest, “only room for one pretty princess in this apartment.”

“Oh, okay. I see how it is.” He scoffs as he stumbles back and falls dramatically back onto the mattress, hand splayed over his heart like you had somehow managed to wound him.

“Speaking of washing,” Chanyeol chirps, glancing down at you, “How does a warm bath sound?”

“Like heaven.” You groan. “Baek, feel free to join us after you're done doing your laundry.” You shoot him a mirthful grin as Chanyeol pivots and carries you out of the room that bears the musky, filthy scent of sex.

“Wait you’re just gonna— but I—“ Baekhyun wavers, looking between your retreating figures and his stupid dirty sheets before letting out a groan of frustration and scurrying after you. “Fuck it. I’m coming, I’m coming!”

“Is your bathtub big enough to fit three people?” You question, gaze landing on Baekhyun’s cute ass as he jogs ahead.

Chanyeol shrugs, humming thoughtfully. “We can squeeze.”

You smile, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“We can definitely squeeze.”

1K notes · View notes

some-kindofgnome · 3 years

Text

for auld lang syne

“And then I woke up in the hospital alone, and I saw the doctor alone and took a taxi home alone. I went to physical therapy alone and saw my counsellor alone. Whatever you thought, Katsuki, whatever you believed made me spend six months staring at my phone and thinking I’d ruined everything.”

It’s time for your agency’s extravagant New Years’ Eve party. But after a little sabbatical, there are some things you’re not ready to come back to.

characters: katsuki bakugou x f!reader

wc: 7.2k

warnings: smut (18+ please!) aged-up characters, pro hero!bakugou and pro hero!reader, mentions of injury, near-death experiences and gunshots, smoking, drinking, angst with a (filthy) happy ending, me being a whore for glamorous new years’ parties

notes: This fic has been dragging me across the coals since Christmas- I could not get it out of my head, despite how much work I knew it would be to get it out on time. Still, it feels supremely worth it. I have a metric ton of love to give to @hoe-doroki for beta-ing this mammoth on such short notice (I dumped it in her lap at 4am) because she really helped me whip it into shape. As always. 💖

Happy New Year, everyone.

(MASTERLIST)

“Won’t be long now.”

Anxiety bleeds into the already-nervous voice of your driver, muffled by the plexiglass divider that separates you. You’ve been sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic for the past four red lights, barely inching toward the intersection with every green.

You’re well past fashionably late at this point. You’re sure that the commissioned driver’s fearing for his job at this point, knowing exactly how long ago you were supposed to have arrived at your own party.

But you couldn’t care less. The longer it takes you to get there, the better. The vodka you’d downed neat, standing over the bar cart in your polished apartment, sours in the pit of your stomach. And the fact that your outfit barely allows a spare breath isn’t exactly cooling your nerves, either.

You’re draped over the door, resting one elbow on its edge to cushion your jaw as you lay your forehead against the chilly glass. Outside, the crowded traffic casts a golden warmth over the bluish urban night, betraying the slow swirl of fluffy snowflakes that drift lazily into the street.

Tonight has all the makings for an ideal, albeit bitterly cold, New Year’s Eve. But if it were up to you, you’d be watching all the wonder unfold from the comfort of your own bed.

You’ve been away long enough, though, says your agent. It’s time, says your manager. You stay away from the spotlight for too long and we’re going to forget about you, says the Internet.

The glittering gold fabric your stylist presented you with would’ve swelled your heart on any other occasion. He knows your taste to the button. And after breaking into exhausted sobs at your first fitting together, you’d been able to tell him that the outfit was perfect.

At long last, the glossy windows of your agency loom outside. You push the backseat door open before your driver can even kill the engine, stepping out as gracefully as you can muster and pulling the folds of your designer coat demurely closed around your glamorous party clothes. You’re greeted by swaths of flashbulbs and determined shouts of your hero name, and suddenly the practiced gracious smile that you’ve always saved for the cameras is stretching your lips one more time.

You used to love something about this. But you’ve almost never had to face it alone.

Inside, the party’s taken off without you. Your coat’s taken before you can even see who’s hands are slipping it deftly off your shoulders, but by the time you’re ushered into the elevator and sent all the way to the top floor, you’re already sweating with the anticipation of all that’s waiting for you.

The doors open to a rush of guests, each noticing you simultaneously and pushing in to greet you.

Arriving late does absolutely nothing to dissolve the grandness of your entrance. Your attention is immediately pulled in a handful of different directions as celebrities and dignitaries and politicians shake your hands and congratulate you. People you’ve never met are telling you how good it is to see you on your feet again and, despite the overwhelming distractions, you can’t stop searching the crowd.

You don’t want to let yourself search for somebody in particular, but you spot him long before your shame catches up with you.

It’s not a glimpse of his mussed hair you catch, bobbing through the crowd. Nor is it a slip of the edge of his suit, the most devastating shade of midnight blue you could have possibly imagined.

Your eyes, like magnets, are drawn right to his crimson gaze. Lightning shoots through your chest, and you look away so fast you nearly pull a muscle in your neck. You cast your gaze immediately to the red-faced MP in front of you and let yourself stare. Still, from the corner of your eye, you can see the way he lingers, still facing you.

You haven’t seen Katsuki in months. Luckily, your ability to multitask has not faded, and you make easy small talk with the mayor and his wife while you sense him, in all his midnight splendor, disappearing into the crowd again.

A close call. Too close, in fact, not to warrant a drink. You excuse yourself kindly from the mayor’s attention, cutting through the glamorous partygoers until you reach the bar at the center of the room. It’s crowded, but you grab the bartender’s attention quick enough and order the first of many glasses of Dom Perignon.

The agency knows how to spend, for a special occasion.

It’s while you’re trapped at the bar, waiting for that imperative first drink, that he corners you. You spot him an instant too late, sidling between two dancing couples and crossing the short distance between you. There’s no way to skirt subtly away from him now. Instead, you lean more fervently across the bar and immerse yourself in an intense examination of the liquor, shelved decoratively behind the working bartenders.

He hesitates—possibly for the first time ever—but you’re determined not to watch as he searches for the right way to bridge the silence. You spot the way he stuffs his hands into his pockets, and when he finally speaks it’s low and sharp and bitter.

“That’s a nice dress.”

He has to lean too close to make his voice heard, speaking low and gruff to you in a way he never used to. You’re too anxious to care whether he sees the way you close your eyes to dull the fervent ache that flares in your chest.

He’s not allowed to say things like that to you. Not now.

“Listen.” He doesn’t wait for you to answer, pushing ahead.

In the throes of closeness, it’s easy to pick up the tremor in his voice. That kind of shake used to scare you. It’s the way he’s always spoken to you when he’s keeping his temper at bay in public.

He’s opening his mouth to say something else, something deeper and far more expository perhaps, but your champagne arrives with no moment to spare. You pluck it eagerly from the bartender’s fingers with an exceedingly gracious smile and turn quickly in the direction you swear Katsuki’s not blocking.

“Watch it.” He grabs your wrist to keep you from sloshing half your fresh champagne down your front. His touch sears hotter than you’d dreaded, and you can’t stop yourself from flinching at the rough brush of his calloused fingers over your tender inner wrist.

Fuck.

“Don’t run off,” he insists, squeezing your wrist just a little tighter. Your entire body is drawn tight like a bow, but you’re not actively searching for an escape route at this point. Sensing this, he slowly unwraps his fingers, dropping your hand and letting you down half your drink in a couple of parched gulps.

“You look…” you start to say, letting your eyes wander his immaculate form one more time. Whoever cut that suit for him knew his shape well. It fits perfectly. Contrasts his golden hair like the night behind a harvest moon.

Absence has not culled your feelings for him. Especially not when he comes back to you like this.

You take another long, slow sip, ignoring the way Katsuki’s brows shoot toward his hairline when you nearly empty the glass. His gaze darts to the narrow flute in your hand, the prints of peachy lipstick that mar it.

With your heart beating a touch slower, you try again.

“You look good.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes.

“I can’t—” he starts, shaking his head as his eyes swim the crowd. “I’m not doing this.”

“What?” Your stomach drops. When he looks at you again it’s dead straight, burgundy and blazing in that way that used to make you molten.

Now it makes you want to cut and run.

“I’m not gonna fuckin’ play nice, like this,” he pushes. He takes a step toward you, letting your name—your real name—fall from his lips as tender and soft as a prayer. “Explain to me why my agent had to tell me you were gonna be here tonight.”

“Katsuki,” you plead quietly, backing away from him a touch. “I don’t want to—I can’t. Here. Please.”

For a million other people he might press on. He might get angry and demand an answer, threaten anything it takes to solve the puzzles in his brain. For you, his strong jaw ticks and he shoves clenched fists back into his ironed pockets.

“Let’s just,” you begin, “make it through to midnight, okay?”

“Fine,” he bites, but he doesn’t like folding to you. He gets you back by clearing his throat and extending you a palm, drawing the attention of the people around you. They turn, charmed by the agency’s finest reappearing as the duo they’ve always adored.

There’s a glint of something in his eyes as he gives his chin a little jut toward the dance floor.

“Dance with me, then.”

You’ve been to hundreds of opulent agency spectacles together. Charity benefits, galas, holiday parties and the like have always been studded by your presence. But no matter how many times you’ve entered the party together, you never managed to get him onto the dance floor. Despite your whining and pleading and fussing, he’s never ever let you drag him out there.

So this feels like a particularly low blow. But the orchestra’s struck up a dreamy rendition of The Way You Look Tonight and there are too many people watching for you to turn him down.

Instead, you down the rest of your champagne, set it on the bar behind you, and slip your hand defiantly into his.

“Fine.”

His fingers close gently around your palm and he gives it a lingering squeeze that turns your blood to venom.

You’re already racing through a complex plan to survive this attention as he walks you onto the dance floor. Some of the other couples pause in their swaying to send a smattering of applause over the crowd. You can feel the winning smile tugging at your mouth, forcing you to swallow the panicked ache in your chest.

Katsuki pauses at the center of the dance floor and pulls you slowly closer. The low dip of your gown places his warm hand on bare skin when he settles it in the small of your back, and you’re sure he doesn’t miss the sharp little suck of breath that you’re not prepared to hide.

He does not try to speak, so you’re silent as you settle a shaky hand on the shoulder of his perfect suit. He’s as perfect a dancer as you’ve always known he’d be, and he leads you into a smooth little sway that’s easy enough to navigate in your precarious gold heels but sweeps you into the music like a scene from years gone by.

“Hey,” he grunts a few bars in, ducking a little closer as his fingers press into the bare skin of your spine. He pulls you against him, forcing your tense body against his. The gentle dip of his hairstyle brushes your temple as he leans forward to murmur in your ear. “You’re holding your breath.”

You deflate against him, letting your eyes fall shut. When you take your next careful inhale, your head is filled by the heady, smoky scent of him. Your heart pounds so forcefully it’s practically blinding you. But above all else you hate yourself for still feeling all of this, after so many months of promising to force it away.

Katsuki knows you well enough not to try and trap you in conversation in public. But he doesn’t pull back any further, continuing to hold you flush against him, letting your soft cheek brush his with every couple of steps.

Despite your best efforts, you’re drowning in him: the strength of his touch, the fluidity in his movements. His thumb strokes the base of your spine with an easy rhythm that you’re trying hard not to notice. It’s becoming too much. He’s holding you closer than a colleague should, tucking his nose too attentively against the side of your head for a courtesy dance. You’re overthinking too many of the signs. You’re letting yourself believe what should have been thoroughly dashed to pieces so many months ago.

It’s when tears well behind your glittery eyelids that you put a stop to it.

“Katsuki, I—” You can’t finish, pushing yourself sharply away from his chest. Whatever expression of dreamlike peace that had touched his eyes fades quickly as he sees the telltale wet sparkle in yours, and he reaches for you an instant too late.

He calls your name softly, fingertips brushing the edge of your upper arm. But your tears are spilling over and you’re backing away and you cannot be here anymore, not when people are starting to see.

“I can’t do this,” you plead. “I can’t pre—I’m sorry.”

With a final shake of your head, you turn and hurry clumsily from the dance floor, pulling up the beaded skirt of your heavy gown and sweeping, as quickly as possible, to the glass doors shut tightly against the imposing snow on the terrace.

It’s bitterly cold, nearly fifty storeys up, and the wind whips mercilessly past your bare arms with biting chill. You can’t stay out here long, but it still feels better than the alternative.

With shaking fingers, you dip into the tiny bag you’ve been wearing over one shoulder. You’ve stashed exactly one emergency cigarette in its silky depths. You haven’t smoked in weeks, but something told you that tonight would beg one.

You have to back away from the railing to even light it in the wind, but you’re barely two puffs in before the door behind you opens carefully.

It’s the last person in the world you hoped for. And the only one you can imagine finding you out here. He’s got a glass of something neat in each hand—amber in one, clear in the other. He spies the cigarette in your fingers and his soft, concerned expression melts into a scowl.

“You’re still smoking?”

You take a defiant drag, blowing the smoke in his direction. The wind catches it, carrying it in a sharp curve back over your head. Katsuki licks his lower lip, but you can tell by the way his nose twitches that he’s trying not to chuckle.

You nod toward the whiskey in his right hand. “How many of those have you had tonight?”

“Not enough,” he quips. He nods toward the cigarette. “Put it out.”

“You don’t get to order me around anymore.”

“I said put it out.”

Your livid soul wants to defy him. You’re craving the conflict that inevitably comes when you both dig in your heels. But you’ve got no energy left to fight, so you flick the smoke dejectedly onto the wet pavement and crush it under one delicate pump.

“Better?” The attitude cuts cruelly through your voice. Katsuki just pushes the other glass into your hand and you know that it’s gin before you even have to smell it. You roll your eyes.

“The healthier alternative,” you snarl, but he’s finished with your games.

“Come inside,” he prompts. “You’re gonna lose your nose out here.”

“I’m not sure that’s your problem any longer.”

“What the hell’s wrong with you? Why are you talking like that?”

“Like what? Katsuki, I wanna hear you say it.”

He’s throwing back an irritated slug of his drink, but he bristles, gesturing wildly with the cup.

“Like we’re not gonna be partners anymore.”

His voice is punctuated by a horrible, involuntary sob that breaks from your lips. He’s always been able to read you so well, picking up on things that you’re not even ready to acknowledge. But he’s right. That is how you’ve been speaking, because you can’t even imagine standing next to him in a photo right now, let alone letting him take your life into his hands.

Katsuki moves forward, shocked by your tears, but you hold your empty palm out straight and, like he would only for you, he relents.

“Because I don’t think we can be anymore.”

“Shut up. Look at you. You’re fine. You look…” his eyes cast briefly over your form, “fine.”

You clap a hand protectively to your abdomen, remembering the painful tug and knowing that he’s missing the point.

“That’s not why,” you snap through your tears. “That’s not even…close to why. Katsuki, don’t be dense.” Your voice is breaking because you’re about to say it, the thing you couldn’t even bring yourself to feel as you were zipped into your gown earlier tonight. And if you’re going to say it, there’s no point in doing it with gusto.

Might as well go out like the whimpering fool you are.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you whine, “because somehow, despite my best efforts, Katsuki, I fell fucking in love with you, so hard, and you knew I did, and so you…you don’t. You don’t, and I’ve ruined everything, and that’s fine, but I—”

He pulls your name from the very depths of his chest. If you were expecting fire and brimstone, you’re met with an even more harrowing sight—soft, somber, remorseful Katsuki, looking at you like he’d stop the world on its axis if it would make things better.

The memories are too easy to reconjure, and the sunshine of that sticky summer afternoon that changed everything lights up behind his gaze.

There was a crime syndicate you’d been uprooting for months. An underground hideout tucked well away from the prying eyes of hero society. A stray spray of bullets—bullets, of all things, finding the gaps in your shattered armour and nearly taking you from him.

You’d been sure. Both of you. There were too many shots. There was too much blood. The hideout was too well-hidden for anybody to find you in time. Your vision was bleeding out around the edges, and you saw Katsuki cry real tears for the first time.

In a slurred heap of breathless prose, you’d unloaded everything. The most important secret you’d ever kept from him came spilling from your blood-tinged lips.

You were glad to go, if it meant you never had to lose him. Glad to be the one to selfishly leave him behind. You were going to be okay if you never had to face a world without him in it. Because—and you’d choked this on a fresh wave of blood and ungraceful spittle—you’d loved him as long as you’d ever known him.

Six days later, you woke up alone in the ICU. And that was the last you’d seen or heard or known of the man who’d once promised to have your back, always.

Katsuki silently finishes his drink. His cheeks and nose have flushed deeply from the ruthless chill, and he turns to give the city one last glance before moving toward the door.

“Come inside,” he gruffs. Deep shivers have broken out along the column of your spine, but you wrap your frigid arms around yourself in protest.

“I’m not going back in there.” Not like this.

“Idiot,” he snaps softly. “Look at you. You’re gonna die for real if you stay out here.” He tightens his jaw and slams the empty glass down on the windowsill. Then he looks at you with all the lights of the night blazing in his crimson stare.

“Let me take you somewhere quiet. No one’s gonna see.” His chest rises and falls with a deep breath and he reaches carefully for your arm. “I promise.”

Even with a breaking heart, you’re a fucking sucker for him. Your voice is teary and pathetic but pinched by cold.

“Fine.”

He slips an arm around your shoulders—making your chest lurch—and you duck back inside. Immediately he takes you to the wall, putting himself between you and the rest of the party. With the breadth of his chest he shields you from prying eyes that grow drunker by the minute.

You skirt the edge of the party, making it to the stairwell door on the opposite wall. Somebody by the bar looks up just in time to see Bakugou tugging fiercely down on the handle, but you slip onto the fluorescent-lit landing and the silver door falls shut behind you without consequence.

You’re turning around to grab for the door that isn’t closing fast enough as he slips through it, colliding gently with his chest. Bakugou grabs your wrists to stop you, and for an instant you’re nose-to-nose, smelling him and the whiskey on his breath and the faint odour of paint that never quite faded from the concrete walls.

If not for the tears leaving streaks in your makeup, you might let yourself believe he’s lingering in front of you on purpose.

You pull from his grip and turn back toward the stairs before either of you have the chance to imagine more.

Your office is at the end of the hall on the next floor down. It’s a corner office studded with windows, far too lovely for someone who spends as much time in the field as you do. But you’d worked hard to make it a personable space, with plants and artwork and a couple of very comfortable guest chairs in emerald velvet.

Katsuki rolls his eyes every time he has to wave off the odour of your favourite scented candle, but you’ve caught him admiring what you’ve done with his office, too.

Now, the space is too tidy for either of your tastes, a little dusty from so many months of neglect. You’ve been out of commission for six months, and nursing a heartbreak far too immense to allow any casual visits to the agency.

He closes the door behind the both of you. Locks it, just in case. You’re already pacing across the rug and perching on the edge of the desk, gratefully taking some of the weight off your aching feet.

He keeps his back to you for a long moment, fingers lingering on the brass doorknob. His shoulders bob with a deep, harrowing sigh.

“You were dying.”

He turns around, and in the quiet dark of your office his eyes are lit up with a deeper fear than you’ve ever seen in him. He comes toward you and sits in one of your squishy little chairs, steepling his fingers and settling his elbows on his knees.

“You don’t–” he shakes his head and lowers it, pressing the heels of his hands to his forehead. “You don’t understand. You weren’t making any sense.”

“I was,” you bite back, gripping at the edge of your desk. “I meant everything I said to you, Katsuki; I remember every word.”

He flinches. He looks so sorry it’s starting to genuinely scare you.

“That’s not it,” he demands, straightening. “You didn’t. I did.” He slapped a hand against his chest, the dull thud reverberating through your own heart.

“You said those things and I didn’t believe you. They couldn’t have been true. Not when I’d spent so much fucking time wishing they could be. I couldn’t tell myself you felt that way about me. I couldn’t hope. Not when I’d come so fucking close to losing you so easily, I—”

His voice breaks and he looks away, and you might be crazy but his chin gives a telltale little shake like he’s holding back tears.

“So you thought it would be easier to what? Fucking ghost me like a bad Tinder date?”

That hurts more than it should. You’ve seen Bakugou at his very worst, bleeding and soot-streaked and showing you feelings he never means to. For a very brief period in your lives, you believed yourself to be special.

“Don’t play the innocent,” he snarls. “You never talked to me, either. I had to find out from my fucking manager that you were outta the hospital.”

“So you never thought to drop by? Bring some fucking… flowers?” You can feel the venom filling your mouth and you’re not altogether certain you’re strong enough to swallow it this time.

“And tell you what? That I was in love with you and, maybe I heard you wrong, but you said something while you were dying in my fuckin’ arms and I was hoping for some goddamned clarification?”

“Yes!” You sob, the word ripping itself from your chest and landing wet and heavy on the floor between you. “That! Anything would have been better than radio fucking silence. Katsuki, I was sure you hated me.”

“Well I fucking love you, okay?” He rises from his chair, taking one step forward. It lands him almost right between your thighs and you hate how close he is, but you have no power to pull away. He cups your jaw in strong, gentle fingers, forcing your eyes to his.

“I fucked up,” he presses. He leans down and presses his forehead to yours and this time his proximity is on purpose. You drink it down in eager gulps.

“I missed you,” he murmurs. Despite your tears and the ache in your heart, you give a wet little laugh and nuzzle your nose against his.

“I missed you, too.”

He takes your hands and pulls them both to his chest. And for a long moment you just sit there, curled over one another in the dark and growing accustomed to the idea of being okay again.

“Did you just…” you start after a long moment of silence. His eyelashes flutter against your cheek as he tucks his cheek against yours, but the grin that pulls your mouth is enough for him to stand back and look at you.

“Did you just admit to making a mistake?”

You’re laughing at your own joke before Katsuki can even roll his eyes. But he’s scowling good-naturedly and tugging himself against you by the hips.

“C’mere, you brat.”

He’s leaning in to close the distance between you when muffled chanting from upstairs makes you pause. You tilt an ear toward the window and light up, easily recognizing the five, four, three, two, one as the magnitude builds.

Bright flashes of gold and red light up the sky outside your window in a brilliant display. And all at once the lingering ache drains from your chest and you shoot Katsuki a fond little smile.

“I guess it’s midnight.”

