#i have worked two seventeen hour shifts back to back and just got home from a graveyard 17 hr double and i have so many thoughts in my head

[jaeyleo]

i just need to talk about my guys more

#i have worked two seventeen hour shifts back to back and just got home from a graveyard 17 hr double and i have so many thoughts in my head #and i am sorry if the grammar is so so bad #my brain power is zero #but like #i just wanna talk abt my guyssss

[guess-my-next-obsession]

Peña’s Anatomy, Chapter Seventeen:

pairing: surgeon au!javier peña x f!resident!reader (Lucky)

rating: E (18+ ONLY, this one is just fluff and smut yall, food play?, body worship??, oral (m&f rec), fingering, unprotected piv, Javi has a mouth on him)

wc: 5k

series masterlist | Javi P masterlist

Two Months Later

“Jav!” you called from the kitchen, your eyes locked on the veggies you were chopping for tonight’s Thanksgiving dinner you and Javier were hosting. Tonight was a big deal not only because of the holiday, but because this marked Mickey’s first outing since recovering from her surgery and you and Javi’s first ever big holiday together. You had your shifts for the week covered by a coworker and Javi had taken the week off solely because the thought of you at home—in bed—without him sounded like torture.

Rounding the corner from the living room, Javi walked up behind you and wrapped his arms around your middle, his chin resting on your shoulder. “Yea, bebita?”

“Can you baste the turkey?” You set your knife down and turned your head and pecked his cheek. “Pretty please?”

“One condition,” he said, resting his hands on your hips so that he could turn you to face him, pinning you between his body and the counter. He brought his lips close to yours, smiling at the way you leaned forward to seek them out. “Gotta give me a real kiss.”

You grinned and crossed your arms over his shoulders, pulling him even closer as your lips molded together.

“Gotta get my fill before everyone gets here,” he mumbled as he pecked your lips. “Matter of fact—“ He pulled away to look down at his watch, finding that the two of you had at least another hour before anyone dared to show up. “Why don’t we go kill some time in the bedroom?”

“I have a feast to prepare,” you chuckled, lifting your hand to cover his mouth as he leaned in for another persuasive kiss.

“Can I at least have a little appetizer while you work?” he asked, flickering his eyes down to your lower half.

“Javi,” you laughed, playfully pushing him away. “We both know I can’t multitask while you’re doing that.”

“Because I’m so good at it?” he smiled, walking over to the oven to baste the turkey like you asked.

“And so humble,” you snarked.

“So what’s on the menu for tonight besides my beautiful turkey?” he said, his eyes focused on the slowly goldening skin of the turkey he’d insisted on being in charge of preparing.

“Mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, some roasted veggies, sweet potato casserole—“

“Oh,” he moaned at the mention of your world famous sweet potato casserole that you made for him for the first time last month. “Can you make extra of that? I want leftovers of the leftovers of the leftovers, bebita.”

You smiled at his enthusiasm, and nudged your head towards the fridge.

“Look in there and tell me if that’s enough,” you said.

Javi finished basting the turkey and tucked it back into the oven before heading over to the fridge and opening it to find two large rectangular pans of the casserole that you’d prepped the night before.

“God, I’ve never loved you more.”

After two hours of working on the feast, 2 p.m. rolled around and the first of your guests arrived at your door.

“Hey!” You greeted Mickey with a tight hug as though you hadn’t seen her in months when in reality you’d just been over to visit her last week. “How’re you feeling?”

“Really good, actually. The incisions have finally healed, the baby is doing good, I’ve got full range of motion in my neck again, and…” she said, smiling widely as she slowly lifted her left hand to show off the diamond on her ring finger, effectively causing your jaw to drop to the ground.

“Holy shit—“ Javi said, finally meeting you at the door. “That’s, uh…congrats, Mick.”

You turned to him with a suspicious look, unsure of why he looked pale as a ghost but chose to drop it in favor of getting the full engagement story from Mickey.

“Come inside and tell me everything, I’m stunned,” you said, pulling Mickey into the house with your arm looped around hers.

“It was pretty low key. Rich took me out to dinner a few nights ago to celebrate my recovery, or so I thought, and long story short, he proposed and I wanted to wait to tell you in person—“

“Congratu-fucking-lations, Mick,” you gushed, squeezing her arm. “He’s got great taste.”

“I doubt he actually picked it out,” Javi said, inserting himself into the conversation, earning a glare from you.

“Well, he’s the one who paid for it, all that matters to me,” Mickey quipped.

“Is Richard coming tonight?” you asked, leading her into the kitchen.

“No, he’s stuck at the hospital,” she frowned. “It’s his first shift back since my surgery, and honestly I didn’t understand you and Javi wanting to be around each other all the time until now. Now, it feels so weird to be somewhere without him.”

“Aw, she has a heart,” you teased.

Mickey glanced over her shoulder to check for Javi’s presence, finding him out in the backyard smoking a cigarette while McCartney ran around in the leaves.

“Speaking of Javi…is he in a bad mood or something?” she asked. “What was all that about?”

“I don’t know!” you whispered enthusiastically. “He’s been totally normal, maybe even a little extra-lovey dovey. I don’t know why he’s suddenly so…weird.”

“Well, you did say he wanted to propose.”

“You don’t think—“

“I think me and Richard accidentally stole his thunder,” she said, wincing.

“He wouldn’t propose to me in front of people,” you countered. “I’ve made myself clear on that point.”

“Well, I can’t think of anything else. Unless he’s secretly been in love with me this whole time and just got his heart broken,” she joked.

“That’s a good point. Does Richard eat ass? Javi eats ass. You might want to reconsider your decision,” you played along as you stirred the stuffing in a big pot.

“You know, Richard doesn’t go…down,” she blurted, earning a gasp.

“You don’t mean—“

“Yep,” she nodded. “But surprisingly, he gets the job done without it.”

You winced, shaking your head. “Everytime I learn something new about Dick Mann, I regret it.”

The sliding glass patio door opening signaled Javi’s entrance to the house, his scowl on unabashedly as he walked into the kitchen, smelling like smoke, to grab a rare beer for himself.

“Jav?” you called carefully, earning his eyes on yours. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged, though the dryness in his tone did little to persuade you.

“You sure? You look a little—“

“I’m fine, bebita,” he assured, walking over to press a kiss on your cheek. “Sorry I smell like smoke.”

“You wear it well,” you said, reaching to pinch his chin. “When’s your dad getting here?”

“I get to meet Peña Sr.?” Mickey interjected with a playful smile.

“He’s supposed be here any second—“

The doorbell rang as if on cue.

“I’ll get it,” Javi said, giving you one more peck before walking off to the front door.

“Is he like…is he like Javi? Brooding and grumpy?” Mickey asked in a whisper, making you smile.

“Javi’s not like that,” you argued playfully. “But yeah, Chucho and Javi are pretty similar. Chucho’s a little more friendly, I’d say.”

“Mija,” Chucho walked in with a hobble, resting on his cane as he made his way to you to give you a quick hug. “Smells good in here.”

“Thank you,” you smiled before gesturing at Mickey. “This is my friend Mickey.”

“Ah, the walking miracle,” he said, hobbling over to give her a handshake. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling much better, thank you,” she smiled. “Which one of these two broke HIPAA to tell you?”

“Javi,” he replied, selling out his sim instantly.

“You weren’t my client anymore,” Javi defended himself as he walked in. “Makes it a little better.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to sue you, Dr. Peña,” she said. “Although, judging by your house, I think you could survive it.”

“Oh! Speaking of fancy things, guess who finally got a car,” you said, smiling proudly.

“Is it here?” Mickey sprung up from her seat at the island.

“No, it’s still at the dealership because Javi insisted I needed to upgrade the tires and stereo—“

“You did,” he said. “Better to get it done now by the dealership than to have a mechanic upcharge you later.”

“What did you get, Mija?” Chucho asked, accepting a beer from Javi.

“I got a Honda,” you replied. “Nothing too fancy, but fancy by my standards.”

“I tried to convince her to get a Volvo or something like that, but—“

“But I’m not an attending yet and can’t afford car payment,” you reasoned.

“And she refuses to let me help,” he lovingly scolded, making eyes at you from across the room.

“I offered to by his truck—“

“That old thing?” Chucho asked, chuckling at the mere thought. “

“That’s what I said,” Javi agreed.

The doorbell ringing again signaled the arrival of your next set of guests: Connie, Steve, and their daughter Olivia.

“Y’all ain’t got the game on?” Steve asked as he got settled in the living room with Olivia and her toys, Javi and Chucho joining them while you stayed in the kitchen with Connie and Mickey to finish off dinner.

“Oh my god!” Connie squealed at the sight of Mickey’s ring before pulling her into the living room with her. “Steve, look at this rock on Mickey’s finger.”

Now all alone, your guests busy with conversation on the football game blaring on your living room TV, Javi snuck his way into the kitchen to join you for a moment of privacy.

“Hey,” he said, sticking his hands in his front pockets. “I wanted to talk about why I got so…weird about Mickey’s ring—“

“Oh no, are you actually in love with her?” you joked.

“What? God, no. No, I just…” He sighed, shaking his head with an embarrassed smile on his face. “I went ring shopping.”

“Oh?” you tried to veil your inner glee at the news.

“And I landed on one. Then, like an idiot, I showed Steve and Mann a picture of it, and—“

“Oh,” you said, meeting his eyes. “Javi, was that—“

“He stole my fucking ring,” he sighed and then chuckled. “I know it’s stupid, but I put a lot of thought and research into the perfect fucking ring for you, only to see it on Mickey’s finger at the door, and I just—“

“Oh, baby,” you cooed, walking over to him to slide your arms around his waist, your head resting on his chest.

“I had to smoke a cigarette to chill the fuck out about it,” he admitted, wrapping his arms around you.

“Jav, you could give me a ring-pop and I’d think it’s the most beautiful thing in the entire fucking world,” you said, lifting your head to look up at him. “Don’t put so much pressure on yourself.”

“I know, I just want it to be perfect,” he mumbled shyly, bringing an adoring smile to your face. You lifted your hand up to rest on his cheek, your thumb swiping over the coarse hair at the corner of his lips.

“Javi, I already have the most perfect thing in the world right here.” Javi leaned in for a slow kiss, each swipe of his lips and tongue against yours lighting sparks of arousal deep in your stomach, forcing you to pull away from him with a chuckle. “You’re going to distract me.”

“You’re always distracting me,” he said, brushing his thumbs over your hips. “Meet me in the bathroom for a quickie?”

“Can’t,” you smirked. “Dinner’s done.”

With everyone's stomachs stuffed full of turkey and stuffing and everything deliciously bad for the human heart, you sent them all off with a plate of leftovers aside from Chucho who was staying the night.

Your feet were sore from standing on them all day, and since Javi had already put away all the leftovers and stuffed the dishwasher full of every dirty dish in the house, you found yourself laying across the sectional with your feet in Javi’s lap, his hands working away every ache while he and Chucho poked fun at the fact that you were already forcing them into watching Elf.

“The holiday isn’t over yet, mija,” Chucho said, tipping his beer back for a sip.

“Shh, just pretend it’s midnight,” you replied, your voice thick with exhaustion.

“Yeah, pops. Best if we just go along with it, otherwise it’ll just get worse,” he teased, shooting you a playful look.

You were too busy admiring him to come up with any sort of clever response, his tousled hair, unbuttoned jeans, navy blue sweater and strong hands making it hard to pay attention to anything but him.

“You sleepy?” he asked, running his hand along your shin soothingly, as if he had no clue of the dirty thoughts starting to whirl around in your mind.

“Yeah, I should probably go to bed,” you said, hoping that he could pick up on things without you needed to tell him.

“Well, if she’s going to bed, you and I can watch that Western I was telling you about,” Chucho said. Javi’s eyes softly closed shut, as if he was gathering his patience.

“How about we watch it tomorrow, pops? I’m exhausted—“

“Yeah right,” Chucho chuckled, looking at the two of you suspiciously before standing up. “Thank god the guest room’s on the other side of the house.”

“Good night, Chucho!” you called, wincing in embarrassment at the way he saw right through you and Javi.

“Good night, mija. Good night, Javi.”

“Night,” Javi called back before turning to you with a chuckle. “I didn’t even realize you were trying to fool around. I really thought we were gonna go to bed.”

“Your dad picked up on it easily enough.” Javi laughed again and nodded before shifting on the couch to crawl on top of you, your thighs parting to welcome him. You admired him for a minute as he hovered above you, your fingers carding through his hair. “I love you like this.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” you shrugged. “You just look very cozy and at home.”

“I am cozy and at home,” he said. “And stuffed full of your sweet potato casserole.”

“Was it good?”

“Not nearly as good as what I’m craving right now,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your jaw. You giggled, pushing him away so that you could speak.

“Maybe we should take this into the bedroom seeing as we have a guest,” you said, trailing your hands up underneath his sweater to feel the smooth, warm expanse of his stomach. Javi rested his forehead against yours and sighed contently at your touch, his hips pressing into yours.

“Yeah, let’s go while I can still think straight,” Javi rasped, lifting himself off of you and tugging you onto your feet, walking you around the corner and down the hallway to the bedroom with his hand clasped with yours. The minute he opened the door, he had you pressed against it, his mouth on yours while one hand pinned both of yours to the cool wood. “I wanna try something tonight.”

“W-what?” you managed, still breathless from his kiss.

“Nothing too crazy,” he smiled. “Go lay down, I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” you replied with a hesitant chuckle, watching him from over your shoulder as he walked out of the room and down the hall towards the kitchen. Stripping out of your clothes, you rested yourself in the middle of the bed on your side, playfully replicating Burt Reynold’s iconic centerfold.

When Javi returned, he carried a can of the whipped cream you used for the pumpkin pie earlier, a grin on his face as he took you in.

“Waiting for your cover shot?” he asked, setting the whipped cream on the nightstand so that he could strip out of his own clothes. “Actually—“

“What?” you giggled, watching his bare ass as he walked over to his closet to grab his polaroid camera. “No, I’m bloated and—“

“Shut your pretty mouth,” he ordered with a smile, holding the camera up to his eye. “Smile, baby.”

You begrudgingly obliged, resting your hand over your stomach to try and hide the swell of it, but Javi sucked his teeth in response.

“Move that out of the way,” he commanded, waving his hand at you. “It’s ruining the shot.”

“Javi,” you laughed. “My stomach is ruining the shot.”

“Do I have to put something in your mouth to stop ridiculous shit like that from coming out?” he asked. “You’re beautiful. I love you like this.”

Suddenly, it all clicked for you. You loved Javi the most when he was undone and comfortable and satisfied, why wouldn’t he feel the same towards you?

“I love you,” you said, moving your arm to give him the shot he wanted now that your insecurities seemed to vanish. Clicking the camera, he lowered it from his eye and set it down on the nightstand to let the polaroid develop while he climbed onto the bed and rolled you over onto your back.

“I love you,” he replied, sitting back on his ankles between your open thighs, his hands smoothing over the inside of them. “And I can’t wait to fucking suffocate between your thighs. That’s my ideal way to go, I think.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you chuckled, reaching to grab his neck to tug him down to your lips, his hands holding him up as his tongue swiped across yours, his cock slowly sliding over your folds pulling a moan from his chest.

“Fuck,” he hissed as the head of it caught your entrance. “You’re distracting me from my plans.”

“Then hurry up and get on with them,” you purred, lightly scratching the baby hairs at the nape of his neck.

Javi let out a puff of amusement and kissed your lips one more time before making his way down your jaw and neck, giving ample attention to that sensitive spot you love for him to nip at. You felt him reaching over for the whipped cream before he pulled away completely, popping the lid off the can and shaking it in his hand.

“You’re already sweet, but I figure since it’s a holiday and you made me wait so long for dessert, I should treat myself,” he said, smirking as he pressed the nozzle over the stiffened peaks of your nipples, creating two messy dollops of whipped cream over them. “Look at you…”

You batted your eyes at him as you used a finger to scoop up some of the cream, wrapping your lips around it and sucking it clean with an exaggerated pop just to feel his cock twitch between your thighs.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groaned, lowering his tongue to the half-cleaned mountain of whipped cream to get a taste for himself. Your breath hitched as you watched him greedily clean up the mess he created, sucking your peak into his mouth while his eyes locked with yours.

