#he's listed as both in different places??
racinggirl · a day ago
Love song || George Russell 63
type: one shot pairing: george russell x reader word count: 2.1k summary: meeting George took things to another level... requested: yes! ''I saw that your requests are open. Can you please do George Russell and singer reader. They meet at some GP or through Lewis (who sets them up since George is secretly one of her biggest fans). Both of them are shy and smitten with each other. Maybe at the end she dedicates song to him and all grid teases him since he can't believe it'' (by anon) Requests are OPEN warnings: teasing, anxiety?, first kiss, shy!george, stage, camera's. yeah that's about it. notes: my first fic with Georgie boy, hope you enjoy!
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Having a celebrity crush wasn’t an odd thing, most people had one. However, it became an entire different story when you actually were able to meet and talk to your celebrity crush. Nervous, anxious, but in a good way. That’s what the situation was for the Mercedes driver number 63, George Russell.
‘’There she is.’’ Lewis Hamilton, George’s teammate patted his fellow Brit on the shoulder, a teasing smile on his face as he watched you step into the paddock. The sun shining every so brightly, creating almost an angelic moment when you took some steps forward. Flashes were being shot at you, reporters, interviewers and photographers quickly gathering around you.
Y/n Y/l/n, a woman in her beginning twenties, but with a long list of achievements, awards and millions of streams on Spotify. A singer, and a bloody good one, that’s for sure. Especially according to George, who almost jumped into the skin of a teenage girl when they’d see Ariana Grande walking. George was a fan, a big one, always telling Lewis whenever you had come out with a new song, album or even a tour.
Media was the one thing holding him back from freaking out, not wanting to scare you or look like a fool in front of you or his fans.
‘’Lewis, hi.’’ You gave the seven time world champion a friendly hug, receiving a kiss on your cheek as well.
‘’y/n, good to have you here, how was the flight?’’
‘’Amazing, long, but amazing.’’ You shot him a nice smile, one that was almost blindingly stunning, and Lewis let out a chuckle.
‘’Yeah, Miami isn’t next door is it?’’
‘’Oh no, definitely not.’’
Once they were sat down at a table in the Mercedes hospitality to enjoy their lunch, Lewis introduced George, since he had returned from one of his interviews.
‘’y/n, this is George, my team mate. George, y/n.’’
You looked at the tall British gal, hair nicely done, even though he had just taken off his Mercedes cap, beautiful eyes, strong hands. You let go of his hand, taking a step back to sit back into your seat, George sitting down in front of you.
‘’Very nice to meet you George.’’
That was the start of a new friendship, a great friendship, because it was just a friendship, at first. You were both very busy, especially with your new tour coming up, you had to take care of a lot of stuff, because it was the first time you could actually give a tour, due to the COVID-19 pandemic. However, you did find some small gaps to join more GP’s, receiving text messages and invitations from no other than George Russell.
Hey you!
Georgie, hi!
What you up to next weekend?
Hmm, nothing much except for a meeting on Friday, why?
Good, good.
Good? What do you have up your sleeve Russell?
Nothing, but I think you should definitely check your mail.
Okaaay… give me a sec.
Ahw, noway, Monaco?!
The one and only 😊
You’re the best dear x
Only for you 😉
Yeah, you could say some of your texts got flirty, however, that friendship you thought was simply platonic and fun, soon made you realize you were falling for him, slowly, but surely.
So here you were, Monaco, Monte Carlo, the place to be for the fanciest and most iconic GP of the motor racing world. This was your third time attending a GP, the first one being Miami, second was Silverstone, both Lewis and George’s home race, and now it was time to shine in Monaco.
George however still got nervous every time he saw you, even though you had become great friends. He preferred texting, because then you wouldn’t notice his flushed cheeks whenever someone spoke about you, or even worse, whenever you came close to him, to either hug him, or congratulate him on another outstanding performance in his Mercedes. He was crushing on you, hard.
‘’Hey.’’ You embraced the tall driver, arms wrapped around him as he did the same in return, staying in each other’s arms for probably a little too long because Lewis made very clear there were others around as well by shrugging, immediately looking around after.
‘’Hi Lewis.’’ You walked towards him, arms wrapped around him as well as he hugged you back.
‘’You still remember me, that’s good.’’
‘’Oh come on, how could I ever forget the man that invited me to my very first Grand Prix.’’
‘’Seemingly someone else already invited you here before I even had the chance.’’ He eyes George with a teasing smile painted on his face. Georges cheeks turned a light shade of pink when he met your eyes, you biting the inside of your cheek to prevent your blush as well.
‘’Anyways, I need to go, duty calls.’’
‘’Right, bye Lewis.’’
‘’See you around, mate.’’
You looked at George as he said goodbye to his team mate and directed his attention to you the moment you were alone.
‘’Thanks for the invitation, again.’’ You looked down at your shoes, trying to hide the blush and the warmth that was climbing up your face. Yeah, you were definitely developing a crush on him, because the moment he let out that chuckle you felt your legs get weaker, a shiver going down your spine as you looked up into his bright eyes, perfection.
‘’No problem, you told me how you liked Monaco.’’ You started walking alongside him, making your way through the paddock together, chatting and talking to one another. It was so natural, talking to him, you could tell him anything, even the most boring things such as how you weren’t even sure what to pack to your trip to Monaco, and he’d still listen as if you were talking about one of the most amazing experiences you had ever had.
It was race day, here in Monaco, and you were walking inside the paddock at around 1 pm, photographers and reporters gathering around you immediately, asking you all sorts of questions about your upcoming album, but also about your friendship with George, since it hadn’t really been something that didn’t go unnoticed by the media. A famous driver, spending time with one of the most well-known singers, that would surely make the front pages.
However, you were a celebrity, meaning you knew exactly what to say and what not, how to deal with the questions, without sounding rude or giving away too much. It made you wonder, because what exactly was going on between you and George. Sure you had become great friends over the past 5 months, texting almost every week, spending time outside track by attending parties of one of his mates on the grid. You even joined him and his friends in Greece, since you were in Italy for business, you decided a quick trip to spend 4 days in the sunny Greece would be perfect for you to relax.
As you were walking through the paddock, you saw some of the directors and CEO’s of the Monaco track walking around, talking to multiple people, and then walking directly towards you. You greeted them, kindly, and accepted their offer.
‘’That’s P2 mate, P2, great job! Outstanding!’’
You and many others were celebrating the impressive performance of George, pulling his Mercedes from 5th place to an incredible P2, in Monaco. Lewis however had to retire his car because of a collision that happened in the first lap, causing many cars to DNF.
‘’You need to get up there.’’ Lewis was standing next to you with a smile, making you let out a chuckle, hugging him and pulling away.
‘’Congratulate him for me, will you.’’
And with that, you made your way towards the stage, ready to perform your new single. The moment you were walking through the paddock this afternoon, and the directors of the track walked your way they gave you an offer, which you accepted. Their singer had cancelled, being sick, and they desperately needed a substitute. When they heard you would be here today, they didn’t hesitate once to ask you to fulfil that role.
So here you were, backstage, getting ready for the post-race show here in Monaco, performing your single which would get released later this day. You of course had to discuss some things with your manager, but that all went well.
The podium ceremony soon finished and George kept looking for you, a small frown appeared on his face however when he saw you weren’t in the Mercedes garage, hospitality or motorhome.
‘’She’s performing mate.’’ Lewis walked towards George with a chuckle.
‘’What? Now? Here?’’ George was confused, because he did not know you were going to perform, you did not inform him on that, however, you did not even know this was happening yourself till you stepped foot into the paddock this afternoon.
George had gotten ready, making his way to the stage along with Lando, Alex and Charles.
‘’Mate, what’s the rush?’’ Lando was walking next to George, Alex and Charles behind them as they stood in between the crowd, in the front, near the other teams. His friends knew about his crush on you, and they loved to tease him about it, nudging his side whenever they saw you walking in the paddock or when someone mentioned your name.
‘’Shut up.’’
You stepped onto the stage, the microphone in your hand, your hair and make up done professionally, as well as a change of your outfit, something more fitted for a stage performance. Before the music started, you smiled at the crowd, waving and placing the microphone in the stand in front of you.
‘’Hi everyone! How are you doing?’’ You heard the crowd cheering, loudly, people screaming, clapping, whistling, it was one of the best feelings in the world. And then you saw him, silent, just looking up to where you were standing. The heat climbed up again, making you blush and look down at your feet.
‘’I hope you enjoyed that race, what a race that was though!’’ You smiled, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear with your fingers.
‘’It’s time for you to get a listen to my new single, and I actually wanted to dedicate this to someone I know, someone that has grown to be an important person to me these last couple of months.’’ You looked around the crowd and stopped when your eyes met his, a smile on both his and your lips.
After your performance George and his friends walked back, the only reason for him to be there near the stage was your performance, and his friends knew. They teased him, since George was stunned the moment you decided to speak out you dedicated this song to someone. Obviously nobody knew about your - very close - friendship, because you were very good at keeping it a secret, the both of you.
‘’That was amazing.’’ George took you in his arms, the both of you being in his room in the Mercedes motorhome.
‘’Thank you, your performance on track today wasn’t bad either. Congratulations.’’
‘’Thank you.’’
‘’I hoped you liked the song.’’ You mumbled as you pulled your arms around him a little tighter, just to feel him that tiny bit closer.
‘’Are you joking? I loved it, you should know that by now.’’ He smiles, the vibrations of his chuckles sending shivers down your spine. He then pulled away from the hug, making the both of you staring into each other’s eyes for a few seconds, him lifting his arm to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Your heart started to beat faster by his touch, your gaze lowering to look at the floor as your lip was caught in between your teeth. You felt his thumb on your cheek, rubbing it softly as you let out a soft sigh.
‘’You’re amazing, y/n.’’ He whispered, the only sound you heard this moment was your own heartbeat which was a lot louder than usual, even louder than before you would hit the stage, because how crazy it seemed, you felt more nervous now than on stage.
‘’So are you, George.’’ You whispered, looking up slowly from the ground as you felt his fingers under your chin, making you look up into his eyes.
‘’You can kiss me.’’ And that was the permission he needed, because that’s when his lips met yours. The kiss was tender, sweet, delicate and passionate, his lips were soft, just like you imagined and his strong hands rested on your hips, pulling you even closer to his own body. It was magical, like a symphony, the perfect melody for your love song.
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moonlitinks · a day ago
what fate decides [taehyung x reader] [part 2]
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join tag list for future works | masterlist of all works previous | next drabble
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 become a member on my ko-fi page! or buy me a coffee 💞
summary: You're a beta in love with your best friend, alpha Kim Taehyung. Except you know that you can never fulfill his dominating urges, so you draw a line between the two of you. Cherish his small kisses and embraces until an omega has to come along.
Until one day, you're not a beta anymore. Now, it's nearly impossible to resist the protective, endearing alpha in front of you.
pairing: taehyung x reader
chapter tags/warnings: angst, self-depricating thoughts, fluff, alpha/omega, a/b/o dynamics, best friends to lovers, slow burn ish, smut, mature, swearing, car accidents
tags: @theblueslytherin @tatyhend @tinyoonsblog @vsmith0099 @midnightsora @cupcakesxdomjoon @likeshatteredrainbowglass @scuzmunkie @kookiwu @xjiminsthighsx @dreadity @lovelytaes-blog @noooodlllleeee @ggukkieland @namjoonshug
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You remember how he used to creep through your window and curled up next to you. Your bed creaked as you let him settle, but every sound—as he took off his shoes, chucked off his jacket, ran a hand through his hair, all this illuminated in the moonlight—shattered your heart. It’s as fragile as glass whenever he’s around, and wonder how many more times you’d have to mend it together until it’s just not possible. 
“What’s it like?” You had to ask. “Being an Alpha?”
You’re sure that your memory is different from his. All you remember is coming home one day, ready to throw the kid out the window because he annoyed you all day, placing pranks for you around the school and sticking his tongue out. It’s not fair that the sunbae’s loved him too, and that he got away with everything if he smiled wide enough. The boxy smile and crinkling in his eyes were enough to melt any girl’s heart, including yours. Though you expected to confront him about that and skipping classes, his mother confronted you—telling you he was an alpha. 
He was sixteen then. You seventeen. But by then, you were well-aware of the impacts of designation. Enough so that you left without asking questions. 
His arms went around your waist. Mouth near the back of your neck, him burying his face in your shoulder. Legs tangling up with yours. As a beta, senses weren’t as heightened, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t smell someone else on him. Mijun. And it made you want to throw up. Because it’s all too clear what he spent the night doing—calming his urges down.
Well, not urges, but… yeah. It was mutual for the two of them, and you liked Mijun as an acquaintance. She was one of the few people who treated you nicely and hung around Taehyung at the same time. 
“What’s it like?” He asked in return. “Being a Beta?”
“Dull,” you responded. Hopeless. Beta’s and Alpha’s don’t go together. They just don’t. Biology demands for an Omega to be with an Alpha. Same with the other way around. You, you were like the leftovers the world created. The followers—the secretary in the movie that cleaned up after everybody’s mess, but was never given credit for it. 
At least, that’s how it felt as a teenager. 
“Uncontrollable,” he told you. Added, “The only time I feel like I’m in my right mind is with you.”
Yeah, because you’re logical. There’s nothing more to this exchange except that you two will be friends. And it only made the bitter taste in your tongue get worse. 
That part didn’t change. 
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There are certain telltale signs—other than the additional signs of aggressiveness, stronger scents that even you can pick up, and constant growls—that accompany Taehyung when he’s about to go into rut. For one, the idol becomes impossible overbearing, becoming attached to your hip and hovering over you like you’re either pregnant or weak. 
This is one of the many reasons I didn’t come to Korea, you think, as the alpha comes in with several grocery bags. Like come on, you are a Beta. Capable of carrying both an Alpha and Omega on your backs, which is why usually you had positions where you were the mediator. It’s a talent, multitasking—doing jobs and calming down both so called levels simultaneously. 
“Did you want to eat something?” 
“No,” Taehyung mutters, scowling at the string of hoodies on the ground. In your defense, you were entranced in a scene, and refused to be sucked out of it. Cleaning up after yourself would cause you to lose all the ideas you came up with plot wise. “I’m cooking tonight.” 
“You learned how to cook?” You laugh. 
He scowls. “Of course I learned how to cook. Who’s going to take care of you? All you do is order to-go food.”
It’s not just the food that’s annoying him—you can tell. It’s the fact that the two of you fought over where you would stay. Taehyung kept arguing that his apartment was available, but you didn’t want to take advantage. And yeah, you understand that it’s stupid not accepting a free space where you don’t have to pay rent, but then when you think about how the media would portray it, it all sounds wrong. So you reside in a small apartment a bit larger than your studio, and let him come over. 
“Hey!” The protest rings loud and clear. “I can cook a great ramen, where the noodles aren’t overcooked and there’s just the right amount of broth. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“No, because ramen isn’t healthy.” 
“If you’re going to be like this, find an omega to spoil, Taehyung ah,” you joke. Your heart clenches, but you force the smile to remain on your face. It’s better this way, to create distance. Now that you can’t do that by land or ocean, you have to do it through words. 
Yes, it’s painful, pushing Taehyung away. But you’ve lived with the fantasy of a beta and alpha being compatible for years, only for it to be crushed whenever he slept with another girl, or snapped at you through his ruts. Just like the alpha could be gentle, he could be vicious, too. And it wasn’t—isn’t—your job to calm him down in that area. 
It’s his omega’s.
98% of marriages between an alpha and beta end in divorce, you tell yourself when the idol clenches his jaw. Taehyung and you won’t be any different, not that he’s even interested in you in the first place. 
“So, what are you going to cook?”
“Curry,” he mumbles, running a hand through his hair. The other hand is placed on the small of your back as he kisses your shoulder, then your forehead. “Go rest, love. You look like you’re about to topple over.”
Yeah, because the mattress that you bought—one of the cheaper ones—isn’t as great as the one in America. And as you’re getting older, your back is only annoying you more. So you lay on the sofa as Taehyung cuts the green onions and starts chopping the carrots in silence. When he started cooking, you can’t even recall. All of a sudden, he just starting to grow taller than you did, and take care of you like you used to take care of him. 
It’s unsettling, really. 
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You want to scream.
In joy, of course.
Heading home from a cafe, you’re beaming, nearly tripping over the sidewalk as you run home. You managed to finish plotting your novel, and are finally—finally—satisfied at how it would turn out when you start writing it. And today is the day—it has to be. You’re running home when the idol himself calls. 
“You have a meeting today with the PD?” You ask. “Or do you not have anything better to do than annoy me?”
“Ha,” Taehyung mutters. “Funny. I was wondering—” That’s when you spot him. Wearing a coat and dress pants, along with a pair of sneakers by the streetlamp. The wind’s blowing, sending the December snow scattering into your eyes, but you squint through it to get a better glance at him. Your nose is cold, and your teeth are chattering, and you should be home. But here you are, picking Taehyung up. There’s a scarf around his neck, but you know it’s not from him. It’s not his. Shivering, your hands are too numb to press the end call button. 
Taehyung’s eyebrows knit together, but then he glances up. His eyes are smiling already when he steps forward. And you don’t think. You run.
Stupid, stupid mistake. The light might be green, but the snow’s heavy. And your timing has always been terrible. Your legs ache, but then you slam into something. Lights—yellow? white?—flash in front of your eyes, and you don’t know what happens. You’re just on the ground. Your bones feel like they’re shattered, and you whimper. It’s more than numbness you’re feeling now.
Fire. Fire is spreading all throughout your body, and it’s like something has knocked out your voice, making it impossible for you to do anything. 
Then fear. It sets in like the ice pricking your skin. You want to thrash, but you can’t. 
“Love? Love. Love,” he repeats. First with the nickname he gave you, then your actual one. Hovers above you, calling your name, voice hoarse and throaty, panic laced in the edges. Just like always, you’re drawn into Taehyung, your senses tunneling in to focus on nothing but him. Even the sirens drift into the background, along with the other hands that are grabbing you, checking your pulse, making sure you’re alive. 
“Stay with me!”
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BONUS (cause I was bored and wanted to stay in this drabble for a little longer):
Providing for you pleases Taehyung. You don’t know it, of course, but the way you unconsciously react to him—eyes brightening, lips curving upwards, and head tilting back—it tells his alpha that you’re submitting to him, eager for his return. Sometimes, before he can think better of not ruining the friendship the two of you established, he’ll lean in and wrap his arms around you, burying his nose in the crook of your neck.
Fighting the urge to mark and bite it. Leave hickeys around in the area so everyone—including you—can know you’re his. For now, he has to provide indirectly. Making sure that you have a nice apartment, one that isn’t blocked by other buildings and has the right amount of sunlight. You also like the garden balconies, so he gets you one. 
Anything you want, anything you need, it’s yours. 
“We could sleep. It’s just the same bed,” he protests. “We’ve done it since we were kids. Fuck, we take naps together even now with you and top of me.”
“That’s on the sofa.” 
“And what’s the difference of it being on a bed?” 
“There is no difference,” you hesitate. “But you are in rut, Taehyung.”
“Noona,” he sighs. “I’m not a teenager anymore. I’m in tune with my alpha, and I know when my rut will hit me hardest. I promise I’ll be out by then, but I just want to cuddle with someone who’s not my members at all. So come upstairs, okay? I’ll be waiting.” 
He’s not wrong—he is comfortable. Legs tangled together, you let him play with the strands of your hair, arms wrapping around his waist. You can hear his heartbeat, head laid directly over it. That, along with the soft coos his alpha makes, causes your eyes to grow drowsy. So when Taehyung pulls away for a second, you mumble incoherent words, something about your heating pad disappearing. 
And then the alpha hears it—the soft whines that settle when he molds himself to you again. It subsides in an instant, and his eyes widen when he takes in your closed eyes and parted lips. If anything, your beta is calling out to him, and though the two pairs—alpha and beta—aren’t usually mated, this itself shows that you’re attached to him. 
More than attached. Attracted. 
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absolutebl · 17 hours ago
Thai Food You Should Eat Because of BL
Firstly most of these dishes have multiple spellings in English (and also often many different names within Thailand). I just picked one spelling, that will be enough to do a search, if you want to find a recipe for yourself. 
Som Tum in What’s Zabb Man
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AKA Green Papaya Salad 
I think this is the one most people will know on this list. Unlike overseas, in Thailand there are many varieties of som tum (I’ve had an ocean-side version served with little blue crabs, raw and in the shell, AMAZING). It’s often a street food, and it’s usually quite spicy. You order by either asking the vendor (it’s traditionally served from market stalls just as we saw at the beginning of in this show) for a heat level or number of chilis. The ingredients are then pounded together with a massive mortar & pestle. The order and amounts of the different ingredients are chef-specific, so the variety and uniqueness is immense with this dish. There are fans of it who make a point of trying as many different versions in each city they visit as possible. Like being a wine taster.
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Som Tum highlights what I think is best about Thai food - it’s bright forward freshness and deep complexity of flavors. Som Tum is the firework-in-your-mouth of salads: sour, sweet, salty, spicy, umami, herbaceous. It’s a spectacular dish (which has been ill served by it’s ubiquitousness outside of Thailand). It should be made fresh, (this is NOT a slaw), because if it sits at all the elements become soggy and the flavor muddled. 
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What’s Zabb Man emphasized the important aspects of this dish. Its spiciness and its freshness, the uniqueness of its flavor, not to mention how each chef makes it his own. 
After all when Poon goes missing, Athip finds him again because, after one taste of his Som Tum, he know’s who’s in the kitchen. 
Kao Soi in Bite Me
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AKA Northern Thai Curry Noodle AKA Chiang Mai Curry Noodles 
Did I do this post because I want to talk about this dish? Probubly. Here in the states it’s a rare to find on offer but it’s one of my absolute favorites. 
I’m obsessed with diaspora foods in general - AKA fusion foods that highlight immigrant, colonial occupation, and/or blended communities. Lamb Vindaloo and Banh Mi are some famous examples of this. There was one banh mi place I found in Nor Cal run by a Chinese/Vietnamese couple that made a char siu pork + pâté banh mi, it was WILD and wicked good! Sorry, I digress.  
This is a Northern Thai dish, common in Chang Mai, influenced by both Burmese (Myanmar) cuisine and local Chinese communities. It’s wildly variable by family and by region. This is also possibly one of my favorite foods. It’s notable in that it is one of the few traditional Thai dishes you will find served with chopsticks. (When I order it here in the states that’s one of the things I look for.) 
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It is a noodle soup/stew. Can be rice, egg, or flour noodles, usually ramen style (but sometimes fettuccine), topped with a thick coconut forward curry broth, stewed dark meat chicken (usually on the bone) and onion. It has fried crispy flour noodles on top and is served with pickled vegetables, extra spices, fresh herbs, lime wedges, and raw shallots (or some combination thereof) - either on the top or on the side (banchan style). The curry element usually has more in common with Chinese curry powers (like those used for Singapore noodles) than red or green Thai curries. It combines what we would think of as traditional Thai flavor profiles with Chinese, and can also use Indian spices. It is a very layered dish, with more depth and earthiness and slightly less brightness than a lot of other Thai food, it tends to have a rounded heat to it (hitting all of the mouth, like Indian cuisine). I am a particular fan of the pickled greens element. 
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Bite Me is not a great BL but Aek sharing his Chiang Mai roots with Chef Aue, most specifically around this dish, is key to the plot (what little there is). This is not a dish that is served in Chef Aue’s restaurant. 
Khai Palo in Enchanté 
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AKA 5 Spice Pork & Egg Stew
This is the dish Theo remembers from his childhood that Akk’s family cooks for him. It’s a fascinating dish because it’s retains a very strong Chinese influence and is noted for using soy sauce as its salt element (rather than the more ubiquitous fish sauce) and for NOT being spicy.
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It’s also often associated with children or childishness and comfort food. It’s most commonly found as a street food or homemade, and is rare in restaurants outside of Thailand. It has a similar flavor profile to Moo Gratiem which is one of my favorite dishes. (It’s that white peppercorn and garlic thing = NOM.) It’s also very easy to make, I recommend it. 
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In Enchanté this dish is a plot point and is interesting because it highlights both the time when Theo was last in Thailand (as a child), Akk’s interest in courting and caring for him, and Theo’s somewhat childish nature/behavior.  
Gaeng Tai Pla  in Close Friend 2
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AKA pickled fish sour soup 
A famous dish developed in the fishing communities of Southern Thailand. Traditionally it involves pickled fish bladder (Tai Pla) + large chunks of dried fish meat, Thai eggplant, bamboo shoots, and/or seasonal greens, with a spice profile similar to tom yum (lemongrass, lime, shrimp paste, red chili). 
I've never been lucky enough to eat this, but it's on my hit list. I think I could make something like it, but I can’t get hold of the the Tai Pla for love nor money, so I guess I have to wait until I get there.
Luk Choup in La Cuisine (& Until We Meet Again) 
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AKA no other name, really, but this is also the main characters name in La Cuisine, ลูกชุบ (translation, coated pieces) but the meaning of this dessert is “loved by all, or adored.” This aspect of the name is a plot point in the series. Choup’s older brother, aunt, and grandmother all refer to him as the family’s beloved one, or special one, or most loved. 
Luk Choup are tiny imitation fruits/vegetables (or occasionally star shapes) these are made of mung beans cooked with coconut milk and sugar. Once formed, they are dipped in gelatin and painted with food coloring to resemble other food. Recipe here.
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This one appeared multiple times in Until We Meet Again, on the bus, at the fair, and at the very end during Dean and Pharm’s separation.
I’ve eaten these.
Consistency wise the exterior is like a gummy but much tougher consistency, and with a bite to it. So like if you made jello into sheets but with too much gelatin. I’ve actually never had anything else to compare to this texture, perhaps like some of the bits in bubble teas? The interior is like very thick humus meets the inside of a peanut butter cup. 
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As for taste, the gel outside has no flavor and the inside tastes a lot like red bean paste. They are not very sweet.
Chor Muang in Until We Meet Again 
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AKA Blue Flower Dumpling
Chor Muang is a purple or blue flower-shaped dumpling that is savory, stuffed with a spiced minced chicken. These days it is a popular appetizer but it was once served as a dessert. Recipe here. 
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Chor Muang is a major catalyst food for the plot of Until We Meet Again. It is featured in a play starring Del and Manaow and is the reason Pharm meets and befriends Del. This allows him to start helping fix Dean’s strained family dynamic.
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Later he feeds this dumpling to Team, Win, and Dean in front of witnesses. This is the first time he feeds Dean (it will not be the last.)
I did a post all about the sweets in this show. 
Nom Yen  in SOTUS (also 2 Moons, 2 Moons 2) 
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AKA Pink Milk 
Pink milk is pretty ubiquitous in most Thai BL series. Technically, its origin for association with BL is the original y-novel of 2 Moons. However, most international watchers are familiar with it from SOTUS (more recently it has shown up associated with side characters in Nitman and Love Area). 
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After watching SOTUS and both 2 Moons installments I got curious. Here’s the full post I did on pink milk, how it’s made and my experience attempting to recreate it. I can see why it might be thought of as a childish drink, it reminded me a bit of birthday cake flavoring, ice cream bean, or cotton candy. It’s very sweet and not a whole lot else. 
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I haven’t learned the minutia yet but around ordering food in Thai but the Thai bestie always complains the monikers (also verbs?) for dishes have to do with what the dish is usually served it. So some dishes have names/consumption verbs that have to do with bowls and others with plates. 
Much as in English we would use the verb “drink” for broth but “eat” for soup. (And also argue about which one is appropriate under which circumstances.) 
To train your ear for BL:
gin = to eat or to have a meal (also under certain circumstances/sentance structures it slang for to sexually consume or fuck). See Pharm misuse this one in UWMA when Dean first visits his condo. 
khao or kao =  food but also actually rice, also a name and also third person he pronoun
talay = the ocean and also mixed seafood and a name 
pad = usually means a stir fried (dryer) dish 
pak = veggies! 
kai (sounds like gai) = chicken ไก่ but also egg ไข่ (yes they are different in intonation and spelling, but really I find it darn near impossible to hear the difference) 
A list of some common dishes is here. 
Please leave a comment if any other dish has shown up you want to talk about, because this is basically my favorite topic EVER. I love to eat and cook Thai food so, yeah. Also the oft mentioned Thai bestie is an AMAZING cook. I often act the part of her kitchen goblin. 
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amatxs · a day ago
because my love for you is higher than words, i’ve decided to fall silent ’ ( nizar qabbani )
With Scaramouche~? Also hiii! I love your writing, I hope you're having a wonderful day
inanis / scaramouche ( genshin impact ) ( because my love for you is higher than words, i've decided to fall silent ) a/n: prompt post ( x ). quote by nizar qabbani
that's what they tell him, this lonely balladeer, and he does not know which acts first : his fury or grief. it doesn't matter in the end, he realizes, and suddenly there's too much crimson splattered on the ground and a newfound silence in the summoning of thanatos. scaramouche sees a different type of red, feels something lodged in his throat. his eyes burn. they burn, burn, burn, and he hates it. because he knows this feeling, recognizes it as the cause of his damnation.
the echoes of your footsteps flood an empty corridor. your breath hitches at the sight before you, and he almost sees a flicker of sorrow in your eyes. there's regret in that look -- maybe pity, even, but it's not for him. you clear your throat, a worn smile on your lips as you place your hand out.
"let's go home, okay?"
so he takes your hand, lets you guide him to the place where he seeks refuge. the fireplace crackles, fills your home with superficial comfort. it's quiet now, a different kind of quiet -- one he can feel, drown in, and know that he'll still be okay at the end of the line. he shivers under your touch, notes how your fingertips idly trace the scars on his body. they're faint, now, but still known, and perhaps the remnants of such memories mean that he is something more than what he was originally meant to be.
he waits. he waits for you to mention the events that transpired earlier, waits for you to question what they said, why he killed them-- but you don't. you hum, gentle, and it eats him alive.
why do you not question him? cruelty lines his skin, evokes a wrath that ingrains itself with the beginnings of a puppet of failed creation. surely you cannot love something that is incapable of feeling anything but horrid things, can you?
"don't overthink it." you whisper, words nearly drowned out by the fire. your eyes meet purple hues, your countenance a mixture of too many things-- troubled, exhausted, yet kind all the same, adoration found in the slight curve of the lips. "don't think about what they said to you. it doesn't matter where we came from or who we were supposed to be."
he is trembling again. you feel it. your heart mourns for him and the origins of his being. it is a very terrible thing, knowing that you were created and abandoned for all the wrong reasons.
"what matters, then?" he asks, and there is hatred and bitterness in the words, but none of it aimed towards you. he doesn't know if his voice breaks, but if it does, you do not acknowledge it for the sake of his pride.
your fingers trail up his arm, find their way to his cheek. in your touch there is revival and renewal, but a puppet knows nothing else but the feeling of hollowness. your lips press against his for only a brief moment ; a ghost of a touch-- an affection that makes him feel more than he wants to.
you could tell him so easily, list a thousand reasons why there is brilliance in life, tell him that the significance of his creation doesn't define him. but such things come with caution and thought, and you know it is better for him to learn on his own.
you kiss his forehead, smile when he leans into this quiet love.
"i don't know," you tell him, but that's a lie, and that's okay, "but we'll find out together."
( he will, eventually, and you will walk the path to tranquility together. but you cannot lead him, so instead, you will walk beside him. )
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creepykuroneko · 2 days ago
Happy Asian American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month! Here are some books I highly recommend written Asian authors.
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1. Stories for punjabi widows ( sorry for not saying the full name of the book I don't want Tumblr to hide this post for " inappropriate material") by Balli Kaur Jaswal. This is not a collection of short stories. This is a novel set in London that focuses on law school drop out Nikki who is trying to pay the bills well finding her place in life. On a whim she takes up a teaching job at her local Sikh Community Center. Before she knows what's going on her students have hijacked the class and turned it into a writing workshop for their favorite scandalous subject. Full of love, humor, drama, trauma, and secrets, Nikki starts to understand the women in her community better and starts to ask the harder questions she's been ignoring her whole life. This book was a joy to read. Be forewarned there is both humor and heartbreak. Trigger warning: arranged marriages, child brides, bride burning, domestic violence, harassment, threat of violence, physical violence.
2) NOT your Sidekick by CB Lee. I love love love this book! A young adult novel set in the futuristic world. You have queer main characters, a comedic villain, loving and supportive parents, fear of not being good enough, confronting the model minority myth, having to compete with the gold star older sibling, this book hits on some really good issues. Jess is in high school and is the most average person in her family. Being the only person in her family who does not have super powers she's trying hard to not let anyone see how upset she is when she accepts the fact that she's never going to be a superhero. Determine to make her college application look good, she signs up for an internship. After signing a non-disclosure agreement she finds out she'll be interning for the local c-list super villain. Things aren't exactly as they seem though, the more research Jess starts to do, and the more she starts to think about it, she's convinced that the government is up to something and the superheroes are involved. Well I'll admit this is the type of story that you can immediately figure out how it's going to end from the first chapter that doesn't mean that it's not enjoyable. Trigger warning: racism
3. We hunt The Flame by Hafsah Faizal. This fantasy novel was a delightful fairytale rich in Arabic lore. Zafira is a hunter who is just trying to keep the people in her Village alive as they have no means to grow food or hunt on their own thanks to a curse that has taken over her country. Enter Nasir, the prince of death. An assassin who has to do his father's evil bidding. When Zafira meets a witch who sends her on a magical quest that should help restore magic to the land, the sultan sends his son after Zafira to intercept her quest. Alliances, foes, magic, mystery, the book keeps you guessing who's going to betray who up to the end. Trigger warning: violence, death.