“We missed the fireworks,” he notes, nodding toward the window as he edges back toward you.

“Not really,” you confess, and the first real big smile breaks through the pain when he steps up between your knees again, nice and tight and deliberate.

He cups your jaw in one hand again, settling the other palm on your knee, where it peeks through the golden slip of your dress.

“Happy New Year,” you whisper, eyes falling shut. You hear the way he smiles, that bare little chuckle that used to make your heart light up like stars.

He leans in and kisses you without another word. It’s soft but firm and so loving, so much better than any brush of the hand or lingering glance. Better, even, than the way he danced you into a stupor upstairs. This is yours and nobody else’s.

And you’re not letting him go anytime soon.

You let the kiss deepen as naturally as you can, dropping your jaw and letting the bare press of his tongue roll against your teeth. You reach up and grab his jacket by its lapels, hitching him even closer as the fireworks die out behind you.

He’s not backing down, either. Katsuki draws his hands from your body to unbutton his jacket, shrugging it away easily without breaking the kiss. He’s pressing his mouth to yours in long, lingering spells, tasting you eagerly while his hands have to stay busy. But as soon as he can he’s touching you again, teasing his fingers under the slit of your dress and brushing them over your bare thighs.

“Katsuki…” you whine into his mouth, turning your head to gasp and fill your empty lungs. He finds the next bare patch of skin, kissing down the side of your jaw. He finds your earring where it lays against your tender neck, sucking the crystal into his mouth and giving it a gentle tug.

“Fuck,” you gasp, and he grins into your skin.

“Don’t tell me you’ve had enough already.”

“Not a chance,” you growl. There are millions of questions flooding your subconscious. But years of tension and desire spiral more fiercely between you. It’s energy that demands release. And you don’t want to wait another second.

“God,” he groans hard, collapsing gently into you. As he presses forward against you, the twitching swell of his erection pushes into your bare thigh. You slide your palms down the meat of his chest and find his mouth again, kissing him with searing intent.

“Look at you,” he rasps into your mouth, gripping hard at the weighty skirt of your beaded gown. “You’re a goddamned vision in this, you know that?”

You pull back to look at him, raw sexual energy briefly dispersed by his tender confession. For a long moment you sit there, panting at each other, remembering how much this is about to mean.

Fuck it. If he’s in, so are you.

“Help me get it off.”

You slide to your feet, pushing him back a couple of steps to accommodate you. As soon as you turn around he’s sliding a palm up your side, thumbing at the fabric to find its zipper.

“God damn,” he growls, leaning in to kiss a path down the column of your spine. He drops to one knee as he works the zipper down the back of the dress—sitting low, thanks to its open back—letting his mouth trail all the way to the waistband of your underwear. All the while, you brace a palm on the edge of your desk, trying your best not to implode.

This is more attention than you ever could have prayed for.

He peels the thin straps down your arms and shoves the whole mess to your feet. You’re bending down to unbuckle the straps on your heels, but he stops you with a hand on the back of your thigh.

“Leave ‘em on.”

His voice sends a sharp pang of arousal through your entire body. When he stands, trailing his fingers all the way up the back of your naked thigh and over the swell of your ass, the arousal disperses into a dull ache that settles in the pit of your stomach and throbs incessantly.

He digs his fingers into the flesh of your hip and turns you to face him. Your nipples are already peaking in the chill of your office, and he sucks a deep breath through his teeth as he slides his palms up your tummy.

There’s puckered scar tissue and new ridges on your abdomen, but there’s no pain when he traces brushes over them.

He pauses, looking down with dull shock tugging his brow. You’re holding your breath again, watching him circle the roughest part of your new scars with one tender thumb.

“It’s okay,” you plead, cupping his cheeks and forcing his eyes back to yours. There’s pain littering his gaze that you’re determined to dissolve, and you lean in to kiss him until he’s groaning into your mouth and drawing his hands toward your chest.

“God,” you breathe, goosebumps betraying you as they race beneath his fingers. Katsuki watches your face as he dips his head, pushing your breasts together and laying kisses between them.

“Please,” you whimper, reaching forward and settling a hand over the front of his pants. You palm the shape of his cock through the pressed wool and he flinches, biting gently into your tender flesh.

“Katsuki,” you pant, squeezing and rubbing the hard swell in a gentle, heady rhythm as you set your ass on the edge of your desk again. “I need you.”

“Jesus,” he curses, dropping his hands and reaching desperately for his tie. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me before I even get my cock out, sweetness.”

It’s the dirtiest thing he’s ever said to you. And it shows. You’re a shivering, lustblown mess already, but the petname that falls from his lips is enough to make you whimper.

He shrugs out of his shirt and pushes you further onto the desk, dropping to his knees in front of you and pushing your thighs apart with strong fingers.

“Always kinda wanted to do this in here,” he confesses with that cocky smirk that’s always made a hummingbird out of your heart.

But Katsuki doesn’t give you too much time to swoon over his pretty words, kissing a path up the inside of one plush thigh and nipping at your sensitive flesh. He helps you brace your heels against the rug and lift your hips, peeling your underwear off and rucking it down your knees. There’s something very naughty about the way it feels to settle your bare ass on your polished desk.

But there’s something even naughtier about the way it feels to have Katsuki on his knees in front of you.

He pushes your thighs apart again, harsher this time, and settles your knees over his shoulders. You’d like to ride the wave of self-consciousness that threatens to crest when his breath ghosts over the folds of your heated sex.

He pushes higher for a moment, taking your sides in his hands and drawing lovely little kisses down the rough length of your scar. You push self-consciously at his head, making him pull pack and settle a hand over the flesh instead. He tilts his chin up, shooting you a look so filled with guilt and sorrow it nearly shatters the moment.

He wasn’t there for the pain. And as he kisses back down to your hips and thighs, you let yourself hope that this will be enough to make up for it on both sides.

But then he leans in and licks a long stripe up your cunt and the groan that echoes from his chest makes it hard to do anything but cum on the spot.

“Fuck,” you sigh wantonly, letting your head fall back as you brace your palms on the wood behind you. Your fingertips dig into the surface and he settles into an easy rhythm, slipping his arms under your thighs and tugging you tight to his face.

He’s not shy with his voice, either, grunting and sighing into your pussy with every stroke of his tongue. The noises double your pleasure almost immediately, coupled with the obscene slurps that vibrate all the way up your spine.

It doesn’t take long at all for him to find that tender little spot, the perfect direction from which to swirl his tongue against your clit. It’s obvious in the way your legs go tight around the sides of his head, the way you shiver and cry and clap a hand to the back of his head.

He grunts hard into your body when your fingers rake through his hair, harder still when your tense thighs press the narrow points of your heels into the flesh of his back.

“Katsu,” you whimper, already fucked out and tender like you’ve never been for him, “I’m gonna cum. Fucking shit, I-I’m gonna…”

He takes your warning like a hit, leaning more fiercely into you, keeping his rhythm with intense precision. Later, you’ll try not to think about why he’s so good at this. But right now, all you can think about is the way your pleasure rears up and crashes over you, sending loud gasps and breathy mewls of ecstasy from your chest as you squeeze his head and pull his hair and roll your hips shakily into his persistent mouth.

“Jesus Christ,” he snarls, sitting back on his haunches and swiping a palm over his flushed lips. He looks up at you, rubbing your thigh with one free hand as you come down panting from your ecstatic high. Between his legs, his cock juts obscenely down one thigh of his suit pants, and he palms himself shamelessly as he gets to his feet, taking in every inch of your pleasure-soaked self.

“You’re gonna make me cream my fuckin’ pants someday,” he chides, fumbling with his belt and impatiently shucking his pants. His undershorts follow closely, and you’re barely on your feet again before he takes you by the shoulders and turns your back to him.

“C’mere.” He slides a hand under one of your thighs, hitching it gently onto the edge of your desk and coming up tightly behind you. The brush of his knuckle against your ass proves that he’s stroking himself, and the tip of his stiff cock leaves a little print of wet precum on the back of your leg.

“Please,” you moan, still hazy and shaken from your first orgasm. Still endlessly needy, though, when Katsuki’s involved. “God, baby, just fuck me already.”

“Fuckin’ hell, you can’t say shit like that,” he groans, twitching behind you. “It’s like you don’t know how fuckin’ sexy you are.”

He braces a hand on your bare hip and then you feel it, the tip of his drooling cock pressing up between your slippery folds. It’s enough to make you whine and arch your back, wiggling your hips impatiently against his.

It’s enough to make Katsuki lose it.

“Shit,” he growls, gripping the fat of your hip and pushing forward, sliding home with one smooth thrust. He bottoms out inside you right away, buried perfectly in your belly and making you feel every inch.

“Baby—” you start to breathe, but he doesn’t waste time. Katsuki reaches around and lays his palm flat on your sternum, pulling you back against him. He keeps his other hand braced on your hip for leverage, dropping his mouth to the crook of your shoulder while he starts to thrust.

All you can do is keep your knee planted on the edge of your desk and try not to scream as he fucks you in steady, long thrusts, lapping and sucking all along the side of your neck while his hand roams over your chest and thumbs your nipple. Whatever hairstyle you’d left the house with has come long undone by now and you’re sure that if your makeup wasn’t smudged before, it’s certainly not going to survive the drool and sweat and heat that he’s forcing through you with every push of his hips.

The slap of his body against yours fills the space, punctuated only by your harsh pants and quiet whines of pleasure. Katsuki’s fingers dig harshly into your hip, gripping you tighter each time he anchors himself back into your fluttering cunt. Your walls are clamping ruthlessly around him, but he doesn’t miss a beat, slipping that free palm away from your nipples and down your belly to strum rhythmically at the swell of your stiff clit.

“I love you,” he grunts breathlessly behind you, and the raw truth behind it brings a rush of warmth to your chest you can’t ignore. You turn your head sharply towards him, pushing your forehead to his and feeling every beat as his breathing becomes laboured.

His body’s growing tight behind yours, his thrusts losing some of their impeccable rhythm as his brow knits against yours. He’s concentrating hard—holding back, you realize—and you reach down to cover his hand that braces your hip, giving it a relenting squeeze.

“Baby,” you plead. “Let go for me, baby, I can feel it.”

“God,” he mutters. “No—fuck, gonna make you—with me, sweetness.” Your body is clenching in preparation for your own climax already, and the fact that he can even pick up on it shouldn’t surprise you.

“I’m there,” you promise. “I’m there, Katsuki, fuck, just cum for me. Please.”

His arms tighten around you, seizing you hard against his heaving chest. You lean forward and seal your mouth against his, kissing him as he loses control and cums with a shout that echoes at the back of your throat.

He grabs your ass in one hand and fucks madly into you, spurting warm handfuls of cum into your belly and biting down hard on your lower lip. The erratic twitch of his fingers on your still-aching clit and the warm release inside you is enough to bring you to another tight, simpering little peak—not as powerful as the first one, but just as significant.

He stays behind you for a long moment, pinning you to the desk while he goes soft inside you. Finally he peppers kisses down the back of one shoulder and steps away from you, already smoothing his hair and taking in the image of you, in nothing but your heels, dripping with his cum.

The first of many, you let yourself hope, as you turn to carefully face him.

“I guess we missed the countdown,” you quip, reaching for your discarded panties. Navigating the strappy thing seems a great deal more complicated now that it’s not Katsuki tearing them off you.

He smirks at you in a way that does not make it easier to concentrate on the task at hand. Especially since he’s watching you struggle, easily buttoning himself into his now-creased shirt.

“I didn’t miss a thing.”

He’s already half-clothed by the time you get your underwear on again, stooping to collect your delicate dress from the floor and thumbing the sequins that pepper its surface. His smirk has dissolved into another pensive look as he examines the cloth.

“If I’d known,” he tells you, pressing the scratchy fabric into your hands, “I never would’ve—”

You lean up and push your mouth to his, soft and loving and just enough to silence him.

“I know.”

Once Katsuki’s got the rest of his clothes on, he helps you carefully into your dress and gets behind you one more time to help you zip it. He can’t stop kissing you even for a minute, peppering his lips over your back, neck, arms. He turns you around and takes your hands, kissing the backs of each palm with devotion that, if you stop and think about it, you’ve seen in his eyes a thousand times before.

“You’ll make it up to me,” you promise good naturedly, letting him slide his arms around your waist. He looks at you again, diligent and honest.

“I will.”

“Good.”

You slide your hands up his sleeves of heart-stealing midnight blue, smiling so big it ought to hurt. You tilt your head toward the door, giving your chin a little jerk as you squeeze his biceps through the pressed wool.

“For a start,” you say, daring to lean a little closer while he’s still feeling tender, “how about another dance?”

#bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki #bnha x reader #bakugo katsuki #bakugo #my hero academia #bakugou #bnha #bnha bakugou #bnha bakugo #it's new years eeeeeeve and i am not #spending it with him #sigh #;.;

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giorno-plays-piano · 4 years

Text

You were all I wanted Part 2

Pairing: mob!Peter Parker x plus-sized!Reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession, swearing, kidnapping, human trafficking, non-con, minor character's death.

Words: 2655.

Summary: You are bought by the head of Stark crime family for a kid he cares about.

Part 1

P.S. Peter is an adult!

__________

It had started. You could feel the sudden shift in atmosphere when Peter dropped his hand to your cheek, touching you awkwardly as if he were afraid you would disappear once he got more passionate with you. He caressed you gently like a lover, and you felt miserable. The only boy who had ever set his eyes on you was a young mobster who owned you as of you were some soulless object.

"You're so pretty." His whisper was barely audible, his face so close to yours you wanted to shut your eyes.

You needed to relax. No one - even a boy like him - would want to deal with a mad fury. He'd just shoot you: among other things on the table there were there was an actual gun. You needed to keep this guy happy, and maybe Peter would still be sweet with you once he got rid of his virginity.

But then he suddenly stopped and pulled away from you.

"Oh no, what the hell am I doing?" He laughed awkwardly and scratched his head. "Sorry, I didn't mean jumping at you like that. So you wanna take your shower or maybe eat some more?"

You took your eyes elsewhere and did your best not to wince. Keep it cool, breathe, don't push the boy off.

"Can I have some alcohol?" Your voice sounded pathetic.

"Of course!" Peter jumped again and rushed to the drawer. "I have some whiskey and vo... shit, I'm stupid, who the fuck gives vodka to a lady? I'll bring you a bottle of champagne, just a sec!"

He was at the door in a matter of seconds and you gave him a puzzled look. This Peter boy was unpredictable. He grinned at you and went out of the room, locking the door behind him.

You were still on the bed, watching your feet, afraid to move. Technically, in front of you was a regular door with a simple lock and a door handle - if you could find something heavy, you could break it.

Well, actually, you could just snatch that gun from the table and make a few holes in the wood. The problem with that was that you were inside Stark Tower, that ugly building that looked more like an abandoned factory rather than a graceful skyscraper. How many Stark's guys with guns were there? How far would you make it?

You could also put a gun against your head and pull the trigger...

You shivered and stood up, walking to the bathroom. You refused to look at the table.

Stripping yourself of all those lacy undergarments with shame and dropping them to the white floor, you sneaked into the bath and turned on the water, trying not to look around too much. It felt like there were cameras everywhere to record you, naked, miserable, and frightened, so you finished showering as fast as you could and wrapped a towel around youself. Could you take that towel, actually? Was it for you? Would Peter want to see you naked on the bed when he returned instead?

You wiped away more tears running down your face and slowly removed the towel, putting on the lingerie they gave you before the auction.

"Hey, where are you?" Peter's voice rang loudly behind the door. You could feel he was distressed.

"H-here!" You quickly grasped your palr pink silk robe and put it on too, carefully sneaking back to the room to see the boy with a bottle of Moet & Chandon and two champagne glasses in his hands. Huh, classy.

"Oh, hey." He smiled, a bit embarrassed at his outbirst. "I, uh, found this. I hope you're going to like it."

"Thank you, Peter." You murmured softly and saw him grinning wider when he heard you saying his name for the first time.

Although normally you didn't drink much, you heard about your friend's sexual escapades when she was totally drunk many times and assumed everything could go easier if you had enough champagne. Maybe then you would simply forget you were brought to Stark's Tower and forced to have sex with a guy you had never met before.

Peter had already opened the bottle with a loud noise and poured the sparkly golden liquid into the glass, handing it to you. You brushed your hand against his unintentionally and thought how warm he was.

"I'm not good with these things, but, um, I'm glad I met you today." He had that radiant boyish smile on his face. When he raised his glass, you raised yours too, barely understanding to what you were saluting. "I'm so happy from now on you're gonna be here with me."

What a romantic. It would be almost sweet if he didn't hold you here against your will.

"I'm happy to meet you, too." You made yourself smile, and the two of you clinked your glasses. You drank all the champagne in one big gulp, not afraid to appear unladylike and caring only to get drunk faster. You didn't eat much, so it had to be easy enough.

Peter repeated after you with a little laugh and filled the glasses again and then again until you didn't start feeling funny and your shoulders finally relaxed, the alcohol removing all the tension from your body like some magical elixir. When the boy reached out to touch your shoulder, you didn't flinch, feeling his soft lips pressing against yours in a gentle kiss.

It wasn't that bad, you thought. He was being very tender with you, taking his time to unfasten your robe with his fingers trembling from excitement, and then kissed your temple. He trailed his kisses down to your neck as you let out a loud sigh, biting your lips, then burying your fingers in his soft disheveled hair. Peter's subtle touches felt good.

"I'm sorry for hurrying these things up." He said suddenly with guilt all over his pretty face. "I really am, but I have to show the guys you're my girl. They won't understand otherwise, and we might get in trouble."

"It's ok." You kissed his cheek, watching his eyelashes tremble. "Maybe I'm going to like it. You're nice, Peter."

He looked at you with wide eyes, his lips curling into a wide smile once more at your words as he reached to unfasten your pink bra.

"I don't have much experience, but I'll do my best to make you feel good." His breath tickled your face when the boy cupped your breasts, enjoying the softness of your body. You loved that look of adoration on his face.

"Do you have any?"

"I do."

What, really? That high schooler already had his virginity taken by someone else?

"Kids these days." You mumbled and he suddenly pinched your cheek. "Ouch!"

"You're not allowed to call me a kid!" Peter said with a pout, drawing little circles around your nipple and grasping your plump hip. "Only Mr. Stark can. Besides, I'm like year and a half younger that you, so I'm going to call you a little girl then, y'know?"

"Wha... ahh... Peter." You inched him closer, enjoying the way he played with your breast and kissing him in return. "But you look so young, huh."

"And you look like a schoolgirl without your makeup." He chuckled and gently sucked your lower lip, his left hand caressing your soft belly. You tensed immediately again, but the boy lowered you on the bed and kissed your forehead, staring at you from above with loving eyes. "Please don't be shy. I like you. Every part of you."

You stayed silent, but your eyes were gleaming with tears when you threw your hands around his neck and inched Peter closer, kissing him more. He rested one of his arms close to your pillow, the other one travelled down your body to squeeze your belly gently again, then went closer to your pussy, forcing you to open your legs and caressing your clit covered by the thin pink fabric of your panties.

"I can take care of you." The boy cooed softly at your ear and pushed them to the side to touch your already slick folds. "Do you want me to? Do you want me to take care of you?"

"Yes." You moaned when his fingers rubbed your clit and closed your eyes, losing yourself in the moment. "Please, please, Peter, take care of me."

"I knew you'd be a good girl." He licked his lips impatiently and picked up pace rubbing your clit to make you wail under him. "Yes, like that. I'm gonna teach you to cum from my fingers, and then I'll use that tight little pussy of yours, yeah? Would you like that?"

"Yes, yes Peter, plea... ahhh."

____________

The next morning was peaceful - you woke up to the boy's soft snoring behind you, his hand draped over body. Well, you weren't sure you could keep calling him that since he was actually older than you thought and, uh, way more experienced. If you tried to recall all the things he did to you last night, you could die of shame, probably.

The alcohol helped a lot. Firstly, it was so much easier to blame it for all the pleaser Peter gave you - of course, it was all the alcohol's fault, you couldn't possibly enjoy having sex with someone who thought owing a human being was okay. Secondly, the alcohol allowed you to play the role of a sweet little thing to perfection as you never even once pushed Peter away, probably leaving him satisfied with your submission. If he was satisfied, maybe he wouldn't get rid of you first thing in the morning.

You shivered at the thought and realized you didn't hear his snoring anymore.

"Good morning." He yawned, sneaking closer to you and pressing his face into your hair. "Did you sleep well?"

"Good morning, Peter." You found the strength to gently caress the back of his hand laying on your belly. "Yes, thank you. Did you?"

"Are you joking?" The sound of him giggling made you relax a bit. "I think the last time I slept so soundly was when Aunt May was still alive."

You went quiet, staring at the white bathroom's door across the room. So, the woman he told you about yesterday was dead. You could imagine she was the one who raised Peter, but withour her to take care of the boy - who could be very young at that time - he ended up with Stark's crime family. Then it made sense why he didn't behave exactly like those vultures surrounding his boss as he most likely didn't grow up on the streets of New York.

Were you pitying the man who was holding you captive here? Yes, yes you were.

"Does it hurt?" He asked in quiet voice and touched your lower belly tenderly.

"A little. But not as much I thought it would."

He moved his hand up and cuddled you, kissing the top of your head. You hoped it was a good sign and you wouldn't end up in a ditch in the evening. Was Peter going to keep you here as his personal toy? It was humiliating to even think about that, but anything seemed better than dying to you now.

He let you stay. In fact, he had never considered letting you go after Mr. Stark bought you - you were Peter's girl now, right? So he did his best to accommodate you in that room where he lived, providing you with clothes, shoes, cosmetics and all the things you needed, a laptop included. Of course, there was no wi-fi or anything that could help you to connect to the outer world, but Peter recommended you strongly against it. You've already seen enough that made it impossible for you to leave - Mr. Stark would never take it kindly if you tried to run or, God forbids, go to the police. It wasn't just your life at stake, but the life of your family, too. It was embarrassingly easy to find out everything about them, including where they lived and worked, of course. Tony could kill them with a snap of his fingers.

Though you weren't allowed to leave the room, Peter promised he would do everything to give you more freedom a bit later. The guys needed to trust you before they would grant you permission to move freely around the building - not that you really wanted it. Who in the right mind would walk the Stark's Tower full of deranged criminals?