“Fuck, Jav,” you moaned, the softness of his tongue against your sensitive skin giving your brain a rush of dopamine.

Javier’s hand spread wide over your stomach and ribs, warming your skin up as he licked a trail over to your other breast to give it the same slow, teasing treatment. Bringing the can back, he drew a straight line from your sternum down to your belly button and used wet, messy kisses to clean off the cream before licking a broad stripe back up to your neck. You caught him while he was still close enough to kiss and pulled him in, licking over the excess sweetness on his lips and tongue before using all your strength to roll him over onto his back so that you could have your turn at worshiping him.

“What are you doing?” Javi laughed, resting his hands on the top of your thighs as you drew a heart with the whipped cream over his broad chest.

“You got to have dessert, why can’t I?” you purred, lowering your tongue slowly to the cream while he watched you with a slack jaw. You traced the heart with your tongue and kissed away any remainders before scooting lower on the mattress until your lips were pressing teasingly chaste kiss to the underside of his cock that rested against his stomach.

“Baby, fuck,” Javi moaned, using one hand to cradle your face. Drawing a line of whipped cream from the head to his balls, Javi waited with bated breath for you to clean it all up, your lust-drunk eyes locked on his as you started at his balls. He hissed in pleasure as you sucked each of them into your mouth at a time before letting them go with a pop to focus on his shaft. Spreading your tongue flat and wide, you slowly licked his shaft clean of any of the sweet, airy cream before gripping him at his base and taking the head into your mouth. “Oh, fuck.”

“You taste so good,” you purred as you let him go to stroke him in your palm.

“Baby, I want to taste you,” he begged, giving you those round eyes of his that always got him his way.

“Then come get it,” you taunted, prompting him to practically throw you onto your back, the mattress bouncing from the force as you giggled at his display of strength until you felt his tongue flatten over your folds. “Oh, shit, Javi.”

“Not laughing now, are you?” he smirked, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh before going back to your cunt, his tongue working you up slowly and gently until he decided your clit was ready for some attention. Your fingers gripped his cropped hair to hold him against you, giving him little room to breathe, not that he minded in the slightest.

“Right fucking there, baby,” you purred, locking eyes with him from across the expanse of your body. “Don’t stop.”

“Sweeter than the whipped cream,” he mumbled, kissing your clit before sucking it into his mouth until your thighs were shaking.

“Fuck, Javi…you’re perfect,” you moaned, letting your head fall back against the mattress. “Want your fingers.”

“Yeah?” he rasped, his tone teasing. “How many, baby? One?” Your breath hitched as he slipped his pointer finger inside of you, slowly working you open until he was hooking it up towards your favorite spot. “Two?” He added another and earned a wanton mewl that you quickly silenced with your hand over your mouth, your brows scrunched in pleasure at the thick width of his skillful fingers. “Can you take three?”

“Yes, fuck, please,” you managed, spreading your legs even wider out of sheer need to let him take all of you, whatever he wanted.

Javier’s thick fingers curved into you, the room filling with vulgar wet sounds as he targeted that spot inside while swirling his tongue over you until your entire body was shaking with your impending release. He wore a grin the entire time as you whispered chants of praise and used his name like he was your lord and savior.

“Come on, baby,” he purred, sucking your clit into his mouth just right. Your hands clawed at the comforter for purchase as your brain went fuzzy with euphoria, every nerve in your body singing his name. “There you go. Such a good fucking girl—“

“Javi, fuck me,” you begged, still lost in your climax. Your hands reached for his strong arms to pull him on top of you, not that he needed any persuading. Javi was quick to mold his lips to yours as he gripped his weeping length at the base, lining it up with your still pulsing heat before sinking in all the way in one slick thrust.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed, his face falling into the crook of your neck as his hips worked on their own accord, snapping into yours like he needed to in order to survive. “Baby, shit,” he whispered into your ear before nipping at your earlobe. “You’re so fucking wet. Do you hear that?”

Both of you silenced your moans and pants for a moment to hear the sinful squelch of his cock moving in and out of you, the sound alone making you whine and rest your hands on his ass to pull him impossibly closer. Javier managed to compose himself enough to sit up on his knees, rolling you onto your side while he was still inside of you. You gasped at the new position, the way he hugged your leg to his chest as he straddled the other, his cock pressing in so deep you swore you could feel him in your stomach.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he grunted, bringing one hand down to slap your ass just hard enough for it to sting pleasurably. “Look at you. All fucking mine, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Javi, fuck,” you cried, your face ruined with pleasure as he inched you closer and closer to your second release with his voice.

“You like the way I fit inside you? The way I make you cum, baby?” he asked, a proud smile on his face as he watched your face scrunch even more.

“Javi, I’m so close,” you whined, reaching to grip his forearm. “Please don’t stop.”

“Not gonna stop, baby,” he assured, kissing your ankle as it rested on his shoulder. “Not gonna stop until we cum together, alright? You feel so fucking good. Always feel so fucking good.”

“Javi!” you cried, unable to control your volume even with the looming knowledge that Javi’s father was just on the other side of the quiet home.

“That’s it,” he purred, slowing his thrusts as your cunt squeezed him so tight that he had no choice but to join you in your ecstasy. “Fuck.”

You hardly had a minute to catch your breath before McCartney’s paw began scratching at your door, a chuckle slipping from Javi’s lips as he let your leg drop from his hold, his chest heaving from exertion.

“Forgot about our son,” he panted, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as you remained spent and curled up on your side. “Gotta pull out,” he warned, a hiss slipping from both of your lips as he carefully slid out of you, Javi’s eyes glued to the spend that dripped out of you in turn. “Fuck. I’m glad we took the week off.”

You laughed, rolling over onto your back with a satisfied smile, your head turning to follow him as he slipped on a pair of briefs and flannel pajama pants before opening the bedroom door up for McCartney.

“Hi, Macca,” you rasped, welcoming the dog onto the bed with a scratch behind his ears.

“Sorry kid, Mommy and daddy were wrestling,” Javi said, slipping under the covers on his side of the bed. Willing yourself up, you winced at the feeling of Javi’s spend leaking down your thighs as you walked to the bathroom to relieve yourself and clean up a bit before putting on your usual sleep clothes and tucking in beside your two favorite boys.

“That new position,” you started, rolling onto your side to watch as Javi pet McCartney as he laid in between the two of you.

“Good?”

“Really good,” you said, smiling at the way your cunt still pulsed with aftershocks. “And your dirty talk.”

“Yeah? You like my voice, bebita? Like it when I’m cocky?” he teased, shooing McCartney down to the foot of the bed so that he could fill the gap between your bodies, his lips pressing against yours in something slow and sensual.

“I like when you’re cocky in the bedroom,” you corrected with a smirk, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertip. “Did you have a good Thanksgiving?”

“I had the best Thanksgiving,” he said, pecking your forehead. “How about you?”

“I had a really, really good day,” you smiled. “And I’m glad you didn’t propose to me in front of everyone on a holiday.”

“Was that really on the table?” he chuckled.

“Mickey thought that’s why you were so sour about her engagement,” you replied.

“No, I know you too well by now to think that you’d be into something like that,” he said. “I’m not into a huge public proposal either. Too many people watching me be happy, doesn’t sit right.”

You laughed and nodded, understanding him completely.

“I don’t really even want a huge wedding,” he continued. “Just the people who really matter.”

“That’s exactly what I want. Something tiny, here in our backyard or at your dad’s ranch,” you said. “Just me and you and like ten other people.”

“I love you,” he said, leaning in to kiss you again. “And I’m gonna get the ring right, and then I’m going to propose right, and then I’m going to marry you right. If that’s the only thing I do right in this lifetime, that’s fucking plenty.”

“Dr. Peña, I am so glad I fucked you in that on call room half a year ago,” you beamed, curling into his warmth and resting your head on his chest. “That’ll forever be the best irresponsible decision I’ve ever made.”

“We were just kids back then,” he chuckled. “Or at least I was.”

“I think if we were to go back and time and tell them everything that we’ve been through, they’d call us fucking idiots.”

“Younger Javi wouldn’t buy it solely because I still don’t know how I ended up with you,” he said, his voice raspy as he dozed off. “But I’m fucking glad I did.”

“That makes two of us,” you said, kissing his chest where his heart beat. “Love you.”

“Love you, bebita.”

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fluff #pedro pascal smut #javier pena x you #javier pena x reader #javier peña #javier peña fluff #javier pena narcos #javier peña fic #javier pena fanfiction #javi peña #javier peña x reader #javier pena smut #javier pena x y/n #javier pena fluff #javier pena fic #javier peña smut #peña’s anatomy

[dumbass-tumbler-cryptid]

Okay, no pressure, basically for us readers, the more time you spend on it, the better the end result will be <3. Do you have a snippet you could share?

Sure! I was planning on posting two snippets today from drastically different endings just to highlight the complete vibe shifts that occurs night by night just depending on what i feel like working on.

So these are both different ending from the scenario where Spider gets extremally sick forcing Quaritch to take him back.

this is from the ending where the Stockholm syndrome wins out and Spider stays with his dad.

**********************************************************************  He was taking a break by the pond, eating a ham and cheese sandwich out of his backpack when a faint rustling caught his eye. When he turned to look in the bushes, golden brown eyes hungrily stared back at him. Miles could tell that the poor dog was starving. Even obscured in shadow he could see the dog’s ribs under its speckled coat. “Come here puppy dog.” Miles coaxed holding out part of his sandwich. Hesitantly the dog crept forward , gingerly taking the food from him. Then he held out his hand for the dog to sniff. It must have still smelt like lunch because the dog began to lick him. 

    Now in the light he could see that the dog was a girl. She had a collar around her neck with no tags. Miles couldn’t believe that in a small town like this a lost dog wouldn’t immediately be found. From her clear neglect and from the way she would flinch whenever Miles moved his hands too fast, he came to the conclusion that she had been abused and abandoned. 

     He spent the next two hours earning her trust, giving her snacks from his backpack, gentle pets, and speaking to her softly. By the time his Pa called him to come home for dinner, Cupcake the dog dutifully trailed by his side. “I’m home!” He called out, holding the door open for his new dog.

    “Welcome back.” Pa answered from the kitchen, “You're just in time, dinner is almost ready. Go wash up and I’ll - What the fuck is that!” If a dog could glaire Cupcake definitely aimed one at his father.

    Miles was not fazed. “I found a dog.”

   “And who the fuck said you could get a dog because it sure as shit wasn’t me.”

    Miles pointed at Cupcake, “she said I could get a dog.”

    “Get in the car,” Pa said, grabbing his keys, “we’re taking that mangy mutt to a shelter.”

    “Pa, no! She needs a home! We’ve got plenty of space. I promise I’ll take really good care of her. I’ll go give her a bath right now, and I’ll take her for walks every day and make sure she’s well fed, and I’ll clean up after her…”

    “Okay okay, I get it tiger.” Pa sighed heavily as he thought about it. “If I have to do one thing for that mutt then she is gone you hear me.”

     Miles brightened, relieved as he ran to give his Pa a hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I’ll take such good care of her. I promise.”

    Pa ruffled his son’s hair, as he looked over the boy’s shoulders to the dog making herself right at home on their living room couch. “Does this dirty dog have a name?”

    “Yeah! It’s Cupcake.”

     Pa sighed again, obviously not a fan, “why Cupcake?”

    His son just shrugged. “I don’t know. Just felt like it fit her.”

    “Okay well, can you get Cupcake off my damn couch and get her into the tub before she mucks up the whole place.”

    “Yes sir!”

*******************************************************************

And this is from the ending where Spider tries to run but Quaritch catches him.

*******************************************************************

    “I can’t take living like this anymore!” Miles screamed, his voice horse and broken. “What the hells the end game Pa? When do I get to have my freedom back? When do I get to start living my life again!?”

    “Freedom…” his father sneered, “…you're a child. You need discipline. Structure…”

   “I’m seventeen!” Pa gave a sharp tug on his hair to silence him.

    “A child.” Pa growled, “you are mine.You hear me!? I saved you from people that couldn’t give two shits about you. I gave you a home. Everything you could possibly want. I love you so much. And you throw all that right back in my face!”

    “This isn’t love! You took me away from everything I’ve ever known. You isolated me, tied me up. You’re nothing but a monster!” Miles' throat started to close off, tears welling in his eyes, as the weight of admitting the abuse he went through weighed on him. Pa was unmoved.

    “I’m the monster? For feeding you. Clothing you. Putting a roof over your head and caring for you with everything that I have. That makes me a monster?” Pa’s eyes pierced his soul, his voice calm but ice cold. “Tell me son, out of every family that has ever taken you in can you really say that they loved you?”

    Miles immediately wanted to say the Sully’s but he couldn’t make his mouth form the words. He knew the Sully’s were still looking for him. Had hired a private investigator to try and find him. But was that a sign of love, or was that just out of obligation? Because he had only been living with the Sully’s for a few month at the time of his kidnapping. Sure he had bonded with the Sully kids quickly. Regardless, a month wasn’t enough time to truly love someone. He was in and out of their lives like a stray cat.

   “I’ll take that as a no.” Pa dropped his grip, allowing Miles' head to slump forward as the fight drained out of him. “I’ve read your medical records. I know you weren’t getting fed properly. Had to fend off the other unwanted brats locked up in that orphanage of yours. Your clothes were alway worn and full of holes. Probably belonged to five other kids before you. You were tossed from one place to another at the convenience of your so-called “caretakers.” I rescue you from all that, give you a stable, loving home and you spit in my face and call me a monster.” Pa shook his head sadly, “You're more broken than I thought.”

    Miles said nothing, feeling utterly defeated. The facts of the matter were completely true. He did have to fight over table scraps with all the other group home kids too small, weak or slow to get to meals first. He had grown up wearing thread bare hand- me- down. He was passed around from foster family to foster family like it was absolutely nothing, effortlessly uprooting his entire life at the drop of a hat. Miles would never claim that anyone from his past life had loved him, but they still cared for him. That wasn’t nothing.

    Pa sat beside him, placing a hand on the back of Miles neck, sending chills up his spine. Pa gently rocked him back and forth in an attempt at comfort. Miles felt the fear of God paralyze him instead. “You know I was always watching over you. Everyday I was powerless as I watched those bastards mistreat you. Neglect you. Other kids got adopted but not you. Because nobody wanted you. Every foster family you’ve ever had, including those Sully’s, just took you in for the money. Once they got their check they tossed you away again. Hell, the Sully’s made it easy as pie for me to take you back. If they actually cared they would never have let you skate to school all by yourself. And the only reason they hired that so-called private investigator was to protect their image, not because they actually want you back.” That wasn’t true. Miles chanted inside his head willing his father’s words to be lies even as he inwardly recoiled at their validity. Pa tsked at him, “your just so sad son. Those monsters treated you like you were nothing, starved you for attention so badly, that you believe a crumb of kindness is actually care. I give you the whole damn cookie and you don’t even know what to do with it.” Tears sprung to Miles' eyes no matter how hard he tried to push them down. Pa’s hand dropped from his neck, moving to his shoulder to pull him into a side hug, Miles limp head falling onto his fathers shoulder. “I am the only one in this entire world that truly loves you Miles.” The tears began to fall in earnest now, little gaspes and sniff escaping him as he cried. “I am the only person in this world who truly, deeply cares about you. And one way or another, I’ll make you see that.”

#spider socorro #miles quaritch #miles spider socorro #colonel miles quaritch #cabin in the woods #my fanfic

[rohirric-hunter]

OC-tober Day 9: Chance

"No chance," you say, just barely holding yourself back from laughing. "What do I want living in ruins out in the woods?"

"Come on, Hathellang," Derrin says, leaning forward over the table. "We live like kings!"

You laugh a little bit, and take a drink, at first reluctant to give voice to the thought in your mind and then deciding that perhaps you should. "If the Blackwold live like kings," you ask, "What are all these stories I'm hearing of armed robbery these days?"

Derrin laughs again, but stops at a look from you. "You aren't going to let one or two ill-founded rumors --"

"Or seventeen," you cut in, that being the exact number of disturbingly specific tales of Blackwold violence you have heard in the last several days.

"Well even if we are," Derrin snaps with a scowl, "It's hardly different from what you do. Don't pretend like you aren't in and out of the Lowbanks' Estate day in and day out."