4. Build your house around my body by Violet Kupersmith. Written by a mixed-race Vietnamese American author, this book is about loss, wanting to be accepted, wanting to belong, wanting to fit in and find community, as well as the emptiness left by colonization. The book takes place over about seventy years. It jumps around time periods and focuses on several different characters. Nothing is told in a linear fashion so I know some readers have been confused by this. Basically we learn about Vietnamese American Winnie who has moved to Vietnam and wants so badly to fit in and find her home amongst Vietnamese Nationals but she just doesn't fit in with Vietnamese society. We also follow the childhood of three best friends who grew up in Vietnam and learned about their eventual dirft apart as they enter adulthood. There is an orphan boy who is living under the tyranny of French Catholics and we hear about how he got to watch the French be chase out by the Japanese. Then those Vietnamese children who were under French rule became oppressed by Japanese colonisation. Missing women, people looking to sell Vietnamese women as brides for foreigners all over the world, a ghost, plantations, build your house around my body feels like one big Vietnamese ghost story. Trigger warning: child abuse, violence towards women, murder, death, exploitation of people.
5. In the Miso Soup by Ryu Murakami. Kenji is an unlicensed translator and tour guide for tourist in Tokyo. One day Kenji gets a American client who makes him very uneasy. Most of the book takes place in Kenji's mind as he contemplates what's going on in the world around him and whether or not his client is acting weird or is just being an obnoxious American. With a violent serial killer on the loose and many coincidences piling up Kenji's paranoia might be justified. Well there's not much plot to the book itself, I really suggest it because of all of its social commentary. Although published in the 90s, it deals with Timeless issues that are still culturally and universally relevant to this day. Issues like sexism, exploitation of sex workers, cultural identity, domestic violence, xenophobia, loneliness, poverty, consumerism, are just a handful of the subjects this book touches on. There is a moment in the book i like where the tourist tells Kenji that he is surprised to see the Japanese youth dress the exact same way that African-American youth dress in New York. Even Kenji has a moment of realization. In the beginning of the book he is quick to condemn teenage girls who become sex workers to pay the bills, saying that if they weren't out at night with adult men they would not get hurt but by the end of the book he gets mad at how everybody always blames the girls in these situations and never blames the adult men who attacked them. Trigger warning: gore, mutilation, Bloodshed, violence, body parts being sliced off, murder, this book is not for the faint of heart. If you seen the 1990s Japanese horror film the Audition, Ryu also wrote the Audition novel. In the Miso soup follows a similar style of it's a slow build-up to the scary scene.
6. Star Daughter by Shveta Thakrar. If your fans of Neil gaiman's Stardust you'll like Star daughter. Sheetal is the daughter of a South Asian man and a literal star. Her mother came down from the heavens and fell in love with her father but when Sheetal was a child her mom returned to the heavens. As her 17th birthday draws near, Sheetal is unable to control her new powers, and ends up accidentally injuring her father. Wanting to correct her mistake, Sheetal and her best friend travel to the mysterious Night Market to try to find a cure. Instead they end up in the heavens where her mom resides and finds that her maternal side of the family are extorting her. In exchange for healing her father they want Sheetal to be their champion in a competition that will decide who gets to rule the heavens for the next millennia. Lies, family secrets, tragedy, love, Beautiful lore, and even more beautiful outfits, this fairy tale is a lovely young adult novel. Trigger warning: abuse, torture, mental health decline, blood
7. Iron Widow by Xiran Jay Zhao. A mix of folklore, sci-fi, fantasy, and historical fiction, if you're a fan of Pacific Rim I recommend Iron Widow. This book is very fast-paced from the get-go there's a battle, death, and bloodshed from the very beginning. Wu Zetian is the main protagonist of the story. On a quest to avenge her dead sister, Wu Zetian isn't going to let anyone get in her way, not her family, not her best friend, not the government, not the patriarchy, not even the aliens invading the planet. Li Shimin is the sexy but scary inmate with a mysterious past, on death row for murdering his entire family, who finds himself unwillingly being partnered up with Wu Zetian. Gao Yizhi is the rich son of one of the wealthiest men in the country and he's not afraid to rub it in your face if you piss him off. In fact my favorite line from this book comes from Gao, " you can't kill me, I'm rich!". He's very self aware and also Wu's best friend who wants to help keep her alive. As the three characters who are completely different come to rely on one another they end up uncovering multiple conspiracies and forming a wonderful polyamorous Triad. Trigger warning: mentions of sexual assault, death, abusive family, torture, violence towards women
8. Arsenic and Adobo by  Mia P. Manansala follows the shameful life of Lila as she unwillingly returns to her small home town to live with her auntie after she is unable to get a job with her college degree and a bad breakup. Her tia Rosie runs a Filipino restaurant and is being harassed by the local food critic. Unfortunately for Lila the annoying food critic is also her ex-boyfriend. Things get worse when he dies at her aunt's restaurant and shenanigans ensue from there. Full of love, Millennial and Gen Z humor, lots of delicious food, and unapologetically Filipino this book is definitely not your grandma's murder mystery. Bonus points, there is some recipes at the end of the book. Trigger warning: death, murder, mentions of addiction.
9. The Bone People by Keri Hulme. Kerewin is a painter and indigenous Maori woman living in isolation in New Zealand. One day she finds a mute white child named Simon in her house. No one really knows much about Simon. He washed up on the beach one day after a shipwreck and doesn't talk. He is still able to communicate with other characters. He is both kind and loving but also prone to temper tantrums, violent outbursts, and stealing. Joe is a mixrace widower who takes on the responsibility of being a foster father for Simon but due to his alcoholism he abuses and beat Simon. As the three characters confront their own identity issues and trauma, they come to love one another and form a family together. This book is unsettling but at the same time heart-warming. Trigger warning: violence, alcoholism, child abuse.
10. The Vegetarian by Han Kang. Set in South Korea, this psychological drama takes place in 3 parts, all from the different points of view of Yeong-hye's relatives. Yeong-hye decides she is going to become a vegetarian one day. This decision does not come about in a quiet subtle way but rather radical in your face shock as her husband walks into the kitchen one day to find meat on the floor and in the trash can as she announces they will no longer have meat in their house. From her husband's point of view we find out that he is an unreliable narrator as it's clear he's pretty toxic, possibly even abusive towards his wife and constantly belittles her. In her brother-in-law's prospective he sees Yeong-hye as very attractive and wishes that his perfect Korean model wife was more like her sister. I won't give away any spoilers from the final part which is told from her sisters perspective but I will say it is sad. Ultimately the book is about conformity and how much Yeong-hye has had her life ripped away from her by her family, friends, and Society. Trigger warning abuse, toxic relationships, family abuse, attempted suicide, blood, medical abuse, mental health issues.
That's all for now. Have you read any of these books? Do you like any of them? Got any books to recommend for AAPI month?
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abrilstevens · a year ago
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kingdom-of-unity · a month ago
I have a “this disney junior show brings me comfort” and “psychoanuts brings me comfort” crossover that I’m like DYING to talk about despite the fact I hardly have much figured out and also like it would have no demographic here unless ya’ll mfs like T.O.T.S.
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sheabutterskyes · 3 months ago
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The Mask of White Waters
LXII | Warden of the Amber Divide
– – –
Isla had wandered into the village as unthreateningly as possible – nervously waiting for the moment someone would recognize her as an outsider and strike her down before she could explain herself.
But that moment didn’t come – even when she gently reached out to a passerby on a quiet road.
The man with dark braided hair stopped, offering her his full attention with an unhurried nod of the head.
“There’s been an accident,” she pointed the direction she had come from, “I-I don’t know – I’m not sure what to-,”
“Someone’s hurt?”
She swallowed.
“Someone’s dead.”
He looked her up and down, his eyes lingering where she knew there was blood stains. But he nodded again calmly.
“Are you hurt?”
Isla shook her head, and he breathed a relieved ‘good’ before waving her along.
“Follow me,”
She followed him further into the village, turning down an alley and stopping in front of a tall three-story building.
“Wait here, I’ll be just a moment.”
The man gave a few heavy knocks on the door, before opening it and racing up a steep stairway.
Isla wiped at her eyes, her breath shaky.
She wished to be anywhere else. Alone and away from the gaze of those that could harm her or judge her.
When the door opened again, two others were following after the man with braids.
“Someone’s dead?” a tall blonde man asked her, looking at her directly.
She nodded.
“You know this person?”
She hesitated but nodded again.
“Village and region?”
She opened her mouth in silence, not knowing what to say.
He turned, speaking lowly to the young man who had followed him, his voice blending into the background as Isla’s focus became stuck on the stairs.
“Where did you leave them?”
She flinched as the man with braided hair tapped her shoulder.
She pointed towards where she had come from, “By the stream.”
“You’re not going to ask what happened?” asked the younger man.
The blonde smiled at her as she turned to look at him.
“That’s not for you to worry about right now, is it? Please do what I asked and return here when you can.”
He shooed the others away with a few more quietly spoken words, leaving the two of them alone.
He gestured to the stairs through the open door, and she quietly took a seat on one of the steps.
“I can’t say that I’ve handled a situation exactly like this before,” he began. “But right now I’m most concerned about you.”
“I’m not hurt,” she assured.
He sighed.
“I’m…,” she took a few measured breathes, searching for the word to describe how she was feeling. But even she wasn’t entirely sure.
“You’re exhausted and shocked by the looks of it. Tell me what I can do for you.”
She didn’t know how to answer that either.
“Well. At least come upstairs while we wait. If you think of anything, let me know.”
Isla leaned aside as he slowly began to ascend the stairs, turning to watch him reach the top before getting to her feet and following after him.
He waited for her at the top, gesturing to the room that opened up to the left when she hesitated.
“Make yourself comfortable.”
With that, he walked off, moving to a tall table littered with various sizes of pots, some filled with soil, and some empty. There were satchels labeled with what Isla assumed to be seeds, some which had fallen beneath the table near his feet, along with clumps of soil and crumpled papers.
The room was small and cluttered, but the high ceiling kept it from feeling cramped. Elongated windows lined the wall, letting in natural light and illuminating the lineup of potted plants on narrow tables beneath them. Isla thought she could identify some herbs among them – they were amazingly vibrant and healthy.
In the corner was… what seemed to be a makeshift kitchen area, but the majority of the space was filled with plants and books and lounges that were stacked with items. There were several doors leading to other rooms, and she idly wondered if the rooms were just as filled. The air smelled faintly of spices and fresh soil, and as she moved slowly towards a chair that was filled with less things than the others, she could see faded ink stains on the fabric.
Isla glanced at the man before carefully setting the books and jars down on the floor beside the chair.
He was filling the pots with careful attention, and it wasn’t until she sat down that she realized he was using magic. The tips of his fingers glowed as he leveled the soil, and when he sprinkled seeds into his palms, a sigil flashed in his hand.
Isla watched him work for a while before sliding deeper into the chair and gazing out the window at the cloud-streaked sky.
It all seemed too easy. How nobody had recognized her as an outsider was beyond her.
“May I ask for your name?” he asked evenly.
“Isla,” she answered steadily, still looking at the sky.
He didn’t answer immediately, walking about slowly and clinking around in the corner of the room.
It wasn’t until she turned around at the sound of his approach, that he replied.
“I’m Angel.”
She wished she had the willpower to offer him a sincere smile as he offered her a drink.
“It’s an herbal drink touched with magic. Hope you’re not allergic.”
“You’re kind,” she said, taking the heavy stone cup from him with both hands.
Angel smiled, “Lematt leaf.”
She stared down at the liquid. It was dark and opaque. The steam smelt a bit like almond and citrus.
“Drink it slowly.”
Angel returned to his work, and Isla sipped the drink, very aware of how she was soon feeling drowsy. Setting the drink down, she clenched and unclenched her hands.
The next moment of awareness was hazy.
She had fallen asleep.
Her mouth felt dry, and her body heavy. Even her eyes felt too heavy to open as Angel’s voice crossed the room.
“I haven’t asked her about it.”
The voice that answered his was upset, “There were claw marks on her body, Angel. She knows what happened. She was there.”
“Yes, exactly. She was there.” Angel sighed, “Whatever her reasons are for being on our land, she has gone through something traumatizing, and now she’s alone and defenseless.”
Isla fought hard to open her eyes and find her voice.
There was no hiding now, as it seemed they knew she was an outsider.
“It was a masked warrior.”
Angel came into focus, standing near the stairs. The younger Envisioner who had been there earlier was standing beside him.
They turned to look at her when she spoke.
She swallowed, “It’s my fault.”
Angel shook his head, slowly walking towards her.
“No, you can’t think like that.”
Isla sat up, rubbing at her eyes.
“I came here looking for someone. I asked a masked warrior to help me, and it – it has gone wrong.”
It felt even worse admitting it aloud.
“We can ensure that safeguards are put in place,” He said evenly, glancing over at the other Envisioner.
He nodded quickly and raced down the stairs.
Angel turned back to her when the door had slammed shut.
“Would you like a change of clothes?”
She ran a finger over the silver letters on her sweater, nodding hesitantly.
It wouldn’t be right to keep her clothes.
“Every article of clothing given to a warden is marked by the region they belong to,” he said, “When I saw you, it was obvious you weren’t the individual those clothes belong to.”
So it was obvious to others that she was an outsider… and yet here she was being taken care of?
Angel moved to the corner of the room, removing his jacket, and tending to the small fireplace.
“This sweater is marked A.D,” she said slowly. “That isn’t this region.”
“That’s right,” he answered. “You are in the Jade Valley. A.D stands for Amber Divide; a neighboring region.”
Elise had once been the warden of the Amber Divide?
There were several loud knocks from the bottom of the stairs before someone shouted up to them.
“The warden of the Jade Valley is here to see you.”
Isla perked up. Marlowe was here?
Angel crossed the room halfway before stopping and looking at her.
She nodded encouragingly.
“He’s welcome to come up,” he answered.
The footfalls that followed made her lean forward with anticipation.
It was only Marlowe who appeared at the top of the stairs, his lovely green eyes finding Angel, and then flickering to her.
“They said you’d be here,” he said with a weak smile. “I simply didn’t imagine you’d be with Angel.”
Angel exhaled, “I know this is your region, but -,”
Marlowe raised a hand, “She has all permissions and passes here. I am well aware of the situation.”
“Ah,” Angel shook his head, seeming relieved. “That’s all very well.”
“It’s all very well that she found you,” Marlowe replied. “I came here to speak to you, but do you mind if I have a word with Isla first?”
Angel quietly acquiesced, going into another room and gently closing the door behind him.
Marlowe walked to one of the windows, looking over the plants on the table before leaning back on it and meeting Isla’s gaze.
“I wanted to thank you.”
Isla could think of no reason she deserved any thanks from him. But his voice was sincere.
“I was made aware that you came into the village on your own and spoke to someone in order to take care of Elise.”
She bit her quivering lip.
“We have specific customs here that may not have been able to be carried out had you not said something when you did. So, thank you.”
She wiped at the tears flooding out from the corners of her eyes, barely withholding an audible cry when she saw the warden’s eyes become glossy.
“Nobody has lost. There is still hope.”
She nodded.
Marlowe’s gaze moved across the room.
“Angel has as much authority here as I do, regardless of whether he acts like it or not. Keep that in mind if you need something. You can trust him.”
Isla would have nodded had she not been so confused.
The warden looked back to her, making a soft sound of recognition.
“I shouldn’t be surprised he hasn’t told you,” Marlowe began.
“Angel is the warden of the Amber Divide.”
– – – – – –
TG --> @aralistar​
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jangofctts · 2 months ago
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Surely, You’d Burn the Same (Batman/Bruce Wayne x fem!reader)
Rated: Mature, Explicit 18+
Word Count: 6.2k
Warnings: smut, sexpollen (dubcon), explicit language, handjobs, oral (both male and female), vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, mentions of violence, brief mention of an IV/needle, Bruce is touch starved lmfao (lmk if I missed anything please!!)
a/n: ok while consent is given on both parties, it’s has sex pollen-esque features so it is dubious consent!! just be aware of that! ANNYWAY PLEASE ENJOY (also thank u sm to the lovely @jango-fettish for helping me come up with this idea)
Fuck Lieutenant James Gordon.
Fuck him and his stupid penchant for glorifying vigilante justice. And fuck yourself for coming back here in this shithole of a city called Gotham. You’re a goddamn forensic analyst. You’re not supposed to be involving yourself with shit like this.
But alas, trouble always has a way of finding you.  
It nears six months into your job when you start to hear the rumors. Missing money from evidence, smudged fingerprints, evidence destroyed. Staff meetings about bribery, pay-offs to cover up the ferocious criminal underbelly of Gotham. The list goes on and on. Half the CSI staff eats out of the hand of some crime figurehead. The Penguin mostly—dude’s got a thumb in every pie scattered across the city. You don’t entirely blame them—the pay is shit and the job shittier. If you didn’t have the familial ties that you do, you’d be in the same bind as them. 
You keep your head down. You don’t want any part of it.
It still doesn’t stop the nicely folded manilla envelopes from finding their way into your desk. Encoded notes, promising pay if you jack up some idiot official’s incriminating evidence. You just sweep them into the shredder and say not a word. It’s one of the reasons you’ve risen through the ranks so quickly—the captain's favorite—squeaky clean and determined. Always on scene for the high profile cases, sidestepping the dangerous undertow that nips at your ankles.     
Like you said, trouble always finds you.         
James Gordon is lucky he’s a family friend or else you’d have blocked his number ages ago. He has a bad habit of calling in the middle of the night, hyped up on crappy coffee and a lead he needs followed. You figure he supersedes your captain with these sorts of things because she too has been corrupted—or maybe Gordon just wants you to succeed. Both are plausible options. 
And so, when you get the jarring phone call in the buttfuck middle of the night that scares that absolute bejesus out of you, you’re not surprised. The context of the call, though, that’s a little different—
“I gotta show you something, kiddo.”
Puffy eyed from sleep and a tick away from strangling him, you throw on a light coat and lo and behold, Gordon is there to pick you up. He reveals nothing once you get into the car. You watch the darkened city roll past, the buildings gleaming and hazy in the light drizzle. Streetlamp reflections churn golden swirls onto the concrete streets—the only constellations that have learned how to shine through the light pollution.   
The place he brings you is an abandoned tower. Construction litters the surrounding area. You shiver when you exit his warm car. “Jesus, Gordon. Is this where you’re gonna dump my body?”
He shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose and punches the buttons to the elevator. Who the fuck pays for electricity here? “Shut up, kid.” 
Your curiosities are soon put to an end. 
Gordon is the caretaker of the so-called Bat-Signal. You should’ve known. You’re a bit peeved to be quite honest, that you were never close to even finding out his secret. Whatever. 
Even more startling is the fact the Batman himself pays you a little visit atop that windy tower. 
Like a shadow he melts into view. You don’t know any better than to draw your gun and point at the dark mass of muscle and a walking armory. Gordo slaps his hand over the barrel, forcing you to lower the weapon. “Woah, woah, woah—he’s on our side, Blue.”   
Striking blue eyes bore into yours as your heart hammers away inside your chest. He takes a heavy step forward, then another, and another until he stands nearly toe to toe with you. Christ, he’s tall. 
“Why is she here?” 
His voice is rough as stone, soft in cadence but powerful nonetheless. He breathes authority and power—alluring. 
Gordon grasps your shoulder in support. To be quite frank, you don’t follow the rest of the conversation nor remember the reason why Gordon introduced you—something along the lines of another ally in case something goes wrong. Another familiar face to rely upon. Or maybe it’s for your sake—another line of determent to convince you from straying too close into the hands of bribery. 
All you do is stare, and Vengeance stares back. 
It works. 
Or at least, Vengeance allows you to tag along as Gordon’s sidekick. The months go on like this. The bribes increase and instead of shredding them you pass them off to Vengeance—a trail he can follow to find those responsible. You and Gordon help as much as you can, because fuck. No one else is doing anything about it—crime keeps surging and corruption runs rampant. It’s a tragedy that only The Batman dares challenge. 
And that tragedy bites back. 
It’s another one of those frantic, midnight calls. It’s different this time—urgent. 
“Get your ass to the crime lab—we got a situation." 
Dutifully you rush to dress and haul ass to the labs. You go around back, swipe your keycard and fly down the emergency lit stairs. You heart leaps into your throat as your foot skips a step—
You tear through the dark office and beeline towards the captain’s office. The door is already open—Gordon is throwing a half-lucid Batman onto the tiny couch shoved on the side wall. He looses conciseness the minute his back hits the cushions. “The fuck happened?” 
You fly over and shove your fingers under Batman’s sharp jaw to find a pulse. It races under your fingers. Gordon shakes his head. “No clue—found him close to the station, so I brought him down here.”
You pull out a pocket light from your coat, lift up his eyelid and shine it over his eyes. Doesn’t look like he has a concussion. “I told you, Gordon. I’m not a doctor, the closest thing I got to a medical degree is my EMT.” 
“He’s not bleeding,” Gordon relays. “We just need to watch him and get him outta here before anyone sees.”  
Fine. Fine. You can deal with that. 
You sit up and tear through your bag of pilfered medical supplies. You slide on a set of gloves, grab an IV line and reach for Batsy’s limp arm. Gordon helps wrestle off his glove. You slide the needle into his battered hand, and lay the baggie onto the back of the couch. You sigh and peel off your gloves and throw them into the wastebasket under the captain’s desk. “You’re lucky no one’s down here.” 
“I know,” Gordon says. “We’d both get the boot, huh?”
You snort. “You wouldn’t.”
You stand and peruse the lab in search for a vitals monitor. Perks of sharing the building with the morgue, you suppose. You wheel the machine into the office, peel off the sticky parts and attach them to the insides of his wrist. They’re new, no wires—like a blue tooth sort of deal. The machine flips on—the beep of Bats’ pulse fills the room. 
When Bats shows no signs of waking in the coming moments Gordon bails. You don’t blame him. This is boring. “You alright if I head out, kiddo?”
You wave your hand in dismissal. “Yeah, yeah—get outta here, old man.” 
Gordon chuckles at this, ruffles your hair and swiftly exits. “Call if you need anything!” 
The next time you’ll be calling him will probably be in jail. Can you go to jail for helping a vigilante? Is that a thing? Y’know what, doesn’t matter. Precisely why you never went to law school. Fuck that noise.   
Even so, you wait for Vengeance to wake.
An hour ticks by—your boredom grows rampant. With a sigh you pull out your pocket light and waddle over to the couch. You peel open his eyelids and curl your lip at the greasy, black residue that comes away from his eye. It reminds you of that shitty Halloween store makeup. Hm… 
Suddenly, his hand shoots up and wrenches your arm away—throwing himself off the couch and narrowly punching the living daylights out of you. “Fuck, man—chill! It’s me!”   
His lips are drawn in a snarl, fists clenched. Though once he sees you, takes account of his surroundings he drops back onto the couch like deadweight. You scramble over, readjust his IV and recheck his vitals. His heart races—not entirely alarming just yet. 
“Blue,” he rasps, throwing out your name to assure that it really is you and that he’s safe. It’s not your real name (he knows that too), it’s just a label you coined over the years that began in middle school. Little Crybaby Blue—got too over zealous with the crappy hair die and went to school covered in it. You were tinged blue for weeks. He doesn’t know that though. Hopefully…     
“Yeah, it’s me, Bats,” you assure. “Gordon called me.”
Leather creaks as he nods. He squeezes his eyes shut and grunts as he shifts into a more comfortable position. “Only place I could get to.”  
You bite your tongue before you can offer your place as a haven if he ever needs. That would be brushing elbows with unknown territory. Dangerous.
He tries to sit up again. Your hand whips out. “Nuh-uh. Just rest for now. Gotham can go a few hours without her Batboy.” 
For the first time since meeting him he listens without a fight. He only clenches his jaw and glares up at the water stained sealing. “How long?”
You frown. You rub the bridge of your nose and sigh. “Until the IV is finished, deal?” 
It’s half empty. Bats agrees solemnly. 
Boredom weighs heavy on your shoulders once again. His silence has never bothered you, but even so, it’s a little awkward just sitting here, kneeling on the floor. Your fingers find his tattered cape that spills onto the floor, thumbing the rough fabric. Fireproof probably—    
Batty makes a noise low in his chest. You bite you cheek, scrambling for an excuse. “Haven’y you heard Batboy? No capes,” you quote, tugging on the ends of the tattered cloth. You’re met with a blank, glacial stare. You roll your eyes. “Y’know, like Edna Mode? The Incredibles?” 
Still nothing. 
You tut. “You’re no fun.” 
His breath is stuttered as he inhales, readjusting himself to better ignore you. Ok, yeah, maybe that joke was stupid, but it doesn’t warrant a cold shoulder. Irritation pricks at your insides. Fucker—is it really that hard to humor someone and their dumb pop culture references? “You look like shit, by the way.” 
“You have terrible bedside manner.” 
Your lips purse. “Bummer.” 
And then it all crumbles into disaster. 
His heart rate continues to spike, a terrifying crescendo of rapid electronic beeps that pushes your own adrenaline into overdrive. Fuck, you are not prepared to deal with this at all. The fuck are you supposed to do with Batman’s dead body? Throw it in the dumpster? 
You scramble through the office’s supply of bottled drugs. Most of it is useless—embalming fluid, isopropyl alcohol—like you said, useless shit. You flit over to your boss’s desk and tear through the bottom drawers. A big black binder resides in the left one—score. You fling it open and find the vial of clear liquid that’ll stop him from having a fucking heart attack. You rush over, syringe in hand and grab for his IV—you startle as his hand launches out to stop you. 
You grimace and wrench your wrist free. You make a grab for it again—he swats you away. The syringe tumbles to the square of carpet under the couch, the vial rolls beneath it. “Dude—I’m trying to save your life! You’re gonna have a goddamn heart attack.”
“No,” he snarls again. He grits his teeth, and rips the IV line out of his hand. What the fuck. At least the fucking heart monitor is still attached. “You’re wrong.” 
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Batboy,” you sneer, throwing your hands up. “I didn’t know you were also a doctor.”  
His mouth dips into a grim line. He curls into himself and dips his shoulder, the cushions creak as he turns to face the back of the couch. It doesn’t really work—the couch is small and Batboy is fucking massive—like cramming a G.I. Joe doll onto Polly Pocket furniture. It’s a little funny.   
A low groan reverberates through his wide chest, legs pulling closer to his middle. You worry your lip between your teeth—dude is clearly in pain, you just have to figure out a way to get him to accept your help. You sigh and kneel onto the carpet. This is exactly why you vowed never to go into the caretaker side of things—it’s frustrating. Nonetheless, you hover a hand over the plated armor lining the space between his shoulder and upper arm. Batboy flinches. 
“C’mon, Bats,” you urge, softening the edge of your voice to dull the bite of your irascibility. “Let me help you.” 
The silence is deafened by the beeping heart monitor and accompanied by his terse, staccato, breathing. You whisper your hand down to the crease of his elbow. Even through the thick fabric, the heat of his skin is scorching. He’s running a fever. Batboy grunts and pulls his elbow closer to his middle. You don’t let go.
“You can’t,” he presses. “Not with this, Blue.”
You clench your jaw. “You don’t know that.”
He’s holding his breath like he’s scared of it leaving his frayed lungs. And you…you’re biting your tongue—you cannot take a crowbar to his jaw and pry the answers you want out of him. That’s not how it works—not with him. People will never understand the true essence of what this man is—fuck—you barely know either. But what you do know, is that there’s a tragedy hidden beneath his tongue and broken promises that are stapled to his martyr red heart. He’s blind to his own ambitions, in search for payment without realizing that the aftermath of revenge will bury him alive. He’ll never change and you never expect him to do so. 
It’s just the way things are.
Much to his chagrin, however, you will not be letting Batboy die on your boss’s office couch tonight. You prod him a second time. He’s divulged that he knows exactly what’s got him in this state, you just need to coax it from him. “Tell me. Please.”       
Something akin to desperation lining your words, cracks his resolve. He grunts and turns his head. His eyes are a small ring of blue, blotted out by his dilated pupils—shit. That can’t be good. Bat’s tongue rolls out to wet his chapped lips, inhales—his heart rate spikes again. Jesus, that’s too fucking fast—   
“Iceberg Lounge,” he says. He’s starting to pant. “I got dosed with something.” 
Your brows furrow. A list of substances scroll through your brain—how to treat them, what the symptoms are that matches his. “Like cyanide? I have—”
“No,” Batty shakes his head and lifts his gaze to stare at the water stained ceiling. The muscles in his sharp jaw flex. He shifts. “Pheromone based.” 
Your face twists. The hell does that mean? You’re about to ask him to clarify when the pieces click together. Oh.  
Rapid heart rate, dilated pupils, skin feverish—
Batty’s been drugged with an aphrodisiac. 
The seriousness of the situation rams into you like a freight train. You’ve been on three cases already that involved this shit. High up political players dosed with the mystery aphrodisiac after hiring escort services from the Iceberg Lounge. Each one of them found dead, hearts all but exploded from the effects of the drug. No matter how much they tried, bringing themself to their own end never worked. You press your palms into your face, bitter panic welling inside your chest. 
Oh fuck—fuck, fuck, fuck—   
Calloused fingers gently curl around your wrist. They pry your hand free from your face. “Blue.” 
“Don’t say it like that,” you hiss. You’re sure his fingertips can pinpoint your raging pulse—just as fast as his thrums. “Shut up.”  
His chin tilts down, a question swimming in his gaze. 
“And don’t try and convince me you’ll end up ok,” you say. “Because you won’t—not this time. Not unless…” 
Not unless you give him that relief. It’s not…it’s not like you aren’t attracted to him. Christ, the minute you met him you were smitten. You’d jump Bats’ bones if he offered, but not like this. Not something tarnished and born out of necessity. You stare at the wine red rug under your knees and bite your lip. Your skin itches from where Bats still holds your wrist.     
“Blue,” he whispers, wheezy and suffering. “I’m not afraid to die.” 
He’s bleeding forgiveness, keeping your hands clean from his choice to go out this way. You can’t—your conscious would never be free of the guilt. The black stain of knowing you could’ve remedied this with ease but instead chose to end the reign of Vengeance, based on what? Your stubborn propriety and a guessing game covered in a glass floor of eggshells? That’s not fair—not fair to him or whatever legacy he’s trying to build in Gotham.        
You suck in a deep breath of air and muster your courage. Carefully, and without haste, you roll your wrist out of his hand and slowly bring it to cup his stubbled jaw. He inhales sharply. “I’m not gonna let you die, Batboy.” 
His eyes flutter as you smooth your thumb up the sharp line of cheek. Fuck, he’s sensitive. The leather on his singular glove creaks as his fists clench, the heart monitor races away. You’re running out of time. “I didn’t want it this way.”
Yeah. You didn’t either. “When you don't get what you want, you start forgetting what you need, Batty.” Bats lips pull into a deep frown—he hates when you call him that. He wants to argue. You don’t let him. “It’s ok—trust me.”
His eyes bore into yours, striking against the blackness of his mask and the dark grease paint he wears beneath it. It feels as though an eternity passes before he’s nodding. He’s found whatever he was looking for in your eyes and deemed it enough. An inkling of your desire maybe—
The rapid-fire beeping distracts you once again. Cursing, you jump to your feet and silence the damn machine. When you return Bats has arranged himself into a hunched sitting position, leaving enough room for you to sit and be within viewing range of his vitals displayed on the screen. 
You gingerly sit. You swallow and turn to him. His chest heaves like he’s just run forty miles, bare hands clenched at his sides to dispel the shaking—a tightly wound mess at the mercy of your salvation. You scoot closer and risk skirting your hand over his armored knee. You bite the inside of your cheek to quell your racing nerves. This is so fucked up. You offer him a weak smile. “We’ll start small and go from there, ok?”  
He grunts his affirmation. You nod and lean over his broad chest, running your fingers over the pockmarks in his armor and all the way down to his belt. His eyes are glued to your face, unwavering as you wrestle his heavy utility belt free from his waist. His thigh jumps under your hand. You slide your palm up and inward towards the bulge pressing against the front of his pants. 
Batty sits up, ramrod straight as your hand squeezes him through his pants. A rush of arousal surges in the pit of you abdomen—he’s not a small man in any way, shape, or form. You bite the inside of your cheek and press onward, pawing at the waistband of his pants. Bats lifts his hips as you tug both his pants and boxers down far enough his muscled legs that it won’t hinder your goals. If you had it your way, there’d be a lot more teasing involved.  
Fuck—not like he needs it.
His cock is well past hard, flushed an angry red at the tip and leaking precum against the base of his abdomen, straining towards his navel. Fuck—you want him bad. You look up at him, he’s already staring. In a flash of movement, Bats captures your hand and guides you to his throbbing cock. It’s a knee-jerk reaction—he folds into you as you grab a hold of his length, his rapid pulse reminding you that you’re on a time crunch here. Internally you despair over the fact you can’t enjoy this—him—for longer.       
This is about him—not you. 
You huff at the added weight draped onto your body, armor and all. His masked face tucks itself into the crux of your shoulder. He mumbles a gruff apology that tapers off as you squeeze his cock, searing and heavy in your hand. You wiggle closer and breathe against his neck, moisture collecting onto the black leather. He smells like rain. “Does it hurt?”
You remain like this for a few moments as he pants onto your skin, his left hand clenching the back of the couch so hard it might rip. Your palm, slick with his dribbling precum, glides easily up and down his thick length. Shit, your fingers barely meet—
His head lifts, two digits press on the underside of your chin, tilting up—   
Vengeance kisses like he’s won the war. Brutal, devouring, victorious, grateful. He’s spent years fighting and it’s as if only now he’s stopped long enough to catch his breath. Even though he’s actively racing towards death. His hands grab at your arms, your clothes, your hair. It’s like you are the spoils of battle and he fears losing you to the enemies that snap at his heels. He kisses like a man afraid that this will be fleeting, insubstantial and will abandon him. The desperation you think, is a side effect, but it excites you anyhow. 
You part for air. “Everything’s gonna be alright,” you whisper, voice gentle. Tonight you are his tether. And he the disbelieving survivor, jittery and wounded but safe. “Let go like this. It’s ok.” 
He abandons your lips in favor of latching his teeth to the tender flesh above your collarbone—it stings. You whimper and pump your hand faster, the obscene wet sounds of it filling the room. You rub your thumb under the tip then back down to fondle his balls. 
Bats groans weakly. “Blue—”
And then quite abruptly—so abruptly that it surprises him more than it does you—he lets go.