Anyway, the place where you were now was mostly comfortable - you could watch TV and play video games if you were bored; Peter also brought you a pile of books and magazines, and he was always providing you with nice food. Honestly, you expected something way worse than that.

It was the end of the third day when the boy returned with a box of pizza and a few bottles of Starbucks frappuccino, his usually cheerful expression turned all gloomy and tired. Something must had happened, but you were not sure if you were allowed to ask him that - you had never discussed the things he was doing outside of this room.

"Hi, Peter. How was your day?" You stood up from the bed and took a box and bottles from him, placing them on the side table close to the microwave. Before you could turn to him, you felt the boy kissing the back of your head.

"Tired." He mumbled and step back, taking off his bomber and sneakers before moving to bed and sitting down. "I've had a hell of a day."

"I'm so sorry. Do you want me to draw you a bath?"

When he looked at you, you saw him chuckling warmly as he motioned you to come closer. You lowered yourself on the bed, too, and Peter kissed your lips, then grinning and laughing like a kid.

"You don't know how happy I am to have you, Baby. You're sweet and smart and, uh, you don't want to run from me because you know there's no good in that."

Maybe his words were intended as a compliment, but you shivered and quickly placed a fake smile on your face. You had already figured out Peter was not even half as sweet as he seemed. What did you expect from him being Stark's favourite?

"Did something happen, Peter?" You knew you were going to regret asking that, yet you felt like you had to. You needed to pretend your relationship with him were genuine.

"Mr. Stark shot Amanda." The boy shooked his head sadly.

"Who?"

"His new girl. The one he bought at the same auction as you."

That immensely beautiful woman with her eyes deep as ocean and hair dark as night? She could easily be the world's next beauty queen, and he killed her? He killed an innocent woman who, besides that, was stunning, graceful and perfect and walking on air?!

"I mean, of course she brought it on herself when she whored with her guards to make them let her go, but, shit, I don't like it when Mr. Stark kills his girls." Peter covered his face with his rough palms and rubbed his eyes as you stared at him, terrified.

"Does he... does he kill them all?"

"Not all of them... but most."

You heard youself sobbing and clamped a hand against your mouth right away, tears pouring down your face. Your pathetic attempt to hide your fear failed as Peter leaned closer to you, taking your hand away and kissing your eyelids to shush you. He rubbed your back reassuringly and let you put your face against his shoulder.

"Don't worry, Baby." That was how he called you now. "You're not his girl, you're mine. This will never happen to you because I love you a lot and you're smart, right?"

_________

Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki @helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @hurricanerin @void-hoechlin @abyssaint @msruchita @opheliadawnwalker3

#peter parker x reader #dark peter parker x reader #peter parker #dark peter parker #yandere #tom holland #spiderman

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dp-marvel94 · 3 years

Text

Cloak- Part 2

For Ectober 2020.

Somewhere in the Infinte Realms, a lonely skeleton clones struggles to remember who he is. Lucky for him, his siblings will do anything to bring him home.

Part 1 -> Part 2(here) -> Part 3 -> Part 4

It feels like forever before Daniel and Elle return. Bones snaps up, eyes brightening when he spots them in the distance. Oh, he’d missed them so much! The ghost crawls across the island to meet them long before they touch down. He wants to show them his drawing, the one he made while they were gone. They will love it so much!

Bones glances up as he comes to a stop and tenses. A third figure is with the other two, more familiar ghosts. Cautiously the three touch down and the skeleton’s eyes widen. The third figure looks like Daniel.

The boy crouches, palms facing down. “I’m Danny. Do you remember me from the last time?”

Bones’s eyes widen more and he nods as the memories slowly return. Yes, yes. He remembers Danny.

Danny smiles. “Elle and Daniel told me you recognized your name last week. That’s great.” The boy lowers himself to his knees, taking a bag off of his back. “I brought you something this time.” He pulls out a large piece of white fabric, causing Bones to tilt his head questioningly. “The first time I met you, before…..” Danny’s lips turn down in a pained frown. “You ended up here, you were wearing a bedsheet. I thought it was pretty funny.” He snorts before he notices Bones’s head tilt. “Ya know. That’s how people dress up as a ghost, put a sheet over their head and cut out eye-holes….?” Bones meeps confusedly. “I guess you don’t know….Anyway… this is more of a cloak than a bedsheet but...I thought you might like it. Maybe it would help you remember something.”

Slowly, Danny puts his arms forward holding to cloak out to the skeleton who tentatively grabs it. Bones studies the garment, letting out a puzzled chirp.

Danny shakes his head. “I guess you don’t know how to put it on.” The boy reaches forward. “May it?”

The skeleton tilts his head contemplatively before nodding. Slowly, Danny unfolds the garment before draping it over Bones’s shoulders and pulling the hood over his head. The boy then pauses. “I need to tie the front closed.” He motions to the string just under the boney ghost’s chin. With another nod, Bones allows the boy to move closer. Cautiously, Danny ties the strings together in a bow. He scuttles back, studying the other figure. “It looks good on you.”

Bones gently fingers the fabric, appraising how it feels himself. The garment feels nice on his shoulders and back. There’s something safe and secure about being covered, something comforting. He very much likes the cloak.

Another moment passes before Danny speaks again, eyes fixed down. “About what happened the first time we met…..” The boy sucks in a breath. His eyes start watering. “I….I’m sorry. I...I didn’t know you were that unstable so when I shot you……” A tear falls down his face as he cuts himself off.

Slowly, Daniel lowers himself to the ground beside Danny. He puts one arm around the other boy. “It’s okay Danny. Keep going.”

Danny swallows. “I’m...I’m so happy you reformed here. But I can...can never make up for what I did to you. I ki- I killed you.” More tears stream down the boy’s face. “I know you don’t remember but….I’m sorry.”

Danny’s speech stops, the only noise soft whimpers as the boy wipes his face. At the same time, Elle lowers herself to put an arm around Danny from the other side. Bones watches. His head whirls, trying to understand the words and the display of emotion. Something inside of him clenches. Whatever it is, it resonates, it cries with the boy in front of him. The skeletal ghost lets out a pained whimper.

Bones shuffles forward and doesn’t realize what he’s doing until he’s wrapping his arms around Danny. The skeleton hums comfortingly. In his arms, Danny stiffens, his sniffling quieting. The boy remains still, unmoving for several moments before shakily returning the hug.

“Bones?” The boy whispers. “You’re hugging me?”

The skeleton nods, still purring against the other’s chest. He glances to each side, meeting Elle and Daniel’s eyes. A moment later, more arms wrap around him. The four relax into a group hug and Bones’s core (that’s the thing crying inside of him, he suddenly realizes) just about vibrates out of his body. This, this feels so perfect, so right. He should have done this, allowed himself to be held long before now.

But...he has…. A long forgotten memory springs to the forefront of his mind. A black haired little girl crying over a scraped knee. Wrapping arms around her. But who…..another image comes faster. The girl floats in a metal pod. The door opens. She stumbles around the lab on unsteady legs. But...the black haired girl? A white halo of light. Hair turns from white to black, eyes from green to blue. Danielle….Elle...Oh...both are the same girl. Both…. Watching Daniel float in his own pod, Elle stands in front with her hands across from the barely awake boy’s hands.

Bones rapidly pulls back, eyes hungrily taking in the two’s faces. Daniel and Elle...he knows them. He knew them before he came here. Before...there was something before but what?

Elle’s brow furrows. “What is it?”

The skeleton meets her eyes, the question pounding in his head. He chirps twice before whimpering in distress. He doesn’t know how to ask. But maybe…. He strains. More clicks and cheeps. Meeping and whimpering. Even a short yelp.

The girl’s hands go to his shoulders. “Bones! What is it?” She repeats.

Again, Bones makes a clicking noise. His mind screams. Elle, Elle. If he can make the word some out of his throat like Elle, Daniel, and Danny can, he can ask them everything. About what came before, about who and what they are.

More memories assault. A blue-skinned, fanged ghost yelling at him, pointing, demanding. A small pinprick of light and a hulkish figure, all three hiding in the closet from Master. All three and Danielle, him and his siblings, playing cards on the floor of the lab, in front of Daniel’s pod. Danny, his original... Master said he must make Danny change or he will be melted down into goo. Danny’s hand alight with ectoenergy, his expression morphing from anger to horror as the skeleton screams in pain, his bones liquifying.

Back on the island, Bones screams and scrambles back. The other three ghosts shoot up, loud questions pouring out of their mouths. Somehow his chest is heaving, or it feels like it is, despite not having even the shape for that. His whole body tingles and his core throbs. What the hell was that? His mind screams as the rest pours into his head. A dam is broken and an entire life, though a short one before he died, pours into his awareness. And still only half of it makes sense.

Elle and Daniel arguing pulls him out of his thoughts.

“What the hell was that?” The girl barks. “All that work and he’s back to being afraid of us!”

“Elle.” Daniel starts testedly.

“It’s not fair!” Elle balls her fists. “We finally found him and got him to trust us and and…” Her chest heaves, water collecting in her eyes.

“Elle.” Daniel tries again, putting a hand on her arm. “I think he just remembered everything.”

“What?” Another voice, Danny’s, cuts in quietly.

Daniel turns back. “Earlier, I think he was trying to talk, to ask us something.”

The girl frowns. “It did sound like that. But...why do you think he remembers?”

The boy swallowed, fixing his gaze on Bones. “Look at his face. I...I remember what it was like, remembering everything after I woke up here.”

Daniel slowly approached and knelt down beside the skeleton. “Do you remember?”

Sharp clarity enters the boney ghost’s eyes, much more awareness than anytime after he woke up on this island. He nods.

“You do?” Carefully, Daniel puts a hand on Bones’ arm and helps him into a sitting position. “It will be okay. I...I had to go through this as well. I will help you.”

Whimpering, Bones pulls himself into his brother’s arms. Daniel holds him until he stops shaking.

After what feels like a small eternity, the skeleton pulls away. At some point, Danny and Elle had sat down within arms length as well. Eyes softening, Bones leans forward, hugging Elle and then Danny.

After pulling out of the hug, Danny’s lip quivers. “Are you...are you angry at me about what...what I did to you?”

Bones hums, thinking for a moment. Is he angry? He thinks back, to the horror in Danny’s face in his memory. The sorrow and guilt as he was apologizing earlier. He glances at Daniel and Elle, who both comforted the boy during his breakdown, who said Danny was their family. Looking back, Bones shakes his head. Maybe he hasn’t really had time to process and maybe he will be later but...right now he isn’t.

Danny’s brow wrinkles in confusion. “You’re not?” He questions disbelievingly.

The skeleton shakes his head again and the boy in front of him relaxes.

There’s another silent pause as Bones takes in the ghosts around him, his siblings, his family again. With Elle and Daniel visiting him for weeks and patiently waiting for him to be comfortable enough to approach, how didn’t he realize?

“I guess we should explain everything to you now, huh? Since you can’t actually tell us how much you remember.” Danny asks.

Bones nods in confirmation and the other three ghosts start their story. About how Danny and Elle are both something called half ghosts, how Bones and the rest of their siblings are clones, who made then and why, how Bones and Daniel met the end of their half-human lives and what happened after to Danny and Elle, how Daniel woke up in the Infinite Realms (the name for this place), how he grew stronger inside their lair and eventually left to find his siblings.

Bones drinks in the onslaught of information. There is so much, some of which he knows or could guess, like who made him and the other clones and why. But also much he does not. It is overwhelming and after there is silence for a long while as Bones processes.

“So what now?” Daniel finally speaks. He turns to Bones. “Do you want to come to the lair with us?

The skeleton tilts his head. Lair?

Danny gently elbows the other boy. “I don’t think he knows what that is, Niel.”

Daniel nods. “It’s our home.” He smiles, wistfully. “There is a garden you will love. Each of us have our own rooms. And there is food, a place to train our powers. You’ll be safe and can help us look for the others. What do you think?” He asks the skeletal ghost.

Bones eyes light up. A safe place, away from the monsters that roamed the open Zone. A home with his siblings. He nods enthusiastically.

Danny frowns. “Guys...I don’t think he’s strong enough to travel that far though”

Elle blinks. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

The half ghost tilts his head back and forth. “It’s a long flight, almost half a day. And….he didn’t feel very strong when we were hugging.”

Bones chirps questioningly, drawing Danny’s attention.

Guessing the question, Danny explains. “Your core. When we were touching, I could feel it.” At the still confused expression, the halfa motions to his chest, right over where his heart would be in human form. “Put your hand right here.” Tentatively, Bones does as instructed. “If you focus, you should be able to feel my energy. It’s kinda like a handprint, different for each ghost and you should be able to feel how strong it is.”

The skeletal clone focuses on the sensation radiating into his palm. There is a steady pulse of cold energy trickling into him and...something else. Maybe a scent or a color? Or somehow both at the same time? No, it’s neither, a sensation that isn’t encompassed by his sight, hearing, smell, touch, or taste. Something known by the core and the mind which he doesn’t have a word for.

“Other ghosts call it an aura.” Danny interjects. “It’s kinda...a measure of your soul, like what you’re feeling and thinking and who you are. Only ghosts that are family to each other can feel it.”

Bones hums, taking in the information with a nod.

“Here. Try me next.” Elle offers.

The other clone removes his hand and places it on his sister’s chest. He focuses on feeling her energy and aura. The pulse is constant and strong, like Danny’s. But the aura is similar in some ways but distinctly different in others. After a moment, Bones removes his hand before feeling Daniel’s aura as well.

“Do you see what they mean?” The other full ghost asks. “Your core is much weaker than any of ours.”

Dropping his hand, the clone tilts his head and warbles, his best attempt at asking why without saying the word.

Daniel bit his lip. “After I reformed here, I was not strong enough to leave the lair for weeks. I trained my powers, ate, slept, and learned all I could to grow stronger but...” He looks down guiltily. “You have been here alone. I would guess you have not eaten or slept at all. You’ve been able to hide to prevent any of the numerous dangers on the Realms from...ending you but…”

“That won’t last.” Elle’s voice cracks with emotion before turning determined. “Unless we take you with us.”

Danny shakes his head. “But that still doesn’t solve the problem. He still isn’t strong enough to travel.” He glances at the bottom of Bones’ spine, which contains no pelvis and legs fused to it. “We’ve only seen you crawl so I’m guessing you can’t fly.”

Sadly, Bones shakes his head.

Daniel frowns. “One of us could carry him.”

Danny wrinkles his nose thoughtfully. “I guess, if it’s our own option.”

“Guys.” Elle cuts in. “I have an idea but no one’s gonna like it.” She glances down at the thermos on Danny’s belt. “What if we carry him in that?”

Bones tilts his head, considering the object curiously. How would he fit inside that small space?

“The Fenton thermos?” Danny shook his head. “No.”

“Why not?” Daniel questions. “It can securely hold a ghost and will keep him safe if we run into trouble and have to fight.”

“No. Just...You and Elle have never been inside that thing.” Danny shivers. “It’s...it’s awful. You can’t see, hear, or feel anything. It’s like...you don’t even have a body, just...no.”

“Well, we can’t just do nothing!” Elle holds up her hands.

“I’m not saying we do nothing Elle! But….with how weak Bones is, this is a bad idea.” Danny argues.

“That’s why we’re even talking about this, Danny!” The girl huffed.

“I know that! It’s just...you guys don't get it. The thermos...it compresses you, forces you down to your core. When you get dumped out, you have to kinda….put yourself back together. And it sucks. It’s disorienting and uncomfortable, even if you’re feeling pretty strong. But if you’re weak….” The boy bits his lip, nervously. “It’s so much worse.”

Elle blinks, taking in the information for a moment before her face tints green with anger. “I’m sorry….are you saying the thermos is dangerous? Why the heck are you using it on ghosts?”

“I didn’t say that.” Danny barks out. “It doesn’t actually hurt….that badly.” The girl glares and the other halfa holds up his hands. “I swear! I mean, the first time I got dumped out of one, I threw up...and had a headache after. That didn’t happen ‘till I turned back so maybe that’s because I’m only half ghost. But...I don’t want Bones to have to go through that if he doesn’t have to.”

The female halfa opens and closes her mouth a few times, searching for a response. After a moment, her shoulders fall. “I guess...what are we supposed to do then?”

There is a contemplative pause before Daniel cuts in. “Why don’t we ask Bones what he wants to do?”

The two half ghosts and one full ghost turn to Bones. The skeletal ghost hums thoughtfully, considering his options. He wants to go with Daniel, Elle, and Danny but he wants all of them to be safe as well. If the thermos, no matter how unpleasant it is, is his best option….

Tentatively, the skeleton points to the device still connected to Danny’s belt.

The halfa’s eyebrows raise. “You want to go in the thermos? Are you sure?”

Bones nods and gives an affirmative chirp.

Danny bits his lip. “Alright...I still really don’t like this. But if you really want to do this, we will.” He unclips the thermos from his belt. “Do you want to go ahead and go?”

Warrily, the skeletal ghost studies the device, pulling his cloak more tightly around him. He looks up, behind the other ghosts in front of him, and points.

His siblings turn around, following his boney finger. Daniel’s eyebrow raises. “You want to take your toys and things with us?”

Bones nods, scuttling towards his pile of treasures after the other three stand up. After taking a few moments to show off his belongings to the other ghosts, he places the objects in the bag Danny brought with the halfa’s help.

“There.” Danny says, placing the last of the crayons inside . “Anything else?”

Bones looks around before fingering the material of his cloak. With unsure fingers, he reaches for the tie. Danny bends down to untie it. “It probably is a good idea to take it off before. I doubt it’ll condense like one of our hazmat suits would.”

The skeleton hums in acknowledgment before gently shaking the garment off his shoulders and offering it to the boy who folds and places it in the bag. Danny finally zips up the container before standing. “Ready?” He questions, nervously fingering the thermos. “Just brace yourself, okay? And don’t be scared. I know being pulled in sucks but don’t fight it; it’s less uncomfortable if you let it happen.”

Bones nods, before looking down as his own core twists with nerves. He braces, mentally preparing for the uncomfortable sensation. After several moments, nothing happens so he looks back up at Danny.

The boy is biting his lip. “Actually...I have an idea for something that should help.” Reaching into a pocket in his suit, the halfa pulls out a small tube filled with glowing green liquid.

Elle raises an eyebrow. “Purified ectoplasm?”

“It’s actually Ecto-dejecto but...basically yeah.” Green eyes met Bones’s red ones. “It’ll give you an energy boost that’ll make reforming after easier.” He frowns. “You’d normally drink it or inject it…”

“You sprayed it on me, when you...ya know.” The girl swallows and then shrugs. “Maybe he can absorb it through his...well, not skin but….his bones, I guess.”

“Huh.” Danny wrinkles his nose in thought. “I guess we can try that.” He kneels down to be more at Bones’ eye level again. “I’m gonna pour this on your head, if that’s okay.”

The boney ghost hums in agreement and the males halfa uncaps the vial before carefully pouring it. The thick liquid drips onto the skeleton’s head, causing him to stiffen in surprise. As the icy cold droplets touch, he can feel it soak through his skull and down into his core. The organ clenches, swirling with the newly added power. His glow flashes, brightening for a moment and then maintaining the increased luminosity. The energy spreads down, making his body tingle, his bones throb pleasantly. Something itches at the base of his spine. Again, his core pulses, the feeling somehow lower, almost inside his chest.

“Wow...Is that…” Elle points at his chest, eyes wide with awe.

The skeleton looks down and something flashes within his ribcage. He warbles startledly. A light blue orb swirls literally inside his chest. His finger hover over his sternum, itching to reach inside and touch the light. But something stops him, literally. His fingers waver, unable to poking between the ribs by some invisible force. Frowning, Bones tries again but a hand reaches to stop him.

“Do not try to touch your core.” Daniel, who is now standing in front of him, rebukes. “It is very sensitive and you could hurt it.”

Whining in shame, Bones allows his hand to fall to the side. He continues looking down in awe and taking in the feelings…..the itching below his ribs is getting stronger. He flexes his tail at the end of his spine and wonders why something feels different.

Shaking away the thoughts, Bones looks up and points at the thermos.

“Right. Yeah.” Danny shakes his head, collecting himself.

Again, the skeleton braces as his older brother activates the thermos. The beam of light projects forth and Bones is pulled in, unable to ever yelp as his body is compressed. A swift squeezing sensation presses him and all goes black.

#Danny Phantom #ectober 2020 #ectober #Bones #dani phantom #My fic #Danny clones

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finch-writes · 4 years

Text

morning routine

✧ bokuto koutarou x gn!reader x kuroo tetsurou / fluff ✧ warnings: small amount of swearing and haikyuu timeskip spoilers!

✧ five thirty in the morning is too early. you know this. one of your boyfriends knows this. unfortunately, your other boyfriend has training today.

beep. beep. beep.

wait, what?

you don't bother opening your eyes - it's five thirty a.m. in the middle of winter and you know there won't be any light in the room aside from what was cast by the phone on the nightstand. the last remnants of your pleasant dream fade, replaced by unfortunate awareness of the blaring alarm as it tries to get the attention of the room's occupants.

a rumbling groan to your left, at least, tells you that one of your boyfriends is awake to echo your thoughts. in a twist that might be ironic, bokuto is the one who set the damn alarm in the first place - so really the entire situation is actually his fault. pro volleyball players and their dumb schedules. for a moment, you consider sticking your cold feet on him as punishment but given that you've been cuddled up to him during the night means you're toasty and comfortable (including your toes) so it would be a fruitless effort.