"It's a little different," you say. "I don't threaten folks."

"Neither do we, if they just hand over the goods when we asks," he says.

You muster your best disappointed face. "What happened to you, Derrin?" you ask. "When you joined the Blackwolds you told me it was about living off the land and being your own master. When did it turn into this?"

"It's basically the same thing," he insists. "And listen, I'm not supposed to tell you this, it's for members' ears only, but we've got new friends from the north --"

"Then don't tell me," you interrupt. "If I've said it once I've said it a thousand times; I'm not joining up."

Derrin scowls again. The look seems altogether too comfortable on his face, and it didn't used to. "Right," he says. "You and your Hackberry House."

"Mm," you agree, taking another sip from your mug. "Me and my Hackberry House."

"They're taking advantage of you, Hathellang," he says.

"And your -- what was it? 'New friends from the north?' They're not taking advantage of you?"

Perhaps that was too candid. Derrin scowls, slams down his mug, and storms out of the Pony. Barliman Butterbur sputters in alarm as Derrin cuts in front of him, nearly causing him to trip, and then sputters in alarm again as it dawns on him that Derrin has not paid for his drink. But by the time he can manage an offended, "I beg your pardon!" the door has already slammed shut behind him.

"Not to worry," you say, rising. "I'll pay for it." Derrin had probably meant to cajole you into paying for his drink anyhow. It's customary, among those of you who used to run the streets together, for whoever is best off to cover drinks, and you have been the best off rather consistently for several years now. No matter what Derrin says, the Blackwold do not live like kings, that's one thing certain.

You hand Butterbur the money and then wander out of the Pony yourself. It's a crisp early September day and you have work that needs doing; a few members of the Bree-town guard have uniforms that need mending, and you will pick them up at the shift change in half an hour or so. You hope to inspect them in town and buy any supplies you need to make the fixes before heading home. The sun is starting to wester and a fresh but not unpleasant breeze blows over the town. Despite the unfortunate turn the talk with Derrin had taken, it looks to be a good day.

He had joined the Blackwold seven years ago, a few months before you had moved into the Hackberry House. And it had seemed a good deal then. Certainly he had been eating better and less desperate, and less closely watched by the town guard, if only by virtue of sleeping outside town.

You had almost followed him, to be honest. You still have the recruitment flyer, in fact, that you had been given just a few days prior. It's crumpled and torn and barely legible now, stuffed in the bottom of the chest at the foot of your bed, and you haven't had cause to look at it in years. The last time, in fact, you had used it to mop up some sort of greasy substance that reeked of sulfur that Léonys had spilled in the hall at the head of the stairs. You had tossed it back into the chest when you were done to get it out of the way, meaning to throw it out, but it had slipped your mind, and now everything in it smells faintly of oil and fire.

You let yourself wonder, briefly, what it would have been like if you had traded places with Derrin -- if you had joined the Blackwolds and if he lived at Lady Hackberry's house. It was a matter of chance, really. You were in the right place at the right time, though really you doubt Derrin would have stayed. He was even flightier than you had been then. Still is, really. You hope there's something that can settle him down, and you hope he can find it, or rather that it finds him, like it did for you.

(I wanted to end this with some kind of 'You never see Derrin again,' comment, with the implication being that he dies sometime during the Man intro, which will be about a week after this is set. But no matter how I tried it just wouldn't flow naturally, so you get an author's note instead.)

(Anyway I have a lot of headcanons about the Blackwolds based mainly on throwaway lines from the game. They seem to largely be young people and generally regarded as nonviolent, despite Otto from the intro being arrested for armed robbery. Some people don't even refer to them as brigands -- so the changes must have come recently and they must have come fast. It makes it very sad that Angmar corrupted and destroyed what seems to have been essentially a completely harmless bunch of mostly kids. I also haven't really explored the fact that given Hathellang's backstory, he probably has quite a few friends who joined various brigand groups, including the Blackwolds.)

(Yes I use "Blackwolds" and "the Blackwold" interchangeably. So does the game.)

#lotro #lotro fic #oc-tober #the wind will set me racing

[beenbaanbuun]

Sleep On the Floor Pt2 - Jeon Wonwoo

Part 1

Words: 2.3k

Genre: fluff/angst

Warnings: none

Wonwoo took his job of budgeting very seriously. He made sure that life on the road would be comfortable for as long as possible, but there was only so far that your compiled money would take you and so you ended up in Seoul. The two of you had enough money to pay for a month’s rent and enough experience with jobs to get a 9-5 each. 

That’s how you ended up working in a flower shop across the road from the office block your boyfriend took a job at. It was cute; you met up for lunch dates, he walked you home from work, and every so often he’d come in to buy some flowers from you. Your boss said it was just the ‘honeymoon phase’ but you knew better. You knew just how much love you had for him, and just how much he had for you.

As time passed, though, the harder things got. Neither of you were earning enough money to sustain you as you moved around the country from place to place and so Wonwoo began to pick up more hours at work. He promised it wouldn’t be for long, but three months had passed and he was spending less and less time at your apartment and more and more time with that godforsaken office. 

“Pining over your man again?” Mingyu called over to his newest employee. He smiled at you as you flashed your middle finger at him, annoyed because he was right; you were pining over your man again. “You said it yourself, Y/N. He promised he’d be home early tonight. You said he never breaks promises.” 

“He doesn’t.” You sounded so sure of the fact, but there was something telling you that something would go wrong. After all, you were meant to leave Seoul 3 months ago and yet you were still there, and Wonwoo was still working late shifts. If he doesn’t break promises, then how come you were still sitting in that tiny shop, staring at the door to his building out of the window?

“So stop worrying about it. You’ll see him in,” His eyes flicked to his watch, checking the time. “An hour and seventeen minutes.” 

“Fine.”

The next hour and seventeen minutes comprised entirely of you staring longingly out of the window, working whenever you took breaks from the thankless task. Mingyu should’ve been mad, but he really wasn’t. In truth, he felt a little sorry for you. He’s been watching you over the last few months. Watching you as the light slowly left your eyes more and more each day, waiting in the hopes that your boyfriend would come and see you during lunch, or come and pick you up after work. It never happened.

What you didn’t know was that Wonwoo was very much the same as you. He sat at his desk, watching you work through the window of the flower shop with a small smile on his face. It pained him to watch as your eyes flickered over the building he was in, sighing heavily before getting back to work. He’d do anything for it to just be the two of you in his shitty old car again, even if that meant he had to go weeks or months without seeing you for more than a few fleeting moments each day.

“Why do you torture yourself like this?” Jihoon watched his friend’s face fall as he watched Y/N walk out of the flower shop after finishing her shift. Instead of her usual routine of going home, she took a seat on the bench outside, the golden light of the sunset making her glow. Looking at her sitting there only made Wonwoo’s heart hurt more. He should be with her.

“You know, I wasn’t meant to work overtime today,” The tall man seemed vacant as he spoke, “But I got put on the rota anyway. I asked for this evening off weeks ago but…” He sighed, rubbing his hands over his face in distress. 

“She’ll understand that it's not your fault.” 

“She shouldn’t have to understand,” Wonwoo shot back immediately. “I should be at home with her right now, just like I promised I would be.” 

Jihoon sighed, knowing that there’d be no way to get through to him, not now anyway. Wonwoo was way too upset to even consider listening to any opinion other than his own. Stubborn bastard, Jihoon thought to himself.

Two hours passed before you gave up and left, shooting one last longing glare towards the office building before making your way back home with a burning behind your eyes. Your eyes were trained on the floor, just so that no one could see the tears rolling down your face. They were big, the tears, racing down your cheeks leaving a salty trail behind them. There was no dam you could put up to stop them, the sadness you felt breaking it down instantly and letting the water flow through.

You didn't blame Wonwoo, though. You blamed yourself. How stupid were you to believe that he’d actually be able to get away from work to see you? How selfish were you to think that you were more important than the future the two of you wanted for yourselves? If he had to miss a date to earn more money, so be it. In the long run, it would all make sense and the two of you would be happy together.

Your heart broke once more when you saw the car that you’d spent the best two months of your life in, sitting motionless in the parking lot. You wanted nothing more than to spend each day by Wonwoo’s side, something you’d never heard before playing over the stereo as you drove into the sunset, your hand entangled in his. Then, when the sun finally sinks below the horizon, the two of you will park up, crawl into the back and lay with each other. You’d talk about nothing and yet it felt like everything. You’d do anything to have that part of your life back.

You couldn’t stop yourself from walking towards the car, grabbing the spare keys from your bag, and unlocking the vehicle. The inside of it smelt like home, despite not being for the past few months. There was still the mattress in the back; you and Wonwoo felt weird taking it out. It felt wrong, almost like you were stripping part of your life away. You were happy it was still there, smiling through your sorrow as you crawled into the boot, closing it behind you. You were home again.

Wonwoo didn't even say goodbye to Jihoon when he left, choosing instead to slip wordlessly out into the evening air and sprint home, desperate to be with you. The breeze was cold, pricking his skin as he ran and he couldn't help but feel sad about how you’d waited for him in this weather. He didn’t know whether he hated himself or his boss more. It only took him a few moments to realise it was a stupid question; of course, it was himself.

If he hadn’t left his phone at home that morning he could’ve let you know. Then you wouldn’t have been sitting outside for hours, waiting for him to miraculously appear in front of you. He truly felt like an idiot.

By the time he got home, his mind was racing. He felt like a bad boyfriend, not that he ever really felt like a good one, and he couldn't stop the feeling of guilt that ate him up from the inside. Maybe Jihoon was right and you’d understand, but thinking about that made him feel worse. You shouldn’t need to understand. You should be mad at him. He deserved it.

He raced straight up to the apartment, rushing around to try and find you. He looked into each and every room, desperate to find you and apologise. It was dark, though. Not a soul to be seen. That was when he finally broke down, falling to his knees and letting out a scream, not caring if any of his neighbours heard. He needed to let his emotions out in some way, didn’t he?

He remained there for a few minutes, huddled into himself as he wallowed in self-pity, trying to force his brain to think about where you could be. Maybe you’d gone to a friend’s? That would mean you were with Mingyu, your only friend in Seoul, and Wonwoo wasn’t sure where he lived. Maybe you’d gone back to the flower shop, but if you had he was sure he would’ve seen you.

Fuck it.

He stood up, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand and leaving the flat. He was going to find you, even if that meant driving around for hours. He’d find you, tell you how sorry he is, hug you, kiss you, promise you anything you wanted, and then promise to not break those promises. He’d do anything to have you in his arms.

When he got to the car, he noticed something was off. The boot had closed, trapping a corner of quilt outside of the car. He hadn’t noticed it when he first came home, but he was certain it wasn’t like that the previous day. That could only mean one thing; he’d found you.

“Hey,” A soft voice brought you out of your slumber, along with a gentle hand on your hip. “Are you okay?” You nodded, too tired to say anything to your boyfriend. “Good.”

“Are you?” It was barely above a whisper, but you knew he heard it when a chuckle left him.

“I’m fine. Mad at my boss,” he took a moment to think, “and myself…”

“Did he keep you late?” He hummed in response, toppling down next to you on the mattress.

“Yeah. I put in time off ages ago and he just ignored it,” He placed a kiss on your cheek, huddling himself into your side. “I should’ve known.” 

“Why didn’t you let me know?” That was the thing that you were still up about. Wonwoo couldn’t do anything about his boss, but he still could’ve told you.

“I forgot my phone this morning. I guess I was just excited to see you tonight,” The two of you laughed before it all turned quiet again. “I’m sorry, angel.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” Wonwoo sighed, kicking his shoes off before closing the boot with the two of you lying on the mattress in the back. Your eyes never left his frame as he started taking his clothes off. First his blazer, then his shirt and his belt. Finally, he took his trousers off and sat there in only his boxers.

“What are you looking at?” He teased you gently, forcing you to tear your gaze away from him with a blush on your face. “Are you still in your work clothes?” He chuckled as he pulled the quilt back, spotting you in your shirt, skirt and apron that you wore to the shop. 

“Yes, I am.” He grinned, pulling the material entirely off of you.

“Come on,” He motioned for you to sit up, a grin on his face. The very same grin he always had when you were about to take your clothes off. “I won’t look, I promise.” 

That was a lie.

You rolled your eyes at him, mirroring his position on the make-shift bed. His eyes never shut once, waiting for you to start unbuttoning your shirt. He wiggled his eyes under his glasses, joking with you. God, he was an idiot, but you loved him.

“You’re looking,” You giggled out, sliding your apron off and throwing it at him. “Shut ‘em.” He held his arms up in surrender, finally glancing away from you, a loud laugh coming from him.

Once you were sure he couldn’t see you, you began to strip, quickly removing your clothes until you were left in your underwear across from him. As much as this moment should have been hot, it couldn’t have been more innocent; the two of you, blushing like teenagers as you sat there in the back of his car. Before he could look at you, you slid beneath the quilt once more.

“Are you kidding me?” Wonwoo groaned once he looked back around, “I couldn't even look at you once? You know I like looking at your body…” 

“Grow up and get under the quilt,” He followed your orders, slipping under the fabric and shuffling towards you. Soon enough, you were wrapped in his arms, almost naked body pressed up against him, skin on skin. It was cute. Romantic even. “That's better.”

“You know, I’ve missed it in here, right?” The way Wonwoo spoke reminded you of the day he asked you to be his girlfriend. He was gentle, mumbling his words as if he were scared to make noise. It was peaceful, despite the fact that the two of you were lying in a parking lot, the smell of fresh asphalt surrounding the two of you. 

“Missed what?” 

“Living in here with you.” He kissed the side of your head.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” You leaned into him, pressing your face against his bare shoulder and inhaling his scent. “I’ve missed it too. I like not knowing where we are or where we’re going.” 

He hummed in agreement, the sound rumbling through his chest that was pressed against your cheek. Everything about the situation felt abnormally normal. It felt like home.

“Give me one month,” He mumbled, clearly dropping off to sleep as he was talking. “One more month and we’ll be free again.” 

He’d said it before, but this time you could tell he really meant it. Whether you had the money or not, you’d be leaving in a month. 

Finally, you’d be free again.

#jeon wonwoo #wonwoo #seventeen fluff #seventeen fanfic #seventeen scenarios #seventeen oneshot

[heliosthegriffin]

Jaune Arc, and a great deal of violence, Page 3

Pages: 1 / 2

It’s July somewhere

Jaune’s eye opened as soon as he was pulled into the saferoom, looking at blonde wolf hovering above him and sniffing him.

Groggily he gently shoving its nose out of his personal space, and stood up with a stretch, realizing he felt like shit, and his lower back and butt hurt, alot, like someone had ripped his spinal cord a foot or so out.

In fact, maybe he got wound and didn’t notice, he should check to see if he has a scar to check.

Nope, just a tail, a blonde bushy tail the color his hair.

Wait, tail? Pain?

“WHAT THE FUCK!”

Gary looked back at Jaune, pulling the cart with Charles. “Oh, he woke, that was quick.”

“Hmm, Smither be praised.”

“Why do I,” Jaune grabbed his new tail, pulling it in front of him, to show it to Gary and Charles. “Have a tail?!”

Gary looked away guiltly. “I-I thought you always had a tail?!” Obviously lying.

“Oh, that Charles, Charles did that.” Charles said pointing to himself. “Charles accidentally do that by smithing the spiritual and physical energies between you and Tomato too forcefully, resulting in a symbio-animuic connection, that interchanged too many fundamental parts of you two, when trying to split curse, as the curse fought on it’s way out, ripping parts of your spirit and life-force that was dragged into Tomato, which bloated Tomato’s Spirit and Life-force that Charles split off to refill missing parts of you.” The priest then shrugged. “Best can do, apologize to Hammer-Face Jaune if dissatisfied with results, but was working with limited time and resources.”

Jaune sighed. “No, it’s fine, it’s fine. I just didn’t expect this when I woke up, today? Is there even a today here? Never-mind, so basically, the curse tore us so bad, that we had to donate parts to each other to survive?”

Charles nodded. “Simple, but truth.”

Jaune groaned. “And, I”m still cursed, aren’t we?”

“Sadly, yes.”

Gary poked the tail. “I don’t know, maybe this is a blessing in disguise, I heard many animals use they’re tail to balance themselves. Perhaps you can make use of it.”