Batty cums hard into your hand, right here at your place of work, armor half ripped off, leaning the entirety of his weight onto you. A ragged gasp tears through his clenched teeth and he stiffens against you, balls pulling up tight under your palm. Sticky warmth immediately coats your fingers and the inside of your wrist in throbbing spurts. He slams a wild fist into the couch, growling your name, your true name, before his voice trapezes into a gritty, wordless snarl.
You mouth wet kisses over the exposed skin of his jaw, caressing the swollen head of his cock as it pulses in your grip. His orgasm is long and achingly drawn out, draining his body of his rapidly expending energy with every thick rope of cum you’re able to milk out of him.  He swears and shudders his way through his release, until finally the exhaustion wins him over, slumped onto you as you struggle not to collapse under his weight. Fuck—it’s been a long time for him. You release his half hard cock and rub gentle circles into his protruding hipbone, your other hand smoothing down the back of his helmet to cup his neck. A dark thrum of pride runs through you veins—how many could say they could get Batman himself to submit like this—flash his colors of vulnerability. 
You’re betting on zero.  
Your eyes slide past the dark mass of him and onto the heart monitor. It seems to have done the trick. His pulse drops to a near normal level. “Good?”  
His warm, wet tongue, laves over the teethmarks he’s left. His fingers gripping the back of the couch unlatch and float around your waist, drawing you into a loose semblance of a hug. You feel his lips move as he mumbles a hushed; “Thank you.” 
The cadence of his gravel rough timbre causes your heart to ache for him. You’d never name whatever this is as love because love has a twin sister named power—and when you give somebody one, then you give them the other. You understand that it’s in Batman’s best interest to keep both. There’s no part of him that can be torn apart, no soft spot, no cavity—it’ll get in the way. 
But he’s still learning. 
Batty groans and finds your hand that’s still coated in his sticky cum. “M’sorry.”
His breathing kicks up a second time, the firm line of his body curling curling into himself. Hot puffs of air scorch your skin as Bats feebly raises his head. His chapped lips tickle your cheek, a request lodged in his throat. He needs to cum again—it’s written plain as day on the heart monitor and the way his body holds itself like a tightened spring. He won’t ask, so you press your lips to his and bridge the gap between you once more. 
Batman moans into your open mouth, allowing you to slide your tongue over his. His cock is rock hard again, twitching in your hand. A wicked idea twists through your mind as his hips roll into your fist. “Do you want my mouth, Batboy?” 
He startles at the offer. If not for the pulse of his cock and the way it leaks over your hand and onto his pants, you’d think you had offended him. He pulls back far enough to meet your eyes. They find the wall, the corner of your mouth then back to you. He works his jaw and clasps a hand over your arm. 
“I can’t—you—you don’t have to,” Batty stutters. “Fuck, Blue. I can’t…ask you for that.” 
“I’m offering,” you say, a little smile playing across your lips. “It’ll feel better than my hand.” 
Quicker than before, he gives in. He slumps into the couch as you slide to the rug between his knees. You reach up to hook your fingertips in his hem of his trousers and pull them as far as they go before they catch on his armor. He’s zeroed in on your face again as he widens his legs for you to scoot in close, knees cradling your ribcage. Fuck—being this close to his cock sends shockwaves of achey arousal to your cunt. It’s torture not to just shove your hand between your legs and take care of the wicked need.
Your mouth is watering—you bend down and part your lips to gently drag your tongue along the smooth skin of his balls, licking him clean of his previous orgasm. His whole body jumps at the hot, velvety slick sensation—you let out a low hum in response. Batty swears when you trail your way up, slowly trailing your tongue up the length of his cock and pressing your plush lips to his flushed tip.
Bats exhales a shaky breath while you run your tongue along him, memorizing his taste.  You wrap your lips around the head of his cock and roll your tongue up underneath the little crease here. The smooth skin pulses on your tongue, you slide your fingers around the pale protrusions of his hips, and work your mouth wider to take his thick length deeper. Drool and his precum pool at the base of his cock—probably gonna stain the leather below. 
Holy shit your jaw aches—   
His fingers bury themselves into your hair, the sharp pricks encouraging you to continue. He never once guides you or pushes you down his cock—it’s just a way to anchor himself. The heat of your mouth is overwhelming—soft and willing to please him. “S’good.”
Your pride swells. 
You pull up to make room for your slick hand to wrap around his cock, beginning to jerk him off. You lave your tongue over his tip and cradle him here within the soft pallet of your mouth, your touch gliding strong and wet along his entire length. His skin is sizzling as he hardens even more—the tension in his body about the burst and snap like a cut wire. “I’m close—”  
You hum in acknowledgment. You don’t stray from your course of suckling on the tip of his cock, slowly swirling your tongue around him, continuing to use your hand to firmly pump the length of his cock. Bats’ fingers twist into your hair as his hips unconsciously seek your mouth each time you pull up to catch a breath of cool air. His moans, while still low and rough, border on airy. 
Shit—you clench your thighs together. You can’t help yourself—the discomfort is too much. You drop a hand and wedge it between your thighs to press hard against your clit to relive some of that pressure that threatens to swallow you whole. The sight of you touching yourself excites him—that paired with the way you gaze up at him through your lashes, shoves him over the edge in a dizzying display of pure lust.
He whispers your name and hunches over you like you’ve punched him in the gut. He trembles, white-knuckling your hair and the armrest and once again cumming with force into your mouth. You greedily accept him. The first taste of his release spreads over the flat of your tongue right as you dig your nails into the exposed flesh of his hips. His hips buck, gasping raggedly as he empties himself down your throat—expelling the aphrodisiac meant to kill him from his veins the only way he can. 
You swallow all of what he gives to you, grasping his hips and locking him place as he rides out his high. You don’t let go until his firm frame relaxes, cock softening upon your tongue. A soft pop sounds in your ears as he slips from your mouth. His fingers untangle from your hair and delicately brush over the matted area. Wetness stains your mouth but before you can you wipe the mess from your lips and chin, his bare hand curls around your jaw and guides you into a devastating kiss. 
A familiar ache ignites in your chest—twisting, blazing, raw. The roaring in your ears becomes a thousand times louder. Like thunder, the fury of a storm, waves crashing against a gloomy cliff side. He’s an electrical surge that lights you up from the inside out. You can barely breathe but you feel so alive.
Bats nips at your bottom lip, mumbling his thanks like a prayer into your ear. His teeth tenderly nip at your earlobe, crowding you into the corner of the couch. “Can I return the favor?” 
You choke. “You don’t have to. I told you—” 
“I want to taste you,” he interrupts gently. The fingers around your jaw slide to your chin. His thumb pulls down your bottom lip.  
You’ll never understand how he’s able to touch you as if you are fine china. It doesn’t make sense with what he does, how he appears to the public all dark and violent. Before your conscious mind can agree, your head is nodding on its own. “Fuck yeah.” 
The ends of his mouth ever so slightly quirk up at that. Bats moves in closer. Shit. “Wait—wait,” you sputter, flattening your palms against his chest plate. You push, he backs up. “Your vitals—I need to make sure you’re ok first.” 
He grunts and pinches your chin, moving your head to the side. His vitals seem…normal, you suppose. They’ve plateaued. For now. “I’m fine, Blue.”
Bats slides off the couch and onto his knees, hands finding the swell of your hips. You think he’s going to eat you out like this, the same as you’ve done for him. But nope. No—he drags you to the floor and herds you onto all fours. Fuck—it makes sense. He can’t risk the chance of revealing his identity if you were to knock or grab his mask. Bats presses into your shoulder until you’re ass up, face resting on the carpet. You fingers dig into the red fibers, excitement thrumming through your core. 
He wrestles your pants and underwear down your legs, shuddering as he knocks your knees apart. You know how wet you must be based on the curse that tumbles sweetly past his lips. His ungloved hand runs down the slope of your ass and cuts inward, his thumb sliding through your wet slit. You hear him shuffle and then feel his breath fanning over the base of your spine a moment later.  
Bats hooks his other hand, the leather a sensory buffer, around your thigh and yanks your hips closer to his mouth. All thoughts fizzle out at the hot glide of his tongue through your pussy from behind. Oh, shit—you arch your spine and whine the only name you have for him. His tongue languidly swirls over your clit, each pass like an electric shock splitting through your cells. You want more. You cry and cant your hips back as he lightly sucks on the bundle of nerves. You nearly cry when he flattens his tongue and follows the curve of your cunt all the way up to your entrance.
You tense then immediately relax as the tips of his fingers, press at your entrance, teasing the clenching ring of soft muscle before sinking in. The two digits slip in with ease—all the way up to the second knuckle. When he draws them back out, they're no doubt coated with your wetness. He thrusts them back in, then out—setting a slow but strong pace that makes everything ache with need. It leaves you just hovering over the sharp edge of ecstasy, the catch of his knuckles and the heat of his calloused skin torture. 
You fist the rug under you, biting your lip to quiet the louder moans. You know for a fact that there’s still people lurking around somewhere in this building. “Gonna cum—keep going.”  
Bats’ mouth dips down a second time, sucks on your clit and hums around you. That does it. 
A few more curls and thrusts of his fingers inside of your clenching walls has your body seizing up tight. You're flying off that edge, faster than the speed of light. You cum onto his tongue and fingers with a strangled cry, sparks of blurry white alighting behind your eyelids as your back arches. Batty continues to lick you through your orgasm, even as you squirm and shake in his firm hold. Ecstasy implodes behind your eyelids as heat, hotter than wildfire spreads from your center all the way up your stomach and down to your toes. You're quivering, and over the roaring in your ears you hear Bats murmur his praise—feeling the vibration of his groan, as he licks up the flood of your wetness over his tongue. 
When he pulls away you groan at the loss and melt onto your side, jittery from the aftershocks. “Goddamn.”
Batman tickles his fingers over your bare thigh and run all the way down to the bend of your knee. Goosebumps follow in the wake of his touch. He drags his fingertips over them curiously—your turn your head. He retracts his hand like you’ve burned him and busies himself with getting redressed. The monitor flatlines as he tears off the remaining sticky patches. Your hands shake as they weakly tug your pants back up.
Nothing is said in the minutes following. You lead him from the office, up the emergency stairwell and out through the backdoor. It’s raining—steam from a nearby vent clouds the chilly air, the exit sign painting the blackness of his suit a bloody, neon red. You wipe the rain off your brow. 
You crane your neck to look at him. His mouth is still set in a rigid frown—maybe a bit more relaxed. You can’t tell in the darkness. 
“Thank you,” he says, all jagged and raw like ripped stitches. 
You hug your middle. Fuck, this rain is colder than balls. You smile. “Anytime, Batboy.” 
That, you can tell, bothers him still. He takes a heavy step forward, gear chinking as he moves. His movements are sluggish as he brings his hand, now fully gloved, to touch under your chin. He dips his head to reach you, lips barely skimming yours. You hold your breath and close your eyes. “Goodbye, Blue.” 
The touch of his lips is faint. Like a shadow. When you open your eyes, he’s gone. 
“See you around, Vengeance,” you whisper to the darkness. 
4K notes · View notes
moonlit-steven · 24 days ago
Egyptology 101
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Summary: Steven Grant teaches Late Egyptian Language and Texts at UCL, you are one of his best students. He's always attracted you for some reason, he's a bit odd, but he seems sweet, polite and overall attractive. You think your advances are unrequited, your teasing seems to go unnoticed. At least in your opinion. What you don't know is that Steven is going crazy over you, he wants you just as bad as you want him, but he won't' admit it to himself. Which is why Marc has to step in.
Pairing: Steven Grant x Fem!Reader, Marc Spector x Fem!Reader (kind of, not really)
Word count: 7.2k
Warnings: SMUT, pure and filthy smut. Fingering, oral (f receiving), age gap (fully legal), professor/student relationship, hint at sub!Steven
Author's note: Oh wow, I had planned to write a small smutty fic but then this monstrosity came to life lol. Truth be told, I'd like to make this into a short series, maybe 5-10 chapters max, it'd allow me to explore both Steven and Marc, dwell on why Marc is the way that he is, maybe even end up with a poly relationship between the reader, Marc and Steven. Plus, I'd love to write more smut involving Professor Steven Grant lol
Not betaed, I'm not a native English speaker so all mistakes are on me, sorry!
Cheers and enjoy!
EDIT 03/05/2022: I now have a tag list! DM me or comment on this post to be added!
You attended UCL, you were going to get a degree in Archeology and then you were going to disappear somewhere for the rest of your life, abandoning the whole world for your own good and your own safety. You  had had to abandon your studies in Greece, you had to start from scratch in London and it took a toll on you: you didn’t want to study the same things over and over again. The only different course was the Late Egyptian Language and Texts.
Stepping into your new class, bright and early, had looked easier on paper than it did in reality. You were tired, you had stayed up all night studying for another class, it had been counterproductive since you had ended up falling asleep on your books, arms crossed under your cheek as you slept soundly for a few hours. It ended up causing more pain than anything, your back was killing you, your neck was barely able to move and your eyes were burning; you had to try your best to stay awake that day. 
You sat down, your seat was in the first few rows of chairs, you could see the blackboard very clearly, but it also meant that you couldn’t doze off in the middle on the lecture. Between your seat choice and the structure of the module, it was impossible to get distracted, if you missed even a single, little passage, you would be utterly fucked. You had a grammar book, more than one if you had to be honest, and dictionaries but it was still going to be difficult. Sometimes you wondered why you had taken that course instead of another one. 
“Good morning!” 
Your head turned around. Yeah, now you remembered why you had taken that class. 
Professor Grant was early, there was no one else in the room but you and him, you watched him walk down the steps, his hands skimming over the seats before firmly grasping his desk. He took his bag off of his shoulder, it plunked down on the hard wood with a muffled “thud”, he sighed while taking his books, papers and pens out. He was messy, even his movements were all over the place, he was uncoordinated and he had already managed to knock off a pen holder from the table. 
“Bollocks.” Steven grumbled. 
“I’ll pick it up.” You offered, you stood up from your chair and bent down. 
“You don’t- oh, thanks.” Steven grabbed the pen holder from your hands, his eyes lingered on you for a few seconds before he dropped his hand to his side. “Uhm, thanks, again.”
You stood there in silence, Professor Grant sat down behind his desk, his dark lashes seemed to almost rest on his cheekbones, which was a shame since you couldn’t get enough of his deep, warm eyes. You had never seen a more charming and stunning man before; sure, he was charming in his own, quirky way, but he was charming nonetheless. You were captivated by him, by how he carried himself, his demeanor was different sometimes but it was still captivating; Steven Grant was like a Pandora’s box, he was layered in the most delicious way ever. 
Other students started to pour into the classroom after a while, you zoned out until everyone quieted down. Professor Grant waited until the only sound in the room was the buzzing and whirring of the laptops scattered around the various seats, he seemed a little out of the loop that day, the way he gripped his books and papers, knuckles white and eyes disorientated. He licked his lower lip, his brows furrowed for a brief second before he went back to his usual self, his eyes were still unfocused but it was better than before. 
“Where were we?” He quietly asked, he skimmed through the pages of his anthology and found the dog ear he had pinned on his book. “Ah, right, yes. Can anyone tell me what we chatted about last Thursday?” 
The lesson progressed normally, Professor Grant kept on explaining a passage from a tomb’s door, pointing out how to read the various hieroglyphics present on the sheet he had given them. You tried your best to follow along, you had tried your best to stay focused but you couldn’t stop thinking about how his fingers had touched your hand, it had been brief and probably meaningless, for him at least, but you had felt the rough pad of his index brush on your thumb, causing shivers down your spine.
Classes were held on Thursdays and Mondays at 9am, more often than not, they began at 9:30, Steven was always late for some stupid reason. He slept poorly all the time, he always made sure to go to sleep no later than 10pm but for some reason, he was always tired. He had had to implement a few, yet simple, solutions to fix his sleepwalking problem, solutions that prevented him from having anyone over in his flat; having a pair of ankle restraints next to his bed wasn’t as inviting as he’d like to think. 
Steven had had to deal with a lot of issues in the last few months: he had managed to get tested and examined, he had went to countless of doctors, he had visited a multitude of different therapists, psychologists and psychiatrists, it had taken a lot of guts, it had taken a lot of time, errors and wins to finally set on a diagnosis that fit him. 
DID, dissociative identity disorder. 
It wasn’t easy to deal with it, it wasn’t easy to live with other people in his head, in his body; although it wasn’t just his body, it was Marc’s and Jake’s too. 
Steven had found it hard at first. Marc was the one that mostly came out, Jake stayed put for the majority of the time, he barely showed himself, still too discombobulated by finding out that he wasn’t alone in that body. Marc was different, he was the total opposite of Steven, he was outgoing, he was determined, driven and strong, way stronger than Steven. He was shy, quiet, he had his passions and he had his quirks, he was a little on the spectrum, too - or at least that was what his psychologist had said - and it didn’t bother him that much, he was happy and satisfied with his life. It lacked affection though, it lacked people, Steven was always alone with Marc and Jake, he hadn’t had anyone there for him in years, or more, he couldn’t really remember when his last relationship happened; he wasn’t even sure he had had one before. 
Teaching had changed Steven’s life, it had given him a purpose, a reason to wake up in the morning and get out of bed. Sometimes he didn’t remember waking up, going to class and teaching, sometimes he didn’t even know if he had worked or not that day, Marc wasn’t fond of that world and Jake preferred to mind his own business and leave the classroom to Steven, he knew nothing about Egypt, let alone reading hieroglyphics. Marc tried, and failed most of the time, which meant that when — and if — he tried to step in Steven’s shoes and teach, he would let the students work on random images he had found in one of Steven’s books. 
Today Marc was stuck in the back of his head, he was minding his business, kind of: he was providing him a much needed commentary about what was going on, about what he thought of all the students there. Which meant that Marc got stuck on you, Steven couldn’t help but blush and stutter over his words as Marc kept rambling about the skirt you were wearing, about the soft and supple skin of your thighs that could be seen from his seat. 
Look at that. She’s bent down before, we did stare at her ass, didn’t we? And we liked it. 
Marc was a menace. Steven rubbed his eyes behind his glasses, there were only fifteen minutes left and he couldn’t stop looking at your legs, at how you held the pen between your fingers, balancing it gently as you looked at the picture in front of you.
We could have her, right here and right now. 
Steven shook his head, his jaw tensed up and he started to make his way through the few chairs, picking the various translations from his students. You stopped scribbling, Steven looked down at you, your lower lip was slightly jutting out while your eyes bored into him, he grabbed your papers and lingered in front of you for a second. He skimmed through your translation, it was well done, a few mistakes and here and there but nothing that couldn’t be fixed. 
Tell her to stay after class, let me take the body, Steven. 
“No.” He muttered quietly as he made his way back to his desk, he shoved the papers in his bag and took his glasses off, yawning quietly. “You’re all free to go, see you Monday.” He forced a smile, his fingers pinched the bridge of his nose and he plunked down in his chair. 
The students started to walk out, Steven stayed behind and waited for everyone to leave, he needed to be alone for a few minutes, he needed to talk to Marc and tell him to stop interfering so much. When he was fronting, he was the one in charge, he didn’t want his suggestions, he didn’t want to hear lewd comments about you and he certainly didn’t need Marc to give him, them, a boner in the middle of a lecture because he had decided to go on a rampage about how your ass could look in their bed, your hands clutching the sheets as Steven fucked you slowly, his chest brushing on your back while his lips sucked hickeys and love bites all over your neck. 
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Marc! Quiet.” Steven begged, eyes focused on the screen of his phone. “She’s… it’s wrong to even think like that.”
We want her, she wants us, what’s wrong with that? Stop being a pussy. 
Steven groaned, Marc was insufferable sometimes, once he found his new little obsession it was impossible to make him focus on something else. “We’re her professor.” 
Yeah, so? She can call you Professor Grant while you’re buried inside her. Or Professor Spector if you’re too chicken shit to have sex with her. I can take your place, you don’t even have to ask. I’ll happily do it. 
“I don’t want you to take my place.” Steven murmured shyly. “She’s a good-  a good student, yeah? Just a student.” He offered. 
Just a student that’s been giving you fuck me eyes for weeks. She likes us, she finds us hot and fun and… mysterious, she might be your only shot at losing your virginity, Steven. 
“I’m- I’ve- I won’t fuck a student of mine. End of story. Plus where would we do it, huh? I can’t take her home, we got… we got Gus! And my books and your stupid, stupid collections and Jake’s mess which he never cleans. I don’t wanna traumatize Gus, he’s a bloody fish.” 
Yeah, he’s a goddamn fish, Steven. You’re just scared she’ll think you suck in bed. Which is why you should let me take over when we get there. She’ll prefer me, she looks like she needs a good pounding, not a slow and cutesy fuck. 
Steven sighed, his head thrown back as he stared at the ceiling of his classroom, his hands clutched his knees, he tried to steady himself, ground himself and not let Marc take control. If he did, he was going to find where you were, he was going to follow you, “casually” bump into you and then charm his way into your pants. He knew Marc, he knew his antics by now. 
“Yeah, it’s not gonna happen, mate.” Steven stated, a final note in his voice ended the whole conversation.
December slipped into January and January slipped into February. It was colder than usual, the winter temperatures were frigid and even the various heaters inside Professor Grant’s office weren’t enough to keep everyone warm. You found it hard to even follow the lecture, your hands were shaking and your teeth were chattering, it was torture, you couldn’t even hear what Steven was saying due to huffs and puffs that were coming out of everyone’s mouth. 
Steven didn’t mind the cold that much, he enjoyed the chill weather and the whole prospect of curling on his sofa under a rather thick blanket and read, maybe mark some papers too if he didn’t doze off after three minutes of sitting there. However, he despised the rain, especially when he was without an umbrella and he was soaked wet from head to toe, it was unbearable to hold a lesson like that. His clothes were sticking to his body, his hair was still dripping wet and his socks were sticking to the soles of his feet, causing him to wiggle his toes every two seconds to prevent them from going numb. 
Her jeans are wet. She’d be more comfortable if she could take them off, Steven. 
Perhaps Marc had a point, or perhaps Steven was so on edge, pissed off and overstimulated by how the fabric was rubbing on his skin in the wrong way, by how his hair kept on dripping drops of water down his neck and by how his shoes were squeaking whenever he took a step. It was too much. He had a change of clothes in his office, but he didn’t have the time to fix the mess he was because someone, the night before, had decided that his alarm belonged in the garbage bin. 
Ask her to stay after class.
“No, no, no, Marc for the love of god, shut up.” 
No one had seemed to hear him, everyone was too engrossed in looking at the video he had put on. He looked at the students in the first few seats, making sure that his words had gone unnoticed, he didn’t want them to ask questions, he didn’t want them to find out about his DID and about his alters. It wasn’t their place, it wasn’t their business. 
Do it, it’s ridiculous. She’s been wanting us for months, Steven. You haven’t made a single move because you’re a moron, and you’re scared of God knows what. Too scared to talk to her but not too scared to rub one out while imagining her d—
“That’s enough!” Now he was positive everyone had heard him. “T-that’s enough of the video, we’ll move onto discussing what we’ve just watched.” He stuttered out, closing his laptop and stepping closer to his desk. 
He shivered, his whole body trembled and he found himself rolling his shoulders with a quiet whimper; the sooner he got out of those clothes, the sooner he could stop being such a mess. He tried his best to focus on explaining how to pronounce certain sentences, Egyptian hieroglyphics’ semantic was difficult, they had to be guided somehow. 
Her nipples are poking through, she’s not wearing a bra. 
Steven did look, he couldn’t help it. His eyes moved down to your breasts, you were wearing a light blue jumper, it had clouds on it and yes, your nipples were poking out due to the cold. His eyes lingered there for a fraction of a second, but once he raised his eyes, you were looking at him. Steven blushed, he almost dropped his papers as you stared at him, your gaze was intense, it had a meaning behind it and he didn’t even know what you wanted in that moment. 
You, dumbass. She wants you. She just opened her legs a little, it’s a clear invitation. 
It was, even Steven could see it. It made him hard, shamelessly so. 
Do something. 
He dismissed the class, too engrossed in looking at you to even attempt to go on with semantics, pronunciations and shit like that, in that moment, it didn’t really matter. Egyptology was Steven’s whole life, he was dedicated, he was passionate, he was fixated on it, but in that moment he couldn’t care less about Thutmose III or about his sarcophagus. You stayed behind, Steven gripped the edge of his desk and leaned forward, his foot was tapping restlessly on the ground as he studied you, how you walked, how you carried yourself and how your arse looked into those jeans.
Steven dropped his bag, his eyes were wide as he looked up at you. “Y-yes?” He licked his lower lip, gripping the strap of his leather satchel. “Can I help you?” 
I’m sure you can. 
“Yes, actually. I didn’t really understand the inscription on the first picture we’ve seen? The wall one?” Steven leaned back as you talked. “I didn’t understand your translation, could you help me out with that?” 
“It’s pretty difficult, innit?” He attempted to joke about it lightly, staring at you. “Uhm, but, yes, I can help you. I’ll bring some more material on Thursday, yeah? We’ll go over it. I can’t do it now, sorry.” 
Your face dropped slightly, you nodded and took a step back. “I understand, thank you, professor.”
Fucking dumbass.
“See ya.”
Steven’s cheeks were heating up, he needed get out of those wet clothes and catch a break. 
And jerk off. Definitely jerk off. 
Changing in his office was pure and utter misery, the heater there wasn’t really working, the windows were drafty and the blinds didn’t really work either; it was a shit show, but that was what UCL provided and he couldn’t really complain. He kept thinking about your jumper, about your hard nipples and the bedroom eyes you gave him after dropping your pen from your lips down to your chest. You were gorgeous, you were hot, you were a wet dream coming true for Steven, however he couldn’t act on it, he couldn’t really pursue you. You were one of his students, after all. 
Steven decided to ignore Marc for as long as possible, he was screaming in the back of his head, he was protesting and throwing a fit about how stupid he had been. You had tried to start something, which had flown right past Steven’s head, too dumb to understand that you wanted him to bury his head between your thighs and show you a good time. 
Thursday arrived way too fast for your liking. It wasn’t raining, which was an improvement, you didn’t bother to even try to dress up, it was pretty clear that Professor Grant wasn’t reciprocating your advances. Sure, he had looked at you, he had stared for a while but then he had stepped down, he had turned you down without a blink, claiming to be too busy to go over a bloody passage that was only going to take up to twenty minutes to explain. It wasn’t like you didn’t understand it, the inscription was a basic one, it was so simple that even the worst student of that class had understood it. 
As soon as you stepped inside the classroom, you could tell that something was different. There was no one there, no other students, just Professor Grant in a pair of gray trousers, high waist ones too, and a loose white shirt, the first two buttons open. His posture was different, he was standing straight, he wasn’t slumping down on himself, shoulders curled forward and eyes unsteady; his brows were relaxed, his pupils were larger than usual and his mouth was slightly parted. Was he wearing cologne? It smelled expensive, too. 
There was something different, he looked like Steven but you weren’t that sure he was actually Steven. 
“Morning, Professor.” 
His lips twitched up in a cocky smile. “Good morning. Did you read the email I sent yesterday night?” You didn’t reply. “Guess not. Class is cancelled today.”
“I didn’t… know.” 
“You should pay more attention to your emails, then. We use them for a reason, don’t we, love?” 
There was a twang in his voice, it almost felt like he was faking his British accent. You stopped walking, a few meters between you two kept him at a distance, you didn’t know what had gotten into him that day. Sometimes he looked different, yes, but you had always blamed it on his job, maybe on all the tests he had to check and correct; on those days he didn’t talk, he just showed up with translations you had to complete and then proceeded to sit at his desk until the class was over. 
“You said you needed help with something from our last class, correct?” 
“Yeah, I figured it out, though. So I don’t need help.” A beat of silence passed. “I’ll go.”
“Or you can stay. We can go and have coffee together, my treat. The meeting I was supposed to have got rescheduled, which means I’m free. Wanna join me for breakfast?” 
You popped your lips open, you gave him a curt nod before starting to make your way out of the classroom. You were confused, that sudden change in behavior had made him bolder, or perhaps you were just overreacting and reading it wrong, perhaps he was just being polite. You looked back at him, waiting patiently for him to move, but he seemed stuck in his spot, eyes slightly unfocused and dazed, shoulders slumped and hunched forward. 
Steven looked back at you, he seemed almost scared, nervous an unsure about what had just happened. “Bugger.” He whispered under his breath, he clutched his satchel in hands and walked toward you. “Right, where- where do you wanna have breakfast?”
“Around here, maybe.” 
“I’m not familiar with the coffee shops around here. I usually drink my own coffee, yeah? I don’t like to go out that much, too busy, too much noise.” He held the door open for you. 
Fucking Marc and his stupid, stupid ideas. 
He had taken control that morning, he had sent that email but he had purposefully left you out because he was a slimy fucker. Steven hated him in that moment. He had fucked everything up for him, he had put him in a weird position and he couldn’t just drop you, he had asked you out - kind of - and he couldn’t back out now. You had already said yes, to Marc at least, and it’d look bad if he changed his mind in that moment, plus he didn’t want to waste that opportunity, it might never happen again. 
Invite her over. Invite her over and have her. Or let me have her. 
Steven grimaced and glared at his reflection in the window, Marc was smugly smiling at him, his hands in his pants pockets as he wiggled his brows. He pointedly ignored him, keeping his head down while he made his way out of the building. You were walking behind him, your hands in front of your thighs clutching your bag, you made him nervous by just standing there doing nothing, it was mental. 
“We can go to my office if you’d like, I have coffee, pastries and we can go over your translation together. Or we can settle for some mediocre coffee and a stale croissant, up to you.” Steven paled. Bollocks. Of course Marc had to slip in and fuck him over somehow. “If you want! No pressure! I can also… I can also look if we can find a coffee shop that isn’t that bad.” 
Fucking Marc and his big mouth. 
“I’d like that actually. We can go to your office.” 
You walked in silence at first, quite nervous and almost embarrassed. Then, it dissipated, you  chatted about translations, classes and life in general, Steven seemed to be as skittish as you had remembered, he wasn’t as cocky as he had seemed before, which was odd in your opinion. However, you were glad he had invited you over, it meant that perhaps, somehow, he was interested in you; maybe from a strictly academic point of view, but he was interested nonetheless. You could use it for your own advantage somehow.
Wasn’t that difficult, was it? Now we just need to set the mood and it’ll go smooth. Don’t you feel lucky, Stevie? We’re about to fuck someone after months of jacking off. Well, you are about to fuck someone after a long time, I had a lot of fun Saturday. 
Steven groaned quietly at the memories of that night. Marc had acted far too quickly and he didn’t have the time to hide behind their “wall” and let him have his privacy. He had to suffer through a long, rough night spent in a dodgy apartment in Camden Town because Marc had found someone in an even sketchier bar downtown. 
Will you let me have some fun with her if the occasion arrives? 
“No.” He grumbled. 
“Excuse me?” You asked, head tilted to the side. 
“Oh, sorry. I wasn’t talking to you, I was just thinking out loud.” He forced a smile while unlocking the door of his room. “Sorry for the mess, had a few busy days.”
You made your way into the office, you looked around the small yet cozy office, books were scattered all over the place, sheets of paper had been left on the floor or on various pieces of furniture. He was messy, that was something you had understood even in class, but there was some sort of order behind his messiness. It all made sense somehow. You dropped you bag on the floor next to the door, you were waiting for Steven to say something, but he seemed too preoccupied with shoving his mess under the carpet, literally. 
“Bit chilly in here, innit?” He offered, he headed to the coffee machine he kept near the windowsill, you followed him and stood behind him. “Why don’t you go and grab your translation, yeah? We can go over it as we have coffee.” 
Marc was staring at him through his reflection on the window, he seemed pissed off, perhaps on edge too, worked up and annoyed by Steven’s antics. He had to follow his pace, he was deeply uncomfortable in that moment and Marc was only making it worse, he needed to stop being on his arse so much that he was barely able to breathe. He was into you, you were very smart and very beautiful, you were impossible to resist but Steven had morals, he had principles that he couldn’t ignore, not when it involved risking his whole career for some sex. 
It’d be mind blowing sex, kid. Not a random girl, but her. I can already imagine how she’ll look under us, you better not disappoint her. 
The more she says it, the harder you get. Can’t blame you. 
“Y-yeah? What can I do for you?” 
“I have my work here, we can go over it as you said before.” You sat down on a chair, your notebook open on the small table. “I went over it a few days ago, figured it all out, it’s alright now, but thank you for checking it, Professor Grant.” 
Enough is enough, stop pinching your thigh and do something.
“It’s my pleasure, I’m here to help you.” Steven poured the coffee in two mugs, he handed one to you and then sat next to you, his thigh brushed yours and his cock stiffened a little. “Let me see.” 
Steven sipped his coffee, it was a perfect interpretation of what they had read, he highly doubted you needed his help to begin with, you were one of his best students for a reason, he wasn’t just saying that because he wanted to fuck you senseless right on that table. He shifted in his seat, he tried to adjust himself as discreetly as possible, his nose was slightly scrunched up in discomfort; those trousers Marc had picked were starting to be too tight for him. 
“Everything alright?” 
Steven looked up from the notebook and hummed. “Yeah, yeah, you did everything right, actually. Good job, you’re such a good student.” 
“I aim to please.” 
She’s giving it to us on a silver plate, do something. 
Steven gulped, his hand gingerly touched your arm, he wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing, it felt so wrong yet so right at the same time. His grasp got firmer, he looked at you as you smiled softly, your head cocked to the side; you looked stunning, your long sleeved shirt looked so tight, it hugged you in all the right places, the deep neckline made your breasts look even plumper than usual. No bra, again. This time Steven indulged himself, he stared at how youe nipples rose up, those two pebbles looked so kissable, touchable and overall tastable. 
“That’s… that’s good. It’ll come in handy during your academic life.” 
Now you’re just being dumb on purpose. 