“sorry.” first word of the morning is an apology and you whine as the resident space heater sits up in order to reach over your other boyfriend and shut off the offending device.

speaking of kuroo, the lucky bastard doesn't seem to stir. you can feel the brush of his knuckles against your thigh from where his arm is draped across bokuto's lap. you hadn't believed kenma at first when he had explained how kuroo's hair got its distinctive style, but after sleeping in the same bed as him for six months you were kind of used to witnessing the rooster's comb form in realtime.

wait, you realise suddenly, wasn't tetsu in the middle when we all fell asleep last night? it was always weird when the boys rolled over each other in their sleep. by now you'd lost count of the times you'd passed out curled up against one of them only to wake up with the other one half draped over you like a blanket.

you also know full well that if bokuto lays back down, he'll be back asleep within about half a minute. which you could understand, really, if you'd been in his shoes. but if he was late to practise then all three of you had to deal with his teammates at the end of the day … it just wasn't worth the teasing (even if you had gone to school with one of them, the others from the monster generation were just as bad).

maybe being stuck between his two partners and having to leave the warm bed at this ridiculous hour in the dead of winter was probably punishment enough for setting such an awful alarm.

eyes still closed, you sit up and immediately earn an arm around your waist for your efforts (somewhere between affection and support; you can pretty much picture the look of panic that flashed across bokuto's features when you sat up and the thought makes your lips twitch). apparently you're not the only one who finds this funny - your owl seems to be smiling against your scalp as he presses a few quick kisses to your messy hair. you hum and lean into the contact, resting your head on his shoulder.

“go back to sleep, babe. 'pparently we only have a morning session today so i'll be home by lunch.” his voice is still rough with sleep but there's an earnest happiness to it that warms your heart.

“tell 'em i said hi.” you mumble. the slur in your voice is almost impressive, you'll give yourself that.

“i sure can!” he responds, enthusiasm appreciated but much too loud for the hour. from his left, kuroo makes a sleepy noise of protest that might have been a warning to shut up so he can go back to sleep. bokuto chuckles, putting his phone down in order to run an affectionate hand through his boyfriend's hair. “mornin', tetsu. go back to sleep, i'll be quiet.”

“'n pigs can fly.” he mumbles.

“dunno, miya can jump pre' high when he wants.” you yawn, sleepy mind lingering on the setter without much conviction.

you aren't sure how much time passes while you dwell on the concept, content and at peace and very, very sleepy. kuroo passes back out at some point, evident in the soft snores you can hear. the moment is cut short when bokuto sighs and gently detaches you from his side to set you down in bed with all the love and care he can muster.

“shouldn't have slept in the middle.” he mumbles to himself. he then proceeds to nearly knock you sideways trying to crawl over you out of bed, and takes half of the blankets with him.

“hey,” tetsurou complains quietly, rolling towards the middle of the bed and reaching out in search of the blankets. you take pity on him as soon as koutarou is free from the tangle and readjust the covers, but his arm settles loosely around your waist anyway.

“mornin.” you mumble and shift so that you can press a kiss to his forehead.

“still nighttime. kou just gets up at stupid hours.” despite his grumbling he presses a kiss to your cheek and tucks his face into your neck. his hair tickles your cheek and your nose twitches.

“i'm still in the room, you ass.” from the sound of bokuto's voice he's somewhere near the chest of drawers where he stashes his clean training gear. the faint scrapes of wood against wood a second later agrees with your guess. nice. “besides, i have three nights home next week before we have to head off again!”

“not so loud, kou. neighbours are still asleep.” you chastise, soft and affectionate. a yawn punctuates your words.

“right.”

there's more shuffling, and a quiet mutter or two about the weather. from what you can gather, it's probably going to rain again. just when you're starting to drift off again you hear a quiet call of your name.

“mm?” you hum.

“you said the bento was in the fridge, right?”

“mhm.”

“okay. thanks for making it last night!”

“make sure you take the right one today.” you mumble, pleased by the quiet thanks. three weeks ago you'd opened your lunch meal between classes to discover fruit, nuts and carefully prepared protein. the healthy stuff that a pro volleyball player should be eating, rather than the poor university student who had used the wrong wrap because you had fixed food for the household far too late in the evening. koutarou had thought it was hilarious.

again, relative silence falls in the room. an odd static kicks up that's muffled by the walls - for a moment you're confused, but then you remember bokuto's earlier comment about the rain. now that you know what it is, it's a comforting white noise and just what you need to send you back to sleep.

---

some time later, you stir at the sensation of movement in your arms. adjusting your sleepy hold around your boyfriend yields the discovery that tetsurou has rolled over in his sleep, your face pressed against the nape of his neck. you take a deep breath in, the familiar scent adding to the peace set deep in your heart. you feel the vibration of his chuckle a heartbeat before he rolls over to face you, cupping your cheek gently in his hand.

you crack your eyes open, squinting and blinking against the light just in time to register the kiss he’s pressed against your forehead.

“mornin’.” you mumble for the second time since midnight, but this time you’re rewarded with a sleepy smile rather than a groggy correction. kuroo’s thumb smooths gently across your cheekbone and you sigh, content.

for someone who claims not to like mornings very much, he’s certainly fast to wake up - his golden eyes are as sharp as ever, moving back and forth minutely as he takes in your sleepy expression. he’s really pretty. you think fondly. it’s true, at least in your mind (and you know for a fact that kou feels the same, given how eager he is to drop compliments at any moment).

“sure is.” he whispers, and draws himself into a comfortable recline. he sighs a deep breath and tips his head back, and not for the first time in your relationship you’re struck by the uncanny resemblance he bears to a cat sometimes. it’s something about the lithe flexibility, or maybe it’s the front of arrogance and indifference which hides something a lot softer. it could also possibly be the cheshire grin that he flashes when he knows he’s doing something he isn’t meant to.

you roll over onto your stomach and hide your face in the nearest pillow. bokuto's, apparently, or at least the one he'd slept on last night.

“still raining?” you ask the fabric, but receive a thoughtful hum of reply from your boyfriend instead.

“i don’t think so. still cloudy, though.”

“yuck.” you'd planned to get some washing done and on the small clothes horse on the balcony, and nothing dried properly in winter unless it was sunny. you had a drier in the bathroom, sure, but you hadn't quite puzzled out its intricacies yet and might be just a little too stubborn to admit defeat to your partners.

a familiar hand placed on the small of your back interrupts your lamenting. it pats the fabric of your shirt twice in an attempt to wake you up a little more, and you think you might have grumbled something in response because it earns a laugh and another pat.

“c'mon. let's get breakfast and get going.”

#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #bokuto koutarou #kuroo tetsurou #my writing #poly ship tag #aight imma simp #i've referred to this as 'schrodinger's timeskip spoilers' the entire time i was writing it #was holding onto this one for a little bit tbh #just waiting to see if tetsu showed back up before i posted it #BUT NAH #it's fine #what school is reader from? who knows

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tmarie82 · 5 years

Text

A Chance Encounter

Pairing: Damien Nazario x Niles Edison

Book: Perfect Match / The Heist: Monaco Crossover

Word Count: ~3,100

Rating: M (for language and sexual content)

Author’s Note: This is a pseudo-request stemming from a conversation with @akrenich a while ago about what would happen if the sexy silver fox Niles Edison met our favorite private investigator Nazario? I sat on it for a while and finally concocted this part-steamy/ part-angsty little backstory. I hope you enjoy!

Please let me know if you would like to be added to my tag list. You can find all of my fics in my Masterlist on my homepage.

~~~~~~~~~~

Damien

Damien shifted uncomfortably against the wooden bench, his eyes locked on the peeling label of the beer bottle he held in his hand. He fiddled with the paper with the tip of his thumb, determinedly trying to strip the adhesive further away from the smooth glass. Not that it was a particularly urgent task, but he was happy for the distraction from the droning on of the jackass sitting across the booth from him. The jackass with his arm draped around Camille’s shoulders as he blathered on, the one her sparkling blue eyes couldn’t get enough of tonight.

If Damien was totally honest, Luke wasn’t a bad guy. He was a successful young architect, he had decent taste in music, and he seemed to treat Cami well. Best of all he made her happy … yet Damien was having a hard time reconciling all of these facts in his mind when he felt like he’d been sucker-punched in the gut every time he heard the word “Luke” roll off her smiling lips lately. And tonight was even worse. Seeing them together, touching each other, making googly eyes at one another … even the crisp hoppy tang of his favorite beer couldn’t wash away the bitter tinge of jealousy in his mouth. Nope. He was going to need something stronger for that task.

“I’m gonna get another drink.” He muttered begrudgingly as he slid out of the booth. He was about to offer to get another round for the table, but Camille didn’t even look up when he spoke. Instead, she burst out laughing at some asinine joke Luke had just told. Even Nadia seemed distracted, clicking away on her phone in the corner of the now-empty bench. Well nevermind then, you guys are on your own tonight.

Chugging down the rest of his beer, Damien maneuvered his way through the crowded watering hole towards the bar. Setting the empty bottle down on the worn wooden counter, he leaned down against the barstool and gripped his head in his hands while he waited for the bartender to finish with the older gentleman beside him. He hated this. He hated being this guy that couldn’t get over his own feelings in order to be happy for his friend. That just wasn’t him … or maybe it was. He wasn’t sure what type of guy he was anymore, feeling himself become grumpier and more reclusive every day. Ever since it had dawned on him that he was actually in love with Camille, the girl who was supposed to be one of his best friends, every moment was uncharted territory.

He sighed, running his hands over his face and massaging his temples until he heard the bartender calling for his order. “Oh sorry, um … Bacardi and Coke. No, wait …. just make it a Bacardi. On the rocks. A double please.” The bartender gave him a quick nod before skirting away to pour his order.

“That sounds like a drink for a rough night.” The words trilled through the air, the sophisticated deep voice causing Damien to look up. His eyes lifted to the stranger sitting beside him, a polished man in his mid-forties wearing thin wire-frame glasses and a tweed blazer. There was a rough layer of grey-ish scruff along his cheeks matching the thick head of salt-and-pepper hair, and the fine lines surrounding his eyes gave him an air of wisdom.

Damien fumbled for a moment, confused at the unsolicited interaction from the distinguished older man. “Uh, yeah … why would you say that?” His eyes remained locked on the stranger, even as the bartender placed his drink before him.

The gentleman waved to the bartender, mumbling a quick “thank you” under his breath before turning on his barstool to face his neighbor. “Well your normal drink is a rum and coke, is it not? So straight rum … you must be trying to forget something.” The man tilted his head, his steely gray eyes flitting to the booth Damien had just departed. “Or someone, perhaps …”

Damien’s head turned back to the table, his gaze settled on Camille’s wide smile as she beamed up into Luke’s eyes. Luke’s hand lifted to graze her cheek, his fingers knitting into her blonde waves as he leaned in … Damien turned abruptly on his stool, lifting the glass of rum and taking a long swig. As he pulled the glass away from his lips the image of Cami leaning in towards Luke flashed in his mind’s eye again, and he swiftly returned it to his mouth for another drink. When he finally set it down, his words came out flat. “She’s just a friend.” He knew the lie was unbelievable even before it left his mouth.

The man chuckled, lifting his own drink to swirl it before taking it in his mouth for a long draw. “Right …” He set his drink down on the bar, motioning to the bartender to close out his tab before twirling the glass against the woodgrain with his fingers. Damien watched out of the corner of his eye, the gleam of the lights shining through the glass in rhythmic patterns as it twirled and twirled under the man’s light touch. “Might I give you some advice?” The man asked, shifting in his chair to face Damien.

Damien shrugged, a half-hearted gesture to match his half-hearted mood. “Sure why not.” He felt the man’s hand brace his shoulder, the warmth of his palm permeating the fabric of his shirt to his skin beneath. Such a small gesture, yet Damien was immediately aware of his touch. His raised his eyes instinctively, studying the other man closely as he met the coolness of his stare. A jolt of electricity flickered inside of him when he stared into those eyes, a glimpse of something dark and mischievous staring back from behind the glare of his lenses.

The older man gave his shoulder a light squeeze, his lips quirking at the edge in a coy smirk. “In life and in love, never miss your chance. You usually don’t get a second one.” Damien sat dumbfounded, the man’s words swirling in his head while he found himself lost in his welcoming stare. For a moment they just sat in silence, two strangers sharing a moment just for the two of them … until Damien felt his touch slipping away. With a quick pat on the back the man pulled away, clearing his throat as he stood upright and depositing a few bills on the bartop to cover his tab. “Good luck, Kid.” He gave Damien a sly wink before departing.

Damien’s head turned to watch him walk away, admiring the attractive man’s leisurely gait as he exited the bar. What in the … ? He suddenly felt his heart pounding in his chest, his cheeks still warm from the intensity of his stare. My chance … did he mean … ? In one swift movement, Damien gripped the glass of rum in his hand, pouring its contents down his throat in one burning swallow. His eyes locked on the door, he slipped his hand into his back pocket to … to find an empty pocket. Stunned, he blinked for a few seconds, staring at his empty palm. Where the fuck is my wallet???

~~~

Niles Edison

Niles Edison stepped out into the chilly New York night, tightening the scarf around his neck and tucking it beneath the lapels of his tweed coat before setting off down the sidewalk. Despite the late hour his pathway was bright, lit by the wide beams from the lightpoles lining the street and the neon signs of the various bars, restaurants and shops along his way. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, savoring the cool air as it slid through his nose and down his throat to ultimately fill his lungs. He loved New York … the constant bustle, the variety of people, the sights and the sounds. The city that never sleeps always made him feel alive. And tonight was no exception.

Niles hadn’t set out tonight with the intent of pulling a job … he had merely wanted a quick nightcap before returning to his empty hotel room. An Old Fashioned in a crowded bar while he observed the patrons conducting their lives around him usually helped him put things in perspective before he turned in. Yet tonight … he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something had changed while he sat in that crowded bar.

Running a thumb over the smooth leather of the wallet in his pocket, he felt a pang of guilt wash through him as he recalled the bewildered look in that young man’s dark eyes. Niles wasn’t even sure why he spoke to him in the first place, but something about the sulking younger bloke had intrigued him. He was a good-looking fellow … kind eyes, strong jaw … that blonde-haired girl was an idiot for not seeing what was right in front of her. Those broad shoulders and defined back muscles indicated he might be in some type of service work …. maybe a cop? How ironic would that be, robbing a cop?

Perhaps Niles had just sensed the sorrow radiating from him when he sat down beside him, a feeling that resonated within himself and he just couldn’t help but engage. He had only intended to make him smile, to provide some wisdom from his many years of experience to this younger man. Yet, when he gazed into those chocolate eyes, when he slid a hand to cup his shoulder … something had clicked inside of him. A strange, unsolicited, mind-numbing click that echoed from his head down to his toes. Suddenly he felt exposed and vulnerable, his body reacting to this man’s deep gaze in a way that left him puzzled. So Niles Edison did the one thing he did best … he played him. And he had the wallet to prove it.

He was approaching the end of the block when he heard the shout from behind him, followed by the pounding of footsteps on the pavement. “Hey! Stop right there!” He glanced over his shoulder to find the young man from the bar bounding towards him, causing him to freeze in place. Should he run? Niles Edison was not one that was used to getting caught mid-theft, and he definitely was not in any shape to outrun this guy. He found himself mesmerized as he watched the man grow closer and closer, the way his thick arms swung back and forth as he glided gracefully across the pavement. Only a few feet away now, Niles could see the steam of warm air escaping his lips as he slowed down to stop directly in front of him.

In an instant the man gripped him by the lapels, shoving Niles backwards against a brick wall. “My wallet!” The young man growled as he put his face only inches in front of Niles’s. “Where’s my wallet?”

Niles released a sharp exhale as he made impact against the rough wall, stunning him for a moment. When his mind came back into focus he found himself peering into the man’s sneering face. Up close he could see the tiny flecks of amber dotting his irises, accentuated by the anger dancing in his eyes. Shit, this was not what he had intended at all. “I’m sorry, Kid. It was meant to be a joke.” Niles released a weak laugh, only to be cut off by another strong shove against the wall behind him. “Oof!”

“You really think I’m going to fall for that, Old Man? What kind of a joke involves stealing a stranger’s wallet?” The man’s voice still came out in a low tone, but Niles could see his eyes softening a bit at the corner with an inexplicable emotion. Emotion … he could use that.

“Of course … you looked pretty out of sorts back there. I thought it might be better to get you out of there.” The lie rolled off his tongue smoothly, as signified by the two hands gripping his jacket slowly loosening their grasp.

The man looked pensive, leaning back to study Niles as he contemplated his mediocre excuse. A shadow cast across his face from the light pole to their left, a black line drawing its way across his tan skin and plump lips. Niles felt himself acutely aware of their close proximity at that moment, his body suddenly craving the young man’s rough touch again. “You … wanted me to come out here?”

“I did.” The words left Niles’s mouth softly yet without hesitation. He had wanted this stranger to follow him out here, he had wanted it without even knowing it. He felt drawn to this man somehow, as if seeking an answer to a question he didn’t know yet.

Slowly the young man’s lips curled into a smug smile, his eyes sparkling as his face inched closer. “Why didn’t you just ask?” He chuckled under his breath before sliding his hands up Niles’s neck to grip his face between his palms and capturing his lips with his own.

Niles was unable to respond at first, his mind a blur as it processed the feel of the man’s warm lips moving against his and his fingertips tickling the hair at the nape of his neck. But his body soon betrayed his mind’s hesitation, his arms slipping around the man’s broad frame and pulling him tightly against his chest, his hands roaming the firm planes of his back. A muffled groan escaped his throat when he felt a tongue tease his lips requesting entrance, his mouth opening involuntarily in invitation as he deepened the kiss. They lingered there for what could have been seconds or minutes, entwined together as if nothing else existed outside of the two of them. The young man nipped at his lower lip with a low grunt, running the tip of his tongue across the fresh wound to soothe it. Niles gasped at the sensation, his arousal throbbing against the snug fabric of his pants. His whole body buzzed with desire, much more intense and primal than anything he’d ever felt before in his 44 years.

The realization startled Niles as it flitted into his mind, causing him to halt his wandering lips and hands and pull away abruptly. “I’m sorry, I …” he stammered, placing his palms against the man’s chest to create some distance as he looked away shamefully. “I think you’ve got the wrong impression, Kid.” But the thrill of the kiss still reverberated in his veins, no matter how hard he tried to deny it.

The young man shifted away, the cold air in the space between them hitting Niles like a slap in the face as he fought the instinct to reach out and pull him close again. “I guess I did … “ the man muttered, his tone polite yet unconvincing.

Without looking up Niles fished the leather-bound wallet from his jacket pocket, thrusting it in the other man’s direction. “I apologize for the joke. It was in poor taste. Please forgive me.” He shifted to move on in his original direction, desperate to escape this horribly awkward situation before it could get any worse. Before he could take a step he felt the gentle embrace of a hand grasping his wrist. He paused for a moment, then turned to find the handsome young man patiently watching him.

“You know, someone once told me to never miss my chance.” His eyes twinkled in the dim light, his mouth curled in a small, understanding smile. “Maybe this is your chance to figure some things out?” Patting his recently-retrieved wallet against him palm, the stranger studied Niles for a reaction to his insinuation. And when he got nothing, he turned to leave with a sigh. “Good luck, Old Man.”

Frozen in place, Niles couldn’t tear his eyes away from the man as he walked away. The hormone-induced rush had subsided and his heart rate had slowed, leaving him feeling … Empty. Alone. Confused.

Niles watched as the young man approached the door to enter the bar, extending a hand to grasp the handle and open the door. At the last second before he slipped inside, he turned back to Niles and flashed him a warm grin, causing Niles’s breath to catch and the excitement to rush through his veins again. And then he was gone.

Standing on that sidewalk in the middle of New York City on that chilly night, with his heart pounding and limbs tingling with adrenaline, Niles Edison finally recognized his truth. And like it or not, this might be his chance to finally figure things out.

~~~

Damien

Making his way back towards the bar, Damien somehow felt surprisingly calm after his little adventure. He flipped through his wallet quickly and, noticing nothing was missing or astray, shoved it back in his pocket. He knew most people would be furious after being manipulated and robbed, but the confused and vulnerable look in the older man’s grey eyes had assured him that his act was not meant be malicious. And that kiss … that kiss had definitely proved there was much more behind the simple theft than the man had even realized at the time.

Maybe sometimes people just need time to realize the things they’ve buried deep within their souls. Take this gentleman for example … he was on the downward slope to fifty and it appeared he was just now understanding that he might be attracted to men. Damien smirked a little, remembering the pressure of the man’s bulge against his thigh … that should definitely be a wake up call. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t just a little bit proud to have that kind of effect on a supposed straight man.

Even in his own situation, it had taken Damien years of friendship to finally realize that he was in love with Camille. Maybe she just needed more time to figure it out too, or maybe she never would. Regardless, Damien understood it was unfair of him to want to hold her back. And there were plenty of other fish in the sea to amuse him in the meantime.

As he approached the door and reached for the handle, Damien threw one last glance over his shoulder to the older man. He was still standing in the same spot, his expression awash with bemusement, staring blankly in his direction. Damien flashed him a soft smile, a sign of forgiveness and understanding, before opening the door and slipping inside.

Plenty of other fish in the sea … just not that guy.

END

~~~~~~~~~~

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#damien nazario #niles edison #damien x edison #damien x mc #perfect match #the heist: monaco #pm th:m crossover #tmarie82 fanfic

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jae-writes-fanfiction · 5 years

Text

Loki x f!Reader - 1921 words - Part 6 of 10

Warnings: None

Notes: This is a longer story, new parts every Wednesday and Sunday, let me know what you think!

Summary: Immediately following the previous chapter, the Bastard Queen and Loki confront the feelings and changes in their relationship, and later the princess receives a letter from her Aunt that changes everything.

Tags: @dragonrosegardens @kybaeza

You woke up slowly, the silk sheets tempting you to keep you eyes closed for just one more minute. You blinked the sleep from your eyes only to see you were alone in the bed, which wasn’t yours. You disentangled the sheet from around you legs, and slowly sat up pulling it over your exposed body.

The room was beautiful, the walls a dark wood carved with ornate spells and symbols, the arches into antechambers hung with gauzy drapes offering the illusion of privacy, books and scrolls littered the tables and shelves as if they might be needed at any moment as dictated by a mind that thought incredibly fast.

Loki lay reclined on a lounge chair in the corner, paging through a worn book. His dark hair was messy and you noticed little love bites over his neck, and scratches down his arms standing in contrast with his pristine pale skin. They made you blush, wondering if your skin was decorated and dotted under the sheet. You let yourself appreciate the loose robe, it’s black and gold threaded fabric sliding down his arms, the cord barely tied around his waist.

“Is the view to your liking pet?”

He spoke without looking up from his book. The brazen words sending a blush over our body, persuading you to pull the sheet under your chin.

“It leaves something to be desired,” you retorted playfully.