“Or get it cut off! And did you just call me animal?”

Gary slyly smiled. “I mean, you are partly now?”

“Dude, that is so not cool where I come from.” Jaune groaned. “If we ever get back to my home, don’t say that. Ah crap, how will I explain this to my family? Is this racist? Specisist? I don’t even know.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “Stop being child, could be worse, could be monster. If people make deal, Hammer-Test them.” Charles punctuating his words hitting his palm with his hammer.

Jaune breath out. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry, I’m just freaking out! And not sure how to deal with a radical shift to my biology! Also, who is Tomato?”

“Tomato is Tomato,” The smith-priest said simply.

Gary was still staring at Jaune’s tail. “Hmm, what? Sorry, anyway, I’m sure that my sister’s will love your tail, and your sisters will probably adore it too.”

The direwolf then headbutted Jaune’s back, nearly knocking him off the cart.

“Agh! What?” He looked behind to see the dire-wolf. “Oh, hey. What’s up?” Jaune couldn’t help but notice how much sharper, but familiar here eyes looked, a much stronger awareness then before.

Why did those eyes look familiar on a animal he met hours ago?

It was because, those were the same eyes he saw in the mirror for seventeen years, the dire-wolf had the same eyes as him, like he had the same tail as it!

“Charles, what did the Dire-wolf get out of this?”

“Hmm, don’t know, dye-job for sure though. Wasn’t blonde before.”

That’s right, it was a dusty brown before, but now it was the same shade as his own hair! Grimm, it even had the same curls!

“Wait, exchanging parts, Tomato... Is that it’s name?”

Tomato barked sharply, as if saying yes.

“Oh, wait. Why Tomato?”

Charles chuckled. “Charles think it funny.”

Jaune frowned. “I don’t get it, whatever.” He got off the cart, stumbling as his balance felt off. He felt much denser and heavier. “Did I get bigger?”

Gary nodded. “Yeah, you got a healthy growth spurt, probably due to the magic thing.”

Jaune calmly breathed out. “Ok, ok, looking at the pro’s, the pro’s... Hopefully, my family won’t disown me for being trans-species or whatever now!”

Gary turned to Charles. “I think he’s going to need a minute or two to vent, I’m going to go explore.”

“Charles would go, but Charles stay here to keep company.”

“Sounds good.”

The new saferoom could only be called a room in very loose terms, like the shack by the sea, it was big.

A meadowy hill that stretched on for what seemed to be miles with no walls in sight. The sky was nearing evening, but still bright enough.

Making his way to the top, Gary found a pleasent sight of the sky, along with a wooden table, a grill, a unopened box, and another box that let off a cool feeling. Opening it he found packs of raw meat, sealed vegetables, drinks and condiments.

“Hmm, dinner.”

He looked at the grill, full of coal, some oil, and matches.

Putting the unopened box on the table, and opening it, it was some weird little conical red ships attached to sticks with course, dry threads coming out of them.

“Odd.”

Feeling like he had seen all he could at the moment, he came back to the cart, where he stumbled upon the a odd sight. Of Jaune leaning up against Tomato the Dire Wolf, talking to Charles, who was nodding and asking question.

“Charles asks you, when did your lack of self-worth begin?”

Jaune sighed. “I guess when I entered middle-school, it was the first year none of my sisters where there, and all the other kids had something to separate them, it was a small town, so everybody knew everybody, and the class was small. I was always the boy with seven sisters, and once they weren’t around, people either lost interest in me, because no sisters around, and the bullying picked up, because no sisters around.”

Charles nodded. “How did they bully you, did you fight back?” Jaune looked away shamefully. “No, I didn’t fight back, I was a, funnily enough before puberty, short and thin kid, who weighed half as much as the biggest kids. They quite literally tossed me around, pulled my hair, or beat me up.” He sighs going down miserable memory lane.

“They teased me alot for a being a hunters son, but couldn’t defend myself. It made me feel worthless, like I could never live up to my legacy. That I would always have to really on someone else to protect me. I think that’s when I started slacking on training.”

“Charles asks, why is that?”

“We’ll to be honest, I wasn’t really given training in the first place, my dad always told my sisters to protect me, and to they credit they did. So, I just swung a piece of wood in the backyard at tree, thinking ‘One day I’ll be a warrior just like my dad!’ When, I started getting bullied, I felt so powerless and useless, I give up on it, I didn’t think it was helping.”

“Charles asks, did it ever stop, get better?”

Jaune chuckles. “No, not really. It just changed forms, one day my sister found out, and beat the piss out of them. They dad’s got mad, and my dad beat the piss out of them. I’m not sure why they thought that was a good idea, the dads that is. So, once they realized couldn’t hit me, it helped at the time I was hitting my growth spurt, so I was too heavy to shove around now, they changed to just being cruel. I think that’s when my self-worth finally tanked. Because, I felt at the time, that they’re insults were true, and I didn’t have any excuses for it.”

Charles nods. “Could you names them?”

“Uh, why?”

Charles puts away canvas and ink. “No, reason.”

“You’re holding your hammer kinda hard?”

“Charles implores to go on, what led you to being class punchbag to warrior before me?”

Jaune chuckles weakly. “I’m not a warrior, I’m just a kid trying to survive, the rest of you guys are the real ones. But, I graduated school, and realized I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life, I spent so much time being miserable and weak, that I just broke, I think? I decide to bet it on all or nothing, to make something of myself, to prove I could be a warrior. So, I used my saved up money and hired a forger to make my some fake docs, and cheat my way into the most pristine combat school in the Kingdom, the same one my dad graduated.”

Charles nods. “Would you like Charles opinion?”

“I mean, I’m not going to stop you, if you think it’s something I need to hear, go ahead.”

Charles nods. “Charles thinks you are being too hard on yourself, that you are product of your environment, seeing as how adapted so quickly here, that you are a very malleable person, like unprocessed ore.

That like Ore you can change shape easily, but the fundamental properties are still there. Charles think you are a good person, but one weathered down by negative experience. Charles says this, that you will only recover by moving forward and that you should try to focus on your good traits and think positively, otherwise you will be consumed by evil thoughts.

And, at this time, you cannot afford such risk, as you are responsible for not just your life, but those around you. Those that believe you and value you deeply as individual. Charles finishes with this, do not allow the dark, bad thoughts to win. Be good, think good. That’s you may be in a dark pit right now, but if you stop digging down, and starting looking up you can see light to move toward. It’s up to you get out, but you won’t be alone as you climb”

Charles says with a smile.

Jaune’s eyes teared up, trying to wipe them away with his sleeve. He tries to speak but his voice chokes up. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be crying.”

Gary put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s fine, you wouldn’t judge us for breaking down, and you wouldn’t judge us. Every-man has his breaking point, and you’re the youngest here.”

“Thinks guys, I really needed to talk to someone, I think this will help.”

Charles rumbles happily. “Long as Charles lives, Charles will listen, though Charles may not always give good advice.”

Gary snorted. “So, you say, but I think your tending to your flock well.”

Charles looked confused. “Flock? Charles is just being a good friend.”

“It’s a saying, regarding Priest being responsible for they’re peoples spiritual and mental health as they are physical.” Gary told him.

“Oh, in Smither’s House we just say, ‘Keeping the workshop clean.”

“Really why is that?”

“You can only run a shop as well as the people in it, if the shop is dirty, the people don’t care. If they keep it clean, they do.”

Jaune felt wiry fur press against his side, and head knock against his side. Tomato’s blue eye looking at him concerned.

“Oh, thank’s Tomato, I appreciate you too.”

Tomato nodded and yawned.

“So, who’s hungry?” Gary asked.

---------

After a dinner of Smoky, sweet, saucy, and savory barbecue, Jaune explained the fireworks to Charles and Gary, who were very excited to see them in action.

Unfortunately, every single one was a dud.

“Charles hate.” He said burning the box, “No scrap metal to use either.”

“I’m sure we’ll find some,” Jaune said.

Gary dug to the bottom of the cooler, finding four odd bottles,

Four red bottles with a beating heart. “Health potions, how lucky!” He handed them out to the party, but gave Tomato’s to Jaune.

“Charles what are you doing?” Gary asked seeing the bulk man reading a small book on chemistry.

“Trying to find out why firework are shit.”

A boot simply labeled ‘Loot’ appeared on the table, opening it, Jaune found some dire-world sized armor, which he quickly slipped around Tomato. “There that should keep you safe.”

Jaune said taking a stumble, looking over at Gary as he was making spare clothes out the canvas, which he found under the table with 2 extra boxes of fireworks.

“Hey, I have a question,”

“Ask away.”

“Could, could you make me a tail hole for my pants?”

Gary chuckled. “I almost forgot about that, must be uncomfortable.”

Jaune nodded. “It really is, imagine having part of your body being pushed up permanently, or it digging against the fabric of your clothes.

“I see, turn around, I’ll do it quick.” In a skilled display, Gary cut out a slit in the back, and add a button. “There best I can do.”

Sticking his tail through, Jaune groaned with relief. “Immediate difference, thanks buddy!”

“Anytime.”

It was then the book went flying into the cart. “The box is bad, Charles don’t get periodic table!” Scaring out Tomato as she was trying to steal the left over barbecue.

Gary then thought for a second. “So, I have my own question.”

“I’m listening.”

“So, I’m noticing a trend, but is there a tradition now, that if someone needs to enter the Party, that they need to hurt me?”

“What?”

“Wells, it’s just you impaled me, Charles also did, and Tomato there nearly hamstrung me.”

“No! No! It’s just, well things get wild during a fight, you were a casualty.”

“Ok, it’s just, I’m ok with it, but I feel we all need to get hurt, or it’s unfair to me. Like some sort of gang initiation.”

“We’re not a gang!”

“Ok... Boss.” Gary said with a wink.

“Look, if the next person we recruit hurts, you, find we’ll some sort of initiation beat down or something. Will that make you fell better?”

“Actually yes.”

“Find, anyway, I think we’ve rested long enough, ready to go everybody?

“Yep,”

Going over to the cart, they witness a odd sight, of Charles hooking Tomato to the cart, holding smoke fish above her by a string to make her move.

“Well, that’s a thing now.”

“Looks like improper usage of a direwolf to me.”

Jaune looked to Gary. “What would proper usage be?”

“Now, isn’t that the question that keeps us up at night?”

And, so the party went onward to they’re next battle, hopefully not they’re last.

#Jaune Arc #Charles Minister #Gary the Cobbler #Tomato the Direwolf

[moonsolie]

seventeen vocal unit as romantic tropes

warnings : none | reader is !gn but afab for seokmin.

i tried to give prompts/emotions to these that counter the usual belief of the members, but come on! give jeonghan and jihoon the mushy plots and let us see some seokmin angst!! enjoy !

yoon jeonghan slow burn

i can see the two of you being great friends, maybe you got introduced by another member or you worked in the same building. the moment jeonghan laid eyes on you he felt love struck, he’s not the type to believe in love at first sight but god was he willing to believe it for you. he worked his way slowly to become one of your closest friends, falling even harder for you in the process. unbeknownst to him you fell just as hard. both of you praying for a sign the other was interested back, the feeling was unrelenting until one night he just couldn’t take it anymore. you were sitting in your living room after sharing dinner together, laughing over one of his outlandish fake stories. stifling your laughter you slowly peaked a glance at him, the way he looked at you made you feel like a fool for believing someone this amazing would feel the same way. “i might be ruining everything by doing this but i need to.” his tone worried you, especially because you didn’t understand the shift of emotion. you tried to open your mouth to question what was happening but he cut you off, “I am so madly in love with you, please be mine.”

hong joshua mistaken identity

you walked quickly through the sidewalk of people in the freezing weather, your nose brushed pink and snow on your sweater. rushing into the book store you felt soo relieved to feel the warmth in the room and smell the coffee from the combined cafe. “hey, there you are!” you heard before you were turned around being engulfed in a giant hug. “i’m.. here?” you asked awkwardly looking up at the stranger, his face immediately showed his embarrassment. “i am SO SO sorry oh my gosh, i thought you we’re someone else..” he awkwardly backed off of you and scratched the back of his head “um im joshua.” extending his other hand for you to shake, “i’m y/n.” you smiled back at him, leading your small talk into conversation. luckily for joshua, when the person he had been waiting so impatiently for stood him up you took their place without question. . best. mistake. ever.

lee jihoon stuck together

“yeah jihoon because it was my grand plan to get stuck in the office after hours with you.” you said scoffing at his implication of this being your fault. the door was jammed trapping the two of you in the studio you were working in together. with jihoons need to be a perfect in everything he does the tension was definitely running high as everyone else left for the night. “you know i didn’t mean it like that, i’m just saying if you would’ve listened to me earlier we would’ve been done before we could get trapped in here.” jihoon said as he crossed his arms focusing on the ground by his shoes with a scornful look. “and you know you’d be a lot cuter if you weren’t such a control freak, everything worked out didn’t it? calm down.” rolling your eyes before your phone buzzed with a text letting you two know maintenance was on the way to save you, “finally” you mumbled under your breath. “they’re on their way.” you looked up to see jihoons gaze directed on you with a small smile… “you think i’m cute?”

lee seokmin accident pregnancy

listen - hear me out. i don’t take seokmin as the type to have a friends with benefits relationship. but for you he made the exception. seok definitelyyy had a major crush on you but when trying to ask you to be his girlfriend after kissing you in the heat of the moment.. he kind of just panicked and asked for fwb instead? he feels terrible but he didn’t know how to get out of it. one day he gets a call on his way home, answering the phone to hear you freaked out on the other end asking him to come to yours immediately. he rushed to you right away and was equally worried not knowing what the issue was as you were quite inconsolable. he ran into your apartment, finding you crying on the bathroom floor next to… pregnancy tests? “y/n…. what is this?” his eyes were wide with emotions you couldn’t even bare to grasp. “i’m sorry for scaring you but i got a positive test result.. so i took like ten more. some are negative i don’t know whats happening right now but im scared.” seokmin joined you on the tile and embraced you in his arms before carefully planning his next move. he moved his head to face you, tears running down his cheeks as he spoke, “whatever happens, I’m here. if it’s negative, if it’s positive, we’re going to figure it out… i love you.”

boo seungkwan enemies to lovers

i know this is LAUGHABLE for seungkwan but he’s soo easy to mess with, just look at the way soonyoung teases him and the way he feeds into it. it would be the same dynamic between you guys, so not necessarily enemies per say but you weren’t besties either. which this sucked for seungkwan because the one person he liked most in the world you endlessly teased him. “y/nnnnn… soonnn.. pleasseee.” seung whined out at you and soonyoung mocking him his mannerisms (in a loving way) as everyone laughed along to your antics. “poor kwanniee the girl he likes is always teasing him ha ha!” soonyoung blurted out before his eyes went wide and slapped his hand over his mouth yelping, “im so sorry!” it felt like the entire house went quiet as everyone stared worried of your reaction, waiting for the worst but hoping for the best. frozen in place you stared at seungkwan in disbelief before speaking a soft, “i like you too.”

☆ credit and special thanks to those who made the gifs i included in my post!

#seventeen #jeonghan x reader #yoon jeonghan #woozi x reader #lee jihoon #lee seokmin #dokyeom #dk x reader #seungkwan #seventeen imagines #kpop imagines #kpop #seungkwan imagine #seventeen reactions #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst

[anyoneseenadam]

Healing

pairing: Azriel x reader (acotar)

warnings: TW - sexual assault, rape, objectification and implications of abuse, smut, consensual sex, azriel is a sweetie and rhys is a good bestie

a/n: first of all PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS!!! i’m really proud of this fic but I don’t want to trigger or upset anyone, that being said it isn’t too graphic but still. Anyway I hope u enjoy, this took me three days lmao <333

based on: this and this

—————————————————————————-

You had your first less than savoury encounter with men when you had barely turned nine. Your body still hadn’t finished forming, but you were growing, and your body was gaining some semblance of shape as you did. It wasn’t much – just a whistle from across the street – but for a second your heart seized up with fear, and in the next you almost felt giddy. A man thought you were beautiful.

You felt like a princess that day – felt the way you had when the boy from your class had kissed your cheek, still too young to process the intentions behind that single whistle. But you didn’t care – someone wanted you.