Marc wasn’t lying, however Steven couldn’t muster the courage to do anything more, he was too nervous and scared to fuck it all up. Your eyelids fluttered, were you blushing? Steven wasn’t sure, he could only focus on his hand on you arm and on the tent in his trousers, which was making everything pretty much impossible. He had to lean in, he had to do something to either ease the tension or make it peak, breaking it in the most delicious and satisfying way possible. 
“Are you hungry?” 
Way to go, Steven. 
“Yes, actually. I was running late so I skipped breakfast, and you mentioned pastries, right? I never turn them down.” You joked, crossing your arms in front of your chest, making Steven look up at you. 
He pushed his chair back, he shivered as he noticed that his cock wasn’t going to give up that easily, it was still hard, obscenely bulging out so that it was impossible for you to not notice it, even if Steven hurriedly turned around, hiding from you and your wandering eyes. You was hungry, probably starving since you hadn’t eaten that morning, 
Steven let me take the body.
He gritted his teeth, grimacing and pondering over what he was even supposed to do. You looked stunning in that moment, you had your hands on his bicep, steading yourself down for a moment while Steven kept on looking at you. His mouth was still full of pastries, too enamoured by the sight in front of him. You didn’t even need to do anything to be beautiful. 
Steven got up, he kept a stash of fresh pastries in his tiny cabinet. He had hung it up after a few months of working there, he needed a stash of food stored there mostly because he more often than not, he tended to skip a meal or two. He picked two of his best pastries, the chocolate covered croissants with pistachio cream inside it; he hoped you liked them as much as he did.
It looked like you did, at least somehow. He watched you eat in silence for a few seconds, his mouth refused to open and his eyes refused to move from your face, too enamoured by how delicately your fingers skimmed over the glassed croissant.  
“You got…” You reached out, your thumb dusted off some crumbles from Steven’s mouth. “Fixed it.”
He didn’t know what came over him, the pent up tension and nervousness took the best of him and he grasped your wrist, holding it tightly. He turned his head to the side, his lips parted and he deposited a kiss to the palm of your hand, lingering on your skin just to feel the warmth of your body. 
“Professor…” Just a feeble sound, a whisper that sounded like a whimper. 
You leaned forward, eyes so wide that he felt swallowed whole by them, you looked scared as he felt, he was too skittish to even think about how everything could progress. But you were still there, still breathing heavily as his hand engulfed yours, fingers gripping your as tightly as humanly possible. 
“Oh god…” He let out in a whisper, his sugary breath hit you right in the face. “This is so wrong.”
You both laughed to ease off the tension. 
“Professor Grant I-”
“Just Steven, I’m Steven, with a “v”, not a “ph”. Steven.”
Say it one more time and I’ll understand if she decides to ditch your ass.
His eyes got cloudy again, you placed your other hand on his cheek, fully holding his soft face between your damp palms. He had shaved that morning, you could feel the smooth skin under your finger tips as you lightly traced his features.
Steven initiated the kiss. He put a hand on the back of your neck and clashed his lips on yours, tentative and gentle at first, then demanding and needy as he pulled you closer, closer, closer until he was kneeling between your legs, bending your head down. His hands had moved from your neck to your jaw, his strong and rough fingers held your chin as his tongue caressed yours. 
His voice breathy and low, he tugged on your top while his body engulfed yours, standing up and towering over you. “We can stop, we- we- oh gosh, I’m making a fool out of myself.” 
“Shut up and take my clothes off.” You were growing handsy, you needed to touch and taste and kiss and suck his skin as he lavished yours. “Just take me, Steven.”
Demanding and needy, he felt wanted. 
He followed your request, he took off your blouse in soft and gentle yet swift moves, his fingertips traced your shoulders, your arms and then your hands, then moving back up to your neck and leaving goosebumps behind. You arched up, chest pushing out in a silent plea for him to fully uncover your breasts, to look at them and take them in his hands and mouth. 
You craved him, badly. You stood up too, he held your face in his hands and kissed you, biting your lower lip as you pressed yourself on him, a hand on his growing erection. Those trousers, that shirt, he looked so powerful and intimidating, you didn't know where to look to begin with. 
You whimpered in his mouth once he squeezed one of your breasts, his grip so tight and firm that you trembled under him, thighs squeezed together. He kissed down your neck, his lips were burning you and you were barely able to breathe, too busy watching him roll his sleeves up. 
Steven licked his lower lip and his fingers pushed your blouse off, finally exposing your tits. 
"Oh god."
His eyes grew wider, your nipples perked up due to the cold in the room and the arousal that was running through your body, pushing firmly against your lower belly in an aching sensation. You had never been more turned on in your whole life, you could feel your panties get wet. 
"Sit here." He made some space on his desk for you, his things ended up on the floor or messily pushed together. "I want to do so many things to you."
"Do them." Your hands grabbed his belt, pulling him toward you and between your legs. 
"We don't have time." Steven almost looked pained by it, he took great pride in being a good lover, a caring lover, a pleasing one. "I wanna undress you, fully." 
You eagerly nodded, your legs spread further open and you kissed him again, massaging his now straining hard-on through his trousers. He whimpered and threw his head back, his pants filled the small office and you latched on his neck, sucking a hickey there, marking your territory. 
You ended up naked shortly after, you didn't feel exposed, you didn't feel weird as you stood in front of him, arms to your sides as you glanced back at Steven. You couldn’t wait any longer to feel him in you and around you.
He wrapped his strong arms around your middle, you could feel his erection on your thigh and it drove you mad. “I’ve been imaging this for way too long.” He let out in a breath, kissing your shoulder. “I’ve been wanting you for months.”
You chuckled, breathless and worked up. “I’ve been-”
“You’ve always sat in the front row, yeah? With your skirts and jumpers with no bra under it. You drove me mad.” He interrupted you, his hands pushing you down on his desk once more. “Fully mad, but you know that. You saw me looking at you, all the time. You teased me, you played with me and riled me up, maddening, innit?" 
His voice was huskier than you could even imagine, Steven was kissing down your chest at a fast pace, licking and sucking your nipples, pulling on them slightly. You moaned, back arched and hands shoved in his curls, you tugged on them and your pussy contracted, wetness gushed out as you panted and whined. 
He kept sucking on your breasts and he gently pushed you down on the desk, sprawling you on it with your legs fully open and your pulsating clit on full display. His fingers skimmed down your body, you threw your head back when he finally, finally, settled the pad of his index on your inner thigh. 
"Steven, please." You were growing restless under him, he was still fully clothed and his shirt brushed on your chest, stimulating you even more. "Just- please."
He had his cheek on your left thigh, he was resting his head on it while looking up at you, eyes languid and almost shining with lust and desire. You raised your hips up a little, wriggling under his intense stare, head thrown back. His tongue peeked out and he traced a wet line from your inner thigh to your pussy's outer lips. 
Steven was methodical in his everyday life, of course he was going to be like that during sex, too. 
Your eyes closed in pleasure as Steven parted your lips apart, he ran his tongue between them up and down, up and down again before settling on your clit. He pressed his tongue on it and looked up at you, face almost hidden in your cunt. You raised your head and stared down at him, you were moaning - high pitched and whiny - and you were rocking your hips forward, inviting him to go further. 
Steven caved in and pushed his tongue inside you, it made you moan louder than before, your left leg locked behind his head and you trapped him there. He chuckled, the sound traveled right through you and it shook you, it made you quiver and gush out again. Steven lapped it all up, he closed his lips around your clit and sucked hard, his tongue swirled around your hard and pulsing nub. At the same time, right as he was sucking on your core, he snuck a finger inside you.
"Oh fuck, oh fuck, Steven..." You moaned and withered under him, chest heaving and breath ragged. 
"Are you enjoying this?" His voice was so soft, it barely matched the vigor in his fingers. 
Steven was ready for one of Marc's usual comebacks, but everything stayed quiet in his head. Nothing, not a sound. Zero. He could only hear your moans. 
"Uh-uh." Your brain was foggy, clouded in pleasure and need. 
He eagerly returned to your pussy, his tongue circled your clit while two fingers plunged into you, he crooked them and you squealed, you tugged him closer by his hair and started to grind your dripping core on his face. He didn't miss a beat, he let you use his face to get off, his fingers slipped out and you whined. 
"Come here, come here and kiss me." Your free hand gripped his shoulder. 
"Yeah, alright, darling." 
You met him halfway, your lips were uncoordinated and your teeth were pulling and gnawing on his bottom lip. Your legs wrapped around his waist, his cock twitched when your pussy brushed over it, he stiffened under you and his head dropped down on your chest. His hair tickled you, his face was basically smushed between your tits and his hands were holding onto your arms for dear life. 
You wanted to touch his dick, you wanted to wrap your lips around his hard shaft and suck it, tasting his precum while you kissed and gently licked his tip. You wondered what it looked like, he seemed well endowed, but you still wanted to see, you wanted to feel him; you needed to feel every single bit of him on you. 
Steven kissed you again, open mouthed and filthy. His tongue rubbed on yours languidly, he tried to pull back but you held onto his hair and sucked on his tongue, making him moan. He didn't waste any time, his fingers got back into you and he started to pump them in and out slowly, then a little faster, and faster, and faster until you had your head hanging back and your eyes rolled in the back of your head. 
"I'mma... I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum, oh fuck, I'm gonna cum." You felt your back arch even more, your whole body convulsed when his thumb sweetly pressed on your clit. "Oh god, Steven!" 
You tilted his head back as you came, your nails dug into his scalp and he looked at you with complete trust. He was as gone as you were and he hadn't even come. 
You kept trembling, your legs were shaking as you slumped back down on the desk. You tried to catch your breath somehow, deep breaths and soft whimpers as your clit kept on throbbing and your hips still twitched. Steven had other ideas, though. 
He dropped to his knees once more, this time his touch was far gentler than before, almost tentative and unsure of what to do. He seemed mesmerized by your pussy, he ran his fingers over your inner lips, he rubbed your wetness between his index and middle finger before looking up at you, eyes hooded and lost. 
Steven kissed your clit, then your hole, your labia and your pelvis, his tongue flattened out over your cunt, he collected your liquids and stared up at you. He kept you spread open with two of his fingers as he thoroughly licked every single drop of your cum, his nose now resting on your clit. He gently traced each fold with his tongue and then his pinkie, his breath - hot and humid - fanned over your core, making you shudder. 
"Professor?" You softly asked, your hand caressing his hair. He seemed completely out of it, engrossed in touching and tasting you. "Professor Grant?"
"Yes, darling?" His voice was thick and slurred. 
"I... I want to make you feel good, too, Professor." 
He chuckled, his head tilted upward to look straight at you, eyes cloudy and at peace. "Next time, next time." 
Your heart skipped a beat. "Yeah, we can do that on Monday."
Steven chuckled and kissed the top of your thigh. "It's a date.”
part two can be found here
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skvatnavle · a month ago
Ya Rouhi
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Stephen Grant x reader
Warnings: None. Just some cute moments. Fluff.
Notes: I've given the reader a last name and glasses, but other than that, there's no description. And there's some egyptology thrown in there. With Moon Knight out, I can finally use my secret superpower, which is my love for Ancient Egypt and its mythology.
Thanks to @fictionalnerdery for looking this over and telling me if I was on the right track and @yespolkadotkitty for beta reading ❤
I have plans for a part 2. Oh, and the title is Arabic and means "you are my soul", equal to soulmate 😄💜
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“Good morning!”
Steven looks up, only to be met by the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen. He raises his hand, as he mumbles a soft “hey”, but you’re already gone.
His gaze follows you as you enter the newest part of the Egyptian exhibit. As the hours go by, he watches the way you move around the sculptures and artefacts, captivated by it all. And quite frankly, he is captivated by you. By the way you bite the end of your pencil. How you often push your glasses gently back into place. How your hair shines in the small beams of sunlight coming through the windows.
Around lunch time, as Steven makes his way to the break room, he sees you near a statue of Anubis. Against his better judgement, he comes over. He knows Donna has told him to leave patrons of the museum alone, but maybe… you’re different. When you see him, you offer him a soft smile.
“Hello again.”
“Did you know that Anubis wasn’t only the God of Death and mummification, but he was also the one who-”
“Escorted the dead on their journey to the afterlife? Yeah, I know.”
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You bite your lip playfully, when you see the surprised expression on his face.
“But that was an easy one. Anubis is my favourite.”
“Mine is Khonshu. God of the moon, watching over those who travel at night,” he looks at you briefly, before he continues talking. You listen intently, a soft smile on your lips. He’s passionate and clearly knows a lot. Why he is stuck in the giftshop is a mystery to you.
You keep talking through his entire break. The more he talks, the more confident he seems, more relaxed in your company. It’s really refreshing meeting someone who wants to talk about Egypt and its mythology. Your friends usually cut you off, like you’re Ross Geller talking about dinosaurs. But not Steven. He listens. Sometimes you even see his eyes wide with wonder, maybe surprised to meet someone as passionate as himself.
“Ihy,” you interrupt softly.
“Ihy. He’s also the offspring of Horus, but people often forget.”
Steven smiles wide, almost like he can’t believe this. But just as he is about to speak, he gets interrupted by Donna.
“Stevie, stop bothering Dr. Hanson, yeah? She’s got better things to do than listening to you rambling.”
God, you already hated that woman. Talked to her twice, but that was already two times too much.
“Actually, I find Steven quite interesting,” you say, raising a brow at her, crossing your arms.
You both look over at Steven. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights, shock painted over his face.
“You-you’re a doctor?”
“Of course, you idiot. She’s the new head of the Department of Ancient Egypt and Sudan. Stop bothering her.” she spits out, before walking away.
You look after her, wondering how one person could possibly be so horrible. Maybe the first thing on your to do list would be to find a replacement for her. When you look back towards Steven, he is already gone.
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“It’s just my luck, you see? First woman ever who wanted to talk to me and she’s my new boss. But she is interested in Ancient Egypt and actually wanted to talk to me.” He smiles softly, taking a bite and chewing happily.
When he swallows, he looks back at his companion. “We have stuff in common. And that’s important, innit?” Steven takes a bite of his sandwich, looking at the man beside him. A human statue.
He puts his sandwich down, suddenly overwhelmed by sadness. He really is pathetic, isn’t he? Sitting here, talking to someone who can’t even answer him. Talking about you, when you probably didn’t even give him a second thought. Why would you?
“I know I shouldn’t think about her, but her smile is so beautiful,” he sighs, the image of your radiant smile playing in his mind.
He freezes when he hears your voice. No… No, no, no. He says a silent prayer you didn’t hear what he said, as he turns around to face you.
“Are you talking to a statue?”
“Yes. No, I… He just acts like a statue,” Steven smiles apologetically, but luckily you just smile and come closer. His heart is racing, worried about what you’re gonna say.
“Can I ask you something?” you ask softly, as you sit down beside him. He looks into your eyes, nodding gently.
“Since you know so much, why aren’t you a tour guide?”
“I’m not good with people. Too shy. Besides, Donna said she’d never make me one, so…” he shrugs, looking down at his hands. He’s embarrassed, but might as well tell you now. You’re gonna find out soon enough how odd he is.
“Well, if you ever want to become a tour guide, let me know okay? I think you’d be great.”
Did he hear you right? Did you actually believe he would be good? For the first time ever, someone believes in him. Steven looks away, overwhelmed, so used to not being good enough for anyone.
As if you sense his distress, you gently place your hand on his thigh. For a second he forgets to breathe. You’re… You’re touching him. He looks at your hand, before he moves his gaze up your body until he finds your beautiful eyes. He could swear his heart stopped beating.
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You find him quite endearing. How Donna and the others could treat him like this, you honestly didn’t know.
Behind the insecurity and probably years of being let down, you see a kind and sweet man. Someone desperate for love and for a place to fit in. You wonder what he could accomplish if he just believed in himself more. A thought crosses your mind.
“Steven, how would you feel like helping me with the new exhibit?”
The look he gives you is a mixture of shock and joy. Like it’s the exact words he’s been waiting to hear, but still can’t believe them.
“Yeah. I’d love it if you helped me. Honestly.”
You don’t think you’d ever seen anyone smile that wide before. After he agrees hesitantly, almost as if he still doesn’t believe it, you give his thigh a gentle squeeze before you head home.
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Steven is looking into his bathroom mirror, sighing. The dark circles under his eyes are evident and he feels like he hasn't slept at all. And he knows why, still doesn’t make it easier though.
“I can’t… I’ll screw this up, like everything else. Can’t you go?”
HIs reflection shakes its head, smiling.
“Nah, Steven. You can do this,” Marc answers confidently.
Steven nods, not at all confident about spending the entire day with you. Yesterday was effortless, spontaneous. How could he be charming on cue?
He changes his shirt for the third time. Looking into the mirror, he sighs, clearly hating what he sees. Marc rolls his eyes at him, sighing heavily.
“Just go. You’re gonna be late!”
“What do you think, Gus?” He turns to the goldfish. Embarrassed that he actually expected an answer, he puts his bag over his shoulder, before grabbing his thermos. He could do this.
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The day flies by and honestly, it’s the best day he’s ever had. You listen and actually take his suggestions. At times, he’s embarrassed about his passion, almost giving you a lecture, even though you’re the one with the doctorate.
But all you ever do is smile. Smile when he tells you exactly how the posters should fit all the 9 Gods. How the souvenirs in the gift shop should be replaced. Even when he rambles on for an hour about why no one should ever read the Ennead Manhwa comics.
He often makes you laugh and every time it’s like the sweetest music to his ears. He still can’t believe he’s the one making you laugh, but by all the Gods they’re surrounded by, he wishes he can keep you laughing like that forever.
When the day is over, he wishes he could just ask you out. But he doesn’t have Marc's confidence and…
You’re his boss. It wouldn’t be proper.
He looks up into your eyes, still amazed how anyone can have such beautiful eyes. He could stare into them forever, if you’d let him. He’s already picturing you waking up beside him, smiling as the morning sun hits your face. But he shakes the thought away. Never gonna happen. He’s a loser, and an idiot. Even Khonshu thinks so.
“Yeah?” he says, barely above a whisper.
“I’ve had a great time with you today. I…” you start softly, biting your lip. “I know it’s kinda wrong, since I’m your boss, but… You wanna have dinner tomorrow?”
He doesn’t answer. Steven just stares at you, waiting for you to laugh. This must clearly be a joke. He can’t possibly be this lucky, can he?
“I’d love to.”
You break out in a smile, looking excited. When you go in for a hug, he barely manages to hug you back, completely surprised.
“See you tomorrow then,” you promise him, as you turn to walk away. Steven smiles to himself, before raising his hand and waving in your direction.
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You turn, a huge smile on your face. You can’t believe how lucky you are. Sure, he might need time to get out of his shell, but you have no doubt that it’ll all be worth it.
“Laters!” you yell in return, before heading home, your stomach full of butterflies.
Thank you for reading <3
@lucy-sky @yespolkadotkitty @fictionalnerdery @loverhymeswith @noodlecupcakes @songsformonkeys @charnelhouse @a-reader-and-a-writer @buckypascal @h0rny-for-egyptians @221bshrlocked
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call-me-ko · a month ago
BNHA boys as subtle boyfriend things
And maybe some not so subtle things too
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Feat. Midoriya, Bakugou, Todoroki, Kirishima, Denki, Shinsou, Hawks, Dabi
▷ Midoriya remembers every date that is important to you. He has everything written down (in multiple places) anything from your birthday, to your family member’s birthdays; from your monthly anniversaries, to the day you got your first job. He’s very observant, taking note of the storefront items that catch your eye so that he can come back and buy it when you’re not looking. He has a collection of cute trinkets that remind him of you so that for every special day (and sometimes, days without particular significance) he has something to give you that he knows you’ll love. You’re also occasionally surprised by subtle romantic gestures such as flowers or your favorite treat sent to your door, “just because.” He may or may not have an entire page of random notes dedicated to you in his phone, bulleted lists recording your favorite songs, the brands of clothes you like, the pet peeve you complained about last week. He’s your biggest fan, regardless of what you accomplish. Whether it’s for a special occasion or just a little extra something to get you through the week, dating Izuku is all about the small things that make your heart turn and keep you feeling supported every day.
▷ Bakugou keeps his apartment stocked with things he thinks will make you feel comfortable. Though he claims to not be affectionate or romantic, he always just happens to already have the things you need and like. Forgot some comfy sleeping clothes at your place? He already has a cute little set stowed away in the corner of his closet (and of course it’s your size). Feeling stressed? His kitchen is full of your favorite comfort foods and beverages. And as soon as he gets the chance to find out what shampoo you use, don’t be surprised when you see it in his bathroom. You start noticing this a few months into dating, and the more you think about it, there’s no way it’s all coincidental. When you point it out, he has all sorts of excuses– he’s tired of you stealing his clothes (he’s not, he loves the way his shirt is too big on you), he likes that kind of food too (he wouldn’t have ever bought that much for himself though), and the shampoo was on sale (it wasn’t). He’d never explicitly tell you, but Katsuki wants to make you feel at home, no, make you a home with him, because slowly but surely, you might be becoming his.
▷ Todoroki is comfortable to be around. No matter what the day looks like, he listens to what you have to say and tries his best to offer you advice (though it’s not always insightful). He’s reliable, always there for you even before you reach out, prepared for when you want to take his hand or need a shoulder to cry on. Silence has never been awkward with Shoto, you can both be in the same room doing entirely different things and still feel exceedingly close to each other. His presence brings you indescribable peace, whether you’re telling him about your day, wordlessly holding his hand while watching TV, or clinging to him after waking from a nightmare, just being with him helps you calm down. Though he brings a lot of stability to your life, he thinks that you’re actually the one that makes it so easy– social skills aren’t exactly his strong point, but you’ve never once made him feel uncomfortable or unwanted. A slow dance in the living room, a note left on the refrigerator door, a kiss shared in private– A relationship with Shoto feels healthy and unforced, a natural, easygoing love packed full of peaceful yet fiction worthy moments.
▷ Kirishima gives you the cutest nicknames. What’s more, he’s not afraid to use them– it doesn’t matter who is around, whether it be his friends, family members, or complete strangers, Eijirou is so proud to call you his and doesn’t think twice about it until you whisper to him during a heavily publicized gala that it might upset some fans if he keeps doting on you so openly in front of the camera. He doesn’t stick to just one nickname either, testing every name he can think of until he finds one that suits you (and preferably makes you a little flustered). He makes sure to treat you with the utmost respect though, ensuring that anything he calls you gets your seal of approval before he starts using it fondly. Eijirou also loves subtle PDA, casual touching is his love language. It’s a hand on your back as he gently passes by you, fingers entwined while out on dates, a brief hug from behind as you push the grocery cart. Consciously or not, he glows knowing that you are his (and that he is yours) and wants the world to see how much he loves you.
▷ Denki is all contagious laughter and big, infatuated grins, sending memes and positive energy to you every single day. He never fails to uplift you, willingly putting down everything just to make you smile; this man would attempt to control a storm if seeing sunshine would make you happy. Sparks fly (both literally and figuratively) when he’s with you, he’s not just your boyfriend, he’s your best friend. Inside jokes are your secret language, but there’s something really special about being able to communicate with someone using words nobody else understands. His phone is filled with playlists he shares with you, and as your relationship with him evolves you might notice that the songs change too (and if you look even closer, there might even be a consistent message he’s trying to get across through the lyrics). He’s not one to have difficulty expressing himself, so you never have to wonder how much he cares about you when he makes himself so known. Denki has a difficult time being anything but easygoing, humor being a key point of his personality and his way of life, but if there’s one thing he’s serious about, it’s you.
▷ Shinsou shares his streaming subscriptions with you. He views this as a huge step in your relationship, and though he would be annoyed if anyone else was using his accounts, he can’t help but admit he likes seeing what you’ve been watching so he has something to talk about with you later. Of course, this also leads to many movie nights, and more often than not, staying up until past 2 in the morning to binge watch a new show. Late nights are the love language of this relationship, he can’t sleep well and you don’t mind staying up if it’s to spend time with him, and aren’t the best conversations usually held after midnight anyway? On the plus side, if you ever can’t sleep, you’re always welcome to hang out with him no matter the hour. It’s not uncommon for you to fall asleep in the middle of watching something, sometimes even drifting off in the middle of an ambling conversation, but he doesn’t mind at all. Nights don’t feel so lonely when you’re there to tell him about the stars outside his window.
▷ Hawks lavishes you with expensive shopping trips and fancy, rooftop dinners. There’s never been a boring date with him, and you never do the same thing twice. Any given dinner date with him would be considered extravagant by normal standards, but he has no reason not to go all out when impressing you is the prize. There’s nothing more rewarding to him than seeing your face light up with excitement when he shows you the prettiest view of the skyline he can find. A relationship with Hawks also includes spontaneous meetups, and though it surprised you the first time he called unannounced, you enjoy the way he keeps you on your toes. On chilly days, he casually pulls you closer to him, wings shielding you from the wind. He loves the way you wrinkle your nose when a feather tickles around your face, and you love the flirtatious grin he gives you as he tucks you further into his wing. You’re protected and beloved in his embrace, and he’s always willing to invest more into his relationship with you.
▷ Dabi takes you on destinationless late night drives. Call it a date, or just something to pass the time when you’re restless, but he looks so attractive under the cool light of the city and it’s never been about the destination, just the journey. He makes dark roads and blinking street lights feel like the most romantic atmosphere as you watch it all blur by through rolled-down windows, a cool breeze whipping your hair around your face. He’s not usually a distracted driver, but when you look that beautiful he can’t help but stare. That is, until you’re scolding him, “eyes on the road, Touya!,” when you catch him, but he still sneaks side-eyed glances now and then. Occasionally, he removes a scarred hand from the wheel to rest it on your thigh, warmth radiating from his palm. You never remove it. The radio is blaring, it’s empty roads and open skies and going at least ten over the speed limit, but for all it matters to you, you’re the only two people in the world.
Date posted: March 29, 2022
©call-me-ko 2022
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spidervee · 2 months ago
The Spider and the Sunflower (tasm!Peter x Reader)
Summary: The questions continue, long past twenty-one. The more you find out about Peter, the more you want to know—he tells you that if he found a hundred dollars on the street he’d donate it to a food bank and that the TL;DR version of his life is “Art, panic, loss, and student loans.” When he asks you if you have any tattoos, you wink coyly before laughing and telling him you don’t. Then, when you ask the person he’d love to tattoo more than anyone else in the world, he returns your teasing smile and replies that it’s you. -> or, tattooartist!peter meets florist!reader Words: 9.8 k (i'm sorry!) A/N: inspired by the incredible @pardonmydubstep whose idea this is entirely based on. her own AU will be dropping in April but y'all i've read it and it's brilliant. 18+ only fem!reader; cursing; mentions of: food, tattooing, cheating, debt, grief, drugs; implied masturbation; shitty boyfriends (not peter); arguing; peter and reader are both pining idiots; sexual innuendo; smut (fingering, oral, shower sex) inexperienced!peter; there's a whole ass plot in this; not proofread. please validate me.
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wisteria for welcoming
The sign goes up on a Saturday afternoon, just as you’re returning from delivering bridal bouquets to three different addresses. Ink Trails. The lettering is unassuming; the logo, simple—a black spider with extended legs that give off the impression of dripping ink. Perhaps you’d been expecting something more…gothic or biker-esque, so you’re pleasantly surprised by the artistry of it, the delicate lines and soft curves of its insectoid body.
You stifle a yawn, air conditioning barely keeping your eyes from drooping, watching from the driver’s seat of your car as an older woman carries navy blue and grey throw cushions as well as large canvases filled with photography of various New York landmarks into the shop next door. Surely, she can’t be your new neighbour. She looks far too delicate, too quintessentially motherly to—you stop yourself from the pending judgement; you know it’s unfair and decide that you’ll have to introduce yourself.
“Hello?” You step delicately into the shop, hoping you’re not intruding, immediately noting the absence of a bell or chime to announce your arrival. Briefly, you cast your eyes around the interior of what had, up until last month, been a dry cleaner’s—it’s much more aesthetically pleasing now.
To your left is a small waiting area with mismatched wingback chairs and a small table strewn with a collection of coffee table photography books. A few titles stick out to you: Dogs!, Sneakers x Culture, and Hubble. It’s an eclectic collection, to say the least, but it stirs your interest. Behind the front desk, where you stand now, is an open area with two black tattoo beds, each beside a workstation with its own metallic cabinet topped with various tools and implements you don’t know the name of.
“Can I help you, dear?”
You glance over in time to see the older woman from outside come out of a private room at the back of the shop, her hair falling from the loose bun that’s tied at the nape of her neck.
“Hi,” you greet her with a small wave, using your free arm to balance the arrangement you’d popped into your own shop to grab before heading over here. “I own the shop next door—The Greenhouse—and I just wanted to stop in and say welcome.” You hold out the arrangement in her direction as she walks over smiling so warmly it reminds you of summer afternoons spent with your grandmother.
“That’s very kind, dear, thank you.” She takes the flowers from you and sets the vase on top of the front counter, right by a list of rules that begins with Tattoos are by appointment only. “Peter is lucky to have such a friendly neighbour.”
“My nephew,” she explains, “This is his place, of course, I’m just here to help him tidy and get everything set up.”
As if on cue, a young man, about your age, stumbles through the door carrying a large box labelled Random Crap and sets it down on the counter next to your arrangement. He notices it and tilts his head to the side, an amused expression tugging up at the corner of his mouth.
“Flowers, May?”
He’s talking to the older woman, his aunt, and she purses her lips at him, eyes flickering toward you in something of a warning. Peter turns to look at you and seems to notice your presence for the first time. His gaze makes you run your suddenly clammy palms over the skirt of your sundress under the pretence of smoothing non-existent wrinkles from the bright yellow fabric. His honey-amber eyes dance with something like mischief as he notices your own eyes sizing him up. He’s tall, almost unfairly so, and lean, with broad shoulders and muscled arms that are on full display given the ribbed white tank top he’s wearing. Your eyes are instantly drawn to the characters that adorn his right bicep—recognizing them as Hebrew, but unsure what they mean.
“So, you’re the flower girl?”
His aunt—May—makes an exasperated noise in her throat and you’re certain she’s about to tell him to be nice when he holds out his hand. You notice the spiderwebs that are inked onto his knuckles, stemming up his hands and culminating on his wrists where they swirl into a stunning pastiche of photorealistic images and carefully lettered text.
You take his offered hand and can’t help but to notice the way the rough edges of his fingers slip into smooth palms. His handshake is gentle but firm, his larger hand nearly swallowing yours. You focus instead on the way his messy brown hair sticks up at odd angles as if he rolled out of bed looking that good.
“I’m Peter,” he grins, his index finger playfully tapping at your delicate wrist, “Nice to meet you, Sunflower.”
carnations for fascination
Peter doesn’t mean to watch you, but in the week since Ink Trails opened, he catches himself staring every time you’re out front of your shop, fixing up the planters you keep by the entrance. There’s something about you—something that makes him feel as though you’ve enchanted him; like you put some magic spell to ensnare him in the flowers that still sit, slightly wilted, next to his register.
It’s the swing of your hips and the way you smile kindly at him every time you cross paths. The way the sunlight catches in the silver rings you wear has him fixating on your fingers, on your hands. He remembers how tiny they were in his own on that first day and the memory sends his mind into a gutter full of shame and self-reproach. It’s not helped by the sundresses you wear, seemingly designed to test the limits of his sanity with their floral prints and their curve-hugging bodices and the way the breeze ruffles them around your thighs.
Yeah, he’s under your spell.
It’s been years since he felt like this—sure, he’s found people attractive, but he’s never been attracted to them—and he blames the way you carefully tend to your plants, gently pruning them and cutting away every bit that’s no longer growing, every bit that’s stagnated into something ugly that leeches off of all the good parts. He finds himself wishing you’d do that for him—take him into your arms and tend to all the things he wants to be, rid him of all the haunted thoughts that snake around him like suffocating tendrils every time he starts to feel happy again. He blames the splash of colour, like the petals of your flowers, that you are in a world that’s otherwise been black and white for nearly a decade.
Peter almost feels guilty. Because he shouldn’t be thinking of you in that way, shouldn’t be thinking of anyone in that way, not since he chose loneliness to be his most trusted companion. If you avoid falling in love you avoid the risk of getting hurt. Of having your entire life ripped out from under you like a rug. Loneliness is safe. So he watches from a distance, ever more fascinated each time you pop open the door to his shop to tell him good morning, a cup of coffee proffered, and to wish him a good night at the end of the day.
It’s the night nine days after he’s opened that Peter lies in bed, his phone buzzing with an Instagram notification. He checks it, sees that it’s from you—a request to follow his personal account. From your personal account. He accepts, too quickly perhaps, and returns the request and no more than ten minutes later he’s scrolling through your photos.
The two of you instantly followed one another’s business accounts, that was a given. But these photos are so very different than the ones of you posed with beautiful arrangements, floral walls, blushing brides and grinning grooms. Instantly, he regrets scrolling through them. It feels invasive to see you like this—laughing and smiling in the woods, on the beach, at Coney Island; living a life outside the confines of where his days intersect with yours.
Frustrated and confused by the needy feeling in the pit of his stomach, Peter tosses his phone aside, ignoring as it clatters to the floor. He tries to sleep, truly he does. But as his hands creep below the sheets, slide under the waistband of his boxers, he can’t get your smile out of his head.
lilies for disdain
Peter’s client tells him, in a quivering voice, that they feel lightheaded. Their partner, looking quesy, meets Peter’s eye as if to say do something. Sighing, Peter pauses in his work and goes to the back of the shop, emerging moments later with an oversized tub of sour keys.
“Have one,” he offers his client—and their partner, for good measure, “The sugar helps. And it’s good that you told me. We’ll take a few minutes and then try again, yeah?”
The pair nod and Peter smiles until something outside the window catches his eye. He sees you pacing the same four sidewalk panels with enough force to erode cement. Your ear is pressed to your phone and from this vantage point he can see the way you’re wringing your hands in the sleeves of your cardigan.
“I’ll be back in a minute, okay?” Peter says, “Just outside if you need anything.” He stands, slipping into the back room once more, quickly, to grab a bottle of orange juice for his client, before he takes the sour keys and heads outside, stepping into your path. It makes you stop in your pacing, but the conversation you’re having with whoever is on the other side of that call continues and Peter can hear the frustration laced in your voice.