Loki closed the book and laughed upon seeing you, “really? Darling, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” For a second you contemplated throwing something at him- but elected instead to drop the sheet from around your neck, and slowly stand to stretch languidly. Loki audibly inhaled, and you felt his cool gaze tracing every swell and curve of your body- unable to look away. He swore, “woman you’re killing me.”

You laughed deeply, and winked at him, “please, you’d know if I was killing you.”

He stiffened, and nodded slowly, “I don’t doubt that.” Loki’s voice held a twinge of sobriety, one that moved him to toss you an old tunic of his.

You smiled at the soft scents of lavender and smoke that clung to the olive colored fabric. You tugged the tunic on and crossed to sit with him.

“I meant to thank you for the ritual,” your voice was soft and unsure, “the lavender is sacred to my family...I-“ your voice fades away into a weighted silence, wondering how exactly to thank his kindness when he’d shown you the depth behind it. In what words could you thank his adoration, his foresight and consideration?

“Don’t make a fool of yourself,” he glared at you, “what do I care for your rituals.” The words were hollow, lacking the desired venom. He did not know the words to say he had to- he didn’t know how to perfectly say that to neglect your ritual betrothal would be neglecting the possibility of your affections. The concepts were foreign to him, not one to be so quickly and fully smitten.

You felt the weight of all the things neither of you could conjure into words, and suddenly felt exposed as if your soul was laid bare in front of you for all to judge. But here in his room, it didn’t matter what he saw in your soul. Loki felt for you freely and without pretenses, completely at face value. He saw all your bloody desires, your immense power for what they were, and loved you for it.

Shakily you took his hand in yours, “can you teach me that spell...”

“Why?”

“Because, I don’t think you’d believe me any other way.”

Before he could ask what was beyond his belief you gently pressed your lips against his. For a second you both froze, before deepening the kiss. It was slow and thorough, the only way to hint your growing affections without magic.

The kiss caught Loki off guard, unsure of your reasons. He could understand your attraction, he could understand the leverage he would provide to your cause, yet your direct tenderness felt like a dirty trick- one too soon to really consider.

You felt his body freeze with tension and knew he was debating your intentions as you had the night before.

“Please, teach me so you can know how I see you.” You said softly, your mind lingering over how he puzzled you in a thousand different ways, each fascinating and equally as powerful and bloody as yours. You thought Loki was like the stars, thousands of conflicting and competing parts all stitched together in one delightful brocade within the dark night sky. He drew your attention as a magnet, demanding your desires and dreams since your arrival, the errant thoughts of his dark hair, and strong arms plaguing your desires. And yet he felt more like yourself than you did displaced from your heritage.

When he didn’t respond or meet your eyes you teased to try and lighten the mood, “What my lord— now you’ve got me to bed shall you refuse my affections?”

“How could I refuse you?” He said, voice breaking over the syllables. “I didn’t ask for this, I was fine with being hated- I resented my father’s idea that a wife would gain me favor. But I cannot suffer your presence any longer! Not when you shine so brightly it feels like the moon has taken residence behind my eyes.”

You almost berated him for placing his struggles on your shoulders as if you were responsible for his inner turmoil, yet as he met your eyes the thought died.

“Have you cursed me, my love?” He said eyes stormy and forlorn, “Tell me in what manner you’ve bewitched me and I’ll hold you here no more.” Loki was tempted to chew his lip nervously, anticipating some trick of fate. Always believing the world against him, Loki maintained his strength and the mentality he had wronged none, but was wronged by all.

Your heart ached with his implications. You knew the tales of his failed conquests in other realms, for the throne. You knew how he returned changed yet, here he sat so wounded by himself and those around him that nothing ever seemed quite real.

“I’ve cast no spell.”

“Then I haven’t the strength to refuse you any longer.”

In a moment he’d wrapped you back within his arms as if tangled together nothing in either of your worlds could interfere. You tried to think of those words, their implications of such deep and familiar anger and sorrow- but found yourself lost within a kiss. His hands softly roamed your body, ghosting over your skin agonizingly thorough in their reverent exploration. In that kiss you knew whether here or restored to your kingdom there would be lifetimes for you to puzzle through his mind. He pulled you onto his lap, clutching to you desperately as if a gust of wind might blow you away. You melted against him letting your fingers run through his hair, each kiss linking you both closer in body and soul.

Hours later you snuck back into your own chambers set on dressing up before returning to your lover. Your servants were all alight with your return and your disheveled appearance inspired the most irreverent gossip. Impatient with their prattling and constant observance you sent them away, even refusing Halla’s attempts at drawing your bath.

Your head ached divided over how to proceed without disgracing you’re mother’s legacy, surrendering your kingdom, or leaving your newfound companion. Finally alone you slipped into the large tub, the hot waters turning your skin pink while instantly soothing the tension in your shoulders. You ran your hands over your body, remembering every touch, committing every bruise and bite to memory glowing with pride knowing his body was similarly marked. Within the back of your mind you kneel how proudly he’d wear each purple bite, secure enough to project to whom he exactly belonged. You grinned unconsciously knowing you too would dress and relish every snippet of gossip that would be told of your marked skin, and how brazenly you’d been claimed.

As the waters cooled Halla returned to help you into a robe, her mind aghast at the various marks scattered across your body. Knowing the link between you, she grasped your hands in her’s— her mind begging you to cover up. She wisely still feared the power of gossip. She implored you to at least wear a shawl- they were just starting to associate you with your mother's legacy. It would be unconscionable to lose that progress in light of your father's new transgressions.

By the time she’d pulled your dress over your arms, and tied it's laces, your silent conversation stood halted as you asked, “to what new transgressions are you referring?”

Halla’s eyes grew wide, unwilling to divulge anything from her own mind. Hesitantly she withdrew a letter from her apron. It's seal was your Aunt's. She had a daughter your age, and wouldn't risk her life to support your claim while living under your father's roof.

My niece,

I've received word from those still loyal to you- our rightful Queen. Your father quickly works through servants, many of them are fortunate and the guards get to them first...others are worked tirelessly until they collapse and the king no longer has use of them. Dozens of faithful servants to the crown have been executed for less in your absence, Without servants he's started demanding tributes from each family: one child to replace a dozen workers. His army is composed of unskilled men, many who have fallen in battle against their own brothers. Those who refuse to fight each other, or offer up their children are unable to leave. He has men patrolling our borders, and has enforced a heavy tax on all thoroughfares.To survive many stay and obey- but with the rainy season approaching there aren't enough people to harvest the fields. All will be destroyed, many will starve. If action isn't taken you won't have a kingdom to return to.

The blood in your veins boiled with each hastily scrawled word. You didn't have your mother's skill or power. Your only option was a rather simple protection spell, accompanied with prayer. The anger within you snarled and clawed for violence-reminding you of the power within your own blood. you were not a practitioner of blood magick but had read and seen the power that could manifest from it. That magick came with a price, one you might never understand. But what choice was there when your people were starved, beaten, and murdered?

Halla was called into one of the antechambers while you gathered supplies. You arranged three black candles around you for power, nettle to stick, and rue to leach away life. You placed the leaves in a ceramic dish and willed them to spark on fire. You felt your heart skip as you pricked your finger and let the tiny drops fall into the flame. You knelt silently among the now lit candles, resting your palms upwards on your knees. Silently you prayed and cast your spell.

Almost instantly your strength began to wan, and you felt the energy leave your body and into the spell. To finish the spell you slowly turned your palms over and laid them on the floor, extinguishing the candles. You swept the ashes from the dish into a vial and whispered for Halla to help you stand. She hesitated, frightened by your sudden pallor, before shakily helping you into bed.

#heavy is the crown #loki x reader #loki/reader #loki #Loki Laufeyson #thor #Thor Odinson #thor movie #thor the dark world #avengers #mcu #fanfiction #multiple parts

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badassbaker · 5 years

Text

Alfie oneshot

Hello, beautiful people! My amazingly talented friend, @niktwosixteen shared this little Alfie drabble with me last week and told me that I could share it with all of you.

Her steps echoed on the polished wooden floors as she made her way through the ostentatiously appointed office. The carved mahogany and stained glass windows displaying the wealth and success of the building’s owner, the past five years had indeed been very good to Thomas Shelby.

“Excuse me, Miss, do you have an appointment?” A timid voice echoed through the room, pulling her out of her revelry.

“Missus,” she corrected, turning to face a beautiful, young woman no more than twenty. The young thing looked puzzled, her large brown doe eyes blinking owlishly until she spoke again. “I’m married. I’m not a Miss, and I do not have an appointment.”

“Oh, I’m very sorry. Well, you see, Mister Shelby is very busy, he doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.”

The hesitant tremor in her voice was not missed. It was weakness, naïveté broadcast when it was the last thing she had the patience to deal with.

“Mister Shelby has what he has because of my husband’s assistance of his import company. I’ll be taking my appointment now.” Without another word she turned and walked up the stairs and through the double glass doors to his office.

:o:o:o:o

“I’m not taking unscheduled visitors.”

The smooth lilt of his voice was cut with the intensity of the words. Emotions surged through her instantly. Everything that she had felt that afternoon when she’d first heard the news. Terror, fear, devastating sadness…and above all furious rage.

“I don’t see myself as a visitor Mister Shelby, all things considered.”

His glacial blue eyes instantly darted up from the stack of papers he was reading, taking her in with apprehension and interest. He stood, buttoning his suit coat before he spoke, “Miss Gellner, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

Josephine straightened her shoulders, feeling the drape of black lace over her hair dragging across the fabric of her dress. “It isn’t pleasure that brings me. It’s business.”

His brow furrowed behind his circular glasses as he withdrew a silver box from his pants pocket, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. A thin wisp of smoke curled out of his lips. “You and I have no business Miss Gellner.”

Her jaw clenched at the dismissal in his tone. She chose to ignore it, instead sitting down in one of the leather chairs in front of his massive oak desk, crossing her legs and meeting his eyes with an unflinching stare.

“Miss Gellner is my maiden name, Mister Shelby. Just as Miss Burgess was Grace’s.”

At the mere mention of her name his entire body language changed. There was a brief flash of a unimaginable pain in his eyes for a split second that she knew all too well, before it disappeared instantly. To anyone else it would have gone unnoticed—anyone who hadn’t felt it.

“I didn’t know you took his name.”

Josephine managed a small grin at the very mention of her husband. “There was a negotiation, he had a way with his words. I found myself at the losing end of that contract.”

It might have been amusement that registered in the tick of his lip, but as any of the gypsy’s moods, it was soon replaced with a practiced indifference.

“Very well, Missus Solomons, I still do not have business with you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. My husband owned thirty five percent of your import business. Now I own it.” Josephine reached into the pocket of her coat, pulling out a worn piece of parchment. She placed it in front of him before sitting back in her chair. “You’ll notice your signature. Witnessed by a Notary, it’s all perfectly legal.”

Tommy’s jaw flexed before he sat down. “I don’t need to read it, I know what it says. So, what, you’re going to run his rum business now? Alfie had let that go before…the end.”

The End.

Those words were like a dagger in her chest. Her heart pounded, and she could feel the prick of tears in her eyes, but she refused to let the pool or show. There was nothing in her left to cry.

“No. The rum is gone,” she managed to say without even a crack in her voice. “But you are still exporting through my docks in Camden, and I haven’t received one pound of my royalty Mister Shelby.”

He exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, “And, you’re going to do what exactly, Missus Solomons? Your husband’s men are gone. Your influence in Camden is gone, you have nothing at all to leverage me with. So, unless there’s something else you plan to use to convince me, you had best be on your way.”

The innuendo in his words were not lost. A laugh bubbled up from her throat. Once upon a time she had been a proper Jewish woman that would have been scandalized and offended by the suggestion. The same propriety that would have had her worried about how it would look to be alone with a man. But that was before the pure force of nature that was Alfie Solomons claimed her.

“A fuck Mister Shelby?” Her laugh echoed through his office. “I’m afraid you may entertain other women in such a fashion, but I am off the menu sir.” Josephine rested her black gloved hands on her knees as she continued. “No, you see I have a deal for you.”

“A deal. For me.” Tommy mocked in a flat voice.

“Yes, you see, I’ve been listening very closely to the talk in my community. There is nothing but talk of the Americans coming to London ever since Luca Changretta’s assassination. Those wops do multiply like fucking rabbits and spread like a plague if nothing else.” Wide eyes at her vulgar remark made Josephine smile. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. You see, I’ve done a little learning about the young wop in Chicago who you used to betray Changretta. Alphonse Capone, wasn’t it?”

Shelby’s eyes narrowed, and it was all the confirmation she needed.

“I wager you didn’t look close enough at things, Mister Shelby. How could you? You didn’t have time with Changretta coming after everything you loved like an animal. Well, let me tell you what I’ve learned,” she leaned across the table to take a cigarette from his silver case, putting it to her red painted lips and waiting for him to light it with an agitated flick. Josephine took a deep breath and exhaled the smoke slowly. “The American’s don’t run things quite like you do here in London. They blend, alliances are made by actions, not blood.”

“Is there a point?”

“Alfonse Capone’s right hand man is a Jew, Jake Guzik. And Mister Capone has made a peace deal with the Jewish Purple Gang that controls the waterways of Detroit in order for his liquor shipments. People say he’d rather make peace than war. Funny thing about them though, they don’t seem to like you all that much from what I hear Mister Shelby. Think you’re over charging for gin that isn’t sweet enough for ladies’ tastes. I wonder if they’d be interested in an excuse to come over here and lower the export charge. A grieving widow does things to men’s hearts. Gives them reasons.”

Tommy’s eyes widened for a moment and he nodded slowly as he contemplated her words. “So you’re giving me a deal…or death. Seems as though you offer the same terms as Alfie.”

“No,” Josephine said softly. “Big fucks small, Mister Shelby, and I’m afraid I won’t be small again. I have too many mouths to feed.”

He was silent for a few moments before he nodded. “Alright then, I’ll have my lawyer draw up papers for payments, and when they are ready we’ll sign. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting.”

“Thank you for your time, Mister Shelby,” Josephine said as she stood, reaching out her hand to shake his, the firm clasp displaying her sincerity before taking back the signed contract and turning to the door. She stopped just as she reached out to the knob, looking over her shoulder. “Have you ever been to California, Mister Shelby?”

Irritation suffused his expression as he poured a tumbler of whiskey. “Can’t say that I have, Missus Solomons.”

“They say the weather is just beautiful, breathes new life into the body. Heals wounds, refreshes the mind and the soul…” her overly enthusiastic words were met with a roll of his eyes, “they even say there’s a man there who cures cancer.”

Shelby froze at her words.

“Good day, Mister Shelby,” Josephine’s voice suddenly lost all cheer when she spoke again. “I do suggest the next time you shoot a man, you take better care to aim.”

#alfie solomons #tom hardy #not mine

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unikornavenger · 5 years

Text

Completion

Pairing: Platonic LAMP, platonic Moxiety

Warnings: Slight angst, many feels, Christmas, cursing, Logince and Prinxiety banter

Word Count: 2,027 words

Taglist: (Who’s she? Never heard of her.)

A/N: Oops, this took a while, but Christmas timeeee. I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas and spend it with the people you love. *jazz hands* My DM’s are open if you need a distraction from today or tomorrow. Byee

Summary: It’s Virgil’s first Christmas with the light sides (not that he knows what that means).

Alright, onward with the story!

Virgil rubs his eyes as he exits the main hallway where the sides’ bedrooms are located. All of the other sides’ doors are already open.

He puts on his hood as he slowly walks down the stairs. The closer he gets to the living room, the more noise he can hear. He can’t quite make out whose voice is talking.

But, as soon as he reaches the kitchen, he can say with certainty that that was Roman’s boisterous voice.

“I believe we should put tinsel on the tree this year.”

What the hell is tinsel?

With Virgil’s back toward the other sides and his front toward the coffee maker, he wonders what tree Roman is referring to and why he is putting “tinsel” on said tree.

He starts making his coffee as Logan begins to respond, “Think of the implications. Tinsel is messy. Putting it on the tree is messier. Also, if we put tinsel on the tree, it’ll be too busy with all the ornaments and lights. It’ll look like an absolute-”

“Okay, I think I got it, Teach,” Roman replies exasperatedly. “You don’t want this house to look festive. I got it, then.”

Virgil can basically hear Logan’s deep growl all the way from the kitchen.

Logan sighs loudly, “You are being overly dramatic.”

“Uh, yeah,” Roman scoffs, “that’s kind of my thing.”

“Oh, believe me, I noticed.”

Roman gasps in a manner that seemed like what Logan said caused him physical pain. “Excuuuuuuse me?”

Virgil begins to pour his coffee and the argument is quickly silenced. Confused, the anxious side turns around as he takes the first sip of this beverage to see the other sides staring at him.

“Sup?” He greets quietly.

He sees Roman with something silver and shiny in his clenched hands. Logan stands across from Princey with small red balls in his hands. Patton is by the fireplace? Since when did they have a fireplace? Anyway, he is hanging up large red socks with each of their names on one of the socks.

Roman slaps his thigh by flopping his hands down and groans, “Can you please tell Debbie Frowner over here that the tinsel would look so good on the tree?”

Logan rolls his eyes so hard that Virgil is surprised that they don’t pop out of his head.

“First of all,” Virgil begins, “no, I will not say that. And secondly,” he holds his coffee mug with both hands and lowers it to his stomach height, “what is tinsel and what the fuck is happening in this room?”

Dead silence.

He is met with a wall of silence.

All of them are frozen. Even Logan. Patton stops doing whatever the hell he is doing, and Roman drops the silver stuff on the ground.

“What?” Virgil follows up with and Patton breaks out of his daze to turn around.

“Kiddo,” he walks past the two unmoving sides and stands a few feet away from the extremely puzzled side. “Do you know what is happening?”

Virgil sets down the mug on the kitchen island behind him. He suddenly feels guilty as if he did something wrong or forgot about something important. “I, uh,” he stutters out as he feels his palms become slick and his throat becomes dry. Was he supposed to know what this is? Did he forget something important?

“Woah, kiddo,” he snaps back to reality to see Patton holding his hands in front of him cautiously.

“How dare the dark sides not celebrate this wonderful holiday?” Virgil visibly flinches and Patton carefully places a hand on Virgil’s arm.

“Roman...” Patton draws out disappointedly. Roman looks up like he just realized what he said.

“Sorry, Virge,” he says sheepishly. The mentioned side looks at the floor and doesn’t notice the worried glances the other sides exchange.

“Well,” Logan clears his throat and Virgil looks back up at him, “no worries. We’ll just have to make this a more than satisfactory Christmas.”

Roman gasps and covers his mouth with both of his hands, “Oh, my, gosh peck, yes.”

He picks up the tinsel on the ground and yeets it at Virgil’s face.

“Aw,” Patton squeals at Logan’s idea.

“Come here, Nightmare Before Christmas,” Roman motions toward the large tree int he middle of the room. “Help me put the tinsel on the tree.”

“I’m too exhausted for this,” Logan mutters just loud enough for Virgil to hear.

“Sounds great, Princey,” he yeets the tinsel back at Roman and adjusts his jacket, “but let me finish my coffee first.”

By noon, Roman and Logan have explained why there is a Christmas, what happens on Christmas, and what they are doing on the holiday. By noon, Virgil is thoroughly stressed. Patton wasn’t there because he said he had to wrap presents. Virgil has no gifts for any of the other sides.

As he places... ornaments on the tree, overwhelming nervousness envelopes his body. Mariah Carey is blasting through the living room, but her voice is doing nothing to soothe his nerves.

As soon as they’re done decorating this room, Virgil plans on locking himself in his room and brainstorming what the hell he should conjure for the others. Roman belting out Michael Buble is preventing Virgil from thinking clearly.

Logan suddenly groans loudly and claps his hands twice sharply. The music stops. “Must you sing so loud? I cannot hear myself think.”

“Mr. Grinch,” Roman claps twice and the music continues, “deal with it.”

Virgil looks to Logan to see him holding the bridge of his nose. “I’m not asking you he turn off the music,” he shouts, “I’m asking you to turn it down.”

Roman rolls his eyes before snapping and turning down the volume.

“Hey, guys?” Virgil starts as he places down the small Santa he is holding in his hands. “I’m feeling a little tired. I think I’m going to take a break and recharge in my room.” Logan nods and turns back to the fireplace and adjusts a stocking.

“Okay, don’t wear yourself out,” Roman says and licks his lips awkwardly.

Virgil gives the both of them a two-fingered salute before entering his room.

He curses quietly to himself and darts to his bed.

Okay, if he is going to do this, he has to do it in a timely fashion. Roman, first.

Creativity.

Drawing, painting, writing, coloring, music.

A notebook with um a feather pen? That sounds good.

Virgil stands up with a wide-ish stance and relaxes his shoulders.

He imagines a golden book with the edges being covered in red lace. A feather pen is placed on top of the notebook. He opens his eyes to see a shiny book on his hands. A feather pen is laid across it.

Perfect.

Logan next.

Logic.

Smart things. Um, ties, books.

Oh, books.

What about a book that changes based on what you what to happen next?

Sounds good.

He clears his throat and rubs his hands together. Virgil closes his eyes and focuses on the book.

He feels a weight in his hands and stumbles backward. Conjuring always drained him, but he couldn’t rest. He can rest once he’s finished.

Virgil takes in a breath and steadies himself.

Patton lastly.

Dogs, cats, animals, fuzzy things, hugs.

Socks with dogs on them?

Yeah, he’d like that.

He places the notebook and the other book on his bed before he claps his hands together. Closing his eyes for the last time, he envisions the socks in his hands.

There is a whoosh in the air and Virgil falls to the ground. A piece of cloth is draped over his arms. These are not socks.

Dammit.

He crawls over to his dresser and takes out his bracelet supplies. If he couldn’t conjure the socks, then he would make Patton some jewelry. He takes out the dog charm he had made a while back.

This had to work.

He isn’t sure how much time had passed until there was a knock at the door just as he finished wrapping all of the presents.

“We know you wanted to recharge, but dinner is ready. Patton and Roman and I would like for you to join us.”

Virgil shoves all the gifts under his bed and opens the door to follow Logan to the dining room.

Dinner goes by smoothly. Virgil doesn’t remember going to bed, but he wakes up in his bed.