When you got your first period at twelve – even more changed. Your body felt new, and you didn’t feel comfortable in the changes. Your old clothes didn’t fit and now your mother forced you into tighter corsets for those long, long dinners you had to attend. Your parents were respected Fae in the Hewn City – nobles who liked to drink and smoke and throw extravagant balls. And with your new body you could no longer simply hide in the corner or climb through secret passages with your friends – muddying your dresses.

Now you had to smile when men hugged you slightly too long, laugh when they commented on how much you had grown up, sit pretty and pristine with an old mans hand loitering to close to your rear for hours as you watched your parents drink away their troubles.

By the time you were fifteen you were used to the constant attention, your beauty not uncommon where you lived but still doted on often. Unaware of their desire for your youth, your naivety. The women never offering a helping hand but instead glaring down high skewed noses as their husbands slurred into your ears – still in shock that a pretty, young thing like you was all alone at this party.

When you were sixteen you decided to change that – kissing an alright looking boy at a party and telling him exactly what he wanted to hear so he would kiss you back. He stayed when you didn’t protest as he pulled you to the bathroom and pushed you to your knees. And for this small request, the greasy hands on your body at balls and dinners or any other social gathering halved – now only the truly self-righteous felt they could touch you still.

The only problem was you truly did love the boy you had chosen. He had faults yes, but he was kind – he brought you flowers and kissed your cheek. But he also spoke over you, forced you into silence and took what he wanted. And he always wanted the same thing.

If anything it was his father’s fault. The military commander never leaving room for debate when he argues with his wife – and sons only become what they see in their fathers.

Your father had left with a younger woman a few months after your fourteenth birthday, and you hadn’t seen him since – only heard stories of him galivanting around the autumn court from your classmates. You could see the distaste your mum held you in as she realised she would have to stick around to look after you, not yet old enough to be married. Then Amarantha had taken hold of the country and that possibility had been thrown out the window anyway.

Weirdly enough not that much changed in your life when she took power, the only major difference was that now you had to block out screams before going to sleep and even they had become like white noise. You still drank with your friends on Friday nights, went out with your boyfriend on Saturdays and slept the pain away on Sundays. Your weekdays consisted of school, dinners, balls and whatever more your mother could throw together to appease the high queen.

That and the high lord of the night court had started making appearances at the events your mother threw. He was a cruel man standing so proudly at the queen’s side – but you saw something flickering in his eyes whenever people spoke, complimenting his power and rule. You saw what you felt as you laughed at compliments and lingering touches – you saw pain, but more importantly you saw anger. And right now you could use anger.

During one ball you watched him leave, taking an odd route – not the one that would help him escape the loud music but instead a long winding corridor leading to a series of smaller rooms. Without thought you peeled away from your company, muttering excuses and went after him – grabbing a bottle of wine as you did.

You found him reclining in an empty room and knocked on the door gently. He cracked open an eye – slow like a cat – and beckoned you in. You moved to perch next to him, leaning back with a straight back and letting your head loll slightly as you took a swig of the dark red wine, before passing him the bottle.

“You looked like you could use a drink,” you smiled, eyes focused on his sharp jaw as he held the bottle to his mouth with a laugh.

“One way of putting it,” he smiled. The two of you sat in silence for several minutes as you took in his beauty, his looks plus mannerisms all made him seem like a wild cat - a panther trapped underground.

“Why are you here?” he finally asked, and you raised a hand to trace that sharp jaw. But instead of devouring you as any lesser man would’ve, he brushed your hand away and held it tightly in his larger one. “That’s not gonna happen, you’re what sixteen?”

“Almost seventeen,” you said, cheekily. He laughed but shook his head, squeezing your hand before releasing it.

“You’re still a child,” he said matter-of-factly, and you scoffed, stealing your wine back to drink again.

“Yeah well that’s usually a selling point,” your voice was sad, but you didn’t dare let your eyes stray from his – refusing to show fear, “And you’re so nice to me, I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

He laughed as you pouted, “You practice this in the mirror or something?”

“Usually works in three seconds,” you confess, and he whistles under his breath, “Men are rather easy to manipulate when they’ve been trying to get into your skirts since your first bleed.”

“And you wonder why I’m not about to take advantage of you,” he laughed, and you smiled – a real smile, or real enough. “Plus I don’t think your little boyfriend would be pleased.”

“Eh, he’s never pleased - I don’t think this could make him worse.” Rhysand took the wine back and frowned.

“Does he hurt you?” his voice was sincere but the laugh you let out was not.

“Don’t all men,” he swore, and you laughed again, “Yet you foil my plan to make you fall in love with me and whisk me away to the moon.”

He laughed, but his eyes darkened with deep sadness you were sure you would never understand, “I think we both no that even I could not do that, but I might be able to crush your fly.”

“Little boyfriend? Fly? You really don’t like him do you?” you laughed, head lighter already.

“I don’t like any man who thinks they can hurt women,” he said, frowning when he realised through your passing back and forth there was no wine left.

“Shit that took us like five minutes,” you complained, and he laughed, waving his hand lightly as several more bottles appeared before you – you grinned as you grabbed another.

“So any friends with weaker moral backbones that I could marry?” you asked with a laugh, and he smiled at you.

“I’m sure I could find someone,” he leaned back again. You smiled – finally happy that one night might pass in the company of a decent man.

Soon, you’d find it would be more than one night, a close friendship quickly blossoming between you and the high lord. All your friends were convinced you were sleeping together but true to his word he didn’t touch you, and by the time you surpassed the age of eighteen you didn’t want him to. But that didn’t stop other men.

After a particularly bad argument with your boyfriend that had left you with a handprint on your left cheek you had broken up with him – sending away his apologies and flowers, smart enough to see he didn’t hold the mental capacity to change.

Plus you were beautiful and young, you could certainly do better. And you soon did – rich men who liked to buy you jewellery, and fine clothes, men who enjoyed literature and art and spending time with you.

And at the start of each relationship, for a few blissful seconds you would believe in their pure intentions. But then a hand would drift from your lower back to your ass, or the gentle kiss that followed a necklace would shift from your mouth to your breasts. Not one of them wanted to wait until you were comfortable, so you made yourself comfortable.

You pictured pretty, strong men were holding you down and making you feel something, slipping your own hand between your legs and they penetrated you to try and replicate what you were sure a lover’s touch must feel like. And as always – after the first time- they stopped asking for permission, you were their toy, so you no longer had choice over that part of yourself.

But through nice guys and bad boys, for fifty years you had Rhysand who was a friend – who treated you with respect and finally let you talk, let you breathe.

In the end he was the one who found you, in the backroom of a party – drunk and undressed. You were weeping, curled in a ball with your attackers’ seed dripping out of you, bruises decorating your bare skin. When he turned you over with his comforting hands he found your nose dripping red and the vibrant lipstick you wore smudged.

He helped you sit up and redress, took you home and stood outside the bathroom while you scrubbed yourself clean in scalding water – still unsteady on your feet. You changed into a nightgown silently and neither of you said a word when you crawled into bed next to each other, crying in your best friends’ arms as he tried to console you.

When you woke up, he was gone with just a scribbled message about Amarantha and the name of a healer he trusted. But you just placed it back down, turning onto your back and staring at the ceiling as hot tears ran into your hairline.

You barely ate anything for the days following your assault – fighting with your mother more when you rarely saw her and subsequently breaking it off with your current boyfriend. You had thrown his hands off you when he tried to touch you and the screaming match that followed ended your relationship.

Your bond with Rhysand grew only closer however as you spent nights drinking in candlelight, talking about anything and everything until you were sure he knew every inch of your soul and you his.

“You know what I’m going to do as soon as she’s gone,” you whispered one night as you stared at the twinkling lights you had hung on your bedroom roof to imitate stars.

“What?” Rhys had asked, never letting his eyes leave the ‘stars’ which he had laughed at and then proceeded to rearrange to make them more accurate. To which you threw a pillow at his head.

“Find a hill, or a pier, or a large pit or anything and scream into it until my throat bleeds.” You said and he laughed, the bed beneath you rumbling.

“Consider me on board.” He joked as you sat up to perch at your vanity – smudging the sharp eyeliner you wore with a small brush and applying some red lipstick.

“Wanna go out?” you asked him, and he sat up to with a small, sad smile.

“Can’t.” you understood his implication and frowned.

“I’m honestly surprised she hasn’t gutted me yet,” you tried to lighten the mood, but his face darkened slightly when he joked back.

“Oh she wants to, I’m telling her any information you give me about citizens, so she doesn’t.” He said, ruffling your hair as he stood to leave.

“That’s fair, I’ll keep an ear out,” you smiled, squeezing his hand gently before he left.

Things changed when Feyre Archeron appeared, you saw the way your friend watched her and realised you might be competing for his attention soon, but you were happy for him. Until he brought her to that first party – drugged and barely dressed. You felt the bile rise in your throat as you pushed down memories of yourself in such a similar position, and while you knew he would never hurt her – he was still a man. And you were foolish to believe for all those years that he was a man who would realise this was wrong.

Making polite excuses you left the party, picking up the tails of your dress as you all but raced home – ditching the dress and closing the blinds tightly as you made yourself food in your underwear. The sick feeling in your throat spreading through your chest and stomach as you ate, abandoning your meal halfway for a book and large sweater. And when he knocked on your door that night, desperate to tell you all about her – all about the human girl who he was sure could be his mate, you pretended to be asleep.

You barely spoke to him the whole time she was there, unable to look him in the eyes when she was so clearly out of it – and the feeling only grew when the next morning she would have all eyes on her. You understood that feeling. You instead spent parties flirting with Tarquin, the young high lord who was only a few years your senior or warding off marriage invitations with laughs and carefully placed words.

Rhys would sometimes catch your eyes – furrowing his eyebrows at you when you avoided his gaze, the sick feeling never really leaving. But it wasn’t until you watched Tamlin slay Amarantha with a smile that he tried to speak to you again. Feyre was Fae and leaving with her betrothed and Rhysand had just confirmed they were mates – and never had he needed his best friend quiet like he did now.

You were sitting when he found you, head in your palms and blood dusting the skirts of your dress. You had been sitting near Amarantha when it happened. You looked up when he neared, smiling sadly as he sat next to you.

“Want to go home?” he asked you quietly and you scoffed, standing, and moving to leave quickly. He followed after you, grabbing your arm as you wrenched it out of his grip with more ferocity than he had ever seen from you.  

“Don’t touch me,” he held his hands up, backing away to give you space as you got your breathing under control.

“What did I do?” he asked – smart enough to not presume anything.

“How could you think it was okay, after what happened?” your voice was quiet again, and so sad.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he implored, stepping slightly closer again. You raised your eyes to meet his and he understood, the darkness you carried in your eyes shining through – the memories that resurfaced in those dark moments. “I’m sorry, let me explain please.”

You let him hold your arm softly as he winnowed the two of you to your house where you sat down heavy and tired.

“I did it because she needed out of that cell, but I saw what they did to you and you’re a fae woman, she’s… she was human. So it meant that no one else would touch her.” He tried to explain, “And she wouldn’t want to remember.”

“That’s a horrible thing to do Rhys.” You stated and he hung his head low, “How in anyway was that helping her, to get her out you could’ve snuck her here or just take her to a ball and let her dress normally.”

“I’m sorry, I just knew this would’ve been the safest option,” he grabbed your hand again and squeezed it like he did all those years ago, “It’s over, we can go home.”

“I am home,” you laughed bitterly, gesturing to your house.

“No, you’re coming out of this city – we’re putting it behind us.” He stood and held out a hand.

“I know you’re trying to be dramatic and all, but I have to pack – and think.” You said and he laughed.

“Take your time,” he said, sitting back to wait for you, “And I know it might take you a while to forgive me, but I’ll wait.”

You had left soon after, as he revealed his city to you. Winnowing to a house where two beautiful women stood at the door, strong winged men appearing next to them almost instantly – all sharing the same tear-eyed look. Well, all asides from a short, dark-haired woman who simply smiled.

The men you presumed were Azriel and Cassian barrelled towards Rhysand, attacking him in the most violent hug you had ever witnessed. Mor followed soon after and Amren simply offered him a curt nod, to which he bowed slightly with a cheeky smile.

Cassian turned to look at you and everyone followed suit, you straightened up – not wanting to cower under their gazes.

“And this, this is (y/n).” Rhysand said, placing a hand on your elbow, “She’s the only reason I survived under the mountain.”

You smiled at him, annoyed still – but you still held so much love for him in your heart. You looked away when Cassian approached and wrapped you in a tight hug, lifting you off the ground slightly.

When he released you he looked you dead in the eye, “I am forever in your service.”

“Cassian let go of the poor girl,” Mor exclaimed behind him, and you giggled, looking to Rhys for support.

“Forgot to tell you he’s a hugger,” he shrugged, and you shoved his shoulder.

“Oh did you!”  you laughed.

“Gotta get used to it, you’re part of the team now,” Cassian slung an arm around your shoulder as he guided you inside, “which means lots of hugs and long talks about emotions.”

“Don’t steal my best friend Cassian,” Rhys jabbed at his brother as you all moved to sit inside around a long table.

“He already had I’m afraid, can’t reverse love like ours,” you joined in, patting Cassian’s hand as he punched the air in victory, Rhysand feigning pain as he dramatically collapsed into his chair – a hand over his heart.

When you were finally seated you caught Azriel’s gaze, his eyes locked on you – having watched you interact with his family for less than five minutes and already completely enamoured. You smiled softly when you caught his gaze and he grinned at you, no words passing.

Later that evening – after too many drinks, you found yourself alone on a balcony you found, drinking in the fresh air greedily after all those years underground. You didn’t realise he was there until he was next to you – silent on his feet, his shadows a cool chill passing over your shoulders.

You tilted your head to look at him, in awe of his beauty. Not even Rhysand had awed you as much as this man was, his beauty unparalleled by anyone you had met before. He turned his gaze down to you as well, fighting the urge to reach out and touch you as he watched you move with such elegant curiosity.

“We haven’t had the pleasure of being formally introduced,” you smiled, lifting your hand delicately, “I’m (y/n).”

He met your hand halfway, lifting it to his mouth with perfectly poised and trained grace. “Azriel,” his voice was deep, gruff – and sent chills through you quickly. But when he moved your hand from his mouth you held on, the sparks flowing through you telling you all you needed to know. He similarly made no move to let go.

“Are we? I don’t really know how any of this works,” you laughed nervously but he smiled so warmly and tugged you slightly closer to him with the hand you were still clutching.

“You’re my mate princess,” he said, voice rough from disuse. You smiled widely, eyes forming tears as your gaze never strayed from him – finally getting one person who would truly love you, not your body – but you. He tugged your hand gently and you followed him inside, smiling and love drunk.

“We should probably go to the house of wind,” his voice was quiet as you furrowed your eyebrows at him.

“Me and Cassian have to share a room here, the bed are singles.” You smiled and laughed – irrevocably happy.

“Yeah maybe not,” you said, and he held your hand softly as he walked you to the front door, passed his past out friends, Rhys cracking an eye open when you walked past him, and you turned when he tugged your skirt gently.

You okay? He asked in your mind, and you smiled at him.

I’m perfect, why? You replied as he closed his eyes again, clearly too tired to hold them open - Azriel moving to retrieve your coats.

Just don’t feel pressured into doing anything you’re not ready for, Azriel is understanding he won’t get angry. A sort of cold feeling settled on your shoulders when you realised why Azriel wanted that extra privacy.

Shit forgot I had to do that you joked but Rhysand felt the stress growing, however before he could reply Azriel was by your side again and you were waving him goodbye, your smile tight lipped.

Honestly, you trusted Rhysand when he said that Azriel would understand – but so far you had yet to meet a man who truly respected the boundaries you set, a man who would truly wait. Azriel met your eyes in silent questions before scooping you into his arms, flying high above the house as you squealed in his arms, clinging tightly to his neck, and shutting your eyes tightly as you soared above the vibrant city.

He felt you tense as you neared the house, swooping lower in order to land on the large balcony attached to his room. He placed you on shaky legs gently and looked down to smile at you again – heart so full of love and peace.

Not only was his brother returned to him in one piece, but along beside him came you. His mate. His mate.