“What do you mean? No. No, I specifically ordered the calla lilies. Eight dozen. For Friday. Are you not hearing me?”
Your hand has travelled up to the back of your neck and Peter can see the way your fingers are trembling. Smiling softly, he holds out the sour keys to you as an offering. You glance down at them and, without reacting, turn away from him to continue your pacing.
“Listen,” you’re saying into the receiver, Peter thinking he’s never heard you sound so firm before, “If I don’t have those calla lilies I will never order flowers from you again, do you understand?” There’s a pause in the conversation and Peter watches as your brows knit together, creasing your forehead. He finds himself wanting to pull you close and smooth away your worries with his thumb. “Yeah,” you mutter finally, “3 p.m.? Perfect. See you then.”
The call ends and you slip your phone into the pocket of your cardigan, noticing that Peter is still there, a large jar of candy held out in your direction. You feel heat rise in your body, embarrassment bubbling in your veins that someone witnessed you losing your cool, even if only slightly.
“Everything okay?”
Peter asks the question with such calm earnestness that your stomach lurches and you suddenly feel annoyed at him standing there, being so…goddamn chill and holding out candy like it’s supposed to make you feel better. You ignore the fact that all you need to do is reach out and grab a sour key, roll your eyes and laugh about shitty suppliers. Instead, you’re fixated on the way Peter is looking at you, like you’re some sort of frightened animal he needs to placate. It makes you feel silly, makes humiliation rise in your throat like bile, coating the words you spit out at him.
“Don’t worry about it,” you mutter darkly, fingertips pinching at the bridge of your nose to smother what is surely an oncoming headache.
“I know candy isn’t much,” Peter chuckles, “But in my line of work, sugar helps and—”
“It’s fine,” you snap, holding your free hand up to stop him from saying anything else. There’s ice creeping into your tone, a defence mechanism you’re trying desperately to melt. “And honestly, Peter, it’s really none of your business.”
He blinks at you, surprised, then licks his lips, holding his hands up in the universal gesture of surrender. “Okay,” Peter frowns, “Sorry I asked.”
You don’t reply, turning on your heel to head back inside, too shame-faced to look at him. Peter, never one to not have the last word, calls out to you with that damn nickname he always uses—the one that sends curls of delight coursing through your body, though you’d be loath to admit it. “Let me know if you do need anything though,” Peter says, eyes narrowed, “Like help getting that stick out of your ass.”
“Bite me, Parker.” You throw up your middle finger at his retreating figure, slinking back into your shop with tears in your eyes.
geraniums for folly
It’s a couple days before you see Peter again and you notice that the tattoo shop stays dark. Part of you is still annoyed at yourself for your behaviour earlier in the week, but you find yourself also worrying that he’s sick and wondering if you could get his number from the landlord so you could check in on him.
As it turns out, there’s no need.
You’re running late Thursday morning and are entirely frazzled, realizing only as you’re getting out of the car to open the shop that your jean jacket is mysteriously missing two buttons and the client who you’re rushing to meet had sent you an email cancelling while you were weaving in and out of traffic. Fucking hell. Sweat trickles down your spine, partly from the urgency you’d been feeling and partly from sheer frustration. You reach the door of your shop and remember that your keys are buried at the bottom of your purse.
“Hey Sunflower.”
You glance over at the entrance to the shop next door to yours, pausing in your fumbling for your keys. It takes all of you not to roll your eyes at the man standing lazily against the wall, a coffee in his tattooed hands. His easy stance, his soft voice—it’s like he’s entirely forgotten the last time you’d spoken to him.
“Hi Peter,” you mutter, going back to rummaging in your bag, trying to ignore his gaze, which you feel burning into the back of your neck.
“Need a hand?” His question is light, teasing.
“Not from you,” you retort, perhaps more harshly than you mean to. In an effort to soften the blow, you look pointedly at his fingers as they tap a frenetic beat on the paper coffee cup and try your best to sound cheeky. “With all the coffee you drink, I don’t know how you even manage to tattoo anyone.”
“That’s not very nice, Sunflower,” Peter mocks, a grin playing on his lips. His perpetual grinning drove you crazy—in more ways than you’d care to admit. “My hands are always steady…when it matters.”
His comment sends a shiver down your spine, makes you want to douse yourself in cold water. Thankfully, at that moment, your index finger loops around your keyring and you pull it unceremoniously from your purse.
hyacinth for jealousy
Peter isn’t thrilled when he finds out you’re seeing someone, a picture of you and a dark-haired man showing up on his Instagram feed and making his jaw clench. He wonders, with a stab of embarrassment, how long you’ve been with this guy and how much of a fool he’s made of himself by trying—and failing—to get your attention.
He’s even less thrilled when he meets the man in question, distaste instantly coursing through his veins as though he’s got a sixth sense to detect assholes.
It’s a rainy Saturday afternoon when a man in a well-tailored suit enters his shop. Peter glances up from where he’s working on a large dragon piece for a regular. He instantly recognizes the cold eyes and sharp angles of your boyfriend’s face, but he pretends not to, pausing in his work to greet this would-be-stranger.
“Hey man,” Peter gives a short, cordial wave, “Can I help you?” He notes, with some satisfaction, how the suit looks uncomfortable in his tiny shop with its buzzing needles and cheap furniture. Good.
“I’m waiting for the girl next door,” he says with an arrogant grin, “You’re Peter?”
Peter nods, rotating his stool back toward his client. “That’s me. You know Y/N?”
“Harry,” the suit introduces himself, “Y/N’s told me about you.”
Peter has to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying Funny, she’s never mentioned you because that would be petty. Satisfying, sure, but petty.
“You’re her boyfriend?” Peter asks casually, the hum of his tattoo gun hiding some of the bitterness that’s woven into the question.
“Recently back together,” Harry replies, hands in his jacket pockets, “I called, she answered kind of thing, you know?”
Peter nods, silent and tense because, no actually he does not ‘know’. He returns to his client, tongue poking out of his lips in concentration as he begins to shade the dragon he’s inking onto the man’s back.
“I have to ask, how’s the money in this business?”
Peter exchanges a swift glance with the man in his chair, who looks over his shoulder in disbelief, a knowing grin peeking out from under a bushy grey beard.
“Enough to pay the bills,” Peter answers vaguely. Sometimes, he tacks on as an afterthought, as if he hasn’t been sleeping in the back of the shop and showering at May’s. No designer suits for him.
daffodils for uncertainty
“Did you take these yourself?”
You’re on one of the wingback chairs in Peter’s shop, a blue pillow resting atop your thighs to cover your lap, the length of your skirt making you a little self-conscious.
Peter’s latest client has just left—a chatty young woman, clearly enamoured with the lithe man inking her ribs. You’d been sitting there long enough to see that even though she was stunningly pretty, Peter did not return her advances, either uninterested or entirely inept and picking up flirty social clues. The woman had shot you a withering look on her way out as if you were to blame for Peter’s aloofness. Whatever. You’d tried not to be bothered, but it was that icy glare that had sent you reaching for a pillow to hold over your legs.
Peter glances up from tidying his work station, following your pointed finger to a large canvas of the Brooklyn Bridge. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips, something like pride making his eyes crinkle with delight.
“Yeah,” he replies, a little sheepishness creeping into his voice, “I was super into photography for a while. They’re all mine.” Vaguely, he gestures around the shop and you let your eyes linger briefly on each of the canvases.
“They’re really good,” you smile, “You’ve got a good eye. Ever thought about doing wedding photography?”
Peter snorts at the suggestion and you cross your arms over your chest, somewhat miffed at his dismissal. If he notices, he doesn’t let on, instead standing from his stool and stretching. You try not to look at the stripe of skin that’s revealed as his arms go up over his head, his Henley riding up to exposing jeans slung low on his hips and a small, scruffy patch of hair below his belly button. You decide to change the subject, distract yourself.
“She was flirting with you, by the way,” you smirk, jerking a thumb out the window even though the woman was long gone. Peter shrugs, coming over to the front of the shop and taking the seat across from you. “What?” you continue, tone light, “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice!”
“I did,” he replies, nonchalant.
You narrow your eyes at him, then nod with understanding, a teasing smirk on your lips. “You already have a girlfriend.”
“No. I don’t.” The sharp tone of Peter’s words takes you aback and you mumble an apology, suddenly feeling a stab of guilt in your chest.
delphiniums for fun
The lights flicker once before going out entirely, shrouding your workspace in darkness and making you prick your thumb on a boutonnière pin in your surprise. Hissing, you stick the injured digit in your mouth for a moment, the taste of blood metallic on your tongue. It’s not worth complaining about, so you sigh and head to the retail area of the shop where sunlight from the street streams in through the windows. There’s already a line of cars on the road, the traffic light outage clearly causing problems.
You’re about to grab your phone to see what’s going on, but then you remember that it’s dead and you’d been meaning to charge it, but every little distracting task had led you to this moment.
Resigned to an unproductive afternoon break, you lock up shop and decide to check in on Peter, hoping his tools didn’t die in the middle of a sitting. Thankfully, you find him alone, scrolling through his obviously not-dead phone and it makes you smirk that Peter was more responsible than you.
You wave as you walk into the shop, taking a seat on the chair that you’ve unofficially claimed as your own. “The power’s out.”
“Really?” Peter scoffs playfully, “I couldn’t tell.” He looks up from his phone with an amused expression and quickly flashes the screen at you, something that looks like a headline briefly entering your line of sight before Peter is pocketing the device. “I think it’s gone two or three blocks out,” he continues, “So who knows how much time will pass.”
“Maybe it’s the apocalypse,” you joke, “And we’re the last two people on Earth.”
“If you expect me to make a let’s repopulate joke, I refuse to be so crass.”
“Such a gentleman,” you tease, heart skipping a beat when you notice the flush in Peter’s cheeks. You purse your lips, suddenly feeling guilty because you have a boyfriend and here you are flirting with your neighbour. Your handsome, kind, looks like his hands could wrap around your neck, neighbour.
“Let’s play a game. 21 questions?” Peter’s suggestion pushes through your thoughts and you let out a short huff of laughter, crossing your arms over your chest. You realize, all of a sudden, that you left your sweater on the chair in your workshop and it’s cold in Peter’s shop, prickly goosebumps forming on your skin.
“Absolutely not.” You giggle, running your hands over your arms. Peter notices and slips his Henley over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it in your direction. He’s left in an old Bowie t-shirt that clings to him in all the right ways. You catch the offered shirt and wrap it around your shoulders, too timid to wear it properly because that would be intimate, right? This is just a friendly gesture. One that smells of cinnamon and fresh baked bread with a whisper of disinfectant.
“I promise I’ll keep it PG,” Peter grins, leaning back in the chair opposite you. “I’m a gentleman, remember?”
“Okay, fine.”
He looks delighted at your agreement and feigns a thinking pose, elbow on this knee, chin propped up on his fist. You try not to stare at the vein you can see running down his bicep but your traitorous eyes will not allow themselves to be pulled away.
“What’s your favourite animal?” Peter’s first question is gentle and you can only hope he’ll keep his promise to not get too personal.
You think for a moment, flashes of adorable creatures running through your mind in a way that makes it impossible to choose just one. “Polar bears. No, tigers. Or maybe horses…”
Peter chuckles, clearly amused by your indecision and you playfully flip him off. “Shut up. What’s yours?”
“Spiders.” He answers without missing a beat.
“Spiders aren’t technically animals.” You pull Peter’s Henley more tightly around your shoulders, still basking in the warmth that it’s retained from his skin.
“And you’re not technically any fun to play this game with,” he retorts.
“Ask another,” you can’t help but to laugh, the sound of it contagious so that Peter is laughing too as he lines up his next question.
“Best place to get sloshed in Queens?”
“Easy,” you crow, “The Jar.”
Peter looks taken aback for a moment, until you realize he’s smirking and there’s something cheeky about to roll off his tongue. “There’s no way you’re cool enough to go to The Jar,” Peter teases and you feign affront, putting a hand over your heart.
“That’s very ungentlemanly, Mr. Tattoo Artist.”
Peter has the sense to dramatically sweep his hand across his forehead, jesting at penitence. “I’m terribly sorry, Madame Sunflower.”
“I’ll forgive you,” you mutter, tapping a finger on your cheek as you think of your next question. It pops into your head from a now-distant memory of the first day you met Peter. “What does the text on your arm mean? The Hebrew script?”
Peter smiles a little ruefully, his hand coming up to brush over the characters you’re referring to. “It says Ben,” he tells you, “After my Uncle. He and May raised me and when he died, it was…it hurt. But I know he’s with me all the time. I’ve got his middle name. Peter B. Parker.”
“I’m sorry,” you frown, sticking the tip of your index finger in your mouth, wishing you could take back the question, “I didn’t mean to ask something so personal.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Peter assures you, smiling wide, “It was a long time ago.”
The questions continue, long past twenty-one. You learn that Peter’s favourite colour is tied between blue and red, that his favourite food is his Aunt May’s latkes, and that he imagines himself to be very useful during a zombie apocalypse. The more you find out about Peter, the more you want to know—he tells you that if he found a hundred dollars on the street he’d donate it to a food bank and that the TL;DR version of his life is “Art, panic, loss, and student loans.”
When he asks you if you have any tattoos, you wink coyly before laughing and telling him you don’t. Then, when you ask the person he’d love to tattoo more than anyone else in the world, he returns your teasing smile and replies that it’s you.
And then the lights come back on and you’re thankful because the air between you and Peter had been starting to get warm and thick with something that didn’t fit well between just acquaintances.
“One more question?” Peter asks as you get up to return to your shop. You decide to humour him and nod, opening your arms as though inviting him to interrogate you. Peter bites his lip, surveying you for a long moment, eyes lingering on your exposed neck. “What do you see in Harry?”
The question surprises you, makes a cool sweat bead at the nape of your neck. You swallow heavily, chewing the inside of your bottom lip. “Peter…” you begin, though you’re not quite certain what words you want to say.
“I mean it, Y/N,” Peter sighs in earnest, “The dude is like every stereotype of a rich kid ever rolled into a suit and hair gel.”
He’s right. You know he’s right. Yet something inside you steels, armour coating your heart to keep it from beating too loudly. “It’s complicated,” you resign yourself to delivering an unsatisfactory answer. How can you possibly explain that you’ve been lonely and you want somebody—anybody—to make you feel less like you’re floating around in the world, untethered as you take the dreams and expressions of other peoples’ love and stitch it together with flowers and greenery. You want that love, want to be like a kite that has someone holding it down to earth, a safe place to return to after every flight.
And Harry has his flaws, you know that far too well—it’s ingrained in your memory with images of text messages and photos shared with other women and seemingly sincere apologies and a grand romantic gesture to ask for another chance. Those flaws nag at you while you try to sleep next to him at night, but you know if you try hard enough you can overlook them. Not forget them, but learn to live with them.
Or so you believed. But Peter B. Parker walked casually into your life with a shabby box of Random Crap and sent you spinning, dropping, scattering into the unknown.
Peter B. Parker, who shakes his head at you now, forehead creased. “It shouldn’t be complicated,” he whispers.
“I should go,” you sigh, “Thanks for the company, Pete.” You turn tail, almost afraid of looking at him for a moment longer, and exit the tattoo parlour.
It’s only when you’re back in your own shop, brewing a tea in the back room, that you realize you’ve still got Peter’s Henley draped carefully over your shoulders.
daisies for friendship
Your shop is closed on Mondays so you can recover from your busy weekends, but that doesn’t stop you from going by Peter’s place with takeout Pad Thai around noon, knowing he’s got a full day of sittings and that he likely won’t think to put anything other than coffee in his system. Because over the last four weeks since the power outage you’ve become Peter’s friend. And friends know these things about each other and take care of one another in ways that are perfectly fit for friendship.
Peter’s face lights up with gratitude at the smell of the takeout and he gives his client a break to come over to greet you, messing his fingers around at the top of your head.
“You’re amazing, Bug,” he grins, ravenously tearing open the paper bag and pulling out the container labelled Chicken, Extra Egg. Extra Peanuts.
“I prefer Sunflower,” you scowl, reaching into Peter’s lunch to snatch a slice of carrot. “Besides, you’re the bug, Spider-Man.”
Peter glances up at you, something sharp and pained darting across his eyes. You tilt your head to the side, concerned, the carrot you’ve been chewing going down sideways. “You okay?”
Peter nods, teeth favouring his bottom lip. “Just, uh, someone I know used to call me that, as a joke.”
“Ben?” You offer the name with a smile, knowing that Peter loves to tell stories about his late Uncle. You’d gone over to Aunt May’s for supper a week earlier and the two of them had reminisced until even you were in tears at the loving way they recounted humorous moments from the past.
But Peter shakes his head once, tersely. “Thanks for lunch, Sunflower,” he whispers. “I should get back to work.”
You nod, watching him walk back to his stool and put on a fresh pair of gloves. You slip out of the shop, and back in not ten minutes later while Peter’s back is to you, a small potted plant in your hands. You set it down gently next to the lunch Peter still hasn’t touched.
Two hours later, when you’ve gone home for the day and Peter’s finished with his sitting, he returns to his cold Pad Thai and shovels it into his mouth. Then, he notices the card attached to the spiny plant you left for him earlier in the day. Curiously, he opens and reads the tiny note scrawled in your hand: Aloe. For healing. The plant receives a special place of honour in the windowsill.
holly for defence
There’s shouting outside the shop and Peter abandons the dusting he’s been trying to get through all afternoon, the distraction not entirely unwelcome—until he sees what it is.
You’re standing in the doorway to your shop, the door propped open against your shoulder. A foot in front of you, Harry stands, rapidly losing his cool. Frowning, Peter steps out onto the sidewalk just in time to hear him berating you.
“—Ridiculous, Y/N, just calm down.”
“Don’t you dare,” you hiss, tears in your eyes, “I am not imagining things.”
“Y/N,” Harry’s voice is terse, angry, and Peter feels the same emotions welling up in his chest, his fingers digging into his palms as he forms loose fists. “You’re making a scene. Let’s talk about this later.”
Peter expects you to argue, to spit venom from your lips as he knows you’re perfectly capable of doing. So when your shoulders slump and your face falls, he feels his heart shatter because watching you close in on yourself like that is worse than anything he could have imagined.
“C’mon,” Harry urges, beginning to usher you into the shop. Peter worries that if he gets you in there and closes the door he may never see you again—not in the same way that he’s seen you up until now. He takes a few steps forward, squaring his shoulders.
“You alright, Y/N?”
Your eyes flit up, meeting his, and Peter notices your bottom lip quiver, the way your lashes become lined with more tears at the sight of him.
“She’s fine,” Harry snaps, “This doesn’t concern you.”
“See,” Peter responds cooly, running a hand through his hair, the other slipping into his pocket, to stop them from shaking, “When you’re making her cry like that, it does concern me.”
Harry rolls his eyes, muttering a curse under his breath before turning back to you. You cast a quick look at Peter and he gives you an earnest look. You’ve never seen him so avid, but you can’t do this—whatever this is. Not here. Not now. You look away, staring hard at the ground.
“Don’t worry about it, Peter,” you mumble, allowing yourself to be led back into your shop, “I’m fine.”
peonies for shame
The next day, Peter is outside his shop when you walk up. You offer him a small smile, a wave, but he turns away, heading inside his door without so much as acknowledging you. It stings, because you’re ashamed. Because Peter saw the worst and weakest parts of you and decided that you weren’t worth even a fake smile between friends. You allow yourself to cry your eyes dry in the flower fridge, emerging ten minutes later shivering and lost.
petunias for anger
“You didn’t sign for the delivery?”
You storm into Peter’s shop, not even caring if he’s with a client. Thankfully he’s not, instead sitting at the front desk, drawing something. He looks up at you as you enter, eyebrows knit together in a nonchalant way that makes you want to poke him in the eye.
“I was busy.” His voice is clipped, more professional than you’ve ever heard it before. That only makes you angrier and you cross your arms over your chest defensively, glaring at him.
“I’m going to need to drive an hour to pick up those urns! We made a deal!” Your voice is growing more hysterical with every word, rage rippling on your tongue. It was a little agreement between neighbours, made a week after Peter moved in—keep an eye on things when the other had to step out. True, it was more often than not Peter watching out for your storefront while you were out on deliveries, but a deal was a deal.
“Like I said,” Peter sits back in his chair, meeting your gaze with cool indifference, “I was busy. Maybe you should ask your boyfriend to help you.”
“Oh my god,” you hiss, “You absolute asshole!”
“I’m an asshole?” Peter lets out a forced bark of laughter, that insufferable grin on his lips though you find nothing about this funny. “Guess you need to fall in love with me, since asshole seems to be your type.”
You gape at him, astounded, mouth opening and closing once, and then again, before you let out a huff, exhaling loudly. “I don’t have time for this!” You turn to leave, anger coursing through you, but Peter’s not finished.
“You’re being so stupid, Y/N!”
You whip around again as his words make you blink in surprise, their harshness at odds with Peter’s soft face, his arrogant smirk gone and replaced with something you can’t quite name.
“Stupid?” you repeat, “Stupid?”
“Yeah, fucking stupid. You deserve better than him! Why can’t you see that?”
“Oh,” you laugh sardonically, eyes narrowing, “And what? You’re better?” Your brain is screaming at you to shut up because you know this is going to end badly and your friendship with Peter has been strained as it is, whittled down to nothing but genial greetings every so often.
“That’s not what I’m saying—”
“You’re insufferable,” you continued, words falling from your lips because you’re so angry that Peter’s ruined your day but more than that you’re angry that he doesn’t love you and that if he’d just ask you to be his you would. “You’re actually a true nightmare, Peter! You don’t like Harry, I get it, but you fucked up my entire day because of it. Do you know how childish that is? How absolutely ridiculous! And then you have the fucking nerve to call me stupid? I must be, for ever trusting you. For thinking you were anything more than—”
“Shut up.” Peter has barged out from behind the counter and has you backed against the door, his face inches from yours, anger suddenly extinguished, replaced by something softer. Longing? Need? Whatever it is, you know it’s the same expression that washes over your face as he puts a strong hand to your cheek, thumb running across the soft skin under your eye.
And then, without a word, he’s kissing you, his lips warm and rough on yours as if he’s trying to communicate with you in a language neither of you quite understands.
He’s kissing you. And it feels like you’re drowning but you don’t ever want to come up for air because you’re so light that you could float away but Peter’s hands, one grasping the back of your neck, the other coming to rest on your waist, are there. Tethering you.
And you’re kissing him back, your lips molten where they melt against his, tongues rid of all their sharp edges as they find one another, give and take and give again.
Finally, as your chest begins to burn, Peter pulls away, his breath still warm on your face, familiar now.
“You taste so good, Sunflower.” His voice is little more than a whisper. You make a noise in your throat, something quiet and desperate. Peter breathes out heavily, his hands still holding you, keeping you grounded. “Let’s go get those urns,” he lets a small smile tug at his lips. “I’ll drive.”
hyssop for sacrifice
Your storefront is dark when you pull up just after midnight, tears still stinging at your eyes but shoulders feeling unburdened for the first time in weeks. On the passenger’s seat beside you is a backpack haphazardly stuffed with items that had collected at Harry’s condo over the last two months—a toothbrush, shampoo, a sweater, a few books, and a bag of decorative stones you’d forgot you bought for a personal arrangement you’d been meaning to work on.
It had been a week since you kissed Peter; since he had kissed you. For the most part, nothing had changed between the two of you. His gazes lingered a little longer on you, a little more hopefully, but he never pushed, not after that day. For six nights, you’d tossed and turned, avoiding Harry’s place as much as you could in favour of your own. For six nights, Peter’s words had echoed in your head, bouncing between your ears as you restlessly chased sleep.
When did this become your life?
Parking your car, you grab your backpack and unlock the shop door, only switching on the small pink lamp you keep in the entryway. You probably should have just gone home, but you knew sleep would be elusive and your brain had been so sluggish this past week you were behind on paperwork. Now was as good a time as ever to catch up, right?
Before you have time to even settle in, there’s a knock on the glass front of the shop that makes you jump, but when you look up, you see Peter standing and waving at you with confusion etched on his face. You return to the door, flipping the latch and opening it a crack.
“What are you doing here?” Peter asks.
“Wedding,” you reply, the lie slipping easily from your lips, though you’re not quite sure the calm demeanour with which you speak reaches your eyes.
“Tomorrow’s Wednesday, Sunflower.”
“Why are you really here?”
“I, uh, I left,” you confess. “For good.” If Peter wants to smile or lay down an “I told you so”, he doesn’t let on, instead nodding gently as if he understands. “Why are you?” you ask, “Still here I mean?”
“I was sketching,” Peter shrugs, “Got lost in a design I dreamt up last night.” He pauses, taking stock of your red-rimmed eyes, the dark circles that stretch out under them, and your slumped shoulders. Tentatively, he takes your hand in his, his mind instantly flying backwards several months to when you first shook his hand. It almost makes him laugh to remember how cute you’d looked when he first called you Sunflower—all playfully annoyed, nose scrunched up. But it doesn’t feel like the time for laughter, not tonight. Instead, Peter squeezes your hand softly. “Hey, I’ve got a cot in the back of the shop. You can use it if you need the night. And if you need more than the night, I’m pretty used to falling asleep on my couch.”
You thank Peter and follow him back to his shop, looking around at the cluttered back room and realizing, for the first time, that Peter seems to live here. As though he reads your mind, he shrugs. “Rent’s expensive. And May keeps my bedroom the way it was when I was a teenager, for days when I need it.”
You nod and take a seat on the makeshift bed, the sheets cool and stiff beneath your palms. Peter stands nearby, watching you, not dragging his eyes away when you look up and meet his gaze—not this time.
“Do you have any weed?”
Peter snorts, surprised by the question, and cocks an eyebrow at you.“What, because I have tattoos, I must have weed too?”
You look slightly reproached and begin to mutter an apology. “That’s not what­—”
“I know,” Peter teases, turning toward the small cabinet where you know he keeps his candy stash. “I’ve got CBD oil—helps me sleep.” You glance at him, uncertain. “Anxiety,” he adds.
“Mind sharing?”
Peter smirks and grabs a small bottle and a stopper from the cupboard before joining you on the cot, the thin mattress groaning under the extra weight. “I’d be honoured, Sunflower.”
camellia for longing
“Hold your thumb just there.”
Peter obeys, sticking his thumb at the centre of a bow you’re tying, watching as you focus on measuring the ribbon’s edges just right. He has to swallow the impulse to lean over the arrangement he’s helping you finish and kiss you like his life depends on it.
The two of you have been at this nearly all night and Peter has long since figured out where to put his thumb, but every so often he enjoys having you remind him, guiding his hand to just the right spot. His mind wanders, thinking of all the other things he wants you to show him, all the other places he wants your hands to guide his.
“Peter?” Your voice calls him back to the present moment and, realizing you’ve finished with the bow, he smiles sheepishly at having been caught in his lewd thoughts.
“I want to take your picture,” he says without thinking, eyes going wide as the words tumble from his lips. You smile and Peter feels his heart skip a beat in his chest, his lips turning up at the corners.
“Maybe you can get some new ones of me for next wedding season?” You grin, sticking your tongue out as you strike a ridiculous pose that makes Peter roll his eyes before he shakes his head, suddenly serious again, quiet and composed.
“No,” he mutters, a red hue tinging his cheeks, “I mean I really want to take your picture.” He chances a glance up at you from under his lashes, shy smile still in place. “Get you all posed for me.”
There’s a hint of something suggestive in his words, at odds with the sweet and modest way that Peter’s hand goes to the back of his neck. You catch a glimpse of his eyes as they meet yours, their dazzling honey oozing with something dark and lustful. It makes you squeeze your thighs together under the table.
“And,” Peter continues, plucking an unused daisy from the pile of flowers you’ve been working through, “With you wearing nothing but this.” Gently, he fixes the flower in place behind your ear, his fingers brushing down your jaw as they return to his pockets.
“Peter—” you breathe, voice shaky. He looks at you, hope and hunger in his stare. In an instant, his lips are on yours, his fingers tangled in the hairs at the nape of your neck, tugging at them softly to tilt your head back so he can kiss down your neck, over your collarbone, each time his lips flit across your skin something in you coming undone.
With some effort you sweep aside the clutter from the table, leaving a free spot for you to prop yourself up on, Peter giving you some assistance. Then you’re pulling him close, legs wrapping around his waist, your skirt riding up to your hips. Peter’s hands wander down toward your thighs but hesitate to slip beneath your clothing, instead toying with the hem. You tug at his shirt and he obliges, pulling it off and exposing his chest, which is surprisingly bare of tattoos, save for one over his heart—a circle of delicate ivied vines, done in white ink. You reach to run your fingers over it, but Peter tenses, so you pause, looking up at him for a cue as to what happens next.
“Sorry,” he whispers, ghosting over your waist, “It’s—it’s for someone I lost.”
“It’s beautiful,” you reply softly. Peter visibly relaxes, his fingers wrapping around your wrist and placing your hand over his heart. You feel the steady rhythm of his pulse beneath his skin and you swallow hard, words failing you. Peter kisses the top of your head and for a long moment you both remain still, his chin resting in your hair, your forehead pressed to his abdomen.
“Peter,” you whisper, placing a gentle kiss on his sternum, “Come home with me?”
poppies for pleasure
There’s a trail of discarded clothes from the door of your apartment to the bathroom. You know Peter’s nervous, he admitted as much in the car ride back to your place, his fingers tapping anxiously on your steering wheel while you stared at his hands, imagining what they could do to you, squeezing your thighs together at the feeling of wetness dampening your cotton panties.
Truthfully, you’re nervous too. Peter is somehow beyond your understanding—so marked by loss and grief, yet so giving and kind. He’s sheltered his heart, allowed it to grow weedy and windswept, and now he’s allowing you in, asking you to turn the soil and sow something new.
This excited anticipation is what makes you suggest a shower, warm water excellent for soothing nerves, the small space intimate and dim.
Pressed up against the cold glass door of the shower, you finally take a moment to drink in the sight of Peter’s entire body, desire bubbling in the pit of your stomach at the sight of him, lean and muscled and looking at you like you’re the only thing in the universe. His cock is larger than you’d imagined it, pressed between you as he leans down to kiss you, nipping at the place where your jaw trails into your neck. It’s enough to make you gasp, fingers curling around his biceps, nails digging into the inked skin and leaving tiny crescent moons in their wake.
“C’mon,” you whisper, unwillingly letting go of him for a moment to open the shower door and turn on the water, adjusting the temperature. Peter takes the opportunity of having you turned away from him to run a hand over the curve of your ass, up to your hip where he squeezes, making you giggle.
But under the water, your bodies intertwined, the laughter you’ve shared up the elevator and across the floor of your apartment, turns into a series of groans, a mess of hands and lips exploring skin, eyes roving over unfamiliar landscapes of dips and curves and lines and scars.
Peter has you pressed flush against the wall and he’s kissing you hungrily, as if you’re his last meal—a sacrificial feast to be devoured with zeal. But his hands remain tentative, slipping gently over your boobs, fingers pinching your nipples with care, drawing lines down toward your navel over the curve of your stomach, dancing over your waist and your hips.
“Peter,” you whisper, voice hoarse, “Touch me.” He groans in your ear and you seize his wrist, guiding it to the achingly empty space between your legs. “It’s okay,” you continue, kissing his neck. Your free hand tangles in his hair and you relish the way his eyes flutter closed at the sensation. “Let me take the lead.”
He nods, watching intently as you place his middle finger at your entrance, moving his wrist back and forth a few times so he’s grazing your folds. “Feel how wet you’ve got me?” you sigh in pleasure, the feeling of his calloused fingertip sending a shiver of delight up your spine. “Now, go slow. Listen to what my body tells you, okay?”
“Yeah,” Peter replies, short of breath. He continues to run his finger gently along your core, then uses his index and ring fingers to spread your folds, making your breath hitch in your throat. The sound spurs him on and his middle finger slips part way inside you, swirling gently and making you bite your lip.
“That’s good, Pete,” you encourage him, “Fuck, that’s good. Keep going.”
“Yes ma’am,” he chuckles low in his throat, finger slipping the rest of the way inside you. Peter feels your cunt clench around him and groans at the sensation, imagining how incredible it’ll feel around his cock. It takes Peter a moment to find his rhythm, to find the right angle at which to hook his fingers to elicit that perfectly tight squeeze again, but once he locates it, once he makes your squirm, he’s relentless.
“Your thumb,” you whimper, “Peter…”
He swallows at the sound of his name falling from your lips with breathless pleasure and presses his thumb into you, rubbing gently. “There?” he asks, gazing up at you with hooded eyes. Your legs shake as you spread them a little wider, glad for the way Peter’s free arm supports you.
“Just a little—a little higher,” you whimper. Peter’s hand is careful and steady—though you suppose that’s part of his job—as he probes around until he hears the telltale gasp that tells him he’s found what he’s looking for. He sets a pace that has you keening, panting, crying out because you’re so close, but you can barely stand any longer so you grab at his wrist and make him stop. You want to cum for him, with him.
Peter looks at you with eyes blown wide with lust, lips swollen with your kisses.
“You’re so fucking pretty, Peter,” you whisper, enjoying the way he flushes in response, though that might just be the warm water that’s rolling off his body, making his hair stick flat to his head.
“I want you, Sunflower,” he moans softly, “Please.”
“I’m yours,” you smirk, slipping out of Peter’s grasp and gently prodding him toward the wall, his back against the cool tiles, yours now under the shower stream. You take your time sinking to your knees, kissing down his chest, letting his cock rub between your boobs and over your chin as you settle between his legs. With one doe-eyed look up at him and a quick wink, you take his entire length in your mouth.
You smile around Peter’s dick, perhaps a little wickedly, as you begin to bob back and forth, feeling the weight of him on your tongue. He’s too large to fit entirely in your mouth, his tip already hitting the back of your throat, making it clench, so you use two fingers to stroke the parts of him your lips can’t reach.
Within minutes, Peter is mumbling nonsense, his knees shaking. You pull your lips off him with a lewd pop and look up at him with wide eyes, a string of saliva still connecting your lips to his cock.