It’s Christmas morning.

“Virgil! Virgil! Virgil!”

“Roman, shut up!” He pulls a pillow over his head.

“ARe you decent?”

“What the- yes!”

Roman barges into Virgil’s room with reindeer antlers on his head. His sash has little fairy lights sewn into it. He snorts and Roman ignores him.

“It’S ChRiStMaS!”

“Yes, Princey,” he pulls the covers over his shoulders, “I am painfully aware.”

Suddenly, cold air flows over his body. Virgil opens his eyes to see Roman holding his comforter with a raised eyebrow and a challenging smile on his face.

Virgil shakes his head, “You’re going to get it!”

Roman screams bloody murder before sprinting out of Virgil’s room. The anxious side grabs his phone and chases Princey out of the hallway into the living room before grabbing his sash.

“Not the sash, you foul beast,” Roman tugs the fabric out of Virgil’s hands.

“I told you it was a bad idea to wake up Virgil,” Logan states flipping a page in his book. He is seated at his recliner with Patton in his chair next to him knitting.

“Good morning and Merry Christmas, Virgil!” Patton greets.

“You too, Pat.” The mentioned side giggles.

“Okay, okay,” Roman says quickly, “can we open presents now?” He plops himself on the floor.

“Okay, you little eager beaver, let me just get mine.” Virgil follows Patton into the hallway to get the ones he wrapped. They aren’t the prettiest thing in the world, but they will suffice.

He lays his gifts in the center of the room with the others. Everyone grabs one present addressed to them and they unwrap them on a count of three.

Virgil is in awe at the beautiful headphones in his hands. He thanks Logan still in a state of amazement. Logan smiles softly and laughs quietly. “Of course,” is his reply.

Roman seems to love his notebook and he shows it by squealing and hugging the thing like a lifeline. Logan seems to like his book as well and flips through the pages, careful not to bend the spine.

Virgil thanks Roman for the Nightmare Before Christmas pillowcase. Apparently, Roman believes that “it matches his aesthetic.”

The sides are holding their last presents and Virgil and Patton share a look. They rip open the paper and gasp in unison. Virgil is frozen as he holds a picture frame in his hands. He is peering down at a picture of the four sides laughing together with their arms around each other. Except, they are children.

They all have carefree smiles on their faces. They look genuinely happy. Their chubby faces couldn’t have contained wider grins. Tiny Virgil and tiny Patton were looking into each other’s eyes. Virgil can’t even remember this picture being taken. He feels pressure building behind his eyes and a lump forming in the middle of his throat.

He is pulled out of the picture by a loud sob being cut through the air.

Why is Patton crying?

“They’re good tears, sweetie,” Patton manages as he looks at Virgil. “You made this for me?” Virgil can see Patton’s shiny brown eyes before he nods.

Before he can comprehend what’s happening, Patton tackle-hugs him. Virgil can hear Patton’s uneven breaths as he rubs his back in small circles.

They sit like that for a while.

“Virge,” he pulls apart from him, “thank you.”

Virgil gives him a genuine smile, “Anytime.”

It’s the end of the night when Virgil returns to his room. He has his gifts in hand and he manages to close his door with his foot. He sets the headphones on his dresser next to the picture frame. The frame falls over and Virgil notices a note on the back.

“We love you so much and you complete our famILY. Thank you <3″

#sanders sides #fanfic #christmas #uni fics #uni writes #thomas sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders

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circusglass · 5 years

Note

♆ (from a wizard who sometimes is impulsive)

kisses n’ shit ( closed ): @feralandfair, dryad verse.

“We’ll have to go back to the Menagerie Coast. For my sake,” Molly says with false authority, gently rolling the stemless wine glass in his hand. It’s ridiculously fancy, with pretty, meaningless swirls etched along its belly. He watches the legs weep down the sides with a tilted head.

“Ja. Perhaps our next mission will take us there.”

Caleb keeps his voice pitched low, just above the crackle of the flame, and it’s pleasant. Wine warm, heath warm, late night warm, Molly’s not sure, but he likes listening to the hum of it. They don’t need the fire going when Spring’s just lifted her skirts in Zadash, but it seems like such a waste to get a fancy room in the fancy Pillow Trove in the fancy Tri-Spires and not use it.

Which is, at least, one thing they’re using, stretched out on the carpet in front of the fire like a couple of vagrants as they are. Three years gone and things don’t really change, do they? Nott dozes curled up in a wingback chair, Frumpkin draped over her hip. On the bed behind them Jester has fallen asleep with wet claws, which she will fuss over in the morning, and Beau will fuss at her while she fusses for getting paint on her clothes. Molly can count the sleeping lumps of their friends around them, and it’s…he thinks of skipping stones. The triumph of watching it go just a bit further. Even Caduceus, gentle being that he is, is not exempt.

It trips up the back of Molly’s throat. He clicks his tongue and the tickle goes away, but he’s sure to chase it with a sip of wine just in case. He smiles into the fire.

“Let’s go anyway. I wanna see a coconut.” When he glances at Caleb the wizard is gazing at him steadily, eyes squinted in curiosity. Molly elaborates: “Saw an etching of one once. Real hairy. They look like—”

“Balls,” Caleb finishes for him and Molly’s smile turns into a delighted grin.

“Yes, exactly that!” He lifts his hand like he’s cupping a pair with a theatrical air of regality. These are important balls. Caleb snorts into his glass, and Molly drops his hand. “Makes sense. They are nuts.”

“Drupes, actually,” Caleb murmurs. Molly cants his head, puzzled—it’s strange for his movements not to be accompanied by a jingle of jewelry. He feels plain. “It is, mmh, a kind of fruit.”

Molly hums as he leans back on an elbow. When his tail flicks its fronds rustle. “Drupe, drupe. Sounds similarly phallic. Well, I want to see the hairy ones and the smooth ones. I like all types. Coconuts, I mean.” He doesn’t have to look when he can hear Caleb’s deadpan stare, but he’s got a strong buzz going and he’s never been intimate with shame. He slurps his fancy wine from his fancy glass and lifts his chin, “I have a story. Would you like to hear it, Mister Caleb?”

And perhaps it’s the name that gets him back in his good graces, because when Molly glances over next Caleb is nodding, hand lifting minutely from his knee to gesture him to continue.

“Closest we ever got to the Menagerie Coast was this little town east of Trostenwald. Wasn’t that close at all. We—me and uh, Yuli, the…you met the sisters? She was one of the snakes. There was this old woman there that fixed porcelain pots.” With gold, but that was another tale entirely. Molly pauses to suck his lower lip into his mouth, releasing it with a bobbing shrug. “Guess the flavor of the uh, story doesn’t matter. She told us this fable about a coconut while she worked. So—so to follow, you kind of have to imagine the coconut as a person. Can you do that?”

“Ja, Mollymauk, of course.” Molly stares at Caleb a beat, wondering where he should put the sudden pleasure of having his attention this long. It’s a heady power, makes him feel a little covetous. He drains his glass and sets it aside so he can properly twirl his hand in the air as he begins.

“There was a green coconut that everyone loved. He was nice, handsome, helpful. All the makings of a model citizen. The gods adored him because, well, of course they did. Don’t ask me what gods, she never specified, but the main one is Melora,” Melora. He glances to Caduceus, hulking frame curled up small on the bed around Jester; his corded tail undulates once, falls still. “The gods decide to throw this big party, so they invite their favorite mortals. Coconut goes all out. Robes, jewelry…hair? …He should have hair. I’m going to give him hair.”

“Are you making this story up as you go, Mister Mollymauk?”

Molly waggles a finger back and forth, rolling onto his side to grab the bottle and tip more into his glass. He sets it over his shoulder to avoid knocking it down, then scoots back into his recline.

“I’m not, swear on my grave. Both of them. So Coconut—let’s call him Nut, more or less of a mouthful depending on how you look at it—he pulls on all of his fancy clothes and heads to the party in this lavish castle. When he arrives, there are all these, mmm, ragamuffins milling out front. Tons of them, in clothes worse than yours.” He smirks. “They pull at his robes and touch his things as he makes his way to the door, ask him to spare anything he can manage. They’re hungry. He shoves them all away. Calls them trash, tells them ‘you don’t belong here!’” Molly tips his head back to stare up at the vaulted ceilings. He can sense, rather than actually feel, one of the blossoms tucked away in the waves of his hair detach and fall. “Nut doesn’t realize that Melora was watching from a window.

He’s greeted warmly. Everyone’s happy to see Nut! And the party goes on without a hitch. The horderves are delicious and on little sticks, every mug of ale is a perfect pour, there are bards. But Melora. She’s stuck on it. So she does what any self-respecting person would, and leaves the party. To disguise herself, that is, as a peasant and return to knock on the door. Nut greets her, and doesn’t recognize that she’s a, a goddess. I imagine divinity gives you quite the advantage with a disguise kit. Anyway, she begs Nut for food, for some money, for respite, and he tells her no every single time. It makes her sad and angry, because Nut is so loved. He’s supposed to be good and kind, right? But he’s a liar. So as he begins to close the door in her face, she casts off her disguise.”

Molly flourishes a hand, fingers wiggling in an approximation of Dispel Magic. “And there she is, Melora herself! And she says, ‘Nut, I’m so disappointed in you! You’re a right bastard!’ and strikes him ugly there at the doorway. Hairy and rough on the outside, but white and soft on the inside, because she hoped he could be good again. So that’s why green coconuts go brown.”

Molly could touch the ensuing silence if only he reached out with a claw. He takes a languid draw of his wine, watching Caleb’s face go through subtle passes over the rim of his glass.

“I have…some questions,” Caleb finally begins, like he’s tasting the words before he says them. Molly sets his glass aside and lays back across the carpet, arms stretching out at his sides.

“Like how brown and hairy is bad? Wondered the same thing myself. I’ve met plenty of upstanding hairy folk in my time,” he muses. He scratches his chest, lets his hand fall away with a muted thump, shuts his eyes with a contented sigh.

“Well, ja, but also. Mm. All the gods in the castle. …You know, I will need more wine for this. Pass it here.”

“I’m comfortable. You’re on your own, Caleb,” Molly breezes on a sigh, as though the bottle isn’t near enough. His tail slides languidly across the carpet. The fibres are spun so fine that it’s unbelievably soft beneath his hands, and he can’t help but flap his arms slowly like he’s making a snow angel. Bloody luxurious. The wizard’s only response is a grumble and a grunt as he lifts himself to retrieve the bottle.

A presence drifts across him like a cloud. Molly slits his eyes open in time to watch Caleb, hand braced near his ribs, stretch out over him for the wine and his thoughts skip again, like so many stones. He emanates heat, fireside warm, so close his rucked up shirt ghosts over Molly’s skin where his own blouse falls open, and Molly could grab fistfuls of that fabric and reel him in if he wanted. It’s…a nice thought. A pleasant little daydream.

Molly’s breath stills and without the drag and pull of it his pulse sounds exponentially louder. He shuts his eyes again when he hears Caleb’s fist close around the neck of the bottle and waits for him, for the feeling, to pass.

But the presence remains. The presence becomes the featherlight drag of a knuckle up his sternum, up the cord of his ugliest, most jagged scar. The nerves there are dead, he shouldn’t feel it, but he does if the gooseflesh shivering over his body is anything to go by. Molly opens his eyes and Caleb is close, so close, dangerously fucking close, gaze fixed studiously on his throat. The back of his knuckles brush his pulse.

“Okay,” Caleb says, as though to himself. “Okay, gut.”

Molly tilts his head back with an embarrassing amount of obedience and hope, baring his neck in suggestion, and maybe Caleb was going to do it anyway, hovering as he is, or maybe he’s humoring him, but his image blurs as he leans down to press his kiss to his throat, hair tickling across his collar. His beard rasps his skin, lips damp and soft and insistent on his fluttering pulse. And Molly—

Molly keeps still, utterly still as Caleb drags kiss after kiss up the long column of his neck. He shouldn’t give in to whim ( hands twisting in Caleb’s shirt to drag him down, to feel the weight of him pressing him into the soft carpet as he nips and licks his way into his wine-wet mouth, tail snaking up the back of his thigh ).

How much happens in three years? How much can change?

Not much on Molly’s part, the way his entire body lights up with want. Not because he’s being touched, but because Caleb is doing the touching—his breath shudders out of him and it breaks the spell much as he knew it would. A thumb strokes his neck, one final kiss tucked at the curve of his jaw, so near that Molly considers turning his head to catch his lower lip between his teeth, and gods, he’d be so good to him—. He doesn’t. He could, but he doesn’t. Caleb sits back, cleaving the space between them, his hazy blue eyes suddenly unreadable.

“Mollymauk—”

The roughness of Caleb’s voice takes him a moment to navigate. Molly unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

“Still alive,” he whispers when he can manage, cutting him off. It’s more soothing than he intends. Something between his ribs tilts sideways, bittersweet and wanting. “Still the whole coconut, Mister Caleb.”

Caleb huffs softly and averts his gaze, and Molly’s want turns to an aching fondness. He pushes himself up, reaching for the bottle, and tips the last of it into Caleb’s abandoned glass.

“Now, if you think that story’s wild, wait till you hear the one about the parrot and the grapes.”

#peak comfort levels is vomiting 1k+ words for someone #∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿#the story is a real y/oruba story i've heard that i futzed with #xoxo #feralandfair #verse ix. ( fell asleep amid the flowers ; DRYAD. )#( ASK. )#also fuk u i never want to write caleb again #long post

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cedarmoons · 6 years

Note

pylades: i'll take care of you / orestes: it's rotten work / pylades: not to me. not if it's you.

She holds no delusions: she knows she is no easy creature to love.

She knows her contradictions are many and frustrating.

She is averse to touch and yet hungry for it, starved for it. She is warm and laughing until she remembers it is not her place to draw attention to herself, or until the past makes itself known in her mind, and then she withdraws, becomes cold and closed-off and aloof. She is confident and unafraid, until someone stands closer than five feet, and then she is skittish and coltlike in her fear. She is too timid, too withdrawn into the fortress she had walled herself in, to ask even for a simple kiss.

She knows she is no easy creature to love.

But Asra—loving Asra is breathlessly easy.

He is sweet and earnest and sincere in everything he does. There are days the hardness in his eyes does not ever go away, when she says something or makes a thoughtless inquiry that rebuilds his walls—not walls she had torn down, but walls he had willingly dismantled, for her—in the span of a moment.

But there are also days where he spends his hours in the as-yet unfinished tea shop with her, sampling blends she had made or helping her set up the bookshelves and the hanging plants or assisting in her attempts to puzzle out teleportation magic. There are days he does not visit, but sends someone to her home with a bouquet of tithonias instead, always with a note. There are days where, seeing the stormcloud darkened sky and anticipating rain, he brings her cream from his apothecary to ease her arthritis.

She regrets many things, but giving him permission to court her—and receiving his permission to court him in turn—is not one of them. She only hopes that he does not regret it, either.

She had thought up some pretext to visit him this night—for she, foolishly, had thought she had needed a reason to visit him, as opposed to simply following a whim to see his smile and talk about their respective days and, perhaps, try to touch and be touched without shivering.

And now she is in his kitchen, and he is watching her with his chin in his palm, and her chest is tight. She cannot shake the feeling that she should not be here, intruding upon him in his home. She cannot shake the impulse to thank him for tea and get up, make a hasty exit, pretend the awkwardness of the silence between them had never occurred.

The apology is on her tongue, but she knows what he would say in response: why are you sorry? don’t be sorry; you have nothing to apologize for. Besides, she has been trying to curb that habit. She knows it frustrates him.

Asra hums, moving his chair closer to hers. Her breath catches. He hears it, and his smile widens. “What’re you thinking about?” he asks, reaching out to her, moving so his arm is draped across her back and his shoulder is pressed to hers. Ziah’s heart leaps into her throat, but she swallows, makes herself turn toward him, press closer. This flaw, too—turning away from touch, running from affection, rejecting his freely offered warmth and comfort—she has been trying to improve, a blacksmith hammering day and night at a dented, dulled sword to make it straight and sharp.

She wants to be better for him, so she may love him better, so she may be easier to love.

“It is nothing,” she murmurs. “Foolish thoughts.”

“I don’t think anything you think is foolish,” he replies.

She swallows, hard, and offers a weak smile, more a quirk of her lips than true emotion. She lowers her gaze to the tabletop, to where his second hand rests carelessly beside his teacup full of lavender tea, and slowly rests her hand atop it. Asra stills. “I am only thinking,” she whispers, watching how Asra turns his hand and intertwines their fingers. He escalates nothing she does not initiate; he does nothing she has not given him permission to do.

(It is why they have not kissed yet: she is too afraid to ask, and if he were the one to ask, she fears her answer would be no. She has not been kissed in three hundred years. She is frightened of what it would mean, to break that drought.)

Her admittance is slow and heavy as syrup. “That it must be… that perhaps you are….” She swallows, looks away from his face. “I imagine it is not easy to be with me.”

“Why would you think that?” he asks.He is frowning. Her heart breaks; she knows the deprecating things she says hurt him, sometimes, no matter their truth. He rubs his thumb over the back of her hand, and she shivers. “Ziah. Look at me.”

She does. He offers a smile. “I don’t know what… what you’re thinking, right now. But being with you? Let me tell you, it’s one of the easiest things I’ve ever done.”

The arm at her back is warm, scalding. She would rather bear its brand than carry the ugliness of her scars. But all the marks he had left on her—they are brands of their own, holding memories and impressions and heat above all. Look, says her ear, where he had first touched her, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Cherished, proclaims her cheek, which he had held in the palm of his hand in his oasis. Her hands and fingers, her arms, her back: they too wear invisible marks of his affection.

(One day, she hopes her whole body will burn with memories of him.)

“May I stay with you tonight?” she asks.

Asra’s smile lights up his whole face, and his beauty steals her breath. “Of course. I need to set up the pillows downstairs—”

“No,” she corrects, gently. “I want you to stay with me tonight. In your own bed.”

Asra’s lips part in surprise. He shifts backward, arm sliding up her back. The fabric of her shirt is not thin enough that he can feel the scars, but still he is slow and careful, measured, watching her face for any reaction. “Are you certain?” he finally asks.

She wants to be better for him, so she may love him better, so she may be easier to love.

She holds his gaze, lifting their joined hands and twisting her wrist, so the back of his hand faces her. She kisses the backs of his knuckles, then turns her head, resting her cheek against his hand, looking up at him. “I would like to try,” she says.

Asra lets go of her hand and brushes his fingertips against her cheek. When she closes her eyes and turns into his touch, his exhale shakes, and he turns his hand, fitting his palm against her cheek, thumb tracing the shape of its curve.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

(She knows it is hard, loving her, but she hopes she can make it easier for him.)

#fic #ziah #this gave me some zisra rp FEELS #and im dyin #:)))#vide0-nasties #the arcana #kidfic rp verse

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lonelypond · 6 years

Text

Casual Lunacy, Ch. 35

Love Live, NicoMaki, 3K, 35/?

De-Lovely

The walk home had been as romantic as you could get when handholding meant Maki brushing Nico’s hand with her warm furry shoulder and serenading meant Maki howling what Nico suspected was an approximation of “It’s De-lovely.” The night was almost young, the air was nearly clear, Fangs' tech was done for the day, and Nico could go home, collapse on the couch and ACTUALLY relax, at least until tomorrow when she had to wake up early, head to the Cup o’ to work a shift and prep the Sunday/Monday food, and then go back to the theatre for a redo of Fangs tech. Nico was not looking forward to that, having to rework cues was boring. Yes, Nico knew it was necessary, but that didn’t make having to be there while it happened any more fun.

Maki was having a slightly less relaxing night, every time she snuffled at any part of Nico, she smelled Nico PLUS Kashima, which in wolf form, was bringing out the urge to chase Kashima down and...Maki raised her snout, sniffing the air, she could smell Kashima halfway across campus, going home with some woman other than Nico. Maki glanced at Nico, tempted to sprint off and return quickly. But then Nico ruffled the fur behind Maki’s ear and said, “Nico is happy to see you, pretty girl. I was feeling lonely.”

Maki sniffed Nico’s hand. Besides a huge dose of Kashima and a surge in vanilla and magic, there was fatigue and frustration and not so much of the delicious and delirious mix that would always entice Maki Nico-ward. A little more than half the moon shone brightly and Maki could feel that tug again, although not in any way she could currently articulate. She howled, full voice, then drifted a little ahead of Nico, wary of potential dangers. Maki had been eager to see Nico, practically desperate to push Nico toward her apartment so they could...Maki shook her head, that thought was a bit blurry, mostly an urge to roll around on Nico’s couch in her current form while Nico...Maki stopped, letting Nico catch up and stood taller when she felt Nico’s bare hand on her shoulder, the connection a magnet between them even if something in the atmosphere pricked at Maki’s primal instincts, friction seeding cantrips of doubt. It was probably only that Nico smelled so different, stage makeup and strangers, people Maki couldn’t make a mental map of from trace fragments. And Kashima, smelling bold and...forceful. Maki whined.

“What’s the matter, Maki?” Nico nudged Maki with her hip, “We’re almost home. You can tell Nico all about it, then Nico will tell you exactly why she smells so much like Kashima...Nico only wishes it was a funny story instead of a list of how many places can Kashima accidentally put her hands wrong. She was so busy trying to…”

Maki snarled. Nico stopped. Lavender eyes were glinting too green for Nico’s liking. Something was off…Nico smiled, hands back in her mittens, clapping them together to signal a new scene starting, one where Nico fixed the mood by talking about Nico.

“Come on, Maki, let’s hurry up. Nico is too too cold,” Nico very dramatically hugged herself while shivering, directly in front of the werewolf’s nose, Nico concentrating on memories of last night, Maki at the piano, Maki sprawling underneath Nico, no human sounds passing those lips carved out of perfect pink...Maki pushed forward, sniffing eagerly, and Nico could feel the change, Maki’s renewed interest in her. Nico trotted past Maki, only two more streets to cross, then Maki gets the “don’t be jealous” lecture and Nico gets to brush her lips against something more yielding than the starched fabric of Dracula’s collar.