You caught his gaze and gave him a tight-lipped smile, terrified for history to repeat itself. You wanted to talk to him and know him – you didn’t want him to learn to love your body instead of you. And you were truly afraid to be touched again, you hadn’t been with a man since you were raped – fear stopping you before they could get close and walls slamming up if they tried.

“Are you okay?” Azriel’s voice was dripping with concern – genuine concern, and the way he said it made tears well up in your eyes. His own instantly widened as he sensed the sadness and fear rolling of you in waves, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as you sobbed into his chest. “Oh sweetheart we don’t have to do anything, c’mon lets go sit down.”

He guided you through the glass doors and sat you down gently on the bed, holding you gently and coaxing you through your breakdown. Once your breathing had calmed slightly and you had pulled out of his embrace, wiping your tears harshly with the butt of your hand.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered quietly, terrified to anger your mate when you’ve only just found him.

“It’s okay darling, what’s wrong – did I do something? You’re not terrified of heights are you?” he asked, and you laughed softly, a smile growing on his face as his worries eased slightly.

“No, that was fun,” he grabbed your hand in his scarred ones and you gripped it tightly.

“Then what was it?” you looked into those beautiful, worried eyes and let out an exhale – bottom lip quivering.

“I just don’t think I can – I can’t do that tonight.” You whispered the words lowly, afraid of his reaction as you clung like a child to his hand.

“Hey, that’s okay – we don’t have to do anything until you’re ready,” he smiled, worries easing. You still wanted to be with him, just not in that way yet – and he could wait. He would wait a million years if you asked.

“Even if I’m not ready for a while?” You asked, and he held your face in his hands gently – looking into your tear-filled, defeated eyes.

“I would wait forever and then some – I have already waited so long to meet you, I’m sure I can last longer, especially if you’re next to me.” Your smile was so sad when you met his eyes.

“I’ve been told that before,” Azriel just pulled you closer to him with a cheeky grin.

“And were any of them your mate?”

“No,” you smiled at him again and he thought his heart was going to combust.

“Well then, I love to prove people wrong.” You buried your head into his chest as his arms came around you once more, “Would you like to sleep here, or would you like your own room?”

“Here is fine, I like the way you make me feel,” you said quietly, tugging on the bond experimentally. Azriel just smiled and tugged back.

“That works for me, I’ll get you a change of clothes.” He moved to stand but you stopped him – tugging on the dress shirt he wore.

“I want this,” you grinned cheekily up at him, and he laughed, but undid the buttons and pulled it off anyway – turning around to let you change in peace. When he turned back around you were looking up at him with wide eyes – looking impossibly cute in his shirt.

“It has holes in the back,” you complained, and he laughed, sitting down to tug off his trousers before sliding under the covers as you scrambled to lay in his arms.

“Well I do have wings,” he cemented his point by letting one drape over your shoulders as you sighed in content.

“Really, I hadn’t noticed,” you deadpanned quietly, burrowed deep under his arms and the covers. His chest rumbled with the silent laugh as he pressed a kiss into your hairline.

The next morning he awoke to you laying on his chest, tracing the scars on the backs of his hands with a delicately pointed finger. He stared in wonder, and you must have felt his gaze because you turned your head to meet his eyes, face still puffy from sleep. As you whispered to him that morning, your chin resting on his chest as you gazed up at him until he rose to get your morning drinks. Barely daring to leave for more than a few seconds. And when he returned he was so glad he did – welcoming the sight of you curled up under his sheets with a shy smile and tired eyes.

“Do we have to do anything today?” you asked as you sipped your drink slowly, Azriel’s’ arm tight and secure around your waist.

“Nope,” he said, delighted at the prospect, “I just want to be with you and my family.”

“Sounds heavenly.”

True to his word, for the next few weeks that past, you and Azriel didn’t progress past slow, occasional kisses and lingering touches. But before either of those he was always searching your eyes – asking permission. And you truly fell in love with him during those weeks.

He was caring and consistent – never promising anything he couldn’t bring. And he cared for you, he cared for you past your body and looks. He wanted to be with you for an eternity.

One night, while you lay together, speaking lowly and listening to the rain fall outside your room – a glass door cracked open, you decided you were ready. You pressed closer to him, your lips meeting his own in a kiss more passionate than you had previously shared.

He followed your lead with just as much passion, but when you crawled into his lap he pulled away slightly.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to rush you,” he asked quietly, hands coming to rest on your hips.

“I’m sure, I love you and I want to be with you.” You told him sincerely, “But I haven’t been with anyone in a few years so I’m a little out of practice.”

You giggled nervously but he furrowed his eyebrows, “But you told me about your boyfriends?”

“Yeah but I – stopped dating about five years ago.” You tried to explain quickly, old nerves being brought up, but Azriel pulled you closer and as always his touch calmed you.

“Can I ask why?” he watched you drop your head a little as you breathed slowly – determined to not let your fear rise, you would probably end up telling him anyway so you might as well get it over with.

“I was raped.” You stated and his grip on your hips tightened slightly as he swore.

“Darling, I’m so sorry,” he started but you stopped him with a sharp glaze.

“You don’t need to apologise, it happened and it’s over now.” He could practically feel you pull away, so he loosened his grip on your hips and instead brought his arms up to hold you against his chest.

“Who did it?” he asked, voice dark and dangerous. You muttered a name lowly – under your breath – and he pocketed in the darkest corners of his mind for later. His shadows itching to tear the man apart.

“Look (y/n), if you’re ready I am more than happy to oblige but I need to know you’re really ready, I will wait as long as you need.” You pulled away from his chest and kissed him gently.

“I’m ready, I trust you,” he smiled up at you from where you perched on his lap and you giggled and he flipped you over, laying between your legs with a feral grin.

He made you cum three times with his mouth and those beautiful, beautiful hands alone – more than you had ever experienced with a man and he hadn’t even received any pleasure yet. Except from the pleasure of watching his perfect mate fall apart on his sheets, over and over.

And when he lay over you, your legs pushed up and wrapped around his waist, and his forearms on either side of your head – he would later swear he had never felt more complete.

“I’m here with you remember, will be the whole time.” He assured you, voice soft as he lined himself up and you smiled.

“I love you so much,” you whispered, and he pushed in slowly, filling every part of you and pushing against every spot you didn’t know you had. You swore under your breath when he bottomed out, the slight pain quickly being reduced to please as he dropped his head into the crook of your neck.

“Fuck baby, you feel so good,” you felt shivers run through your body at his gruff voice and smiled, moaning when he began to move.

He pulled his head from where it hid in your neck and watched as you closed your eyes – head thrown back with a smile – and his hips bucked, desperately trying to control himself as he watched you arch your back.

“Shit Az, you’re so big,” you moaned loudly, unaware of the trance you had pulled your mate into.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered with a harsh thrust, a hand coming to stroke down your face as you opened your eyes to meet his, “So perfect.”

You felt as if your heart was going to burst from the love that filled it as you reached up to kiss him softly – conveying every word, every thought, through that kiss. When you pulled away you were nearing your end, the sensations building in you without the need of a fantasy or your own hand.

You moaned his name, gripping his shoulders tightly as one hand instinctively moved to stroke down his wing. He shuddered above you with a loud groan – his thrusts speeding up as he to neared release, yours hips surely bruising from the force of his own.

“C’mon baby, need to feel you, need to know you’re mine.” His words ignited something in your stomach, and you clung tighter to him, kissing his sharp jaw as you smiled.

“I’m yours Azriel, now and forever.” Your gentle words pushed him over the edge and his skilful fingers dipping between your thighs brought you down with him. The two of you crying out at the sensations you shared as a growing need to never let him go consumed you.

He collapsed on top of you soon after and he intertwined your fingers with his own as your breathing evened out. He slipped out of you, and you smiled up at him as he sat up, rolling off your body and laying to the side while you came to rest your head on his firm chest. He brought his spare hand upwards – twirling strands of your hair slightly as you rested in silence. After a few minutes, you clambered into his lap and kissed him firmly as he pulled you impossibly close.

“Thank you,” you whispered against his lips, and he felt his heart swell with gratitude to the world for giving him an angel that would willingly hold his hand and guide him out of the darkness.

“I am so in love with you,” he whispered back, and you giggled, a hand moving slowly to stroke him as you felt him harden beneath you again.

“Hmm, is that so?” you whispered.

Azriel, who had started pressing light kisses into your neck, nipped you gently, making you squeal, “What were you saying darling?”

“That I am also deeply, and unequivocally in love with you.” You replied and he rolled his eyes.

“Just putting me to shame with your big words.” He muttered and you giggled – crawling down his body.

“I’m sure I could make it up to you.”

#acofas #acotar #azriel #acomaf #azriel x reader #acowar #acofs #acosf

[angeli-marco-writes]

Sherlock Holmes - Kiss Me, Mr Detective

A/N - Season 1!Sherlock, the cutie. And friends to lovers. Two of my favourite things. I do not own Sherlock Holmes, the character, the universe, the adaptations or anything: this is a work of fiction set on the BBC adaptation of Sherlock. Did I still write 8.2k words (exactly) for it? Yes. I also don’t own the song or the lyrics used within, and if you fancy it, listen to ‘Kiss Me’ by Ed Sheeran while reading.

Warnings - Bad language. Mentions of murder and drug usage. Mild angst. Smut, loss of virginity, masturbation, oral m receiving, penetration, unprotected sex, so 18+.

Summary - After a fight with John leaves Sherlock feeling particularly down, he calls on the one person who is always there to support him. Only tonight, it’s different. Feelings come to a head, exploration ensues, but is this just a one time thing? That depends on whether she stays the night...

TO SHERLOCK, it’s just another normal day, whereas to John? He’d rather not admit how regularly these awful days roll around. Sure, the case didn’t go as well as it could’ve, and Sherlock admittedly could’ve made much more of an effort to comfort John after the apparent ‘heartbreak’ he endured. He just could not understand it. Why the hell was John so emotionally responsive to a case they’d been on for less than twenty four hours which turned out to be a bust anyway? 

“You are absolutely unbelievable!” 

“People die every day, John. You’ve killed people, as have I. It isn’t that great a surprise.” Sherlock deadpans, picking up his teacup, raising it to his lips, drawing a long sip from the warm liquid. 

“Oh, yeah, of course. The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow but its own.” John mocks. “Do you not even care that people are still dead despite the fact you solved the case?”

“They’d be dead either way,” he reiterates, “at least we got to them before they completely decomposed. Will me caring about them stop them from being dead? No, Dr Watson, it will not.”

“Sherlock!”

“John!” He mimics. 

John slams his hands down on the desk, shaking the wood and everything resting on it, surely sending the vibrations through the floor and notifying Mrs Hudson of their ‘domestic’ as she so likes to call them. The buffalo even begins to swing. John’s tea is long forgotten, but Sherlock’s is keeping him grounded, calm, as John waggles his fist in Sherlock’s passive, blank face. 

“You-” he pauses, gulping down breath. “You are a fucking machine, I can’t even deal with you right now. How dare you be so cold hearted and untroubled by this. You’re a disgrace.”

As if he hasn’t heard that one before, Sherlock scoffs. 

Placing his teacup back down with a clink, he stands, the darkness of the night, of the room, closing in on them both. Nights like these really are danger nights, any night John leaves him. That’s what's coming next, but there isn’t a thing he knows to say or do to prevent the inevitable. He’ll simply just text Her instead, she’ll keep him grounded. 

“Why? Emotional context? Emotion, whether of ridicule, anger, or sorrow, whether raised at a puppet show, a funeral, or a battle, is your grandest of levellers. The man who would be always superior should be always apathetic.” 

With a huff like a bull, John viciously turns on his heel, blaspheming under his breath, cursing Sherlock out. He reaches for his coat and snatches it off the stand, slamming the door open. 

“MACHINE.” John screams before pulling the door shut with a great slam, seething, the coat stand still rocking in his wake. 

John’s footsteps thunder down the stairs, but before he’s even gone, Sherlock’s phone is withdrawn, and he’s tapping out a message.

Can you come over? Please? SH

It wouldn’t usually bother him as much. The case didn’t phase him, at all, but John’s opinion did. It always does. But today was a particularly long day of being brutish and rude, cold and distant, his usual and true self, but John’s more and more impatient with him now. 

Being called a ‘machine’ is, again, nothing unusual, but this time it stings a little more than usual, especially after his recent arrest, and a fallout with Molly. He only has one person left, right now, who doesn’t hate him. His longest friend, the one he keeps away from it all so as to not tarnish her life with his misdeeds; Y/N, the one he can always rely on.

He knows she’s arrived by the sound of his window crashing open. Crawling up the bricks, skimming the drainpipe, latching onto the ivy; it’s her usual manner of entry. She never uses the door. 

Putting his cups and saucers into the sink, he makes his way through the house, opening his bedroom door to find her already sitting there on the bed, her coat hung up on the hook, her work clothes clinging to her body. 

“Hey there Mr Detective, you okay?” she asks as jovially as she can muster.

The way he ambles across the room, his dressing gown floating behind him, and slumps down onto the bed, instantly tells her he’s not okay at all. She can’t help but to look upon him sympathetically, edging a smidge closer to him, until he’s prompted enough to wrap his arms around her torso, finding his rightful place tangled around her. She knows him well enough - his past, and his current life - to realise she’s the only person he’s ever felt comfortable enough around to do this with, and that brings her a certain swelling pride in her bosom, one that doesn’t go unnoticed by Sherlock as he feels her skin heat up against his cheek. 

It doesn’t take long, either, for his head to follow suit, burying into her chest. He’s always, always had a thing for her boobs, ever since they were in uni together. 

That’s something so special about the two of them, he doesn’t have to say anything for her to know he’s not okay the way he does with everyone else. And naturally, he can read everything about her in a split second.

“I’m here, bud.”

Above all else, he just needs to know someone is there for him in moments like these. The world is cruel to him, and Y/N wishes more than anything that it wasn’t. Upon instinct, her hands stray, one to his back, pressing against the silk of his dressing gown, the other cradling his long neck, fingers knotting in the dark curls there. 

She isn’t sure how long she stays there, simply holding him, feeling every twitch of his muscles, every breath of his against her skin, but she likes it. Of course she does, every time she likes it. Sherlock brings her an inordinate amount of comfort at the best of times, today is no exception, especially with what the day has held. Even when she’s the one comforting him, he doesn’t realise how much he helps her too. 

His flat is so familiar, his bed as comfortable as her own. She knows his sock index, she’s studied his periodic table over his shoulder more times than she’d care to admit, and she even has her own toothbrush in the bathroom in case she has to pop over for an emergency freshen up. Sherlock has, and always will be, her first port of call, and that she remembers as she shifts further onto the quilted bedspread, her phone on his oak bedside locker. 

His head begins to stir against her chest, his curls tickling her collarbones, small hums escaping his lips as he pushes himself up, his elegant yet trembling hands still splayed on her waist.

“I could feel your heart beating weirdly, what’s wrong?” he asks, quirking his eyebrows. 

“Just the usual.” she vaguely replies.

Sherlock isn’t having it, though, and scans her a little more. “You’re still in your work clothes.”

“Great deduction. I was hoping you’d go a little deeper, though.”

“You hate wearing work clothes longer than necessary, which means you had plans straight after work, considering you finished… five hours ago? That’s your usual time for today. Counting overtime, forty five minutes, walk to your car, another ten, but your umbrella wasn’t working, round that up to an hour, leaving at 6. You arrived home, no, not home, at your boyfriend’s house for dinner. However, you’re not comfortable enough with one another yet for you to use his shower, or perhaps you are, but you elected not to, and stay in damp clothes that only had seventeen minutes to dry with the heater on in your car for the journey there. You ate dinner, Mexican, had a glass and a half of five percent wine, realised you couldn’t drive, but you didn’t particularly want to stay. Nonetheless you sat and watched the telly with him for hours, football, I can see the dreariness in your eyes. I know how much you hate it, and frankly, same. You stayed for almost all of the match, seeing as you’re now sober, but something else happened.” She lulls her head to the side, prompting him, her smile not meeting her eyes. “As soon as the match ended, he tried to make a move on you, he pressed his mouth to yours, he tried to push his hand up your skirt;” his throat bobs with a vicious gulp; despising the thought of anyone else laying a finger on her, “you swatted him away, rightfully so.” 