“You’re so fucking yummy, Peter,” you grin, “I’m just gonna swallow you up.”
“Fuck, Y/N,” he pants out, groaning loud as you run your tongue over the sensitive slit at the head of his cock. Then he’s sliding down the wall, unable to stand any longer, the feeling of pleasure that’s rocking through him too much. Once he’s eye level with you, you press your forehead to his and he kisses the tip of your nose.
“I want to fuck you,” he whispers, breathless.
“I know,” you coo, kissing him again, this time between his eyes, “Gonna let me be a good girl for you and ride your cock?”
Peter glances at you with darkened pupils, but there’s a spark there that tells you he acknowledges the importance of what you just said. He smiles, helping you shift so that you’re straddling him, hot water rolling down your back.
“You’re a goddess,” Peter breathes, rolling your nipples between his fingers, “So pretty and all for me.”
You run your tongue along his jaw, nipping gently at the shell of his ear before you whisper to him. “Tell me what you want, Peter.”
“Be a good girl and let me inside you, yeah?”
It’s your turn to whimper as Peter helps you sink onto his cock, its length stretching you out as your body shapes around him, already clenching at the pleasure of the intrusion. Peter throws his head back against the shower wall as you grip his shoulders, balancing on the balls of your feet as you begin to bounce up and down on his cock.
Peter’s a quick learner because his hand slips between your bodies, finding your clit again, drawing sloppy circles around the little nub as you raise yourself almost entirely off of him before sinking back down. After a few thrusts, Peter is fully sheathed inside you and your legs, tired and weakening, need a break. Peter whispers your name, his free hand coming around to cup your ass, helping you writhe back and forth on him. Your chests are pressed together and the closeness makes Peter’s patterns on your clit tighter and faster. You can feel his cock twitching, feel your cunt clenching around him and you know you’re close.
“Gonna cum for me, Sunflower?” Peter whispers and that’s all it takes for you to cry out in delight, your head in the crook of his neck as Peter reaches his own high, spilling himself inside you with your name on his lips.
roses for love
Peter is perched on your countertop, eating out of the peanut butter jar while you’re snacking on crackers straight from the box, making a mental note that you really need to go grocery shopping.
“Remember that sketch I told you I was working on? The one from that night?” Peter asks, licking the spoon clean before shoving it back into the jar. You nod, tossing a cracker at him, which he catches deftly, smearing it with peanut butter before sending it back in your direction. “Do you want to see it?”
“Fuck yeah,” you exclaim, “I’d absolutely love to.”
Excitedly, Peter jumps off the counter and goes to retrieve the sketchbook in his bag by the door. It’s been a few weeks since you’ve officially considered him your boyfriend, but this is the first time he’s showing you a piece that he’s created himself—one that hasn’t been commissioned by a client.
You wait eagerly as Peter flips through the pages of his book before stopping, running his fingers over the paper, that frenetic tapping ever present. Then, he holds the book out to you and your jaw drops, as does the cracker you’re holding in your hand, falling to the floor.
On the page, there’s an incredibly life-like sunflower, its petals large and swirling, its face detailed with speckled seeds. Wrapped around its proud stem are gossamer strands, a spider dangling from their ends.
“Peter,” you breathe out, “It’s stunning.”
“It’s for you,” he replies quietly, “If you ever trust me enough to let me ink you.”
You roll your eyes, picking your cracker up off the tiles and throwing it at Peter’s head.
sunflowers for adoration
Peter flips the sign on his shop door to Closed. He doesn’t want any interruptions for this. The blinds are closed and it’s just the two of you under the fluorescent lights. You’re in Peter’s chair, in your underwear, a freshly shaved spot on your upper thigh rubbed with numbing gel and stencilled with Peter’s beautiful sunflower design.
“Remember,” he tells you, kissing each of your knees in turn, “Tell me if you need a break.”
“It’s been a year,” you snark, “I haven’t needed a break from you yet.”
Peter scowls playfully at you, returning to your knees, this time to scrape his teeth over their surface, making you giggle. His lips flit up your inner thighs and to your clothed core, kissing you there once, ever so softly.
Then he’s straightening his back and he’s all business once again. “Ready?” Peter asks, grabbing his tattoo pen.
You nod, smiling as you look at your boyfriend in his element. He’s already marked himself into your heart permanently—it only makes sense to have him etched into your skin as well. “Ready.”
1K notes · View notes
nexusnyx · 3 months ago
my heart is wild; [b.b. one-shot]
— Pairing: Trainer!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader — Summary: Shield was built as a joint effort between Bucky and his closest friends. He and Steve, in particular, had their reasons to want a quiet life, surrounded by comfort and the company of loved ones. Even though Bucky considers himself a successful person, his friends have pressing concerns—he's lonely, they say. Closed off. Bucky's always hated this peer pressure to find 'the one', but thankfully, he now has you to talk about all these things.
He couldn't be happier about it. Talking to you about everything is a win in his eyes. — Word count: 11.1k — A/n: This is the commission I got for my lovely and dears, Rachel and Malin. As always, I hope from the bottom of my heart they enjoy it. Happy reading, my loves.
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— Warning(s): This work contains (18+) mature content. Minors, DNI. Explicit descriptions of sex; fingering, penetration, choking, dirty talk, praising, rough-handling.
main master list | marvel master list | ko-fi ❥
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People say Bucky is a private person.
That's the word they usually go for: private. Sometimes, usually when Natasha's the one doing the drunk ramblings at the table, they'll call him cavemen. During his years in Health and PE College, Sam took to calling him Winter Soldier around the gym after he caught Bucky taking his ten minutes inside the ice tub.
It caught on—Steve did a cute little routine drunk off his ass about 'the winter soldier' and all his friends recorded it, shared it, Bucky included. The nickname still flies around Shield whenever Sam's trying to be funny or Wanda wants to tease.
All the teasing that happens at Shield, his co-owned gym with Steve and Sam, is made out of love.
It's why Bucky knows his friends are only teasing when they call him a lonely wolf, a winter soldier, a private guy.
At the same time, he sees it. The underneath layer of worry, at times, and the attempts to set him in dates that fail each time. Bucky accepts those because worry and concern are far better than uninterested friends.
It's just not easy to capture and maintain Bucky's attention. Or, at least, it used to be.
You seem to have no issue in grasping his focus between your capable hands, and once it's there, it goes nowhere.
When Bucky was eighteen, he and Steve thought signing up for the military would be a smart thing. They are eighties kids—times were different, and after one completed tour through hell, both men knew their fate shouldn't have to lie in desert camps, fighting battles that are not theirs.
They came back home, rented a shitty apartment to live together and over the course of the next five years, gathered a rag-tag bunch to make up their own little family. First came Sam in college, then Steve met Nat at the gym, and finally, when all three men managed enough credit and experience to open up their own place, came Wanda.
Shield was built as a joint effort between Bucky and his closest friends.
He and Steve, in particular, had their reasons to want a quiet life, surrounded by comfort and the company of loved ones.
The good part about owning a gym is that you can focus on your work—the part of the job you enjoy, which in Bucky’s case, is power-lifting.
For some reason (Clint), though, Bucky’s taking care of the reception because (Clint’s lazy) the world is not fair.
At least the members of his gym are fun people.
He recognizes some of them, which brings a smile to Bucky’s face. Usually, he’s on the second floor where the boxing and weight-lifting areas are. He and Nat – the gym’s boxing teacher and personal defense trainer – share what feels like their own little world.
It’s different down here.
Lots of young girls with yoga mats walk to the open green area at the back where Wanda conducts her classes. Lots of shitty music because Sam – a marathonist and the gym’s Head trainer – is the one who does the timetable and ends up taking care of the sound system.
“Enjoying your trip down here?” Steve’s voice comes up from behind him.
Bucky turns around and takes in his best friend’s state. “No.” Being a bodybuilder means Steve’s usually training the big guys and girls, and for everyone’s happiness at the gym, he does so in tank tops, most of the time. Bucky stretches out his hand to poke at Steve’s nipple peeking through his shirt. “Sam’s taste in music never ceases to amaze me, dude. And not in a good way.”
“I know,” Steve chuckles, sliding underneath the booth and entering the reception area. “Trust me. I’ve had words with him.”
“How d’you sleep with him, man?” Bucky teases. “The girl who sings Friday was playing a few minutes ago. Unironically. We’re not even in karaoke night.”
Steve sighs deeply. “It’s just… bomb dick game.” The seriousness with which he delivers the lines makes Bucky blink in surprise, and nod along, feigning seriousness, too. “Bomb dicking and bomb talking, you know what I mean?”
“I—no. I don’t know what you mean,” he laughs.
“Sure you do,” Steve smiles, all white teeth and no reservations.
“Uh—no? I’m a hundred percent sure I never slept with your husband.”
Steve’s eye roll is good enough to become a meme. “Not him, fuckhead. Me. I know what I’m talking about, hence you know I’m talking about.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Bucky argues.
“Sure it does,” Steve frowns.
Bucky squints his eyes. “No, it doesn’t. Sex credit doesn’t just fucking transfer from one person to another, are you on crack?” If that theory made any sense, that meant at least 90% of his staff had fucked in some degree.
He wasn’t sure how comfortable he’d be with those statistics.
“Okay—picture this,” Steve starts, and Bucky does brace himself for it.
Sometimes Steve’s theory sounds like the mind of a master strategist, and others, it leaves Bucky laughing until he’s crying and clutching at his stomach.
Before Steve can get a word in, the sound of the doors sliding open catches both their attention. While they still shit-talk during work hours, neither one of them is unprofessional to the point of letting out their true selves in front of the clients.
Bucky turns around to see who it is and maybe get a hello, but the face he’s met with is unfamiliar.
That’s what catches his eye at first. While he may not know everyone who frequents here well, Bucky can pinpoint a person who’s never stepped foot inside before and her eyes tell him that much.
“Hi,” greets Bucky, turning his body towards her.
The woman tears her gaze away from the equipment behind Bucky and Steve’s back and focuses on him. “Hi,” she smiles. “Is that Harry Styles playing?” She asks.
Bucky chuckles, and leans his forearm on the counter. “Yeah. I unfortunately let more than one person choose the soundtrack for this place and I gotta pay the price for it every week.”
She gives a couple more steps to stand closer to the reception. “Oh, I like him,” she states. “Just wasn’t expecting to hear that playing—gyms are usually boring or repetitive with their playlists.”
“Yeah, that’s why I gave them free rein,” Bucky wants to extend his hand, but the years of pandemic taught him most people now prefer not to. He waves, “I’m Bucky, one of the owners of Shield. Hi.”
“Oh—I’m sorry, I’m Y/n.” Y/n waves back, and Bucky smiles at the faint stroke of peach at the center of her cheeks. “I know Wanda?” She offers as a medium. “Well, her girlfriend’s one of my closest friends, so I know her by association. She heard through Nyx I wanted to go back to training and reminded me you guys have a gym here in town, and I’d heard of it before but I’d never checked. It’s a bit far away from my—” whatever Shield is away from is cut short when Y/n snaps her lips closed. “I’m rambling, sorry.”
Bucky wanted to know what his place is far from. Her work? Home? “It’s all good,” he shakes his head. “I’m glad you came for a tour. That’s why you’re here for, right?” He confirms.
Y/n nods, smiling with thankful eyes at him. “Yeah.”
“Awesome. I’ll show you around and tell you a little bit about why my team’s so cool, shall we?” Bucky offers with the most pleasing smile he can muster.
It must work—Y/n looks a little taken back, and when she shrugs and says, “Sounds good,” Bucky circles around the reception and passes Steve with a clap around his shoulder.
It’s a silent have fun taking care of reception.
Bucky’s mood takes a spin—he releases their entry with his thumbprint on the turnstile and gestures with his left arm towards the area they should get started.
“So, as you can see, we’ve got two floors. This one has the most part of the regular gym—cardio, fitness, a dance studio at the end. Wanda teaches her class over there—the original layout of this place had a massive apple tree and we decided to take care of it instead of throwing it out. Now the green area’s used for yoga—I’ll be honest, I thank Samuel every day for pitching in we kept that area because the incenses every single day would’ve probably killed it.”
“Who’s Samuel?”
“Our Head Trainer. He’s got two college kids who assist him so everyone who frequents the gym can do their exercises correctly—posture, movement, etc. He, Steve—the blond guy you saw at the reception, and me. We built this place around ten years ago.”
“Wow,” Y/n smile softened as Bucky spoke, but now it comes back ten times bigger. “That’s why Wanda talks so fondly about here,” she nods.
It warms Bucky’s heart to hear that—Wanda’s been in their lives for around six years now, and yet he still sees the young adult who wore too much black eyeliner and spoke in only short sentences. Knowing she loved this place as much as they did meant something to him. “I’m glad she does,” Bucky says. “I think she’s still here, actually—you wanna say hi?”
“Oh, no. No need to bother her when she’s teaching.” Y/n’s looking around the gym with an absent-minded interest, and it’s making Bucky’s curiosity peaked. This is usually the place where women smile from ear to ear, but from the look on her face, she’s not sold or impressed yet. “You said you think she's still here?”
“You don’t know?” She turns to Bucky with a teasing smile.
It catches him off guard—he chuckles, looking away from her face. She’s got cute eyes, and it’s only a tad bit distracting. “I usually spend most time upstairs.”
“What’s upstairs?” She asks.
“C’mon, I’ll show you.” So far, they crossed only a third of the area downstairs, but Bucky knows disinterest when he sees it, and Y/n is not interested in lightly jogging in treadmills or appreciating the beautiful sunset while doing yoga.
As he leads them towards the stairs, Bucky asks her a few routine questions about her life, and the trainer part of his mind takes a detour to observe her, too—he always notices people’s bodies. Not in a judgmental or analytical way, because Bucky’s relation to body and working with it has nothing to do with the aesthetics of it, and yes the pleasure in it. He looks the same way dancers watch how people move, or how writers analyze every dialogue in movies—observing.
Taking notes.
“The upstairs has a lot of glass walls—you’re not scared of heights, are you?” He asks.
“Good.” When Bucky walks them, he feels her eyes on him too. “How long since you stopped training?”
“About two-three years, now.”
The date matches with a lot of people’s, and the reason must be the same. “Pandemic tore you away?” He confirms.
She nods. “Yup. Had to help take care of some family members, so there was no time.”
“How long did you train before that?” He asks. Her figure says years. Bucky looks only once, but the outline of her body is drawn in permanent ink behind his eyes with ease—thick, strong legs. Round waist, strong arms—gorgeous, his mind whispers, and he bites on the thought when it erupts.
Her gaze meets his, and Bucky wonders what part of him was she looking at that had her distracted for that brief second. “Training training, like real training, around five years. But I used to do sports before that, so I’ve always been active. I think a lot of the reason why I’m not feeling so good even though I already came back to a certain level of ‘normalcy’ is because I’m still not doing something.”
The way she says training-training makes Bucky narrow his eyes at her, holding back a smile. “What’s training-training?”
When her next smile opens, Bucky wonders if it’s possible to feel words before you hear them because she states:
“I power-lift.”
And his brain goes—oh.
Even his feet going to the next step on the stairs slows, just for a millisecond. His eyebrows go up, and all his dumb mouth can say is: “Oh.”
Y/n’s smile widens. “What?”
Bucky shakes his head. “I just—my last few students and trainees have all been guys. It’s been a while since there was a girl around,” he smiles. Yeah, that’s it. His entire schedule is nothing but guys and while he appreciates having a job and being trusted by so many, he did complain to Nat not even two weeks ago about how unbearable cisgender, straight men can be.
Especially the type he deals with.
That’s when Bucky notices the moment of silence and looks down to Y/n. She’s looking straight ahead, nodding along. “You’re the powerlifting trainer?” She confirms.
“Yup. You thought it was Steve?” He asks.
“It was surely one of you two,” she chuckles.
Does she want him? “I mean—Steve’s already taken some of my students because of timing issues and I take his sometimes. If you prefer guys with wacky, old-fashioned humor and musical taste of a fifteen-year-old boy, I can always prepare your training and pass it along to him.”
The offer is made in a joking tone because that’s how good Bucky had to become in business talk. Maybe Y/n liked Steve’s puppy eyes and adorable mug better than this, and Bucky’s not one to take things personally.
Still, when she laughs it off, it does soothe him. “If you said the musical taste of a fifteen-year-old girl, then maybe,” Y/n teases back, looking back up at Bucky. “I like this area.”
Bucky smiles, and holds back saying I can tell. It could come off… wrong. “I’m happy to hear that,” he says instead, but his eyes are glued to how pretty her cheeks look with that color. He can see in the way she looks around now that this is what Y/n came after, and that sentiment is something Bucky can relate to in many levels.
“So, in here, we have the weight-lifting area. We have a shoe rack over there ‘cause the whole floor is soundproof to spare the life of the poor downstairs people—everyone here respects the no-shoe rule when stepping inside the black mat.” Bucky walked her through the red space, the only parts of the floor connecting the upstairs that was made of concrete and led to the showers and bathrooms. “We’ve got the boxing classes over there. Natasha’s our other professor—she teaches self-defense and krav-maga every Saturday, if you’re interested in that.”
“That sounds awesome,” Y/n smiles.
Bucky feels his cheeks pinch—he’s been smiling since they started talking, he notices, but no matter how many times he remembers that throughout the rest of the conversation, it still comes back to his face seconds after he willingly pushes the smile down.
Y/n’s easy to talk to.
After Bucky shows the whole place around, stopping in front of Nat’s classroom so Y/n can watch the redhead being her usual (and impressive) self, they stop at the office from upstairs so Bucky can discuss the plan options and what kind of support they’d offer her in here.
It’s such a nice, fluid talk, that he barely sees time passing.
He tells himself that it’s because she came here with a purpose.
Things go different when people have their minds set on something. They flow in a natural, simple way.
Bucky explains how many times a week they’d be training – three – and how he’d plan her initial work-out sessions to get back in shape.
Y/n turns it into a negotiation, after all, she knows her limits and how far she’d gone before things and the entire world came to a standstill.
When they sign the papers and Bucky takes his time making her profile for the gym, he sees the colors of the sky outside changing from blue to the Van Goghian mess of Twilight—it’s almost dark by the time they make it downstairs, and instead of Steve taking care of the reception, Clint is there, back to doing his job.
He sees Bucky and Y/n approaching, turns on his hearing aids and puts on his winning smile.
“Hello, boss,” he greets happily.
Bucky gives him a blank look. “Oh, look. It’s my employee. Where he should be.”
“Ah, the emergency went just fine, thanks for asking,” he chuckles. “The dogs are all good.”
“The dogs? You ditched work because of your dogs, Clint?”
“Not my dogs, obviously,” Clint rolls his eyes, scoffing like Bucky had said something outrageous. “My babies are great. No—I’m taking care of my neighbor’s dogs while they travel, remember? Someone called me saying they were doing a whole bunch of noise, causing havoc—had to go and check,” he shrugs.
Bucky sighs. “Right.” He is glad things are okay because Bucky’s heart will always bend when it comes to animals. “Glad things are okay.” He gestures to Y/n, who’d been standing there watching the whole exchange. “This is Y/n, our newest gym member.”
This time, it’s Clint who gives Bucky a look, and he only understands why when the man turns to the girl and says, “Hey, Y/n,” all casual and easy.
“Hi, Clint.”
Well. “You two know each other?” Bucky asks.
Clint throws him the look back. “Duh. Her best friend owns the art café-shop Steve and I are always talking about and trying to drag you to.” When he looks over at Y/n again, his face softens—Bucky wonders what is it with Clint and women that could probably kill him. He always looks two seconds away from asking them if they want to be carried somewhere, and it’s probably why they all look at him like he’s an excited golden retriever. “Welcome to Shield. If this pain in the ass starts giving you mean looks or he frowns too much at you when he’s training, you can totally switch to Steve. Don’t leave us ‘cause he’s a grump grandpa, ‘kay?”
Y/n laughs at him. “I think his grumpiness might have something to do with you and the fact that you’re never where you’re supposed to be,” she laughs again. “I wasn’t in the receiving end of any frowns.”
Clint gives a gasp worthy of Broadway. “You’re trying to tell me it’s my fault?”
Y/n shrugs his shoulders, and her cocky smile could probably join his performance on stage. “I’m just saying it’s something to consider. I have this… feeling, that says you cause as much chaos in here as you do anywhere else you go,” she tells him.
It’s so fond and funny, so on the fucking nail, too, that Bucky’s smile comes back in full force.
She truly does know him. That makes Bucky wonder why he didn’t go any of the times when he was invited for Steve and Clint’s stupid, artsy coffee bro-dates.
“She knows you,” Bucky giggles a little evilly.
Clint pouts. “Betrayed, everywhere I go,” he sighs. “I see why you’re sticking with him. Peas from the same pod.”
Y/n rolls her eyes, her fond smile intact. “It’ll be a pleasure seeing you almost every day, Barton.” She waves at Bucky. “Bye, coach.”
He smiles. “Bye. See you in two days.”
Bucky and Clint watch her leave in silence, and he feels the air building up until the moment the door closes behind her.
“Bye, see you in two days,” Clint echoes with a mocking tone. He turns around to look at Bucky slowly, thinking he’s a cartoon villain. “That was interesting.”
Bucky has no idea what he’s talking about. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he turns around to leave. “Upload her profile and start filling up her file for me, please and thank you.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
“Goodbyeeeee,” your best friend sings through the phone.
You sigh, not for the first time during this talk. “Sometimes, I really hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” she laughs loudly on the other side. “It just bothers you that I know ya, my love.”
That was true, but besides the goddamn point. “You don’t have a point, Nyx. You just implement thoughts in my head and make me suffer,” if your last word comes out as a whine, that’s between you, Nyx, and god.
“Me?! Put thoughts in your head?!” She shrieks. “Girl—you were the one who called me whining about the size of his fucking arms. I didn’t put anything in there that wasn’t already there,” she adds with laughter. “Now go train. You’ve got this.”
“Yeah, yeah.” You finish gathering your things inside your backpack. “Bye. Love you.”
“Byeeee. One day at a time!”
You hang up.
Nyx sucks.
She did have a point, though—one day at a time was the way to go here.
One month into training with Bucky, and you were already seeing results.
Not visible ones, and you knew those took the longest, but you felt it.
Going back to doing what you loved gave you almost an instant boost—even if the first week was hard. Even if you almost asked Clint what changing classes to Steve’s private tutoring would be like.
You’re stronger than that. Once inside Shield, you greet Clint with a wink as he speaks with someone on the phone. The gym’s mostly empty when you arrive at your scheduled hour, but it’s starting to fill up by the time you leave.
One month already has you feeling like part of the regular crew.
The private sessions Bucky conducts with you are held upstairs, so you walk to the second floor while thinking about how good it is that you stayed.
Sure, the first practice was hard.
So fucking hard.
“Hey, Y/n,” Bucky smiles at the sight of you.
And you’re why. “Hey.” Pushing down the silly infatuation with your coach has been going better after you poured out all your thoughts onto your best friend; it brought you back to Earth, you feel. “How are ya?”
Bucky nods, and finishes organizing your bars while you put away your backpack. “Pretty good. I watched the movie you recommended, by the way—I’m surprised and happy to say I wasn’t disappointed.”
“Hah! What did I tell you?” You brag.
Throwing a look over your shoulder, you see Bucky rolling his eyes, a smile on his face. “Yeah, yeah—you said it was good.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I’m a picky little shit—I’m used to putting no expectations on people’s words.”
“Have you learned by now I’m not ‘people’?”
“Wow,” Bucky laughs. “She recommends one good album and a good movie and her word is law, ladies and gentlemen.”
Separating your training belt for later use, you give him a dry look. “That album was flawless.”
Bucky shakes his head and straightens up on the bench, looking at you with awe. “I love the confidence.”
“Tell me I’m lying,” you say, deadpanned. Bucky’s smile becomes a grimace—his resemblance to the emoji you use the most makes your evil grin pop up. “Exactly.”
“Fine,” he concedes. “You’ve got taste.”
“Thank you, coach,” you can tell he’s trying his best not to smile at your shit-eating grin. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Nope. But this is easier: have fun doing cardio,” this time, his smile carries the lines of evil.
You groan out loud. “Ugh.” With an accusatory finger pointed at him, you state. “If he tries making me run once, I’m slapping him sideways.”
Bucky chuckles. “He won’t, Wanda’s the one waiting for you today.”
“Oh! Great,” with that information, you leave the belt in front of his bench and head downstairs for your initial 30 minutes of cardio.
It’s a well-known fact, or at least a very strange, yet common occurrence between powerlifters to hate cardio.
No matter how much dislike one has over it, though, it can be the fastest and easiest way to do a proper, full-body warm-up.
With Wanda there – or Sam, even if you two end up teasing one another more than paying attention to the path you’re walking – the minutes go by in a blink.
“Hey, babes,” Wanda smiles at you. “Ready?”
Your lips twist in distaste. “I have to be.”
Wanda shakes her head. “Dunno what’s with you guys and a little bit of fucking running—lifting I-don’t-know-how-heavy shit over your head? Dandy. Fifteen minutes of running? Oh no, Wanda, this is torture, make it stop.”
“It’s boring,” you complain, not for the first time, but get on the treadmill beside her.
“Big baby. So—has the dream gone away yet?”
Nyx, you big-mouthed little shit.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and your girlfriend’s dead to me,” you answer.
Wanda’s laughter as she changes subject makes something tingle—a feeling on the back of your neck, and your eyes snap in the direction of the second floor.
Bucky’s leaning against the rail and watching you and Wanda with amusement written all over his face.
You blush and mentally curse your best friend for making cardio worse, but for the time being, thank the presence of Wanda to distract you from the reality of it.
Bucky being Bucky is not what you expected.
Matter-of-factly, your expectations were simple:
Go back to training, get that natural serotonin boost, be merry and happy.
None of that included Greek-god-like coaches.
Funny, tall, and sweet men—the type that seems out of an Austen novel or the female gaze version of those damned Lynch movies that Nyx made you watch every now and then. Bucky was that, with a cherry on top to complete the madness of his appeal.
Here’s the bad part about knowing all that:
Useless. All the knowledge you’re gaining about how incredible, witty, funny, or dedicated he is—none of that matters to you because there’s no way you’d be the one to catch his attention, anyway.
You look down to the treadmill and sigh deeply at the sight of 15:05.
The numbers mock you a little. Conversation with Wanda died after ten minutes and now your mind is stuck here again, a place if often visits when under Shield’s roof:
What would even be the chances?
Bucky’s Instagram profile – private for outsiders – had pictures of many different things:
His friends, his job, his trips, and interests.
It made it worse that he was different from most gym dude-bros—an embarrassing page full of self-conceited pictures would’ve helped to diminish the whole appeal of him.
Too bad for you, Bucky’s a well-rounded, real threat to your health.
And sanity.
Ironic, considering his job. You’re aware of that.
The question your brain refers back – what would even be your chances? – popped up during the first week, and inevitably, you ended up in the self-dug hole of ‘just a little espionage.’
The only picture you’d found of Bucky with a woman you didn’t know made your stomach tighten—a blonde, beautiful, slim, and tall model look-alike. Ali-something, taken a few years ago. While she’s there only once, one time is enough to pain you a picture: he’s probably got a type.
Most people do. More often than not, the type is different than me.
All of that put together would’ve been enough if it weren’t for the cherry on your own cake: Bucky never looked at you with anything less than strict professionalism.
Not that you’d want him to – oh, you would, a traitorous voice in your brain whispers – but, still.
The reflection that stares back at you in the mirror may not be of a Hadid girl, but you know your beauty and the attraction you gather when you go to places doesn’t lie—you were a sight to look at.
And Bucky looked, plain and serious, every time.
Your torture downstairs ends, so you kiss Wanda’s sweaty cheek and head to your next round.
The boss of this phase: not staring at the way Bucky’s clothes cling to his frame.
“How was it?” He asks, smiling at you through the mirror. Why do his shoulders have to be so broad? And why is a stupid ponytail getting to me? “All warmed up?”
“I now crave death, yes.”
Bucky laughs, and turns to you. He hands you the belt, and you put it on while he answers. “You’re so gratuitously funny,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than you.
“Yeah, so I’ve heard.”
“Well, Giggles, I wanna up your training a bit,” Bucky says, smiling up at you. He’s observing to make sure you’re putting your belt on properly, as always. “You’ve already done progress in four weeks and I won’t extend the workout by a lot. We’re doing 3 sets of 2 reps, and I wanna up to 4 sets today, but we’ll keep it at 2 reps. Next week, if you’re not sore and crying for Stevie, I’ll change to a 4-3. How does that sound?”
Everything you say sounds great.
“Sounds like you’re challenging me to call you out on being an over-caring grandpa,” you tease. “I told you last week I was ready for 4.”
“Pushy. You could’ve hurt yourself,” he says softly.
“Never. I’ve got the best coach,” whether it’s your smile or the teasing on your voice, Bucky’s cheeks gain a little color. You pay more attention to that than the rolling of his eyes.
“Flattery will get you nowhere.” He gets up and picks up the first weight. “Let’s go. I wanna see you start low. No full lift in this first rep, got it?”
“Got it.”
Bucky is the type of coach who stands behind you while you practice.
Who hovers on top of your head while you’re trying to lift the heavier, newer weights, and lowers them back on the machine with you to make the strain lesser during the first tries.
“Good job,” he praises after you complete the first 4-rep session.
The proud smile is something he brings out often.
Bucky’s the type of coach who makes sure you remove the belt around your waist as soon as the exercise is done, and who joins you in teasing Sam when he’s hanging around the reception or the open area outside and they run into each other.
“How does that feel?” Bucky checks in the middle of the training.
That’s what got to you in that very first session. The checking-in. Genuine worry in his eyes when he did so, and the occasional eye contact as he assessed if you were straining just enough or approached the edge of too much.
You nod at his question, looking down at the mat and your black socks. You wiggle your toes, and breathe through the feeling of sweat dripping down your lower back. “’m good.”
“You sure?” There’s a bottle of water suddenly in your line of sight, and you thank him with a salute. “I’ll give you five minutes.”
“Cool.” You open the bottle and chug almost half of it, and it’s funny how you needed only four weeks to start feeling Bucky’s looks. Without looking at him you can tell he’s giving you one of his ‘I told you so’ eyes and grin, and it makes you want to smack him. “Best coach ever,” you tease, just to get a rise of him.
“It’s three now,” he replies.
You chuckle, almost choking on the water—you had that one coming.
That is hard to ignore—Bucky’s ease at dealing with you, and being around in general.
You’d like to think you two could be at least friends, one day. If your group of friends who is somehow mingled already meet at one point, and if he’s not the type to find relationships happening outside of business-relations a strange thing.
Three minutes pass quickly when your heart is pounding on your ear, and next thing you know, it’s Bucky’s scruffy smile popping in your line of vision. “Back up,” he commands.
With a groan, you obey him.
“’m ready,” you breathe in.
His encouraging smile feels so real.
There could be a chance.
Being friends with him wouldn’t hurt, right? Only your eyes, at times, and perhaps your ego, a little. Seeing something you wanted so bad but couldn’t have could be a good thing. A test for your self-control, and chances were, his good personality would win you over in the end and you’d forget about this minimal, entirely justified infatuation as if it never happened.
All he had to do was never say the same things he said here at the gym outside of it and you’d be fine.
“That was great,” Bucky praises. “Fucking flawless form—you did great, Y/n.”
Oh, that feels so good to hear.
Serving for one tour in the military and handling his own business for over a decade does not make for a perceptive person.
That’s what Bucky spends his next couple of months figuring out, bit by bit.
In all fairness, he is out of the game, if one looks from that angle. Our of the loop, per se.
Bucky spends solid four weeks ignoring the looks and comments his friends make whenever he preens and his chest straightens before Y/n arrives for practice, and then another four weeks trying to convince himself there is a reason for all that.
A reason not surrounding his dick, that is.
The only little thing standing between him and succeeding to internalize that ridiculous pep-talk is act is not little at all—it’s pretty strong, in fact.
You can deadlift 115kg over your head.
Very strong.
“Why do you look like that?” Very blunt, too.
Bucky’s gotten used to your mouth by now, even if he wants to shut it sometimes.
That’s another thought that fits in the category of ‘things standing between you and the Real Reason you Stare at Her All The Time’.
“Like what?” He asks, knowing the answer.
Y/n tilts her head, hands going to her hips. “Like someone did your morning cereal with salt. Or asked you to run a marathon—oh god, did Sam trick you into doing cardio?”
Bucky laughs, and almost all of the anger he felt dissipates. “Shut up. That man can’t convince me to do shit,” he laughs again.
You lift both hands up in surrender. “My bad.”
“It’s not Sam,” Bucky says, because he likes talking to you. Those fifteen minutes before and after practice when you two talk aimlessly, walking around the gym, and interacting with people is kind of precious to him. “Natasha’s the pain in the ass of the hour.”
Natasha’s fucking meddling.
“What did Nat do?” You ask, frowning.
“Don’t gimme that look.
“What look?”
“The ‘Nat can do no wrong’ look,” Bucky knows it too well. Steve and Wanda are victims of that, and sometimes, Bucky has to live in a world where people are blind to how evil Natasha Romanoff can be. “She’s a menace to society and I refuse to stay silent under her bullying.”
That makes you laugh in earnest, and Bucky can’t keep his straight face at the sound. “There’s no way she’s that mean.”
“She is,” he counters. “She’s back to meddling in my fucking life—I had to threaten her, okay? Threaten. I told her if she doesn’t stop setting me up in blind fucking dates like I can’t notice that I’ll poke a needle in every boxing bag of hers and watch her suffer to discover from where all the sand is coming from for weeks.”
The way your pretty eyes widen at his petty outburst and you press your lips together in an attempt to hide your laughter makes Bucky’s lip curl up despite his best wishes.
It’s apparently impossible for him to keep a straight face around you for longer than two minutes.
(Steve timed.)
“Hey, get it all out, this is a safe space, coach,” Y/n says after a while.