Nico was great at planning. Pick any strategy game, any historic battle, and Nico’s thinking would be the mirror image of the winning general. Nico knew how to identify a problem, create a plan to solve that problem, and put that plan into action. Easy peasy. Got Nico where she was right now. Which was up against the wall that was the realization that a stubborn werewolf girlfriend might not exactly be a problem Nico could use her strategic resources to solve.

Maki was sitting in front of Nico’s bedroom, obstinately blocking Nico's passage. And trying to actively shove Nico toward the bathroom. When Nico refused to move, Maki would sniff Nico and whine, eyes lavender and pouty over a drooping snout.

“Maki is jealous, huh? Upset because Nico smells like Kashima.” Nico dropped back into the couch, wooly socks propped up on the table in front of her, “That’s cute for maybe 10 seconds, pretty girl, but we can’t have this. Nico is in a business where in order to maximize Nico’s talent and cuteness, I’m going to have to get close to sweaty, possibly hairy people who are not you.”

Maki whined, adding a particularly pathetic howled series of notes at the end. Then she leapt over the table and landed across Nico’s lap, rocking the couch.

“Oooooppphhh...ow, Maki, Nico wasn’t ready for that.” Nico spread her arms across the back of the couch, refusing to encourage Maki with petting. Maki took advantage of this to lick Nico’s face from chin to ear, then dragging her rough, wet tongue across Nico’s nose to slobber from the other ear back chin-ward, then nuzzling into Nico’s neck, softly whining.

“Uuugghhh” Nico pushed against Maki, but the werewolf had settled most of her weight on Nico’s lap and was snuffling her way down Nico’s sweater, distending the neckline, “This is ridiculous. Nico has better ways to spend her Saturday night than being a sponge for werewolf saliva.” Nico grabbed under Maki’s snout and forced the redhead to make eye contact. “MAKI.”

Maki froze.

Nico dislodged the werewolf from her lap. “Good. Nico is going to go shower, to get the smell of Kashima AND YOU off her.” Nico sighed as Maki whimpered. “While Nico is doing that, find something to wear. Nico needs to get you a werewolf backpack full of clothes.” Nico stood, arms crossed, “Actually, Nico will be right back.” Nico disappeared into Umi’s room, Maki shuffling after her, puzzled. Nico came back with a dark blue corduroy shirt, muttering, “”Girlfriend who never brings clothes” surely falls under the “joint resources in case of emergency” clause.” Nico draped the shirt over Maki’s back, “Wear this. It’ll be a little tight, but Nico deserves a perq after all this. And no peeking at Nico in the shower.”

Maki sat back on her haunches and nodded. Nico chuckled, hands mussing the fur between Maki’s ears, tone playful, “Don’t worry, fur, red, standing up, eyes, jealous, green.”

Maki snorted, brow furrowed, suspicious.

Nico ignored her and continued. “Nico has an idea about how you can make this up to her.”

Human Maki might have wondered why Nico smelling brash and confident was such a draw, wolf Maki just clamped her jaw closed to stifle the thirsty whimper.

Smirking, Nico tapped her nose on Maki’s, voice a low thrill, “See you soon, pretty GIRL.”

Pleased. It was an odd feeling, Nozomi thought, her face open and cheerful, her loving fiancee on her arm, snuggling as close as she could because after dark, and a difficult tech done for the day. Satisfaction surrounded the two of them like a precious bubble and Nozomi slowed her steps to enjoy every breath of it.

“I was looking forward to a free day tomorrow,” Eli sighed.

Nozomi patted her hand, “You were looking forward to more time to study for midterms.”

Eli sounded hurt, “While lying in your bed, next to you, Nozomi.”

Nozomi, “Ah, you wouldn’t have gotten much studying done then, Eli-chi. You were very distracting on stage today. I’m glad Shalin’s running the light board not me, I’d be missing cues while you slink across the stage being sexy.”

Eli’s grip tightened, “It’s fun playing a villain. It’s so physical, looming over Micah, trying to snatch Harker before Dracula ruins the party.”

“Dracula, the Party Ruiner.” Nozomi started to cross Sheridan Road, but Eli pulled her north.

“Remember, Nozomi, we have to meet Hanayo. She’s in a panic. Someone saw Rin on the Lakefill.”

“Poor Rin.”

Eli shrugged. “More like nasty ‘People Threatening Rin’.”

“True.” Nozomi swung her hand down to grasp Eli’s and picked up the pace, “Let’s go help some cute girls.”

Rin’s eyes were a curious mix of two greens Nozomi thought as the small woman stared at her from her perch on the desk. Eli had just finished shaking Hanayo’s hand and was about to ask a question when Rin spoke, “Just tell ‘em, Kayo-chin.”

“Rin!” Hanayo turned, ignoring the other two women in the room.

“Everybody else you talk to seems to know,” Rin sounded peevish and Hanayo paled. Rin stood, anger altering her pixie cute appearance so she looked feral in the shadows of the half lit room. “Hi, I’m Rin. I’m a werewolf. If I don’t get captured by Kayo-chin’s STOOPID bosses, maybe I’ll rip something off you.”

“Rin.” Hanayo’s voice snapped back fiercely. Eli stepped back, hand reaching for Nozomi.

Rin shrugged, and climbed into the lower bunk bed, “What’s the point?”

Eli squared her shoulders, voice calming. “We’re here to help both of you. Thank you for trusting us with your secret, Rin.”

Rin flipped her hand, tossing off Eli’s offering, “You're scared. Of me. And "They" get to do anything they want.”

Hanayo knelt in front of Rin, “No, they don’t. I’m making copies of everything for Professor Põder. They’ll be expelled; there might be criminal charges. It’ll be a better case…”

“I DON’T WANT TO JUST SIT AND WAIT FOR SOMETHING BAD TO HAPPEN TO SOMEONE…” Rin shouted, hands gripping Hanayo's shoulders. “Maki’ll bite through walls if they do anything to…”

“Rin…” Hanayo hissed, frantic; Rin paled, suddenly nervous.

Nozomi tried to mirror Eli’s posture, with the addition of a mostly truth, “Nico-chi already told me. Don’t worry.”

At that, Rin, though still angry, relaxed and Hanayo’s stir of panic calmed. Nozomi’s curiosity to see Maki in action as a wolf increased.

Hanayo pulled out her chair and offered the bed opposite the bunk for Nozomi and Eli to sit.

Nozomi kept an eye on Rin, while Eli began trying to coax what had happened out of Hanayo.

Hanayo hiccupped, “Two girls took a picture of Rin, we think. Anju has a “lost dog” story posted in some NU social media groups, with a reward. It’s the screenshot of Rin Tsubasa showed me.”

Eli nodded, taking care to continue to exude calm, “So you think they’ll get in contact with Anju?”

Hanayo nodded, hands atremor as she fidgeted, “And if I’m in the picture…”

“Just text Anju that you saw the dog this afternoon.” Nozomi leaned her head on Eli’s shoulder, “At the very least it will confuse them.”

“Sneaky.” Rin said, sounding impressed.

“Yep.” Nozomi waved her fingers in the air as if an invisible card trick were happening, “Delay, staying on the attack, and an honest face are your friends.”

Hanayo gulped, pulling out her phone and looked to Rin who nodded. “What do I say?”

Nozomi moved to lean over Hanayo's shoulder, “Just that you saw the post somewhere and that dog ran up to you this afternoon.”

Hanayo typed with one finger and all of her concentration. Rin sighed and laid back on the bed.

Anju was staring at her phone, eyebrows very low, eyes narrowed and moving back and forth between the text from Hanayo and the email on her computer screen with a jpeg of Hanayo on the Lakefill, next to what looked a lot like the werewolf Tsubasa had been searching for. Anju had posted that picture around, frustrated by Tsubasa’s obsession distracting her from coming up with solutions to the transmitters crashing the Wirtz electrical infrastructure. Anju just needed everything to go exactly as planned once. For that, she needed Tsubasa focused on her problem, not the werewolf. And Koizumi had been too good to be true, it turns out. Now, and pale purple eyes gleamed with the strategies gelling behind them, how could Anju use this to her advantage?

Maki was pacing. In human form. Wolf would be a bad idea right now, Maki was restless enough, the moon still prickling under her skin...damn Neruda...and the nightmare...so many Kashima notes in the air around Nico earlier that Maki could still pick them up, which had led to waking in a cold sweat from a dream of Nico in white gown, offering her hand to a glowing eyed Kashima, who started to transform with a howl when Maki woke up. Nico had mumbled something, but not woken, and Maki had grabbed Nico’s fuzzy, oversized, pink bathrobe and fled to the couch, her heart racing, breathing out of control. At least Nico had put her outfit from earlier in the laundry hamper so Maki wasn’t actively confronted by it. She pulled Nico’s bathrobe up around her mouth and nose, concentrating on taking in as much sense information on Nico as she could absorb. She fell into the couch, kicking her legs in the air, then pumping them as if she were cycling a bike. She didn’t want Kashima to make her crazy; rationally, Kashima was low on the competition scale, Maki had NEVER sensed any hint of attraction from Nico when Kashima was around...but on a more primitive level, Maki was jealous. She pushed the imaginary bike to a sprint pace, legs flying, then flopped out full length.

“Maki?” Nico was standing in the door of her bedroom, nightgown back on.

Maki huffed, “I’m jealous.”

Nico sounded sad, Maki could smell the disappointment, “Nico knows, but…”

Maki flipped on her side, eyes glinting green at Nico, self awareness subduing her tone, “I’m jealous of the time Kashima gets to spend with you, the duet, the work you do together…”

“Oh.” Nico came into the room, sitting on the coffee table once again, “Nico is more interesting than writing papers.”

“Yeah.” Maki admitted. She had finished the paper, but pre Nico Maki would have considered her effort a rough first draft.

Nico tenderly stroked the line of Maki’s cheek, “That song you wrote for me was better than Porter. Please tell me you’re at least minoring in music.”

Maki sat up, taking Nico’s hand in hers, “We never really had this kind of a talk did we?”

“Nope,” Nico yawned, “There were too many conversations where Nico had to lecture you about taking proper care of your dog. Or wearing warmer clothes. Nico has given up on that.”

Maki laughed as she raised Nico’s hand to her lips, “Hi, I’m Maki Nishikino. I’m a freshman, I haven’t picked a major yet, but…” Maki slid Nico’s fingers so the tips were resting on her lips, “I live for playing the piano. And touching you.” Maki nipped at Nico’s fingers, “Oh, and I howl, very tunefully, pitch perfect, always in the direction of the moon.”

“Not true, sometimes you howl at Nico.” Nico tapped Maki’s nose, then ran her hand up in to Maki’s hair.

Maki leaned in, “It’s your skin that the moon lives in, Nico.” Maki swept Nico’s hair back behind her ear, “You glow. Brighter than anything. You’re amazing.”

As much as Nico thrived on compliments from discerning audience members, this was a conversation train she had to derail. “Nico has an early morning. And has already expressed her appreciation of your songwriting skills.” Nico winked, “Remember?”

Maki laid back down on the couch, robe falling open at the waist, enjoying the delicious mix of want starting to stir in Nico, “I can still feel your...”

“Good.” Interrupting her far too smug and unclothed to be that hot girlfriend, Nico stood, reciting her near death scene lines over and over again in her head, forcing herself to look away from Maki, “Nico likes to be thorough.”

“Nico?” Maki let a plead of a whimper out, her own hand tracing the line of her hip.

Nico turned, but her eyes were on the wall behind the couch, not Maki, “This is an important week to me, pretty girl. You said you’d help. So help.”

Maki started singing, staring at the ceiling,

"I've got you under my skin I've got you deep in the heart of me So deep in my heart, that you're really a part of me I've got you under my skin I've tried so hard not to give in I've said to myself this affair will never go so well But why should I try to resist, when baby will I know so well That I've got you under my skin I'd sacrifice anything come what might For the sake of having you near"

Maki knew Nico was moving closer, and amused, but she let Nico’s kiss surprise her, “We can get much nearer tomorrow night, pretty girl. Come to bed when you’re ready to sleep.”

A quick glimpse into the depths of ruby swirling with so many emotions Maki hadn’t identified yet, a finger tingling from a brief touch on Nico’s bare leg, the smell of contentment and sensuality and comfort filling the air of the room. Not all that Maki’d hoped for, but so much better than the nightmare,

"Don't you know, silly fool, you never can win Use your mentality, wake up to reality But each time I do, just the thought of you Makes me stop before I begin...

Good night, Nico." Maki whispered to herself.

A/N: Right, and now I get this back on track.

#nicomaki #Love Live #Casual Lunacy #nishikino maki #yazawa nico #rinpana #werewolf #college #theatre #coffeeshop #nozoeli #tech rehearsal #fanfic #etc

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theharellan · 6 years

Text

soft nips at the neck and shoulder line | @dalishfreckles

Ian’s kisses are light as rain upon Solas’s face, playful and teasing, persisting until he draws a smile to his love’s lips. He lowers himself into Solas’s lap, straddling it with legs still chill from the cold weather outside. A low laugh sounds from the pit of Solas’s throat as his hands fall upon Ian’s thighs. Through the fabric he can feel where the wind has whipped him, and he draws magic to his fingertips to warm the freckled skin that lies beneath.

“Had you waited ‘til daylight to return, you would not be so cold,” he hums, hands lifting the hem of Ian’s shirt under the pretense of warming his back.

Ian does not answer right away. His arms drape over Solas’s bare shoulders, head dipping to stick his nose into the crook of his neck. The tip is like ice, and he stiffens at its touch. A quiet giggle shakes Ian’s form, his breath hot in contrast to the persistent chill. “I’d already been away too long.”

Too many people who needed them in different places at different times. Ian is right, it had been too long. The thought takes hold of him, arms snaking around Ian’s hips to pull him closer. For a moment, they hold still, Ian growing warmer in his embrace. It will never last as long as he wishes, every moment dies a second too soon, and when Ian moves it leaves a cold vacuum where his face had been.

At first, Solas feels soft kisses planted where Ian’s nose had been, as if apologising for the chill. Grey eyes half-open to look out their corners, watching as pointed ears glow with a different kind of warmth. The kisses draw a smile to his lips and a shiver up his spine, and his lips curl into a lazy smile as he sinks into the feeling. Ian works his way across one shoulder and up his neck, and Solas feels himself expose his neck to Ian, head tilting, guiding Ian’s affection upwards.

Teeth bare, taking skin clumsily between them. Cold air hits the back of his throat as he inhales sharply, and Ian abruptly stops, and plants a kiss where his teeth had been. “Sorry, I thought I could try it,” he says. “I thought--”

“Please, keep going,” Solas insists.

A smile parts Ian’s lips, which he can feel pressed against his shoulder. It takes a moment, and a few more kisses, before the grin fades and Ian is able to continue. The sensation is sweet and sharp at once. Fingers find the back of his head, cradling him. Even with teeth at his neck, Ian is nothing but gentle. Solas’s body burns, but not with magic. The tips of his ears glow like hot iron. Another sigh, another turn of his head to offer his throat.

(No wonder his People had learned how to make this last days.)

They laugh together when he bites too hard. “At least you wear high collars,” Ian teases as he pulls away. Their eyes meet, only to sink into a kiss, a tongue slipping past Solas’s lips. For a moment Ian forgets his task, and when he moves to return to it Solas stops him.

“Allow me, Vhenan.” He turns Ian onto the bed, bracing him against his arm as he lowers him. Skin flushes bright red behind dark freckles as he is flattered against the sheets, not trapped, but held. Nervousness and excitement have turned Ian’s expression strange, his smile twisted in both eager curiosity and apprehension. Solas says nothing (it is an endearing sight) and when Ian catches his eye it gives way to a broad grin. He plays with the end of Ian’s shirt, considering removing it, but fearing exposing his love’s scars to the cold night air will introduce anxiety where there need be none.

He contents himself with what they have now, and leans forward to plant a kiss where Ian’s ear meets his jaw. He traces a pattern down his neck, peppering him with the occasional nip. Small sighs of satisfaction steer him, finding the tenderest spots and taking them between the teeth. He leaves only pink marks that will fade by morning, anything more would feel criminal, changing what is already perfect.

“Solas?” Ian’s whispers, halting Solas’s descent. He stops just above the neckline of his shirt, the temptation to continue is almost impossible to ignore. What lies beneath is as worthy of his attention, but Ian’s hand guides him up, towards his mouth, and their lips match up together as though they are four pieces to one puzzle. He is dazed, infatuated when they pull apart, and Ian giggles when his eyes open and see the look on Solas’s face. He lifts his head, lips ghosting across his, and Ian finishes his thought: “Ar lath ma.”

#dalishfreckles #( my writing )#i have found a home in him ( ian x solas )#[ every day solas gets gayer ]

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sheikah · 7 years

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Distraction

My entry for the @jonerysnetwork @jonerysfics Fic Contest [Smut] [AO3]

On their second day in the Red Keep, Jon makes an interesting discovery.

In his new rooms, the sun coming through the vista windows warms his back and the smell of cooking food beckons him outside. It is all very distracting, being in a new place, and he finds it difficult to focus on menial tasks like unpacking his things. Every few minutes he glances out at the Blackwater to confirm that this is real—they finally sacked King’s Landing. He doubts he will ever get used to it.

His new quarters aren’t a good fit, more sumptuous than he needs or wants. They are royal quarters, possibly the former rooms of princes or princesses, and truthfully they don’t suit Jon’s taste. But the large windows give him a wide vantage point from which to observe the city below, and he can see far out over the bay. It is breathtaking, a different kind of beautiful than the snowy haven of Winterfell.

The chamber’s interior is equally impressive. The ceilings are high with ornate moldings all around, the walls a rich crimson. The large bed is fitted with luxurious linens, hung on all sides with cloth-of-gold curtains. Jon supposes he should be grateful that the queen insisted he take up residence in such a place, but it feels altogether wrong, nothing like the cozy simplicity of his room back at The Wall. But he keeps his doubts to himself. This is his home for now, where he most needs to be. A defensible position from which to plan the assault on the Army of the Dead. And besides, he would follow Dany anywhere.

Just now Jon is supposed to follow her to the small council chambers and meet with the gathered lords to discuss their next move. But first he means to change out of the armor he wore about the city into something a little lighter. Even in Winter, King’s Landing is still far warmer than what Jon is used to, and the muggy coastal air has his clothes sticking to his skin. Strolling over to the trunk in the corner, he unfastens the latch and flips the top open with a creak of the hinges.

A moment’s look is enough to tell him that something is wrong. Instead of dark surcoats and sturdy wools, the trunk is filled with brightly colored silks and carefully wrapped pieces of jewelry. It doesn’t take long for Jon to recognize it as Dany’s trunk, not his. He has never seen her in these clothes himself, but many of them have clasps and embellishments ornately carved into dragons and “DT” is embroidered in the plush satin lining of the trunk’s lid.

His first instinct is to close the trunk and leave it be. They aren’t his things to disturb. But there is still so much Jon doesn’t know about Dany even though he has been with her for the better part of a year. So curiosity gets the better of him and he begins rifling through the vibrant contents of the chest.

He is clueless when it comes to fashion and truthfully, he doesn’t much care about it. But the thought of his pretty queen in bright, summer silks, colors that would complement her lilac eyes and smooth, silver hair is more than a little intriguing, so very different from dark, regal winter garb she has worn for as long as Jon has known her. He loves the thought of her strolling through gardens half a world away, her arms bare and dappled in sunlight.

Rummaging through the trunk, he removes long, flowy gowns of ocean blue, striking and intricately designed tunics of purest white, and even an odd, painted leather vest. At the bottom of the trunk, one dress stands out from all the others.

The fabric is strange, silky like those that were stored on top of it, but richer, thinner, and more delicate. The color is pale lavender, almost white, and it is impossibly smooth beneath his fingertips. Jon lifts it out of the chest carefully to find that there are no sleeves—something unthinkable to his Northern sensibilities—just slender trips of fabric that hold it together at the shoulders, clasped with silver pins carved into the three-headed dragon of the Targaryen sigil.

When the dress is clear of the trunk, the afternoon sun hits it—doesn’t just hit it, but shines straight through it, the glare hitting Jon in the eyes. He is confused. What kind of silly, pointless garment is this? It is almost entirely translucent in the light, so it certainly can’t be a dress, must be part of some bigger ensemble. But the more Jon looks at it the more he realizes that it has to be a dress. It seems too small and form-fitting to be a cover or cloak of some kind, and it is far too decorated to serve as an undergarment.

But if it is a dress all its own, it is entirely impractical. Even more, it is daring, indecent. If Dany wore this, well . . . her smalls would be on full display for anyone interested enough to look. And who could resist such a sight?

Jon feels an unexpected stab of jealousy at the thought. They may not be married, may not be sharing their secrets with their many and varied companions and allies, but Dany is his, just as he is hers. So why is he so disturbed at the thought of her parading around in this obscene dress?

He doesn’t fancy himself an envious man, even when he can see how other men look at his lady, their eyes lingering a moment too long. Even though he notices the way a room quiets when she enters it, how everyone seems to gravitate toward her like the sun. No, Jon has never been jealous. Because what he has with Dany is not a clandestine attraction. She spent weeks patiently assuring Jon that to her, he is more than some nameless bastard, not just a King in the North to support her bid for the throne—and Jon finally accepted that her love for him burned as brightly as his for her.

Yet for all his faith and surety, seeing this peculiar, brazen dress still makes his blood run hot, sends a jolt of possessive longing through him that makes him almost lightheaded. He imagines Dany walking about in a dress that might as well be made of air—tantalizing everyone she passes by. It is almost unbearable; but it is also . . . strangely exciting.

Shaking his head to clear it Jon decides to go and see Dany, to get an explanation for the singular dress and more importantly, see her in it for himself.

He just has to get through a small council meeting first.

Inside the council chambers Jon sits opposite Dany, Tyrion and Davos on his left, Lord Varys and Tormund at his right. It is stifling in the close, dimly lit room, and Jon struggles to ignore his restlessness and boredom, to focus on the conversation.

“We need to make official appointments to essential positions,” Tyrion announces, turning to Dany. “We aren’t planning a coronation with a war on, but while we’re here we need stability. And just like a queen in peace time you’ll need capable people at your side.”

“Who do you recommend?” Dany asks, perusing a list of names.

Jon looks up at the sound of her voice. She is all business today, hair braided tight, the long rope of it draped over her left shoulder. Her elegant black dress is high-collared, and she sits up straight and serene, her hands folded on the table before her. She looks every bit the queen, even without a crown on her lovely head.