He pauses a minute, his harsh tone of voice and his sharp face softening. He can see the vulnerability in her eyes, her walls about to crumble. This woman he appreciates so much. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

Smiling melancholically up at him, she brings her hand back to his hair, her fingers carding through the soft curls. His face buries back into her chest just as her voice offers a broken whisper, “I broke it off. I was the one who couldn’t commit this time.” 

And as she lays her head on top of his, her breathing more shallow, resounding in her chest, he dwells over those very words. The way she said them, not to mention the words themselves, hold a myriad of meaning. What could she possibly-

Oh.

The subtext, yes, impeccable. She’s always had a way with implications and subtext, always knowing that the likelihood of him actually picking up on it is little to none. But now, now he’s become trained to her, her way of life, her way of thinking, her way of speaking. This is too good an opportunity to miss. If she means what he thinks she means, ever hopeful, then this is completely unfamiliar territory. 

Gathering all of his courage in one deep breath, he begins to pepper kisses on her skin. The faintest brush of his lips on the tops of her breasts, all that’s available to him with her shirt the way it is. He feels her heart flutter, her breathing stutter, but despite the chemical flush of her chest, he still isn’t quite sure she likes it. Not until he feels her grip on his hair increase, and he glances up to see her head thrown back. Her spine delicately arches against his hand, thrusting her chest further into his face. 

His nimble fingers reach for her buttons, undoing the top two, giving him space enough to find the valley between her breasts. Lathering kisses there, licking the swells of her boobs, his tongue pulsates with the increased thrumming of her heart. The sensation is new, so unbridled, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with the stirring in his loins right about now. That unknowing is only further amplified by the sound that rips from her chest when he involuntarily bites down on the supple flesh. It couldn’t be… a moan?

Sure, he understands the chemistry of it, the reactions that occur in the synapses of the brain, the pheromones and hormones released when one is aroused, but this is all new to him. And, from his embarrassingly basic level of theory, surely that doesn’t start until some more stimulation on other parts of the body commence? Nipples, perhaps something lower down… then again, what does Sherlock know?

Of course it’s an intimate moment, the closest he’s been to a woman before, and maybe that’s why he freezes, stops, and she tugs his head up by his hair, her gentle, pleasured smile with her lips softly parted deepening the look of bewilderment painted onto his face. Her eyes are twinkling, alight with an excitement he hasn’t seen for far too long. 

“What are you doing?” she whispers. 

He shrugs his shoulders with a sudden force, his dressing gown falling off a little. “I don’t know. But now I feel like I read your pining words all wrong.” 

She gasps, a wheezing sound, sucking the air from the room. She smacks his arm gently, muffled by his button-down and dressing gown. “I wasn’t pining! I was saying.”

“Hmm, same difference.” 

Everyone must acquiesce when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. “But no, you didn’t read them wrong at all, but I know you don’t see me that way, you don’t feel things that way.” 

He pauses, his beautiful plump lips pursed, fidgeting on the bed. Brushing her hair off her face reveals the pain she expressed. However, her eyes glued on his, sadness is betrayed in every line of his young, clean-shaven face. His entire bone structure is taking a nosedive. 

“For you, I’ve been feeling everything from hate to love to lust, and I guess that’s how I know I want to hold you close.”

“Sherlock...” she whispers, her singular word an inflection of surprise. 

Never tearing his eyes from her, his hand comes up to her cheek, rubbing his thumb over the slightly blushing skin, searching her face, with his big blue eyes, for a shred of reluctance. But, all he sees is her, so he elects to do what his heart is yelling at him to do for once, and kisses her breathless. His full lips holding hers, his one hand on her face, the other still wrapped around her back. Hers fly around his neck, clinging to him for dear life.

It doesn’t take long, their movements steadily heating, for their previously slow, intimate kiss to grow into something more, Y/N pulling herself up from the bed and making herself comfortable on Sherlock’s lap. His breath hitches in his throat, a cute little hiccupping sound escaping his lips in between embraces. 

As much as he loves just this, soft caressing and gentle petting, he just knows she wants more. He does too, that much is evident from the length prodding at Y/N’s inner thigh as she moves gently on his lap. She won’t make a move, though, he’s too inexperienced, and she’s too much of a sweetheart to corrupt him, so she thinks. Ever since he first saw her, she’s been corrupting him slowly. He didn’t realise at first, but over the years, he began to understand, and now he’s in too deep. 

For Y/N? It’s always been him. Every breakup she’s had, she’ll come to Sherlock’s flat, full well knowing the real reason she broke up with them, because she couldn’t commit, because she was too caught up on him. 

Skimming his hands beneath her shirt, he savours the press of his hands on her bare skin, warmth seeping from her body into his, his fingers dancing along her spine. Electricity shocks her in bursts, unlike anything else, from his touch alone. 

“May I take your shirt off?” he asks. 

“Fuck, yes.” she groans. “May I do yours?”

“Be my guest.”

In a tangle of limbs, a few buttons pop off, and eventually, two shirts make it out the other side, tossed from the bed and into the laundry pile. Aka Sherlock’s floor. He’s like that: sock indexes, yet he won’t get a hamper. A walking contrast.

His thumbs press beneath the band of her bra, savouring the pressure of the flesh that falls into his hands, but that’s as far as he gets. 

“Never undone a bra before?”

He shakes his head sheepishly. “I know the theory. Just… you always wear peculiar ones.”

“I wear relatively normal bras, and this one is certainly bog standard. Had I known you’d be undressing me Mr Detective, I’d have worn something nicer.”

“Just do it for me.” He requests, chuckling. 

She unfastens her bra, and allows her breasts to spill from the cups, into Sherlock’s awaiting hands. The gasp that erupts from him sends Y/N’s brain into overdrive. He’s cupped her chest through her shirt before, buried his nose into her cleavage countless times, but never before have they had such skin on skin contact. Her lips press to his neck, shifting her closer to him. Sucking on his pressure point, she receives a similar gasp in response, only this one is more guttural, more a sound of pleasure than surprise. He’s wilting from a single kiss to his neck. 

“Has no one ever given you a hickey?” She husks in his ear, her voice alone sending tremors down his spine. 

“N- fuck, no.”

“I’ll make it worth it. All of this.”

“I know you will.”

She fuses her lips onto his again, savouring the faint hesitations as he grapples with his breath, eager to get some control on his mind with all that’s happening. Never did she ever think Sherlock would be here beneath her, his rough fingertips brushing over her peaked buds, and his palms dancing over her waist. Never did she think she’d hear him whisper his next words, either, not in a million years. 

“More.” he pleads. “Can we do… more? Whatever that entails?”

“That depends what you want to do.”

“Get me out of these damn trousers. They're rather uncomfortable.”

She snorts lightly, a piggy like sound, the one they bonded over all those years ago. “I can feel why.”

“I imagine you want out of your work trousers, too.”

“God, yes; they’re ghastly.”

“I don’t think so.” he hums. “You look nice.”

Her cheeks begin to burn, blood rushing to colour them, betraying her true feelings, but as he tweaks her nose playfully, the little snort escapes again. 

They were in the dining hall, second week of university, almost ten years ago, and Y/N was sitting with her friends, downing enough coffee to sink a ship, eating her hangover away, when her friends decided to make her laugh with tales of last night's drunken events. Unbeknownst to her, one of the greatest minds of the twenty-first century was sitting just a few seats down on the half-empty bench, watching her perceptively in his periphery. That’s when he first heard the sound. The cutest thing, and it startled him into action, beginning his deductions almost instantly. Admittedly, her student ID on the table aided him a little. 

He shocked her from her haze, too, as soon as he spoke her name. 

“Y/N, eighteen, jurisprudence first year, freshers week over with. You left a boyfriend back home, but you’re more sad about leaving your dog, as I would be. You don’t particularly care about law but know it’s a good undergraduate to receive anyway. Dyed hair, extrovert, killer hangover, and apparently there’s a little piggy living inside your nose. Sherlock Holmes, would you like some aspirin?”

“That’s weird; what are you, some kind of detective?” She asked, sans malice, a playful bounce to her words. 

“Chemistry, going for a masters. But I do like the mystery, yes.”

“So you’re… bright. Nice to meet you, Sherlock, and it seems you know almost everything you need to know about me. But yes, I will take that aspirin, if you don’t mind. How was your weekend?”

He smiled at her, the first true smile he’d given in a long time. “It was nice, thank you.”

And thus a friendship was born, all because he heard her little piggy snort. 

Her slender fingers work wonders with the fastener and zip of his suit trousers, and even manage hers too, all within the space of a few seconds, but Sherlock is reluctant to let her go, even just to get her trousers off. 

“I need to sit up, just for a minute.”

“No.” Sherlock commands, insistent. “We can make this work.”

“Sure we can, but it won’t be very comfortable. Come on.”

She’s barely peeled away from him and wrestled hers off before he’s drawing her back in for a kiss, his trousers settled just above his knees. 

“Sherlock,” she protests, mumbling against his lips, her hands on his heavenly, broad, muscular shoulders. “Sher!”

Her squeal at his sudden tug on her panties disappears, captured by his eager mouth. And in fact, her panties seem to disappear along with it, thanks to Sherlock’s swift movements and nimble hands. Maybe he’s had some experience to be so good at this…

“You sure you wanna go this far?”

“More sure than I’ve ever been. I need you.” 

He takes a deep inhale, dropping his forehead against hers, his breathing coming out in bursts as he tries to get a grasp on the situation. “Kiss me.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice, instantly getting to work on the waistband of his boxers as his tongue lavishes her own. His hips rise briefly, just long enough for her to tug the elasticated material from around him, slipping past her, and then he kicks it into their growing pile of clothes. His length falls into her awaiting palm, and-

“Wow.” She exhales in amazement. “If I’d known you were packing this much, I’d have jumped you long ago.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Absolutely not, until tonight I thought you’d just laugh at me.”

He pecks her lips affectionately, “Never. You’re bloody beautiful, I’ll let you do anything to me.”

“Hmm, anything, you say?”

Stifling a chuckle against her neck, he recommences, “Maybe not anything.”

Yeah, that's definitely the right call. Still, she finds herself all but clawing at him, her breath hovering teasingly just over his lips, their noses touching, her hands clamped to his cheeks, feeling the building heat there. She must be making such a mess of his bed right about now, but for one night? It can’t matter.

This is a one time thing, it has to be. Sherlock just needs to release some tension, she just so happens to be there. Still, she can’t prevent the little glimmer of hope shining through at the possibility of this being a more-than-one-time thing. The moral compunctions of their friendship after this don’t matter anymore, because he’s leaving a fire in his wake, his delicious fingertips digging bruisingly into her bum before trailing lightly up her spine, skimming her shoulder, brushing her neck - arched for him to reach where he wants, able to mark her as his own - and finally slipping over her lips, taken obediently by her awaiting mouth. Christ, if there’s one thing she hopes for tonight, it’s that his actions never relent.

Whether it’s what he intends to happen or not, his fingers in her mouth give her an idea, one she prays he goes along with at least a little, so she pulls away. The dirty, telling smile on her face hints at what she’s about to do, lending Sherlock to shift a little more up the bed, his eyes following her every move. Hands splayed on his thighs, her small fingers gripping onto the fine hairs there, she begins to take his tip into her mouth, never once breaking eye contact with him. Yeah, this is what’ll drive him insane. 

Inch by inch, she takes him into the welcoming heat of her mouth, pulling off slowly, only to go down again. She adds her tongue into the mix at some point, too, and her hand, on what she can’t reach, tickling his balls, but further than that, his mind is blank. Hot white, washed with pleasure. The sounds he emits are other worldly, so much that he has to muffle himself with his own hand; what would Mrs Hudson say? He’s always had such control over his mind and body, but this… he’s slowly losing all semblance of control, and he’s not even mad about it. What he does know is that there’s a building heat in his abdomen, a coil about to spring, and his cock is beginning to twitch. If she keeps going this incredible way, her teeth grazing him ever so gently, adding another new sensation into the mix, he’s inexorably going to finish before he can help it.

“As much as I adore your torturous ministrations, I think I need to be inside you…” He husks, his voice deep.

A smirk gracing her lips, she looks up at him through half-lidded eyes, mischief glinting in her pretty little mesmerising eyes for a second, before she hollows her cheeks and takes him wholly, allowing his length to slip partially down her throat. Her moan reverberates around him, and Sherlock begins to thrash above her, scrunching the duvet in his hands, not caring if it creases. If there’s one thing Sherlock hates, it’s creases. And being called a machine by his best friend. Right now, though, it seems as though every misstep in his day has led him here, into the welcoming heat of Y/N’s mouth, taking him so eagerly, her tongue lapping at the vein on the underside of his dick, a string of saliva remaining as she pulls away. 

“I think you’ve got a couple of rounds in you, Mr Detective. Can you do that for me?”

“Y-yes.” He stammers, his head tossed back in pure ecstasy a moment later as she begins to work on the head with kitten licks. “But… can I s- fuck me, say something?”

“I plan on it.” she chuckles, “anything.”

She goes back to peppering kisses all over his member, tip to base, brushing his balls, working her way back up. 

“Touch yourself f- for me.”

“What? Why?” 

Her tone is more inquisitive than anything else, but upon that playfully rueful look in his lust-darkened baby blue eyes, she knows he’s going to get her back for this little display, and he’s just worked out how. It works both ways, she can prepare herself for what’s to come next while pleasuring him. And he gets to watch. It’s a win-win for him. Maybe he likes this sex thing a little more than he’s letting on. 

“Are you sure you want me to? I’ll just make a mess on your sheets, Sher.”

She swallows him again, bobbing her head up and down on his length a few times while he grapples with literal reality. He’s teetering on the edge. One more move, and he’s a goner. His head is already against the wall, lolled there. 

“I don’t care about the sheets, darling, I need you ready for me.”

She gulps, nods, and reaches one hand around her, skimming over her stomach, until it nestles between her thighs. She rubs her thumb over his tip, collecting the pre-come beading there, while she rubs over her throbbing pearl, pressing softly. Then, as she inches down on his cock, taking him in her mouth, she also collects the slick from between her thighs, and uses it as a lube to push a finger inside herself. Of all the times she’s touched herself, she never imagined, even in her wild Sherlock fantasies, that she’d be doing it with his dick down her throat. With every bob of her head, she scissors herself more, sinking back onto her fingers. 

“I think I’m-” Sherlock begins to say, his words cut off by an utterly obscene moan splitting the air. 

She hastily abandons her one post, and wraps both of her hands around his girth, working on what she can’t fit into her mouth with her increased speed, licking and suckling his head as he begins to fall apart, coming, with a scream, down her throat, his one hand clamped over his mouth, biting down harshly to silence his cries; the other buried in her hair. 

His whole body falls lax, completely spent, meanwhile, Y/N savours every drop she’s been able to draw from him. He softens in her mouth, allowing her change to slip away from him, grasping a tissue from the bedside to wipe away any excess. That’s certainly something she never thought would happen… 

He’s calm, though, smiling lazily through hooded eyes, his breathing regulated once more, making beckoning motions to her with his big hands. He’s placated, though, and sliding her hands into his, she’s allowed time enough to get into place, smiling softly at him, raking her fingers over his scalp in a comforting way. Even as she sits herself on his lap, she can feel him hardening beneath her ass, slowly but surely. She was right about him, he’s definitely got another round in him. 

“Do you have a condom?” he asks. 

“No, sweetheart, they’re in my other bag. I didn’t plan on getting any for a while… do you?”

“Not in here, that I’m aware of. John may have stashed some in my less favoured dressing gowns or socks, and he definitely has some upstairs, but I’m unawares.”

“I’m gonna sound crazy here, but do we need one?” She says hesitantly. His eyes widen, he cocks his head to the side. “I was tested after my last partner, I’m clean, and on birth control. You’re a virgin. There’s no point, is there?”

“You have a considerably good point.”

With that, energy rejuvenated a little, he wraps an arm around her body, flipping them over so he’s on top, shadowing her, looming over her, gazing down at every inch of her naked beauty.

“Take your time. I’ll be your safety.”

“I know.” he whispers, a tearful smile making its way onto her face. “Thank you.”