Bucky’s jaw drops a little at how satisfied she looks with herself and her teasing remark. A part of him wants to claim ten minutes on the treadmill when practice’s over, but he’s not that mean. “I’m shutting up,” he bites back just to be difficult.
Y/n chuckles and nudges her arm against his. “Just jokes. Why did she do that?” She asks more seriously.
Bucky shrugs his shoulder. ‘Cause that’s what my friends do. Worry I’ll die alone. “They think I need it.”
“’Cause if they don’t set me up on dates, I’ll hardly go on one if it’s up to me,” he answers. “I’m not—I don’t like the whole thing.”
“You don’t like going on dates?” Y/n leans her back against the machine, and Bucky wonders why it’s so simple to answer the questions when it’s her asking.
“Going on dates is cool,” maybe it’s the lack of judgment he feels in her voice. Maybe it’s the fact that anything she asks with those doe eyes pointed at him, Bucky’s sure he’d reply with honesty. “The whole ‘structure’ around them is what sucks.”
“You mean, like—the social norm of dates? Taking X time to reply, going on Y number of dates before Z?” She confirms.
Yes! Bucky nods with vehemence. “Yup. Boring. And I fucking hated doing it—so I stopped.”
“I get that.”
“You do?”
“I don’t like it, either,” Y/n shrugs her shoulders. Her smile is humorless, and for a second Bucky’s sad to recognize a face that’s tired. “I’ve heard my fair share of people’s unwanted opinions on it, too.”
“Oh—Nat meant no harm with the dates,” Bucky defends her. He’s past the years in his life where he keeps relationships around him who try to control his life or poke unnecessary commentary that would make him feel bad. “She didn’t even do it in a way that sucks—she’s stealthy, I’ll give her that. But it’s happened with Stevie or Sam a couple of times and I can recognize it by now.”
Y/n eyes glint with curiosity. “How stealthy is she?”
Bucky smiles. “Nat and Clint asked me to a bar and the last two times, she took a different friend.” One time, a nice girl in her early twenties who worked at a Planetarium, the second, a guy right here from the gym who did yoga with Wanda. “Totally unintentionally, of course.”
“Of course,” you add, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“One hour in, Clint suddenly wants to go home,” Bucky finishes, feigning surprise.
In return, you fake it, too. “Oh, no! Is he okay?”
Bucky laughs out loud. “Two fucking bastards, I swear to god—match made in heaven, those two.”
“I can see that,” you answer.
Teasing the gym couples becomes your thing after that—Bucky is the one who starts, most of the time, being the only closest to them, but Y/n join in the fun with the same ease as she entered this gym and fit herself into their made-up family as if she’d been there for the longest time.
That’s probably why when his resolve cracks, Bucky can almost hear the glass ceiling through which the stone goes through raining over his head.
It was very obvious, but it takes Steve for him to leave denial.
One Friday night, Steve states, “You think this shirt looks good on me? Sam said the bar Wanda and Nyx chose is super edgy and punk—I don’t wanna look stupid. Can you text Y/n and ask her if this is a good look?”
“Y/n’s going?”
“Of course she is. It’s her best friend’s birthday,” Steve rolls his eyes. “C’mon. Take a picture of me—oh god, I lost you, didn’t I? Dude. You can just ask her on a date. Please don’t mope all night when there’s literally no reason for it.”
“What?” His mouth echoes.
Steve stares at him, entirely unimpressed. “Ask. Her. Out.” He snatches the phone out of Bucky’s still hands and does what he wanted himself given the state of shock in Bucky’s face.
Ask her out—simple as that.
And that’s when it hits Bucky. The why.
Despite his trivial attempts at pinpointing it, it’s been in his face the whole time. It’s not her thighs, or the way she makes him actually feel hot under his skin for the first time in a good while, or anything to do with how whenever she’s in the room, his eyes seem to create a magnetic field to her.
It’s the fact that all those things are on top of the real thing Bucky wants to do:
He wants time with Y/n.
Outside of the gym, before and/or after spending good amounts of time worshipping the body that drives him a little out of his mind, even in the mornings when he’s half-awake and not ready to deal with the world—Bucky sees something funny on his feed and it’s Y/n he wants to text.
She's the one he wants to go to now when he has an opinion, a show, a song.
“Are you having an epiphany?” Steve’s voice brings him back to life. He’s texting using Bucky’s phone and looking at him with amusement. “’Cause I’m having fun watching this.”
Bucky wants to tell him to fuck off, but the epiphany is real and it’s louder than that. “What if she doesn’t want to go out?”
“What?! She’s never looked at me like that! Not once!” I would’ve noticed. God, I would’ve loved it. “I’ve done squats in front of that woman and all I felt was her eyes on my posture. I—she may not want it.”
There’s a deafening silence on the receiving end of Bucky’s lines, and he looks up to see his best friend staring at him like he grew another head.
“It’s like you wanna be a dumb bitch sometimes,” Steve mutters in awe.
“Are you tryna hurt my feelings or something?” Bucky narrows his eyes.
“Oh, yeah, ‘cause you’re that easily bruised,” Steve rolls his eyes, knowing Bucky too-damn-well to fall for his good boy routine. “I’m dead serious—use the brain your mama gave you. Have you been staring at her ass these past couple of months?”
Bucky frowns. “No. Obviously not.”
Steve’s next look says Duh, like it’s hard?
The Legally Blond has a point. “Fair point,” Bucky points at him. “Gimme my phone back.”
“Ask her out,” Steve states, handing him the device.
“I gotta… lay the ground, first,” Bucky says.
Steve’s eyebrows crease. “What do you mean?”
Bucky smiles. “Means I’m changing clothes—d’you still have that red Henley? That one looks good on me.”
The satisfaction on Steve’s face at Bucky’s question has no price.
What starts that night at Nyx’s birthday goes on even to the gym.
Bucky feels like a peacock doing this shit, but at the same time, it entertains him—putting on a nice t-shirt, washing his hair more often with honey conditioner and wearing tank tops to work can be fun, he finds out.
The first week, all he gets from you is a quick double-glance.
At the bar, your flushed cheeks and cheeky responses could be attributed to the alcohol.
Here? No escaping route.
Bucky wanted to test the waters, first—see if the interest could be there, and more importantly, if him approaching you in that way is something you’d desire.
Not consider because he put it on the table, but wanted it.
He never looked through his closet this much.
He pulls out shabby, loose shirts that are a bit transparent depending where you stand under the light.
When you squatted with over 100kgs on your back, Bucky paid full attention to your form. The second you threw the bar on the ground and panted, breathless after the upping he did on your weights, he’d pick up the bar for you and put it in place.
No effort there—he needed only one hand to do this kind of job, but Bucky was also surrounded by mirrors.
It was fun seeing your reaction to his lack of struggle.
When he caught you with your lips parted the first time, eyes set on his thighs, Bucky knew—he had at least a shot.
Now all he needed was the right placing to shoot it.
It’s the white tank top that does it for you. You thought you’d last on your promise—cracking you is an art that probably only your parents have unlocked so far, but that does it just fine.
That damned, white tank top.
You almost turn around and head back from where you came from when you reach the stairs and Bucky’s back is the first thing you see—the muscles of his shoulders, more specifically, and the fact that they’re out in the open because he is wearing a white tank top.
When you recap to your friend this exact scene hours later, you leave out the weak whimper you swallow.
What is he doing?
Bucky had an agenda—it was obvious he wanted to kill someone in this gym for doing something, but you were the one who had to suffer through that.
You’d made a promise to yourself: you would keep your mouth shut.
“Hello, coach.” Keeping your mouth shut was necessary, because the opposite of that looked like you making a comment on his looks, and that could never be good. “Evening. Amala playing again, huh?”
Commenting on music was fine—music recommended by you, and that Bucky turned out to like a lot.
That was a far safer topic than anything else going on in your field vision right now.
Bucky’s got a black snapback on, and you suddenly feel the need to punch something. “Hey,” he greets you. “Nat liked one of the songs last week and now it’s all that plays around here,” he smiles.
“I’m gonna say hi to her before I go stretch,” you tell him. “Can we switch some of the exercises today?” If you're anywhere near me, I might pass out. “My back’s kinda sore, and I remembered I skipped leg day last week,” you remind him with a square smile.
Bucky nods. “Sure.”
It’s the first time you go through warm-up without complaints. If Tasha notices, she doesn’t care—she’s probably way too happy to be spotting and training your punches, and getting out of you why you’re quiet and so obedient is not like her.
“Sweets. Are you coming on Friday?” Tasha asks before you go upstairs.
Bucky’s text messages last night sparks in your memory.
ㅤㅤBuild-A-Buck (12:03) ㅤㅤnat wants you for pizza night at her & clint’s house ㅤㅤyou should go ㅤㅤseeing nat get drunk and sing is fun
You smile at her. “Bucky mentioned. Pizza at your place?”
She nods, smiling softly. “Yeah.”
“Do I need to bring anything?”
“Your gorgeous self is fine.”
Laughing, you start walking upstairs. “See you tomorrow, then, Tash.”
“See you, sweets.”
The exchange pushes some of the thirst away from your mind, and you notice in the pattern that choosing a gym where your friends – and women, especially – were at and made you feel comfortable helped on more than one occasion.
Being one of Bucky’s private students—you paid for one on one lessons in hopes to go back to competing eventually, you had an hour with him on the clock.
The extra time spent talking was what made you accept his and everyone’s invitation; they not only talked, but acted like they wanted you around.
You’re navigating the wave of endorphins so high that you get cocky, maybe.
Maybe that’s why he makes you crack.
Or maybe it’s the way that having Bucky in that white fucking top shows you why you’re still struggling with one of the bench exercises by doing it himself, and you feel all thoughts escaping out of your ears.
Flying away, like birds scared off by a canyon going off.
White noise.
“Got it,” you lie through your teeth.
The exercise is understood—you put all of your focus in doing the exercise properly, from the beginning, to end. It’s hard, and its difficulty is why you sometimes still get it wrong, but closing your lips and focusing ahead as you grind through it with a mental hyper-focus on each important muscle, you finish your fifteen reps.
The weight drops on the ground at fifteen because you simply open your fingers.
“Good job,” Bucky says. You can hear his smile, even with your eyes fixed on the matted ground.
“Breath properly, woman,” Bucky laughs at you. “And stand up straight, c’mon.”
“You are such a nagger.”
“You’re folded in half, Y/n.” How can someone’s voice portray so much emotion?
You sit up straight, and are hit with the most common question around Bucky: why are his eyes like that? So… expressive.
“Better?” You ask.
Bucky nods, his smile turning more serious, and his own posture mimics yours.
“You could just ask her out.”
Mentally, you curse in every language you know.
Outside, you try keeping a steady face after the words are blurted out of your mouth.
Bucky frowns, and his head tilts in confusion. “I’m sorry?”
The only benefit about making a colossal mistake such as this one in the middle of practice is the luxury of struggle: your cheeks were already as red as a tomato before, so while Bucky can see them, he’s incapable of feeling the burning in them and know where it comes from.
You shrug, trying to play it cool. “The girl.” Now that you’ve started, there’s no stopping. Bucky’s confusion remains, so grabbing your water bottle underneath your bench, you open it and gesture widely to his frame. “Whoever’s got you pulling out—that. Guns. Jesus,” your laughter comes out a little cracked, but you gulp down water and swallow the heat with it. Or try to. “She’s gonna say yes, you don’t have to give the entire gym a heart attack every week day.”
There’s a moment of heavy silence between you both, and you become highly aware of two things at the same time, both equally as terrifying in your eyes.
The first and most pressing one, is that you’ve decided to open your mouth on a Thursday, of all the fucking days. A Thursday—the one day of the week when because of your work schedule you had to commit to 8pm to 9pm classes. The day of the week where it’s just you, Bucky, Sam and Nat plus a handful of students in the entire and wide space of Shield.
Sam’s downstairs with his two college athletes, wrapping up in talk just like you and Bucky would be in around twenty minutes.
Natasha should be at the office—Bucky told you she was an investor here at the gym as well as a teacher, and that most of the numbers and stuff like that went through her.
Then, there was you and Bucky.
“Is she?” He asks, and the second thing you notice – and your body tenses at it – is that Bucky’s smiling.
It’s a smile you’ve never seen before on his face, though.
Grinning, would be the correct description, and you feel foolish.
Oh, Y/n.
“I mean, assuming it’s a she. Or he.” You can feel the smile creeping underneath at the prospect of what his smile might mean, but your mouth is teasing before you can dive into that. “They—whoever,” you ramble on. “They’ll say yes. Just go for it. And please stop using tank tops—I know I wasn’t the only one to tell you this week.”
Clint’s verbal, vocal complaints still made you laugh when you were alone at home.
“Clint, you’re married. Your wife is literally a few meters away from you.”
“She’s complaining too! Tell him to knock it off—end our miseries, for fuck’s sake. I’m gonna invade his closet if this keeps up.”
Bucky’s face, unlike yours, showed no signs of weariness.
That was perfect because it made his blush evident when it came. “I didn’t know if she would or not—it makes people take drastic measures,” he chuckles. The way Bucky says she while looking you straight in the eye makes you stop drinking your water in fear of choking on it.
“And me encouraging you wiped all the doubt away? Damn, I’m good at pep talks,” you joke.
Bucky’s smile fades, and all that’s left is that. “Y/n.” Your name shouldn’t have this effect over you, but it does—if your legs weren’t closed already, they’d do it as a way of containing the heat that Bucky pours over each letter of your name.
Bucky analyzes your face for a few seconds, then his smile returns. “Do you wanna go out for a drink sometime?”
You stop gnawing on your bottom lip, and nod. “Would love to.” Then, one of your conversations with him a couple of weeks prior spurts on your mind like a present from the gods, and it’s your turn Cheshire smile. “There’s just one problem,” you add in a fake-low whisper.
Bucky lifts both eyebrows at that. “There is?”
“You said you don’t like going on dates with people you never kissed ‘cause that’s all you think about. I’m a very anxious gal and now, the fact that you’d be thinking about that is all that I’ll be thinking about, so…” you let your words trail off, testing the waters for how teasing him in different ways goes like.
“That’s got an easy fix, though,” Bucky answers with the straightest face you’ve ever seen.
He then gets up from the bench, grabs you by the wrist and starts dragging you towards the showers upstairs.
You were dipping your toes into the pond water, and Bucky’s fingers on your skin are the same as him pushing your body inside.
You love a good surprise, anyway—a nice swim in deep, new waters.
He drags you until you’re both standing in front of one of the sinks and you follow him with a besotted smile on your face.
Bucky’s seriousness crumbles at the sight of it.
“If I solve this eternal dilemma on your mind, the date is on?” He confirms teasingly, approaching your body slowly.
If someone said they turned on the heater right underneath your feet, you’d believe it.
That or some gates to hell must’ve been open. “Sure is,” you reply, letting the flames climb up from your feet, all the way up.
You’re not a tiny, dainty girl, by any shape or form.
Bucky still makes you feel like one.
His body towers over yours, his thick arms, broad shoulders and soft brown hair making your vision cloudy—mind dizzy.
His right hand reaches up and touches your burning cheeks, feeling the heat of it. The way his smile makes your stomach turn to mist. “Peachy,” he whispers, eyes on your cheeks. “Gonna kiss you now, ‘kay?”
Bucky hides his sides well.
For all his gentleness and professionalism, you’d have pegged him as a lover. A love-making, or vanilla-fucking kind of guy.
The grunt that leaves your lips when he crashes his mouth on yours in a delicious and smooth press of his lips is only the beginning.
Bucky’s hand cupping your face is rough. It grabs on your neck and pulls you closer, the same way his arms around your waist press your body flushed against his.
His tongue is talented and devious, much like him.
There’s nothing soft about the way Bucky expresses his desire, and even through the fog of his tongue dragging along with yours and making your toes curl, you know he could be if he wanted to.
Right now, though, what Bucky wants is to kiss and to touch.
And so do you.
The shock goes away in two seconds, and your arms wrap around his shoulder immediately after. Bucky responds by hoisting you up by your thighs and propping you on the bathroom counter without breaking the kiss, deepening his exploration of your body.
He’s got you making sounds and squeezing yourself around him before either one of you pulls back for air.
His hands are on your ass, and yours are making a mess on his hair, but it’s Bucky’s smile that makes you whimper in the end. “Behave, Peach,” he grunts, sucking on your lips again and swallowing around the moan that arises with the nickname. “’s just a kiss, remember?”
“Oh, god.”
He laughs. “Was it good? Are we clear for a date?” He sounds breathless and happy. “I think it was good. Want me to try again?”
You take a moment to catch your breath.
“Yeah. Just one more time for safekeeping.”
Bucky licks his lips while staring at yours. “Sounds fair.”
He dives in again.
ㅤ /**\
Having you like this is a privilege only Bucky gets to have, and he might be drunk on this thought.
He’s not actually drunk.
You’re just very, very pretty.
The way you whine his name tastes as good as fine wine, and that’s something that can get you to certain highs in life.
“Shush.” He watches Y/n bite on her bottom lip, and smiles, sighing happily. His baby is a good girl. “Good baby, Peach.”
He leans over the bed to press a kiss on her eager lips, but Bucky goes back to standing up on his knees at the edge after he takes her breath away.
Bucky’s admiring for a moment, because now that you’re here and he’s gotten to know tweak and push some of your buttons during all those dates, he knows where to go.
The times when you and him ended up making out in kitchens after dinner, or at the bar when someone grabbed the drinks. You and Bucky spend a good amount of time just getting to know each other—the dates are so easy and fun that until now, talking’s pretty much all you’ve done.
And Bucky’s wanted to take a good look at you so long ago.
He’d taken off his shirt and sat in his boxers, your legs thrown over his thighs and you lying against the bed naked, writing because of the vibrator he held against your clit and the restraints he’d put on your hands for misbehaving and making him cum on your mouth just before.
“B-Bucky, please.”
“Please what?” He asks.
Her hips are trembling on his lap, and he watches as Y/n’s eyes squeeze closed. “Please get inside me.”
“You know it’s not like that, Peach.” Bucky leans his body over hers, grinding his pelvis against her wet pussy. “Gotta prep you first.”
“Then do it. Please.” Y/n’s fingers claw at Bucky’s arms, and he wants to do it, but watching his baby suffer like this looks so good. “Wanna feel full, Buck.”
Alright, then.
Bucky turns off the vibrator and puts it back on where he got it, and then brings his hands between Peach’s legs, feeling up his whole palm on her folds, wetting his fingers by circling her clit. “Take it off,” Y/n mutters on Bucky’s lips, her knees budging against Bucky’s boxers.
He had put them back on after she kept on sucking, her lips swollen and taking as much of him as she could.
The tip of Bucky’s dick drips at the memory. He takes off his underwear with one hand, then manhandles Y/n’s hips to sit up higher on his thighs so he can put a pillow underneath her lower back.
Bucky stretched you open slowly, both to continue teasing you as well as making sure he wouldn’t hurt you. First one, then two, then three fingers, pumping in and out of you and filling the room with wet noises.
From the way you clawed at his back, Bucky would have marks the next morning.
“Feels good?” Bucky asks on your ear, kissing along your neck.
You cry out loud when the words are spoken and he sucks your earlobe into his lips. “Buck.”
“Gotta make sure you’re ready, Peach,” he mutters, sucking on a patch of skin. Bucky drags his hips against your thigh as he says that, and is gifted with the sight of your rolling your eyes to the back of your head at the feel of his hard core bare against your skin.
“Please. Please, please, please—I’ve been so good.”
Bucky grunted. “You really have.”
So Bucky did what you wanted.
For the rest of the night, he did what you wanted.
You listen so well that you let him take it slow at first—you look drunk, too, but maybe it’s on the way his cock feels dragging in and out of you slowly, as Bucky moves his hips in different motions. He goes deeper and deeper each time, and it’s like your pussy is trying to swallow him bit by bit.
At a certain point, he’s fully fitting inside, and all he can do is praise you some more.
It’s what he’s been doing since he met you.
“Oh, fuck. You take me so well. So fucking well, Peach.”
To have the pleasure spreading from his sensitive ends to every place of his body and yours, more importantly, Bucky pulled it all the way out and in, over and over again until you asked for more.
He gave it you.
It was easy to distract you from him trying to learn the rhythms and codes from your insides when he puts one hand around your throat, wraps the other arm around the back of your shoulder and pulls you towards his own body.
He learned by accident when cuddling you after one of the very first dates that you adored his hands.
Even more when they wrapped around your throat.
“Look at you—fucking love this shit, don’t you?” He chuckles, and the way you open your mouth wide at that could only the request for a kiss, and Bucky gives it to you.
He steals your breath away, moving his hips inside of you in different motions and paces, gauging at your reaction each time. He was looking for the ones that had you whining, and the angles that made you sink your fingers deeper in his skin.
By the time you asked for “More, Buck,” again, he had hacked you already.
Bucky fucks you deep, and steady, releasing your throat a bit so you can breathe and fall into his rhythm. “Like—hm—like this, hm?”
“Oh, fuck.”
“Fucking knew it, Peach. Oh god—how d’you feel baby? Tell me.”
“Bucky—oh—feels so good. Just like that.”
“I know, baby,” he smiles, fucking deeper into you.
Bucky thinks the marks might last a little longer than a day.
Not a single bit of him minds.
When he finds the angle and the speed that makes your legs close tighter around his waist, he presses and holds his forehead against yours, letting out his breaths right against your lips.
Bucky’s never been one to fuck and think about making love, but the connection he feels to you might grant the damn words their rights.
He loves the way you like silencing yourself by kissing him hard.
Bucky’s crazy about the way your nails drag across his back, and the strength you have to flip them both around.
If there’s one thing that prettier than the sight of you underneath him, is this.
His moans are so loud Bucky wonders for a second if his neighbors won’t call the cops.
Then, you twist your head to the side, throwing your hair around, and start moving your hips at your own pace, riding Bucky to keep the same rhythm as before.
In this position, all Bucky feels is the heat.
His whole mind feels squeezed, burning and bright. It’s so fucking tight inside of you, your legs squeezing around his waist even tighter, and it feels great.
He lets his hands on your hips, guiding and helping you, feeling your curves along the way.
“Fucking dream,” he mutters.
You look like a dream, Peach.
Bucky holds you when you get down to kiss him again, and the position gives him the leverage he needs to thrusts his hips in a delicious position.
It gets you opening your mouth wide, whispering his name over and over, and Bucky knows you're about to cum.
He feels it in the way your legs tighten, in the pinching of your brows and how your nails claw in deeper, deeper, deeper—“Cum for me, Peach. Cum on my cock, just like that—lemme see you fall apart, baby—“
“Oh, fuck.”
For someone who used to be as lonely as Bucky, one orgasm with you already has him thinking some pretty wild things about bodies being joined together.
All the time. For good.
In a never-ending cycle.
Bucky feels you giggling.
“You’re talking out loud,” you whisper in his ear.
“I think you fucked my brains out,” says Bucky. His voice feels hoarse, and he has to pull out of you, but he doesn’t want to.
“I did? You fucked my brains out,” you throw back. Your tone is as raspy as his, and it makes Bucky smile.
“I fucking love this argument.”
You laugh.
Bucky doespull out, eventually, but only because he needs to start the shower so it’ll be warm in a couple of minutes and he can pull you to it.
“I’m only showering if you’re carrying me,” Y/n states from the bed. “My legs can’t move.”
“Oh—I’ll carry you.” That should end in a… shower.
The way you smile tells him you know that just as well as him.
Bucky takes pleasure in taking care of you—he doesn’t need to carry you; you get up from the bed to pee after a minute passes and his kisses seem to convince you that you’re still alive. He washes your hair once in the shower, and massages the thighs he grabbed, slapped and groped hard enough to leave bruises.
Bucky likes a lot of things with you, as it turns out.
You sleeping against his chest.
The way your eyes shine in the morning.
How his name sounds coming from your lips.
Over the months, and then, with the years, all he wants to learn next is if which last name out of you two is the coolest one and, as consequence, who will take whose.
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🏷 bucky barnes tag list ☆ @undiadeestos ; @keepingitlokiii ; @hallecarey1 ; @mardema ; @mollygetssherlockcoffee ; @justlovelifeblog ; @fallenoutofrose ; @rvgrsbrns ; @tripletstephaniescp ; @mal-edictions ; @rippl3s ; @barnesafterglow ; @vintagepigeon ; @dirtyweenerking ; @couldabeenamermaid ; @winter-soldier-sebstan ; @leyannrae ; @nerdwholikesword ; @andreead ; @ren-ni ; @pastamomma ; @fiftyshadesofokay ; @peonyophelia ; @murdermornings ;@bvckysmoon ; @buttybarnes1917 ; @rebekahdawkins ; @tylard-blog1 ; @xbeauxny ; @redirection04 ; @thatblondebrownie ; @carrotfantasimp ; @teenagedreams-bucky ; @buckyxplumsss ; @sltwins ; ; @spiderdudetom ; @mrsbarnesinmyimagination ; @pineprincess ; @cpag7 ; @iambeeee ; @sstan-hoe ; @weirdowithnobeardo ; @hdbngsprnva ; @itsdawnashlie ; @sweetdreamsbuck ; @slutforsteve ; @maladaptivexxdaydreaming ♡
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kpophubb · 7 months ago
Enhypen Ot7+Hyung Line MASTERLIST ❥♡︎
Disclaimer:- this list consists of both smut and fluff ffs if you’re sensitive to smut please ignore my post. The last time i made this post i added 80 links but some sensitive,problematic people reported my post as well as my whole blog.
𝔼𝕟𝕛𝕠𝕪 𝕓𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕖𝕤 ✨🥰
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ꕥ ice cream with Ot7
ꕥsick enha with their s/o
ꕥ kisses with ot7
ꕥ back hugs with enhypen
ꕥ reacting to them on your lockscreen
ꕥ when you give them silent treatment
ꕥ reaction to their s/o hugging them during sleep
ꕥ when you ask to borrow their hoodies
ꕥ skinship with ot7
ꕥ enha reacting to you matching them up with your friends
ꕥ cuddles
ꕥ ways to say ily
ꕥ clingy when jealous with enhypen
ꕥ warm embraces and sudden kisses
ꕥ little sacrifices they’d do for you
ꕥ how they’d confess to you
ꕥ how they spend your bday with you
ꕥ enha reacting to their p/c on your phone
ꕥ little acts enha does for you
ꕥ reacting to their s/o giving them gifts
ꕥ when you wear s/o’s hoodie
ꕥ kisses with ot7
ꕥ when their s/o shuts them up with a kiss
ꕥ when their s/o can’t stop kissing them
ꕥ enhypen as boyfriends
ꕥ enha as bfs at school
ꕥ them having a breakdown infront of their s/o
ꕥ ot7 reacting to their s/o being a lil chubby
ꕥ night dates
ꕥ going to an escape room with en-
ꕥ dates with enha
ꕥ when their s/o has a breakdown infront of them
ꕥ ot7 reacting to a clingy s/o
ꕥ ways your heart lock into place
ꕥ when you tell them you want a baby
ꕥ ot7 master recs
ꕥ messages they’d want to send to their ex
ꕥ looking after enha after a hectic week
ꕥ their ways to make you happy
ꕥ enhypen as bfs
ꕥ when their s/o is on period
ꕥ when you tell them ily
ꕥ enha crushing on you at their fanmeet
ꕥ reaction to you calling them husband
ꕥ hugs with enha
ꕥ graduating with enhypen
ꕥ slow dancing with ot7
ꕥ ot7 reacting to posting your relationship online
ꕥ enhypen reaction to a clingy s/o
ꕥ ot7 going into a haunted house with a scared s/o
ꕥ maknae line’s reaction to their crush accidentally calling them baby
ꕥ enha’s reaction to you studying infront of them
ꕥ different types of affection
ꕥ enhypen’s fav places to kiss you
ꕥ when you are their BFF and place your legs in between theirs
ꕥ types of dates with ot7
ꕥ when their s/o has a bad day
ꕥ enhypen normal relationship headcanons
ꕥ jealous with you being friends with another member
ꕥ enha with their short and cute s/o
ꕥ dates
ꕥ enhypen confessing to you
ꕥ meeting your parents for the first time
ꕥ reaction to you crying when they scare you
ꕥ finding out their s/o is pregnant
ꕥ enha asking for your affection when you don’t give them attention
ꕥ enha as cliche k-drama tropes
ꕥ when you take off your commitment ring after an argument
ꕥ things he does in your relationship
ꕥ reaction to their gf kissing their forehead suddenly
ꕥ when you kiss them to shut them up
ꕥ when you grow silent bc they forget your bday
ꕥ when you pull out of a kiss and they pull you back
ꕥ act of intimacy w/ enhypen
Hyung line:~
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ꕥ legal line as fwb
ꕥ hyung line as your boyfriend
ꕥ eating you out
ꕥ reacting to you being shy during intercourse
ꕥ take it
ꕥ face sitting
ꕥ giving them head
ꕥ sexting with legal line
ꕥ making out with enhypen hyung line
ꕥ fingering you for the first time
ꕥ hyung line MASTERLIST
ꕥ kisses with them
ꕥ jealous with another member
ꕥ sacrifices they’d do for you
ꕥ 02z hinting they like you
ꕥ falling asleep on them
ꕥ relationship with 02z
ꕥ hyung line reacting to their pregnant someone
ꕥ first kisses with 02z
ꕥ 7 minutes in heaven with enha hyung line
ꕥ legal line MTL preference
ꕥ hyung line when their s/o wants a kiss
ꕥ reacting to their crush accidentally calling them baby
ꕥ kinks
The End
Note: I’ll add more ffs to this list so like and reblog this post! Show love and appreciation to these amazing writers by following them and liking their posts.I’ll post more masterlists like this soon so please follow my blog ㋛♡︎
Sim Jaeyun Masterlist
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marvelsmostwanted · 11 months ago
Hey American voters! 🇺🇸
Guess what?!!
🚨 It’s time to start worrying about the 2022 and 2024 elections. 🚨
(Yeah. We really gotta do this. It's... not looking great.)
Long story short:
Republicans have been working hard since the 2020 election to enact voter suppression laws, overturn election results, and set themselves up to steal the 2024 presidential election if necessary.
You’ve probably heard about the Georgia voter suppression law. But did you know that “Stop the Steal” conspiracy theorist Republicans are running to be election officials like Secretary of State in several swing states, setting themselves up to overturn future elections? They are dismantling democracy before our eyes.
So what’s the worst case scenario?
...Well, let’s start with the realistic scenario.
Republicans are likely to take back the House in 2022. They are possibly capable of doing it through gerrymandering alone. Is it possible for Democrats to keep the House? Yes, but it will take a huge effort.
Republicans could also win back the Senate since it's currently 50-50 and Democrats only have a narrow majority because we won the presidency.
Even if Republicans only win back the House, the Biden administration would legislatively accomplish very little from 2022-2024. Republicans would have the power to impeach Biden for no reason and cause another constitutional crisis, enable gerrymandering and voter suppression laws, and block any Democratic priorities from becoming law (gun control, climate change, and healthcare are just a few things that would be off the table entirely).
Then comes 2024.
Donald Trump is the most likely Republican candidate to run and win in 2024. In a recent poll (May 2021), 66% of Republicans indicated that they would vote for Trump again.
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Yes, Trump can run even if he’s indicted on criminal charges. He can run even if he’s in prison!
Remember, although Biden won by 7 million votes, it was really a difference of about 44,000 votes in three swing states that prevented Trump from winning the Electoral College and becoming president again. That is a frighteningly small margin.
Even if the candidate isn’t Trump, this is still going to be a close election. 85% of Republicans say they would vote for a Trump-aligned candidate (same poll as above).
If Republicans win back or maintain control of Congress in 2024, this could set up an even more dangerous scenario:
The House has the power to choose the president if Congress does not award 270 electoral votes to either candidate.
How could that happen? Well, those "Stop the Steal" Republican election officials in swing states could refuse to certify the election, claiming fraud, and a close election could end up with neither candidate getting enough electoral votes. House Republicans could literally choose the next president without any input from voters and effectively end American democracy as we know it.
Because you know that Republicans will never let go of that power once they have it.
This is not far-fetched.
This is a realistic, highly likely scenario that will happen if we don’t do something to prevent it. Journalists and election experts are trying to sound the alarm, and we should listen:
New York Times - How Republicans Could Steal the 2024 Election
Washington Post - American democracy is in even worse shape than you think
Pod Save America - Stop the 2024 Steal (Discussion at 29:00)
LA Times - Trump’s allies are prepping to steal 2024 election
The only way to prevent this from becoming reality is to fight like hell against it. And I know we just did that in 2018 and 2020. But this fight isn't over until we restore and protect our democracy.
This isn’t about how much you like Biden & Harris, or even if you’re a Democrat in general. It’s about saving democracy in America.
What can we do about it?
Unfortunately, it’s going to be an uphill battle. But if we all engage in this fight, then we can make a difference.
TLDR, we need to raise awareness about the threat to democracy, encourage Democrats to end the filibuster and pass H.R.1 immediately, and organize, organize, organize to get voters back out there in 2022 and 2024.
Specific ways to help & additional resources below the cut.
How to help:
National Level:
*High priority: Call your Democratic Senator(s) right now and tell them to pass H.R.1, the For the People Act, with urgency.
*High priority: Call your Democratic Senator(s) right now and tell them that you are strongly in favor of ending the filibuster (Especially if your Senator is Manchin or Sinema.)
Call your Democratic Senator(s) and tell them to vote for the John Lewis Voting Rights Act.
Call your Republican Senator(s) and tell them you are in favor of all of the above, especially if you live in a swing state.
State Level:
*High priority: Find out who is running for state legislature and other positions that have control over elections, such as Secretary of State. Donate or volunteer for their campaigns. Spread the word amongst your family and friends and make sure they know who to vote for and the date of the election.
If no one is running against the Republican, consider running! I’m not joking. Or if you know someone who is qualified and/or interested in running, encourage them to do so.
Local Level:
*High priority: Same as on the state level: Find out who is running and support the person who is supporting democracy. Local election officials can have a huge impact, especially in swing states and counties. Spread the word about this candidate, the election date, registering to vote, where to vote, etc.