“For Master of Ships,” Varys begins, “Perhaps a Greyjoy?”

“The obvious choice,” Davos chimes in, his thick accent drawing Dany’s attention. “But I also have experience in this area, Your Grace.”

Jon watches Dany’s face as she considers the suggestion, serious as ever, her expression unreadable to the untrained eye. But he knows her well, can see that she is tired, in no mood to make these decisions just now. Jon can’t say he blames her. He can think of about a thousand things he would rather be doing at the moment, most of them involving her.

That train of thought takes his mind to places it really shouldn’t go in mixed company, takes him back to the last time they slept together. Suddenly Jon is swept up in memories of Dany rising over him, naked as her name day, rolling her hips into him roughly, the blissful friction, the squeeze of her body. He sits up to give her perfect breasts the attention they deserve, and then—

Beside him Tormund clears his throat and elbows Jon hard in the ribs, looking pointedly from Jon to Dany across the table.

“Do you agree?” she asks him, and Jon can tell from the edge in her voice that it isn’t the first time she has addressed him. He has no idea how much of the conversation he missed, no context for Dany’s question.

Jon sits up a little straighter in his chair. “Um. Yes, I agree,” he offers cautiously.

“So it’s settled then,” Tyrion proclaims. “We will have a Master of War, but only as a temporary position, since Her Grace believes it might send the message that we expect war. And Jon, you will name one of your own men to fill the position.”

Jon sighs. Another responsibility. He should be paying better attention to the discussion.

“There are some potential men you might appoint on this list.” Dany indicates the parchment before her. “Come have a look,” she says, waving Jon over.

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, suddenly painfully aware of the physical consequences of his daydreaming, a very conspicuous and very poorly-timed tightening in his pants. Damnit.

“Pass it over.” Jon holds his hand out, trying to act casual, trying to ignore the straining between his legs, and the puzzled look on Dany’s face at his refusal to move beside her. Wordlessly she hands the list to Tormund who gives it to Jon with a curious glance into his lap.

"Now then,” Tyrion continues. “We need to talk about some of the fighting we’ve already done. It is important that we answer for the damage we've caused," he argues, looking at each of them in turn. "Right now we can get the people on our side with only a small acts of goodwill. After my dear sister’s stunt at the sept I can assure you they followed her out of fear, not love. That is no way to rule."

"I agree," Dany nods. "So what must we do?"

"Send aid," Tyrion replies. "Gold, supplies, possibly a few men if we can spare them. To help rebuild."

"And you will gain more than just favor for assisting Highgarden, Your Grace," Varys adds smoothly. "They are the largest producer of food in all the seven kingdoms. We need them as much as they need us."

“Aye, that’s all very well,” Davos interjects gruffly. “But what of the North? The Others are going to hit them first. If anyone’s getting more of our men it ought to be the Northerners.”

Jon senses the oncoming argument and finds himself tuning them out once again, preoccupied. It is important, of course. Highgarden was absolutely decimated in the battle with the Lannister army, a battle they caused. The destruction would not have been nearly so pronounced if Dany’s dragons hadn’t been in play, and Jon supports the idea of taking responsibility and helping the people. He also worries for Winterfell and for his friends at The Wall.

But he knows that the deliberations are all but pointless, that there will never be a unanimous agreement on the best course of action. There never is. And try as he might, Jon can’t gather his thoughts into a coherent argument of his own, can’t pry his mind away from Dany.

His mind wanders again, picturing her in that gown he found, carefree and heedless of how the men all stare. Jon can almost see her strolling through the bright, dusty streets of Meereen, shining with perspiration and smiling at something Missandei said, happy and younger, blissfully unaware of what horrors await her across the sea.

Jon wants her like that. Joyful and gorgeous and real. Not the queen but the woman. And he is flustered and fidgeting at the thought of her in that dress because he knows all too well what waits for him beneath the silk. He knows the weight of her breasts in his hands, the taste of her flesh on his tongue, the sound of her sighs at his ear. And he knows, too, just how to make her sigh like that, knows the heat between her thighs, the—

“Jon?”

He jerks in his seat, his cheeks burning at the realization that they are all watching him, Dany most of all, her eyes hard, lips pressed into a thin line of irritation.

“Jon,” she repeats. “I asked for your input.”

Jon swallows, his fist clenching irritably on the table before him. His eyes dart from face to face, looking for a lifeline, stopping at Tyrion. “I agree with Lord Tyrion,” he ventures.

For a moment everyone is silent, the quiet broken when Tyrion clears his throat to speak. “Well, I thank you,” he says, bowing his head at Jon with a smirk. “Smart choice, as I am always right. But I haven’t actually said anything just now.”

Davos shakes his head and Tormund can’t suppress a snort of amusement. Dany’s sigh is loud and exasperated. “I apologize for Jon,” she says, her eyes flashing. “Clearly, he’s thinking of something more important than the war.”

“Maybe I am,” Jon fires back, frustrated. He has given all of himself to duty for so long. Even gave his life for it once. Are even his thoughts forfeit to this war? Looking at Dany he is overwhelmed with the urge to whisk her away, just for an afternoon. To kiss the worry from her brow and leave his own stress behind in this horrible little room. They have so little precious time together and Jon is tired of watching it slip away in arduous meetings.

Taken aback at Jon’s uncharacteristically forceful reply, Dany’s expression is somewhere between outrage and confusion as she fumbles for words. Sensing the tension in the room, Tyrion mercifully steps in. “Your Grace, I think we are all a little tired from this move. Let’s adjourn for today, shall we? I’ll concede to His Grace’s wise companions,” he says, waving a hand at Davos. “We’ll send aid to the North first. With your approval of course?”

Dany ponders for a moment and then nods in agreement.

“Excellent. My lords.” Tyrion nods at them all in dismissal. There is a noisy scraping of chairs on the stone floor as everyone rises to leave, but Dany remains, gathering of pile of letters into a neat stack and glaring coldly at Jon over the table.

On his way out Tyrion pauses to say something to her but Jon has had about enough of listening to others talk for one afternoon. He has better things in mind for his queen, things that can only be done within the privacy of his chambers.

When Jon moves to Dany’s side he is drawn in by the spice of her bath oils on the air, the dulcet tones of her voice as she speaks with Tyrion. Jon knows only he can break through her mask of regality to the passion that hides underneath, yearns to have her to himself. She won’t sound so calm and bored when he is through with her. . .

But when Dany looks up at his approach, her eyes are narrowed angrily, her arms crossed over her chest. Jon hates it when she is cross with him but he has more than a few ideas of how to cheer her up this afternoon.

“Your Grace,” he greets her, nodding curtly, his hand moving to her waist to draw her in. “I need to speak with you.”

“Your Grace,” Tyrion addresses Jon, his eyes falling on Jon’s hand at Dany’s side. “I was just telling the queen that—”

Jon ignores him, moving his other hand to Dany’s arm and leaning in close where only she can hear. “Now,” he adds, trying to control the urgency in his voice.

Predictably she hardens at his commands, stepping back as far as his arm around her will allow. “Jon, as you can clearly see I’m having a discussion with Tyrion and—”

Jon stares Dany hard in the eyes, lowering his hand until it rests on her butt, a faint smirk playing across his lips to convey his intentions. Understanding slowly dawns on her and for a fraction of a second Jon can see her fight back an answering grin. But then she wrenches herself away and stands up a little straighter, clearing her throat and turning to Tyrion with an apology in her eyes.

“I have some private business to see to with Jon but we will continue this over dinner.”

Tyrion nods slowly before bowing and taking his leave. Jon is sure the Hand of the Queen knows exactly what their “business” is. He doesn’t care.

The moment they’re alone Dany wheels on him, her hands flying to her hips. “What was that?!” she demands. “These meetings are important, Jon. They’re about our future. You don’t get to just—”

“Why don’t you come with me and I’ll make it up to you.” Jon takes her by the hand and begins backing out of the room, wheedling her along with him until Dany finally relents. She sighs, looking up at the mischievous glint in his eyes, and follows him out the door, her stack of correspondence forgotten on the table.

Lacing their fingers together Jon leads her through the keep, still unfamiliar with its winding halls and dark corridors. But he finds the shadowy alcoves particularly convenient today and every few steps he presses Dany’s back into a corner and silences her exhilarated giggles with his mouth on hers.

“What. Has gotten. Into you today?” she asks breathlessly, her question punctuated by hungry kisses from Jon and her own laughter.

He doesn’t answer, instead trekking on through the castle until they arrive at his room at last. Inside, the retreating afternoon sun casts everything in a brilliant gold. Dany most of all is stunning to his eyes, a little out of breath from their hurry, a pink blush creeping up her neck and cheeks.

She turns to face him when they’re inside, moving her hands to his shoulders. “Tell me what you brought me here for.”

For a moment the pull to touch her is so strong Jon forgets the dress entirely, couldn’t care less what it looks like or why she has it.

But then Dany’s eyes leave his, settling on something behind him. “That’s mine,” she says suddenly, startling him to attention, pointing to her open chest on the floor. “Jon, why . . . do you have this?”

“Our trunks got mixed up,” he explains dismissively, moving over to the enormous leather chair near the window and gesturing to the dress draped over the back. “What is this?”

Dany comes over to examine it for herself, smiling faintly when she recognizes it. “Viserys gave it to me in Pentos. It’s one of my favorites.”

“It’s why I brought you here. Put it on,” Jon instructs, his voice husky. “For me.”

Dany lifts the gauzy dress from the chair back and shakes her head. “This is not what I expected. You . . . want me to try on a gown for you?” she asks, raising a brow at Jon incredulously.

“Aye. I’ve been picturing you in it all day. What you’ll look like in it. What I’ll see through it.”

He steps in closer, speaking at her ear. “What I won’t be able to see until I take it off you. What you’ll sound like . . . ” He lays a hand on her waist, dragging it across her ribs and around to her chest, his knuckles grazing the underside of her breasts. “When I put my hands on you.” On a whim he dips his head and nibbles lightly on her ear. “And my mouth.”

Dany’s shoulders quiver at the contact. “Alright,” she assents, barely finding her voice, looking at Jon with wonder. “Turn around.”

He complies, turning his back to her while she changes. In front of him the window shows the city bustling with activity below but none of it can hold his attention, not while Dany’s intricate royal garb falls to the floor behind him with the clink of buckles and the swish of fabric.

“I’m ready,” she announces after a moment, and he faces her again.

Jon holds his breath when he sees her. She is a vision, everything he conjured in his fantasies and more. Her hair hangs loose now, and the sun through the window bathes her in a bright, warm light that turns it from silver to honey. The thin, silky gown hangs over her luscious curves with a tailored fit, but most alluring of all—the dress is the only thing she is wearing. No smalls, no silly corset to constrict her lovely figure. The gown apparently is meant to be worn this way, and Jon is struck dumb at the sight. Through it he can see the creamy glow of her pale skin, the pink bloom of her nipples pressing against the sheer gossamer. She spins slowly before him, removing any doubt that the view from behind is equally enticing. When she faces forward again, Jon steps closer, his eyes roving hungrily, pausing at the joining of her thighs. It is all he can do not to close the distance between them and fall to his knees before her, to push the dress up and get an unobstructed view of the delights beneath.

“I feel like a girl again,” Dany says wistfully, looking down at the dress, clearly unaware of Jon’s frantic anticipation. “I was so nervous the last time I wore this. But it did its job well. Drogo was impressed.” She glances at Jon, flashes him that scintillating smile. “Seems that you like it, too. How do I look?”

“You look like sin,” Jon growls, striding to her in two long steps. He winds one of his hands in the thick curtain of her hair and splays the other across her butt, pulling her roughly against him.

“Oh!” Dany has time to exclaim before he crushes his lips to hers. The kiss is desperate, a mess of teeth and tongues and the scrape of his stubble on her hot mouth. Usually Jon is slow and tender with her, as if his lips and hands could somehow show her the contents of his heart. But now he unleashes the whole day of pent-up, frustrated longing, claiming her, caging her in his embrace.

Dany is a willing prisoner, her surprise quickly overtaken by her own desire as she grabs at the sides of his face, kissing him back in earnest. Jon’s body is wound as taut as a bowstring, his muscles tense with expectation, but Dany is soft under his touch, so soft and inviting. She may be hard and cold in front of the rest of them at court, but he knows better, knows she isn’t cold at all. She is warm, sweet and lovely and he is melting into the kiss, her lips parting under his and his under hers with a probing flick of her tongue.

“Can’t. Get close enough,” Jon rasps against her lips, lifting her off the floor and clutching her to him.

Dany wraps her legs around his waist, knotting her fingers forcefully in his hair, and the dull pain coupled with the pressure of her thighs is electric, almost too much. Even through his jerkin the drag of her breasts against his chest drives him mad and Jon kisses her deeper. His mouth muffles the quiet, needful sounds from her throat but they’re enough to make him ache for her. He shifts her impatiently in his arms, his hard cock straining his leathers. Her full bottom lip slips between his own and he catches it between his teeth in a possessive bite.

Dany gives a little yelp of surprise, loosening her legs at his waist and dropping to her feet. Jon looks down at her, her breathing ragged, hair mussed, lips red and swollen. She meets his gaze with indignation and lust mingling behind her violet eyes and then shoves back into him, pushing him a step. Jon just smirks at her fervor, digging his fingers into the curve of her hips to pull her close again.

When Dany leans into another kiss, her lips parted wide to suck at his tongue, it takes all the force of his will not rip the pale silk of her gown away. Gods but he wants her, wants to reach under the blasted dress and find her wet and waiting for him, wants to lick circles around her tightening nipples. He wants to slide a hand down her chest and over the smoothness of her belly, to press his fingers inside of her and feel the hot clench of her body. He wants to bend her over his ironwood desk and fuck her until she begs him for release. He wants . . .

Jon breaks away with a quavering gasp, tangling his hand in the cascade of her silver waves. He forces her head back, exposing the elegant line of her white throat. Dany sighs, falling trustingly under his sway, giving herself over to him as if she isn’t a prize far beyond his deserving. And something in him ignites at the sight of her so willing, eyes closed, biting her lip between her small, even teeth. He drags open-mouthed kisses down her neck, pausing to suck at the sensitive spot under her ear he knows she loves.

“Jon,” she whispers, grinding her hips, her cunt against him. It tests his resolve, having to refrain from taking her right then, from bearing her down on the rushes and rutting into her like an animal.

“How do you do this to me?” he demands, his breath puffing at her throat. He moves his mouth to her naked shoulder, applying his teeth to the give of her flesh, and she trembles in his arms.

“What,” Dany gasps dazedly, “do you mean?”

Make me lose myself, Jon thinks. Completely. No control, and gods damn the consequences. With Dany he becomes someone else, a man who takes what he wants, who acts on his impulses. It is as dangerous as it is thrilling.

Jon lifts his head to look over her shoulder and then pushes her backward toward the cushioned bench at the foot of his bed. Dany follows his lead but lets her hands roam to his waist where she works at the buckles on his belt with deft fingers. Knowing she wants him as much as he wants her gives Jon a rush of masculine pride, but he has other plans for her this evening. He has had all day to think about it thanks to the bloody meetings and his untimely discovery of that damnable dress, and he has thought of nothing else except what he plans to do to her now.

His hands find hers and he moves them down by her sides as they take the last few steps to the bench, the back of Dany’s knees grazing the edge. Jon takes her by the shoulders and shoves her onto her back on the velvet cushions.

For a moment he can see the familiar flash of defiance in her eyes. Dany likes being in control and ordinarily, she is. But Jon is having none of that this evening, and he can see her curiosity winning out over her anger as she settles back with her elbows on the bed behind her, stretching lithely out before him. From this angle he can see every line of her body, the swell of her breasts against the too-thin fabric, the dip where it pools between her legs, and Jon wants nothing so much as to kiss her, stroke her, suck her there; but not yet.

He locks his eyes on hers, and unfastens his sword belt, letting it fall to the floor with a clunk before kneeling in front of her. The porcelain skin of her thighs is close enough to kiss and his eyes rake over her, lingering at the hem of her gown that has ridden up to her knees. Dany is coy under Jon’s scrutiny, as she gathers the skirt of her dress in her hands, beginning to pull it up with agonizing slowness. Inch by inch her pale, flawless skin is revealed to him, and Jon leans in, watching enraptured as the silky smooth fabric rises away slowly, so bloody slowly, whispering along her legs as it goes.

Dany’s grin is equal parts devilish and demure, and Jon swallows, fighting to keep still and wait. But he wants her so much, craves her like a starving man craves a meal, and he is achingly hard for her in is too-tight leathers. He needs to touch her.

Able to resist no longer, he grasps her roughly by the hips, yanking her toward him so she is balanced on the edge of the bench, her legs hanging off. Jon’s palms brush up the smooth expanse of her flesh, stopping at the hem of the dress where it rests just below the meeting of her thighs. It is insolent and cruel, her teasing him like this, but it is perfect, delicious torture. She trembles under his hands and Jon longs to press his advantage, to part the burning core of her with his fingers so he can lick his way inside.

As if sensing his thoughts, Dany pulls the hem to her hips. Without any smallclothes she is revealed to him fully, and Jon blows out a breath. He can see Dany squirm with anticipation at the sound, her knees parting to invite him in.

He dips his head, fenced on either side by her soft thighs. Her head falls back, the long waves of her hair trailing on the bed, her back arching; and fuck, it is so tempting. Jon spreads her legs, almost dizzy at the sight of her glistening with arousal. “Fiendish woman,” he scolds, his voice rough and low. “For making me wait. I can see how much you want me, too.”

Dany doesn’t respond, just lifts her hips up to meet him, giving Jon room to slide his hands under her, to let her rest her weight in the strength of his arms. But still he takes his time, forcing himself to make it a tease of its own, watching as her breath hitches, her skin flushing all over. It would be so easy to tear away his own irksome clothing and barrel into her welcoming tightness. Instead he drops his head to trace his tongue along the delicate skin of her inner thigh.

Dany whimpers at the touch of Jon’s mouth. The rough stubble of his cheek scrapes against her sensitive flesh as he turns to kiss her other leg and she wriggles in the firmness of his grasp.

“Tell me what you want,” he orders, watching her, eyes pinched shut, nails digging into the cushions.

“You,” she pants. “You.”

She is so wet he can smell the heady scent of her on the air, can almost taste it, needs to taste her. So finally, finally he puts his mouth on her and Dany jerks at the first press of his tongue, sucking in a breath.

The carnal, familiar taste of her is its own reward and Jon sighs against her flesh. “You have,” he purrs, lifting her closer as she crosses her legs around his neck, “the sweetest cunt.”

“You’re filthy,” she says breathlessly, tangling her fingers in his hair and pulling it loose from its tie at the nape of his neck. Jon hardly notices, fixated only on her pleasure, dragging his tongue up through the slick folds of her. He rides out the sharp buck of her hips, holding her fast and stroking his tongue up to swirl across the sweetest spot, teasing it with the very tip before laving down on her again, again.

Jon frees a hand, the roughness of his scarred fingers sliding along her thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. He slips his hand between her thighs, his fingertips grazing her teasingly before he dips two finger inside. Dany lets out a breath at the fullness, clenching around him, warm and snug.

“Jon,” she moans, long and low, and the sound of his name on her lips shatters the last of his restraint to draw it out any longer. He pumps his fingers roughly into her, greedy for the desperate little sounds she makes when she is near the height of her pleasure. His lips close over her in a sucking kiss, and Dany rocks shamelessly against him, begging unintelligibly.

He glances up to see her shining hair plastered to her face with sweat, droplets of it glistening on her skin, the dress clinging to her with a lover’s caress. She is never more lovely than in these raw moments.

“I want you so much,” Jon murmurs, crooking his fingers inside as he speaks and eliciting a plaintive cry from Dany. “Always wanted you, from the beginning. So beautiful.” His lips seal the words against her flesh and she arches and shudders, coming with his name in her throat. And it is everything to him, knowing he is the one to make her feel this way, to make her thrash and cry out and beg, him to leave her pleased and sated and breathless.

“Jon,” she manages after a moment, catching her breath. She reaches to rest a hand against his cheek. Her eyes are tender with affection when they find his, and her smile is soft and lazy. “Thank you.”

Jon chuckles. “You don’t need to thank me. I like it,” he explains, urging her back down. He pushes his boots off with his feet and climbs over her until his face hangs above hers. “Because you enjoy it,” he goes on, and she giggles.

“Yes. I certainly do.”

“Because I enjoy it. Feeling you, tasting you, seeing you like this.” Even now, his chin damp with her, her legs still splayed wide, Dany glances bashfully away at his words. “And because you’re mine. Because I’m yours.” He takes her hand from his cheek, placing a soft kiss to her wrist. “Because I love you.”

And he does, desperately. Dany is everything he never knew he needed: a partner, a confidant, a friend, an equal, and of course, a lover. When he met Daenerys Targaryen it suddenly made perfect sense why he had to die, to leave the Watch, why he was brought back. To find this woman, his pillar of strength, this person who needs him as much as he needs her. The Mother of Dragons, the greatest queen the realm would ever know. A savior.

But not today. Today she is all human, sighing contentedly as he takes her by the hips and scoots her up the bed, depositing her over the pillows before lying down beside her.

“This was unexpected,” Dany remarks, rising up on an elbow. She looks down at her dress, now almost entirely translucent, sweat adhering it to her skin. “I suppose I should wear it more often. Maybe you’ll pay better attention at council meetings.”

Jon laughs, squeezing her hand. “No! Absolutely not. I’d ever get anything done. And your lords! They wouldn’t be able to take their eyes off you.”

“Jon! Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”

“No,” he answers, a bit indignant. “Of course not.”

“Good. There’s no need. There will never be anyone else.”

Jon grins. “Is that so?”

“Because you’re the only one who can keep up.” Dany winks, grabbing him by the front of his jerkin and pulling him in for a kiss. “And I believe it’s your turn now.”

Sorry this is so long . . . and so explicit lol. Trying a more assertive Jon POV for fun :P Thanks for reading!

#jonerys #jonerysfics #jonerysnetwork #jonerys fics fest #jonerysonline #smut #jon x dany #fanfiction #my writing #myjd

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