Again, if no one is running, consider running! Incumbents often stay in power because they are unchallenged. And a local position is a great way to get involved in politics and help your community.
Additional ways to help:
Make sure you are registered to vote.
Check in with 3 friends/family members and help them register to vote if they are not already.
Send reminders to friends/family to vote on Election Day - not just in November, but for special elections, local elections, etc.
Volunteer with a group specifically working to help progressives win elections: SwingLeft, EMILY’s List, etc.
Donate to the candidates you support early and often! One of the reasons Democratic House candidates struggled in 2020 was that a lot of money came in at the last minute. Donating early and/or on a monthly basis ensures that they have the funds to run a long, successful campaign.
More Info & Resources:
Read: Washington Post - American democracy is in even worse shape than you think
Excerpt/TLDR: "The radicalization of the Republican Party has outpaced what even most critical observers imagined,” Georgetown University historian Thomas Zimmer told me. “We need to grapple with what that should mean for our expectations going forward and start thinking about real worst-case scenarios." - Perry Bacon Jr.
Read: New York Times - How Republicans Could Steal the 2024 Election
“It occurred to me,” [Erica Newland, counsel for Protect Democracy] told her colleagues then, “as I dug into the rules and watched what happened, that if the current Republican Party controls both Houses of Congress on Jan. 6, 2025, there’s no way if a Democrat is legitimately elected they will get certified as the president-elect.”
Listen: Pod Save America - Stop the 2024 Steal (29:00-36:27 covers the bulk of it, and they go on for about another 10 minutes after that)
Excerpt: "If you just watch what's happening... it is a very clear indication of a minority party that knows it has no path to majority status rigging elections at every level to set the stage for minority rule in this country. (...) People are not alarmed enough about [this]. The great asymmetry in American politics is that Republicans view power as an end in itself, and Democrats view power as a means to an end. Republicans are using the power they have to put in place laws that allow them to hold onto political power. (...) We need to raise the alarm. There are disturbing signs of complacency in our party." - Dan Pfeiffer
Register or check voter registration: Vote.org
Support H.R.1: VoteSaveAmerica.com/ForThePeople
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carters-things · 3 months ago
Sleepless Nights
Matt Murdock x Reader
Summary: Matt Finds out you haven't been sleeping
TW: None I think
You're sitting at your desk fighting tooth and nail to stay awake. Eyes heavy and body like jello. You're leaning on your hand in a manner to barely keep one eye pried open as you flip through the files pertaining to Nelson and Murdock’s current trial. "Wow. That interesting of a read huh?" Foggy says startling you to a perfect posture position.
"Oh.. uh... yeah. I just. Got distracted..." you said rubbing your face to try and collect yourself.
"This is the third day in a row you have been out of it. Are you feeling ok?" Foggy asks pouring you some coffee.
"Yeah. I just.." your voice trails off as Matt walks out of his office. "I think I'm coming down with something." You say as you clear your throat and nod as a thank you to Foggy, taking the outstretched coffee.
Matt leans against the door post to his office, hand on his hip. You can feel him staring into you, knowing he's listening to your heart rate. Well now he knows I’m lying. The truth is you haven't slept. Not more than 2 hours a night for almost the past week. Matt had made headway on locating some remaining Russians that had gone underground when he thought he took them all down. He came home about 2 weeks ago in pretty bad shape. It took you an hour to treat all of his injuries as he faded in and out of consciousness. You've never been so scared in your life. You cried and begged him to stay awake- to talk to you and fight the urge to slip unconscious again- as you watched his blank stare fade and eyes roll back into his head.
Since that night you haven't slept soundly. Losing more and more sleep each night he goes out. Matt had enough going on in Hell's kitchen that he feels obligated to protect, he didn't need to add taking care of you to his list. You’ve been staying at your place more so he doesn’t know that you aren’t sleeping but on the nights you do cave in and stay over there he lays with you until you're "asleep" before going out into the dark. You fake this because he needs those moments of peace and safety of holding you in his arms just as much as you do.
"Why don't you take half a day today Y/N. We've got this covered here. Go home and get some rest and we can fill you in tomorrow morning." Matt says concerned.
"No. Really I'm ok, I want to help." You adjust your chair, sitting upright pulling into your desk.
The rest of the day drags on as you fight back the exhaustion. "All in a day's work!" Foggy says shutting his office door. "Josie's anyone?" He says pointing at you and Matt with his eyebrows raised.
"Thanks Fog, but I'm going to take Y/N home."
"I guess I don't have a choice." You laugh nervously. Grabbing your personal belongings and closing your computer down. You walk to the door with Foggy and Matt- who has grabbed your elbow to guide him. You walk home listening to Matt talk about the trial coming up and different strategies of approaches that we can take. You nod and mutter the occasional affirmation so he knows you're listening but you're more distracted knowing it's just a matter of hours before he leaves to go out again. All of the horrible scenarios running through your aching head. "Stay with me tonight." Matt says breaking the thought pattern and stopping you in your tracks.
"Stay with me tonight. You need to rest and my apartment is closer. I'll cook you dinner and we can watch a movie"
"Is this you asking or telling?" You question back.
"Both?" He says tilting his head wearing a smirk.
"Fine. But I'm picking the movie." you say playfully bumping shoulders with him as you continue the walk to his place.
Around 830 you finish cleaning up dish-ware from dinner. You wash and dry them in silence as your eyes get heavy. Once the dishes are done you head to the bathroom closing the door behind you. You wash your face- removing all of the concealer and foundation you’ve been using to keep up your act as you stare into the mirror and see the physical toll the lack of sleep is taking on your body. Your eyes are puffy, with dark blue shade underneath- your cheeks and face are void of any other natural color. Thank goodness Matt is blind and can’t see the evidence.
“Sweetheart?” Matt says knocking on the door-snapping you out of your thoughts again.
“I’ll uh… I’ll be out in a second!” you urge back splashing more water on your face before taking a big breath in to prepare to leave the bathroom. You open the door to see Matt standing with his arms crossed, blank stare searching for your face.
“What’s wrong?” you ask in as normal of a voice as you can make.
“I was going to ask you the same thing..” he says running his hand up your arm and to your cheek. He leans in to place a kiss on your forehead and you meet him halfway, melting into his arms.
“I’ve just missed you, that's all.” you say squeezing your arms around his waist as you tuck your head under his chin.
“Yeah?” you say looking up at his face, glistening in the neon lights coming through the living room windows.
“How long has it been since you’ve slept?” his eyes move trying to meet yours.
“Why do you ask?” you say taken back.
“You have been really out of it lately.. Your body temperature hasn’t risen so you aren’t sick like you said but I’m worried about you” he says cradling the back of your head with his hand and the other rubbing circles on your back.
“I… well…” You feel a lump form in your throat and tears form in your eyes. Your breathing rate picks up as you try and stifle your cries. Matt holds you close to him, his warm touch and strong grip making you feel safe enough to fall apart. You start to cry, unable to even form a thought to begin to explain what has been going on.
“Shhh..my love…” He says softly, running his hand through your hair. “Talk to me, I’m here..”
“For now… but what happens in a couple hours? You go out and I lay awake waiting for you to come home? Not knowing if you’ll even make it home.” You say pulling back from his arms, wiping your tears away. “I haven’t slept since that night you came home almost dead Matthew.. I watched you fade in and out. I cried over you, and begged you to stay with me. I’ve never felt so scared or helpless in my life. I had to sit and wait for you to wake up. Wait for you to decide to fight to live. How am I supposed to sleep knowing you’re out there fighting your way through the dark.”
“I’ll always come back to you y/n. Always.” Matt says cupping your cheek. His hands are calloused but his touch is still somehow soft. You raise your hand and hold it over top of his, leaning into his palm.
“I can’t lose you Matty…” Your voice trails off.
“And you won’t.”
“I know you think you’re invincible, but you’re still human. Even with your amazing senses you still have limits. We all do.”
“I promise I’ll be more careful. I shouldn’t have put all of that on you the other night. Not all alone. That wasn’t fair to you, and it won’t happen again.” Matt says reaching for your hand. He grabs it and holds it to his chest. You can feel his gentle steady heartbeat bringing a calming reassurance that he is very much alive. “Come on. You need to rest.”
“I can’t go to sleep just to wake up to you gone..” You say hiding your face in his chest.
“I’m not going anywhere tonight.”
You both make your way to the bedroom and climb into his bed. The silk sheets are cool to the touch, a calming sensation. Matt wraps his arms around your waist as you lay with your back to him. Fitting into the shape of his body perfectly. He can sense your hesitation in letting yourself relax. “Go to sleep sweetheart. I’ll be here when you wake up. I promise.”
Hearing that sentence allows you to let out a sigh of relief. A sigh that feels like you’ve been holding your breath for days. You melt into Matts’ embrace, finally feeling safe enough to sleep. And just as he said, you woke up the next morning with him safe and sound- asleep by your side. You rolled over to face him, taking in every little detail of his presence before wiggling your way into his arms and onto his chest, falling back to sleep.
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suga-kookiemonster · 5 months ago
Happy Ho-lidays!
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Ho ho ho, could this be true? @floralseokjin @suga-kookiemonster @sugaurora @underthejoon @winetae @btssavedmylifeblr and @kpopfanfictrash with presents for you! Take some time to unwind, and sneak a peek at what's stuffing your stocking 😉
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Winter Solace by @floralseokjin
Pairing⇢ Kim Seokjin x Reader
Summary⇢ After a difficult few months (and years), a fresh start in a new city is both equal parts thrilling and terrifying, but you’re determined to make it work. It’s just you and your dog-sized cat Nox, ready to take on the world. Of course along the way there are ups, and there are downs. The main down being you’re short on cash after the big move, unable to spend Christmas with your family. The main up is your kind and thoughtful neighbour who offers to celebrate the holiday with you, despite not being a fan of it himself…
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This Christmas by @suga-kookiemonster
Pairing⇢ Min Yoongi x Reader
Summary⇢ it's been a while since you've been home for the holidays, but this year, you finally plan on rectifying that. things are going well for you—great job, great friends, and a new boyfriend who you have a pretty great feeling about—and it seems everything in your life is finally slotting into place. but, of course, the past is a relentless specter and the universe always has a way of humbling you. in a ridiculous twist of fate, you soon find yourself stuck in a car with the very reason you have avoided coming back in the first place.
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A Porn Star's Guide to the Holidays by @sugaurora
Pairing⇢ Jung Hoseok x Reader
Summary⇢ Jung Hoseok was your first love, a relationship that ended only because your post-high school dreams led you down two very different paths. Yours brought you to Jeon Jungkook, talent agent for some of the most well-loved adult entertainment actors of the era. And that’s how you became an industry darling, doing just about everything from outdoor gangbangs to golden showers and a long list of kinks in between.
Six years later and you’re ready to find a new path, celebrating your exit from the business with a massive holiday party at your home. Only your new neighbor gets an accidental invite and when he arrives you find yourself standing face-to-face with your high school sweetheart. Suddenly, you’re forced to confront where the years have taken you and feelings that may have never quite gone away.
What’s a former porn star to do?
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All Wrapped Up by @underthejoon
Pairing⇢ Kim Namjoon x Reader
Summary⇢ All is currently Merry and Bright in your very secret, very sexy little bubble with Namjoon. But with the holidays on the horizon and the annual friends trip to his family’s cabin fast approaching, the pressure to DTR is at an all time high. Will you meet Namjoon under the mistletoe and finally out your fling to your friends? Or will your case of cold feet ruin the good thing you’ve got going?
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ANTIFREEZE by @winetae
Pairing⇢ Park Jimin x Reader
Summary⇢ ‘Don’t sleep with your dance partners.’
For three years, Jimin has followed the above rule religiously. Who knew it would take a vengeful ex, a Christmas fundraiser, and a pair of torn tights for his resolve to crumble?
alternatively, Jimin participates in the school’s adaption of The Nutcracker for extra credit but doesn’t expect his new dance partner to a) be this bad at dancing and b) be this fucking cute
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A Christmas Carol in Itaewon by @btssavedmylifeblr
Pairing⇢ Kim Taehyung x Reader
Summary⇢ Finding yourself alone and far from home on Christmas Eve, you are haunted by three spirits. But the real ghost from your past is your childhood sweetheart turned famous actor, Kim Taehyung.
(Ft. Yoongi, Hoseok, and Namjoon as the ghosts of christmas past, present, and future)
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A Holiday Snowdown by @kpopfanfictrash
Pairing⇢ Jeon Jungkook x Reader
Summary⇢ The Inn on the Hill is in trouble. Or that's what your boss, Namjoon, says during the last-minute All Staff holiday meeting he calls. You need money, and you need money fast, or his parents are planning to sell the resort. When no one can think of an easy solution, Namjoon proposes his parents' idea: a weeklong social media blitz with a celebrity guest. The celebrity? None other than Jeon Jungkook himself: two-time Olympic gold medalist, world-class snowboarder and the nation's sweetheart. What's the problem? You happen to have met Jeon Jungkook before, and sincerely hoped you'd never see him again.
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angelofthenight · 2 months ago
Last Man Alive
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(Dano!Riddler x Reader)
(Link to list of chapters)
(This will be a short series that goes through the events of the movie but Edward has a completely different motive)
Warnings: Edward is a yandere, Dark themes, Stalking, Non-Con touching, Restraints, Hyperventilation
(She/Her pronouns, YN has tits)
Word Count: 2.7k
(R/n) = Roommate’s Name
(B/n) = Boyfriend’s Name
It was almost half past 11 on Halloween night in Gotham City. The gray sky that reigned over the streets quickly darkened to a black blanket with very few stars. Criminals and delinquents and offenders lurked through the night as if it was their playground with no rules. All the kids trick or treated uptown where it was safer, more protection from the creatures of the night. But in hindsight, every citizen in Gotham was a creature of the night.
(Y/n) stayed home. Rejected all party invitations from friends to instead remain in the safety of her home. It was an average sized apartment that was a few stories away from the roof. She felt safer near the middle since criminals would have to climb to get through her windows. She wasn’t too close to the roof but farther away from the lobby. Although she often feared her apartment's placement in the building wasn’t the best place to be if there was a fire.
But she nonetheless felt safe in her apartment. She never felt her safety being threatened especially due to the fact she had a roommate. But tonight her roommate and best friend for 15 years, (R/n), decided to accept the party invitation for Halloween night so her presence was absent in the living room where (Y/n) stood watching a Halloween movie.
She texted her boyfriend, (B/n), over an hour ago about her situation and invited him to come over so they could have a date night. He was more than happy to come spend the night with her so he texted a response saying that he’d be over as soon as possible.
But that was over an hour ago. And they only lived 4 roads away from each other so it wouldn’t even take half an hour for him to make it to her. She couldn’t sit due to her anxiety from him not answering her texts of making sure he was driving safely. So she stood straight as she tried to focus on the Halloween themed movie on the TV screen, her hands clutching onto her phone and waiting for the feel of the vibration from a text. But she felt nothing. Her heart rate quicked in her ribcage but she kept her breathing to a normal pace to try to calm herself down.
It just didn’t help that they lived in the most dangerous city in the country.
She started to not like the feel of her phone against her sweaty palms anymore so she stepped over to the coffee table to set her phone down. A glance evolved into a stare at the framed picture of her and her beloved boyfriend on a date night. (Y/n) was smiling brightly with her eyes squeezed shut and her nose crinkled as (B/f) was smashing a big kiss on her cheek. You could see a smile on his lips against her cheek.
The picture beside that one was a photo from the drop of a roller coaster at her favorite theme park. She was laughing with one hand high up in the air with her hair pushed back from the wind. (B/f) was clutching onto her other arm with his eyes closed tightly and his jaw hanging open from screaming. She sighed at the adorable memories before she turned to walk back to the spot she was originally in.
Until a body suddenly slammed against her back which was enough force to send her straight to the floor. She felt like she almost had a heart attack but felt the body still near her. The person sent them both to the ground when they tackled her. She fought against her curiosity to look at her attacker so she could waste her time on a scream and trying to pathetically scamper away. Her eyes never filled up with tears so quickly and her lips quivered over shaking hyperventilation. Her attacker crawled after her and roughly pulled her by both her claves closer to them.
She screamed again and tried to claw her way away from them until they took a seat on her waist. She sobbed as tears streamed down her cheeks, terror washing over her senses and her limbs trembling as if the temperature suddenly dropped to the negatives. She couldn't scream again as her inhales for breath got more desperate from the hyperventilation. She could hear her attacker breathe loudly, like they were nervous too, but the breath sounded muffled like they were wearing something over their mouth.
She felt sick to her stomach as fear paralyzed her body. Her attacker gripped onto her shaking body and turned her around to be on her back. She tried to fight back but the shock prevented her from using her strength. When she was rolled onto her back the appearance of her attacker caused more tears to erupt from her eyes and her throat choked out more sobs. Her attacker was a man in a murky green jacket with a white question mark painted on one side. His mask was a matching color with eye holes but his clear rimmed glasses were worn on the outside.
The mask prevented her from identifying him. She wondered which would be worse; someone she knew or a stranger?
The man’s breathing grew erratic, unstable, as he straightened his back to look down at her. (Y/n)’s mind jumped to him being a pervert and this was going to be a sexual assault which sent her into a panic. Refusing to be this creep’s helpless victim and object to project his sexual fantasies, she made another attempt of escape as she threw her hands up to try to push him away. The plan failed miserably as he caught her wrists and roughly pinned them down
She struggled against his hold, cursing her fear and shock for limiting her strength to a useless amount. The heavy breathing, masked pervert shifted so he was sitting on her thighs, preventing her from kicking, and forced her wrists under his knees to hold her down. She cried as she had to result to begging for her human right of freedom.
“Pl-please let me go.” She whimpered and sobbed through more pleads which fell on the perverts deaf fears. He looked down at her through his eye holes which revealed his wide eyes, like he was living his biggest dream. He still listened to her begging, like he liked listening to her voice but consciously ignoring what she was saying.
When she realized she wasn’t convincing him at all she went back to trying to free herself. But she couldn't free her wrists from under his knees. She began screaming again, begging for help from anyone who could be near. She sobbed and screamed as the pervert then reached into his pocket to pull out a roll of duct tape. Her eyes widened at this and she shook her head rapidly. “No, no, no. Please no. I’ll be quiet I swear! Please, please-”
He took a corner and began ripping a long piece from the roll. He gripped onto her hair to force her head up so he could wrap the long piece around her head despite her cries and please’s. He had the sticky part facing away from her but still wrapped it tightly around her head to seal her mouth shut. Her sobs were silenced and her screams were now hums, her red puffy eyes still drowned in terrified tears. She whined against the duct tape, feeling more hopeless each second and her mind on the brink of giving up and accepting her fate of either being assaulted or killed.
The pervert then grabbed one wrist at a time and pinned it in the same spot as before to tape it against the floor, this time the sticky part facing her skin. Once her mouth was sealed shut and her hands were bound to the ground, the pervert sat on her thighs again, huffing jagged breaths as he admired his work with an all-too-prominent blush coating his cheeks underneath his mask.
(Y/n) still cried and trembled. The pervert placed his hand flat on the floor beside her head as he leaned his face down to hers to view her up close, hunched over her like an animal about to feast on its injured prey. (Y/n) whimpered and flinched when his other hand reached up to push a few locks of her hair out of her face. Her breathing quickened from the fear as his gloved hand caressed the side of her face delicately. He swept his thumb under her soaked lower lashline to wipe the tears.
His hand glided past the duct tape around her lips, slowed down on her neck, then stopped at her exposed collarbone. Her loose t-shirt she slept in allowed him to sweep his hand around her chest for a brief moment before letting his hand travel again. His hand traveled to her side as the speed of his hand slowed down when he let his gloved knuckles glide down the side of her breast.
(Y/n) cried silent tears at his actions as her heart was beating faster than it would on a roller coaster. The masked pervert with glasses let both his hands glide down her hips and stopped when he reached her thighs. His hands hovered above the exposed flesh from her pajama shorts, like he was debating if he should actually touch them. His breathing got more heated and ragged which only made (Y/n) want to curl up into a ball from how unbearably uncomfortable she was. In his next breath he wrapped his gloved hands around her plush thighs and squeezed.
(Y/n) squeezed her eyes shut as she whimpered with tears and whined, not from pleasure but from the excruciating discomfort from the unwanted touching. She never felt this violated before.
The pervert continued to grope her thighs until a sound that sounded like heaven to (Y/n) emitted from the distance. His and (Y/n)’s heads pointed in the direction where footsteps could be heard from the hallway and a familiar voice singing the chorus to a Halloween song. It was (R/n)!
(Y/n) began screaming even though it was heavily muffled by the tape. But she kept forcing her throat to make as much noise as possible. The pervert panicked as he scrambled something out of his pocket. It was a small black polaroid camera which he pointed above (Y/n)’s thighs then snapped the flash. He shoved it back in his pocket even though the physical picture was still developing and preparing to come out. He hopped off from his straddling position and darted around the corner and into the dark hallway where most of their windows were.
The pervert stopped before he rounded it though to turn to (Y/n) still taped to the floor. He blew her a kiss before disappearing into the shadows.
Keys jingled around the doorknob before the door opened and closed. “Honey, I’m home!” (R/n) yelled in a sing-song voice before she started rambling about the party as she made her way through the room next to the living room. “Oh my god, you would never believe who showed up. Fucking Dennis Matthews. He made the biggest scene too when he showed up with no invite. And Vanessa, you know Vanessa, Bridget’s friend, told him off and it was the funniest thin-”
She stopped at the doorway of the living room at the sight of her best friend bawling her bloodshot eyes out with duct tape around her mouth and her wrists duct taped to the ground, her legs trembling. (R/n) refused to let the shock paralyze her as she gasped and ran to the kitchen for a pair of scissors. She grabbed the closest pair and ran back to the living room.
(R/n), still in her Sailor Moon costume, collapsed to her knees and carefully slid the blade under the tape around her mouth and cut it in half to let (Y/n) gasp for breath. (R/n) then cut her hands free and let (Y/n) rip her wrists from the floor, the skin around her wrists already turning pink. She flung her arms around (R/n) as she sobbed against her stomach. (R/n) clutched back onto her and rocked her as she whispered calming things to her.
“It’s okay now, it’s ok. I’m here, I’m here. I won’t let anybody hurt you.” She whispered through (Y/n)’s breathy sobs.
The two roommates sat on the couch with (R/n)’s arm around (Y/n)’s sagging shoulders once she finished explaining what happened. From the comfort of her closest friend, (Y/n)’s eyes dried and her cheeks were no longer wet but stained with streaks from the tears.
(R/n) looked at her with sympathy as she rubbed her shoulder gently. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. And I’m so sorry I didn’t get home sooner. But that creep is gone now, he’ll never lay another finger on you ever again.” (Y/n)’s frown twitched up a little before throwing herself back in her friend's arms, gripping onto her silk top tightly as she closed her eyes like it was rid of the memory of that pervert.
(R/n) rubbed her back as she started listing the things they could do that would make her feel safer. “We’ll start locking our windows and doors now, and I think we should start shutting the blinds. And instead of keeping our tasers and pepper sprays in our bags let’s have them in our pockets from now on. Just at least until the police get a lead on him or even catch him.”
(Y/n) felt so grateful to have a friend like her but separated from the embrace to look at her with sad eyes. “I want to go find (B/n).” (R/n) nodded and helped her to her feet. (Y/n) began walking to the coat rack until she looked down at her pajama shorts and quickly darted to her room to change. Not because it was freezing out, she just still felt so gross looking at the place where that asshole groped her. She pushed the door to her and (R/n)’s shared bedroom open and flipped up the light switch. The dark room was then lit up to reveal the yin yang but a breeze made (Y/n)’s stomach drop. Her eyes first landed on the open window beside her bed she last left open only an inch.
The masked trespasser came through her window. He was in her room.
She felt the panic rise in her as she quickly checked her and (R/n)’s separate closets to make sure he was gone. He wasn’t in the room.
She took a deep breath before snatching the pajama pants from her bed and replacing her shorts with them. That’s when she noticed the creases in her bedsheets from where the man must’ve landed once he got through the window. She grimaced like a sad, disturbed clown and ripped off her sheets in one quick pull. She was about to drop the tainted sheets into her laundry basket until she noticed another thing out of place.
The pile of clothes wasn’t in the right order and were spread apart like someone dug through them. Her frown deepened as she crouched down to see what he took. The basket only had two days worth of clothes so it was just her two outfits, 2 pairs of socks, one bra and… no underwear. He took her underwear.
(Y/n) wanted to throw up but reminded herself of what her top priority was at the moment, (B/n). she chucked the sheets into the basket and slammed the window shut, locking it, and closing the blinds. She did the same for every window she passed until she made it to the coat rack where (R/n) stood waiting for her. (Y/n) wrapped her arms around one of (R/n)’s as they exited through their front door and locked it before making their way to the exit in the lobby to get to their car to go straight to (B/n)’s apartment first.
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peachsayshi · a month ago
Playboy!Geto Suguru x Inexperienced!Female Reader - “I’d take such good care of you.” 
TAGS: not.sfw, soft smut, fluff, corruption kink, virgin!reader 
A/N: The dialogue line was taken from a smut prompt list but I accidentally copied the link to the wrong one and can’t find the original post >.< In my head Geto is more of a player than Gojo is - and I can’t let go of the idea of Playboy!Geto but also can’t stop thinking about him being absolutely whipped for somebody so innocent (it’s turning my brain into complete mush). Here’s just one of the little scenarios sitting in my head as of now. If you’re interested in requests please check out what I’m accepting by reading the little blurb on my navigation post! xo - (minors and ageless blogs do not interact)
Suguru Geto is completely and utterly smitten by you - his gorgeous, gut wrenchingly sweet and oh, so innocent girlfriend. 
He can’t get enough you and is completely enamored by by how easily your body dissolves against his touch. He smiles into the kiss, his affection playing out from the delicate way he sensually glides his tongue over yours, desperately attempting to satiate his growing appetite. His large palms are flat against your lower back, securing you from behind as you remained straddled in your position on top of him. 
Your lips hungrily explore his, aware of the gnawing ache building within your own core. Your fingers tangle themselves into his hair, the straps of your dress falling off your shoulders as your hips naturally start to rock against his own. The fabric of your summer dress bunches up to reveal your thighs, and Suguru’s hands travel beneath the material to squeeze your naked flesh.
The intimate contact triggers goosebumps to raise across your skin and your breath shakes as your knuckles curl to tighten around his locks.
What started as a seemingly playful make out session was growing heated with every passing second; your chest was now pressing up against his, your bodies molding into one the longer this carried on.
Suguru wasn’t surprised when you finally removed your lips from his, your free hand pushing against his shoulder as you took a second to catch your breath.
His eyes fall heavy as he admires you; lips swollen and pupils dilated while trying to play off your flustered expression. His takes in the red material snug around your waist and chest, emphasizing your perfectly firm tits with the straps hanging off your shoulders and baring the smooth skin of your décolletage.
Two noticeable buds poked against the fabric, and Suguru wet his lips as the blood rushed between his legs knowing that you weren’t wearing a bra underneath. He is tempted to lean forward to snag your nipple between his teeth and gently bite down, imagining the moan that would grace your lips from him teasing you.
You had no idea the kind of affect you had on him - no idea how easily he could lose his mind just watching you bask in pure pleasure.
This is the longest he’s ever gone without having sex but is willing to wait for your sake.
“Need a minute?” he breaths, his gaze flickering to meet your eyes.
“Yes…” you pant as your chest heaves.
Suguru nods, taking a minute to find his own calm before arching forward to place a gentle kiss on your collarbone.
“So, you were saying something about this dress being available in different colors?” he murmurs, distracting you both from your heated state as he tries to return to the topic you were initially discussing.
You were flaunting your new dress and your boyfriend, unable to resist the sight of you twirling in your pretty outfit, interrupted the conversation by dragging you onto his lap to get a closer look.
“Mhmm,” you reply, “They have it in blue, and white too…”
“Uh-huh, maybe we can go back together and pick up another one…”
“Yeah?” you question with a smile, “you like how it looks then?”
Suguru pecks your neck, sucking delicately on your skin before replying.
“A little too much.”
You adjust your position by shifting your hips and accidentally end up rubbing over his semi-hard on which makes his eyes flutter as his hot breath warms your skin.
“Fuck,” he exhales, pinching your thighs as the pads of his fingers dig into your flesh. “Easy, sweetheart…”
Your face heats up, your body freezing in place as you practically pulse against him. A shiver ran up your spine noting that he was keeping you in this precarious position, with both of you pressing firmly against one another.
You’ve never been this close, this intimate, with anyone else before.
“S-Sorry…” you stammer nervously, but Suguru can only chuckle under his breath.
“Nothing to be sorry about,” he reassures, pecking your cheek even though he’s overcome with a sinful thought.
If he just allowed his fingers to guide themselves to the tempting space between your legs, would he find you wearing a thong?
Something frilly with a pretty bow?
Or maybe, you preferred lace?
And what if he casually slipped two fingers underneath the fabric in question, to feel how soaked you are. He wanted to your arousal coating the tips of his digits, brushing his touch along your pretty folds before pulling out his hand and tasting your essence on his tongue.
He can’t help but wonder what you look like underneath, having only ever gone as far as kissing and holding you...and the thought of you granting him the opportunity to be the only man who has the pleasure of sharing your body is enough to send him over the edge.
Suguru was a known for his playboy antics; he had a natural charm that swooned the hearts of many, leaving him with countless lovers who shared his bed.
You, on the other hand, didn’t even have a proper kiss when he met you.
He wasn’t taken aback when you finally admitted your inexperience. You could barely handle his flirtatious behavior without falling apart in front of him while he was courting you, but Suguru found your innocence endearing.
The two of you were just so different.
Suguru isn’t one to shy away from his faults. He can be short tempered, and doesn’t consider how harsh his words can sting when angry. He has a tendency of being selfish and condescending, but when it comes to you, things are always handled differently. 
You - who reminds him of a spring bloom, that radiates the light of a full moon, and emanates a warmth that one can only bask in when sitting next to a gentle flame - are the one person that melts him with just a smile.
He fucking adores you.
Suguru moves his hands to meet your waist instead, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear as he whispers tenderly while softly rutting his hips, “do you want to stop?”
You whimper, feeling how hard and big he felt between your legs, naturally mimicking his movements in response to his gesture.
“Sweetheart?” Suguru breaths, checking his boundaries as his hands travel up even higher to rest just below your breasts.
“Hmph…uh…I…” you sigh while clenching your knees around him, your touch caressing his neck as you try to focus on what you wanted.
“I ’dunno…this feels good…”
A subtle tremble shakes Suguru’s broad shoulders, and he wonders how such tiny movements can render him so weak. He can feel your body whine once again, your clothed pussy guiding over the fabric of his black denim pants and he grunts with approval.
“God, it can feel so much better...” Suguru seductively replies, brushing his cheek across your own as he directs his attention right onto you. 
Foreheads pressed, noses bumping as your lips ghost over his, the two of your stare intently each other’s eyes as the thought lingers. 
All it took is for you to give him one indication, a nod of your head or the word “yes”, and Suguru would stand by his statement. He would take his sweet time with you, would study every single detail of your body with consideration just to watch all the bewitching ways in which you would unravel underneath him. 
“I’d take such good care of you...” he reassures, bucking his hips as his hands lightly cup your breasts from underneath, but he is cautious not to push his limits. 
You were slowly withering away, your body disappearing into the darkness of his ravishing aura. Everything about Suguru made you feel like you were being whipped through turbulent storm, but it was in these moments that you had to come to your senses and find shelter. 
After all, you needed to protect your heart.  
Stopping is the smart decision but instead you bring your lips to meet his own and part them for a slow kiss, the wet sounds taking over the silence where the answer to his question needed to be. 
Suguru furrows his brows, knowing that he was hanging on by a thread. Rather than allow the moment to escalate, he reaches for the straps on your shoulders and hooks his index fingers underneath as he casually slides them securely back on. He breaks from the kiss, peppering them on your cheek and down your neck as he relaxes beneath you. 
“Suguru?” you question with a confused expression on your face. 
He smirks as he tucks your hair behind your ear and kisses you chastely on the nose. 
“Let’s not get carried away, hmm?” 
You could feel your cheeks warm, but the disappointment weighed down in the pit of your stomach. 
“Maybe, we should...” you apprehensively add on, your hands reaching back to delicately twirl a strand of his dark hair. 
Suguru’s eyes darken at your words, and he gently caresses your face as his thumb skims over your lips. 
“The things I would do to you...” he whispers with intrigue, “The ways I would take you...” 
He watches your neck bob, swallowing the lump in your throat as you freeze. His thumb tugs at your bottom lip, watching it bounce back lightly as moves to tap your chin. 
He pulls your mouth close enough to his own to share a secret against your lips. 
“I’ve never wanted to fuck anyone this badly,” he admits, “but I need to know that you’re willing. I need to know that you’re ready to show me how gorgeous you are underneath this dress, that you’re okay with my fingers fucking you while I suck on your perfect tits, that I can spend hours with my tongue between your legs before watching you cum around my dick until you can barely say my name...” 
If you touched your cheeks they would scorch your fingers. You were breathing so heavily that you were growing dizzy, while your lover remained composed regardless of sharing those salacious words. You rested your hands on his shoulders, paying attention to the way your heart throbbed wildly in your chest. When you returned to meet his gaze, you were encountered with an amused glint in his eyes and a devious smirk. 
You could feel yourself clamming back into your shell, wanting nothing more than to hide away from Suguru’s fiery stare. 
Despite what your body craved you were afraid to succumb to your impulses. You’ve never had a connection like this with anybody else before and found it intimidating to allow yourself to get too vulnerable. 
“I...” you began to speak, but your words weren’t registering and your thoughts were completely muddled. “I...uhm...” 
Suguru chuckled under his breath, leaning back and allowing the space to break away the tension charging between your bodies. He knuckles graze along your cheeks, his cold touch sizzling across your skin. 
“I don’t think you’re ready for me, sweetheart,” he acknowledges, “not yet, anyway...” 
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