He needn’t say more, because she already knows why she’s being thanked. For her kindness, for making him so comfortable, for accepting the fact he’s still a virgin in his late twenties and, if he’s being honest, has no damn clue what the practicality and reality of sex is. Sure, he’s seen porn. He’s also looked at John’s laptop. But that doesn’t prepare one for when the moment comes. It’s like all of that goes out the window, and he simply remembers the first time he opened a biology textbook at secondary school, pictures of flushed organs staring back at him, desperately waiting to be relieved. That’s what his own coock is like right now, already hard again, virtually pulsating with hunger in his palm. He strokes himself a couple of times, glancing down at Y/N’s wide eyes.

“Are you okay? Can I…”

“Yes, Sherlock,” she chuckles, “whenever you’re ready.”

Now, he thinks. He rubs two digits through her folds, gathering her wetness, enamoured with the way it glistens on his fingertips. Tentatively, he brings his fingers up to his mouth, swirling his tongue around them to get a taste. Eyes rolling into the back of his head, he moans. She’s better than any cup of tea he’s ever had. 

His cock slaps against his lower stomach pleadingly, so he grasps it in his hand, and begins to enter her, pushing gently, feeling every flutter of her walls. Her arms fly out, hands grasping his shoulders, nails leaving crescent moons in their wake at the delicious stretch. It’s nothing like they’ve ever felt before. 

“Can I move?” He asks, balls deep inside her, their pelvises flush against one another. 

“Please.” She all but begs. 

Before doing anything else, Sherlock hooks one strong arm around her body, malleable in his hands, and holds her chest against his. Her breasts push into his skin, her nipples gaining friction from the dusting of hair there. Her one hand cups his slender neck, the other, his sharp cheek. Their eyes meet in a fierce gaze of burning intensity, and he begins to move. Slow, calculated, sharp thrusts punctuate her core. With every heavenly stroke, he can feel the ridges in her velvet walls, squeezing around him unwittingly.

“Jesus,” she cries, her clutch increasing. 

“Hmm, not quite.”

The smirk in his words is quite literally audible. He’s so cocky, so full of himself, and fuck if she can’t feel another gush of arousal coursing through her, drenching his cock. How does he manage to be so attractive when he’s so dishevelled?

“Is that good?” He asks, unsure.

“So good.”

She brings her legs up, skimming the clenched backs of his thighs, until they wrap around him, drawing his hips into her at a new and improved angle. Heels digging into the base of his spine, he begins to move with a new purpose, his thrusts more passionate as his breath is drained from him by her kisses, his eyes alight with a new flame. 

“Oh my God, Sherlock.” She pants, pulling him in for a kiss he greedily returns. 

He drives his hips deeper, squeezing his fingertips into her supple waist bruisingly. It’ll be a mark that she belonged to him once, even just for one night. That’s when he reaches that special spongy spot that makes her entire body buckle. She all but screams, pressing into him wholly. 

The coil is building, ready to break. He seems to be nearing the edge, too, his member twitching inside her when he buries himself particularly deep. She’s oh so fucking close… She licks into his mouth filthily, desperately clashing her teeth with his, eager for his kisses to tide her over. Silence her. Shifting his supporting hand, he trails one dextrous finger around to circle her clit, adding the faintest pressure for a moment. She mewls as he groans into her hot skin, clawing at him, entirely at his whim. Now he knows where to press, he settled his grip back around her, and draws her in close. This time around, he bends his knees a little more to measure his movements more carefully, ensuring that he ruts up and brushes her sensitive bud with his pelvis, helped by the extra friction of his neatly trimmed pubic hair on every thrust within her, his tip just scraping her g-spot.

“I- Sherlock, please tell me you’re- oh sweet mercy- close.”

He grunts softly in her ear. “So close.”

Their lips meet tenderly, passionately, in what they acknowledge to be a final kiss, moans mixing between them, savoured by the other. 

His thighs clench, her legs tighten around his waist, and finally, her sweet walls flutter, squeezing him as she reaches her climax, his not following long after, spilling inside her, painting her soft walls white, marking her. 

“Y/N,” he cries in ecstasy as his orgasm reaches him. “Sher…” she repeats, her saving grace as pleasure washes over her entirely. 

Their whole bodies wind up pressed together, bound together as one, skin on skin completely, becoming one another. 

He lets her down gently, unravelling his grip, unsurprised when their sweaty skin sticks together. Her long legs unfurl, splaying in a butterfly. Sherlock tumbles ungracefully away, somehow landing with a certain gangly elegance on the space of mattress beside her, his arm instinctively flying over to place on her stomach, the skin hot and flushed red. Her chest moves hastily up and down with the thrumming of her heart, while his barely shifts despite his shallow breaths, his white skin glistening in the moonlight. 

“Are you okay?” He huffs, turning on his side. “You look pretty fucked out.”

His baby blue eyes train instantly on her nipples, hard in the open air. This is the first notifier, the first inkling she has to feel self conscious, so she draws the sheet up around her as best as she can. Sherlock’s not having any of it, taking a stronghold on her arms, and pulling her until she’s lying on him, naught to separate them. 

“I’ve never been this close to anyone physically and y'know.” He hums tiredly. She’s never heard him sound tired before… 

She smiles up at him as best she can, “Are you glad?” 

He begins to hold her ever closer, squeezing her tighter, feeling every ridge of her body. 

“I’m so glad that you were my first, in so many ways.” 

Praise from Sherlock is a rarity, and she’ll take it as and when she can, savouring every moment, this time by holding him like a koala, her grip not wavering. 

“I’m glad too, Mr Detective.”

He brushes a kiss to her cheek, “As much as I like this, we need to get you cleaned up.” 

A supporting arm beneath her bum, he picks her up, and unsteadily ambles into the bathroom. 

“I don’t know much about this, but I know you should probably use the toilet, should you want to avoid a UTI, so if you’d like me to leave…”

He sets her down on the loo seat, cupping his hands over his nether regions, and he hurries to grasp for things, until she puts her hand on his arm, squeezing in a conciliatory manner. 

“You do remember the camping trip, don’t you? You really don’t have to leave just because I have to pee, you never did before. In fact, you frequently annoyed me with it if you had a particular point to make, steadfastly refusing to leave the bathroom after following me in there when I went to pee. Why does this change anything?”

He shrugs, dropping whatever was in his arms, “It just doesn’t feel the same now, though.”

“Ooo, and now Mr Detective feels things.” She jokes, poking at his ribs. 

He recoils, chuckling with her, “Only for you.”

As Y/N washes her hand, Sherlock begins to wrangle with a floorboard, clattering about until he eventually pulls out a small lock box, from which he withdraws a packet of brand new marks-and-spencer's ladies briefs. 

“Why the fuck do you have these? Anything you wanna tell me?” she asks, eyes wide.

“John’s idea. He has plenty of girls over here who frequently stay the night, simply a precautionary error.” He takes a beat, gargling with some mouthwash, “they’re clean, new, I just don’t like the idea of you in dirty underwear, and I know how reluctant you are to go without them whenever you’re not in your own bed. I stayed with you enough nights in university to know that.”

Those nights were awfully painful. She’d take the floor, he’d take the bed, and every time she’d have to wash the sheets. He’d sweat and vomit, shake and cry, plead for the pain to be over. He wouldn’t go to hospital, he wouldn’t call his brother, he’d just turn up on her doorstep, high as a kite, almost in tears, knowing he’d gone a little too far. And each time, it was a little farther. 

“Thank you, Sherlock.” 

She takes them from him, and begins to shimmy them up her legs, only prevented by Sherlock moving to grab a handful of her arse. 

“Hmm, I like this. Fancy another round?” He smirks. 

“I’m too tired, babe. Give me a bit.” 

He can see the lazy smile on her face, the tiredness in her pretty eyes, so he wets a flannel, and begins to clean her up with gentle movements between tender kisses.

“How do you know how to do all of this?” She asks, inquisitive more than anything. 

“Instinct, I suppose. I never read or learned about it, seeing as I never thought it would happen.” 

She snaps the waistband before moving her hands to his waist, leaning up onto her toes to reach him, kissing her softly. 

“Look at you now.”

After brushing their teeth in an amicable silence, their pinky fingers overlapping on the porcelain of the sink, he aids her back to the bedroom, settling her on the bed. She has things here: deodorant, toothbrush, moisturiser, and yet somehow she doesn’t have underwear, even after all these years. Perhaps that's one too many things to explain… 

With superfluous extravagance, he throws her his shirt, offering her a wry wink. She finds a blush clawing its way onto her cheeks, dumbfounded. It smells like him, just like a forest glade if it was rained on by tea and cigarettes. Maybe he’ll let her keep it as a memory.

In such a short amount of time, she’s learnt that he has a very sensitive neck. Very. A single kiss there has him biting back a moan. A low one at that, considering his deep voice also drops almost an octave when he’s aroused. His nipples are almost as sensitive as his neck, and he rather likes it when she tugs on them unwittingly. 

His first orgasm comes quickly, but his refractory period is astonishing, and it takes longer to achieve a second high, long enough to make her come more than once, she assumes, though her first orgasm was mind blowing enough for two. Perhaps that’s just because it’s his first time, but it’s impressive nonetheless.

What’s the point in learning all of this if, once he comes around from his post-orgasmic haze, he’ll pretend like it never happened, in typical Sherlock style?

The shirt, though a small gesture, means a lot, and her vision begins to cloud as she looks down at the black cotton. 

“You mean you want me to stay?” She croaks.

Sherlock turns to her from his set of drawers, his face full of apparent obviousness, brows furrowed in that cute bewildered way. 

“Of course I want you to stay.” He states, like it’s the plainest thing in the world, like it’s stupid for her to even ask. But she’s silent, and when she says nothing in response, he launches into a long winded explanation: don’t show sentiment. “I- I just mean, i-it’s midnight, I’m not having you out in London alone. You stay with me. Only if you want to as well...” 

She nods eagerly, “Yes. Yeah, course I want to stay.”

He all but leaps access the room, jumping onto the bed, before planting a proper smooch on her lips, grinning down at her. He slips into his usual side of the bed, and she takes hers, rolling to look at him.

“Don’t get cold.” He warns, tucking the duvet up around her shoulders. She giggles like a child, that small snort sounding again, prompting Sherlock to press his thumb to her nose like a button. “How are you… feeling?”

“I’m fine bub, really. That bloke doesn’t matter to me at all. Bit of a scumbag if I’m honest. You’re the one I’m with, the one I wanna talk about. How are you feeling? Must’ve been a pretty big blow up with John for you to call me and be so... teary.”

He sighs, crestfallen, “He called me a machine.”

Her gasp pierces the air, her hand flying to his hair, stroking in consolation, cooing senseless reassurances to him. She’s done this innumerable times, but now it feels different, like there’s no barrier. 

“He’s done it so many times that it needn’t bother me anymore, but the way he looked at me, like I was this abhorrent monster, especially after the day and the disappointing case we had, it got to me. I hate having feelings.”

“You don’t have to hide them with me, though.”

He hums gently, burying into her chest. “I know. That’s why I treasure you so dearly.”

“That means you also have to trust me, and you’re not going to like what I have to say.” His chest heaves, shifting her whole body. That’s his way of giving in. “Please just talk to John. You know that whenever he leaves, he’ll come back, and try to pretend it never happened. He needs to know you’re human and that he upset you, but also that the case upset you as well. No one’s superhuman, and once you let John in on the fact that you’re not a machine, things between you will be so much easier, because you might agree for once.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He grumbles. 

He pulls her into his warmth, hooking her leg around his as he snakes his arms around her back, breathing deeply from the crook of her shoulder. She begins to pepper kisses on his salty skin, savouring the taste with every small swipe of her tongue.

“Your heart’s against my chest, your lips pressed to my neck,” he breaks off with a faint whimper when she sucks a little harder, “I’m falling for your eyes, but they don’t know me yet.”

“Of course they do,” she whispers brokenly, hoarsely, “they’ve always known you.” She swallows thickly, “Does that mean it’s a feeling you’ll forget?”

“No, I don’t think I ever can.”

The silent words that pass between them both are so special, too special to be spoken aloud. ‘Think I’m in love now.’

“Kiss me like you wanna be loved.” He begs. 

And really, who is Y/N to deny him? They just stay that way a little while, revelling in their lazy kisses, until she begins to fall asleep. It isn’t the first time she’s fallen asleep in his bed, not by any means, but it’s the first time she’s fallen asleep in his arms. She isn’t mad about it.

“Settle down with me, cover me up, cuddle me in. You were made to keep my body warm.” She smiles into her words, and embeds herself into him, entirely covered by the duvet, spattered in his kisses, safe in his arms. Sherlock feels safe with her legs around him, her fingers in his curls, holding himself against her. Amicable silence is how they drift off, Peaceful.

John re-enters 221B at a respectable hour. He got a fair amount of sleep on Greg’s sofa, having no girlfriend in the picture right now, but not enough to deal with Sherlock just yet. Not before his coffee. He expects to see Sherlock sitting in the exact same spot as when he left, perhaps just with a refill of tea, his fingers still steepled beneath his chin, eyes closed yet wide awake. Instead, he arrives at a seemingly empty, considerably clean flat, with no Sherlock in sight. Perhaps the unsleeping man must actually be asleep, he thinks, so he quietens down, and toes off his shoes before wandering farther into the flat. Even if the man does piss him off extraordinary amounts, perhaps he should just check he’s okay…

He gives the bedroom door a quiet rap, listening in momentarily before pushing it open. Frankly, he’d rather have found Sherlock with a cigarette in hand and the whole flat torn to shreds for the level of surprise he gets upon reaching the bed. His first idea is to scream bloody murder, but that might annoy Mrs Hudson, and upon stepping closer, even in the sliver of daylight through the curtains, he sees the duvet riding down a little. The last thing in the world he ever thought he’d see: Sherlock in naught but boxers pressed against a half naked woman, his palm splayed on her bare thigh. Sherlock? Spooning? It seems so, his entire body pressed to this woman. John feels himself go rigid, his feet glued to the floor, his gaze unmoving from shock. 

It takes his phone to buzz in his pocket to get him moving, and when he does, all he tries to do is balance precariously on his tip toes in a wry attempt to get a birds-eye view of the whole thing. He’s not disappointed, or disturbed, once he does, though, his army agility proving useful. Sherlock’s hand is holding her, fingers entwined, just next to her chest. He wonders how comfortable it is, but if they’re staying this way, it can’t be too bad. Maybe all Sherlock needed to loosen up was a good shag. 

She’s wearing his shirt, too; Sherlock’s black dress shirt from the previous day. And Sherlock? He never seeps in anything less than a full set of pyjamas, he’s weird like that . 

This girl begins to stir, her lips parting gently, small hums escaping. Next, her eyelids flutter, and her hair shifts on the pillow. He didn’t make any noise, did he? John was specifically careful not to, just in case. He doesn’t fancy Sherlock’s wrath just yet. 

One eye opens, and she whispers, almost incoherently, “Hi John.”

How she knows his name and who he is, he’s not at all sure, because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen this face in his life. The hair is familiar, and maybe, if she were more awake, he’d recognise her smile, but he’s never seen a woman in Sherlock’s company beside Molly Hooper. Speaking of… 

Before he can even say anything, though, before he can ask who she is or if she wants tea or if she date-raped his roommate, she’s mumbling, and detaching her hand from Sherlock’s, rolling over. Dumbfounded, John just stands there and watches her cuddle into Sherlock’s chest, her arms wrapping around his torso like second nature. Even in his sleep, not consciously thinking about his actions, he grips her back - one hand resting just above her bum, and buries his nose into her neck.

John can’t help but smile to himself. Maybe their fight was for the best if Sherlock now has a girlfriend, someone he turned to for solace. So, he grasps for the top of the duvet and pulls it up over both of their figures, reaching their shoulders, and leaves, staring wistfully for a brief moment at the seemingly happy couple. 

The weight of the duvet of what startles Sherlock, though, stirring him a little, inviting him to him against Y/N’s skin, smiling with eyes barely open. This is really nice, he thinks to himself, not waking up alone. 

She smiles back blearily, and in her morning voice, whispers to him, “Kiss me Mr Detective.”

#sherlock #sherlock holmes #bbc sherlock #johnlock #sherlolly #mystrade #sherlock smut #sherlock fanfic #sherlock imagine #sherlock holmes imagine #sherlock holmes smut #william sherlock scott holmes #mycroft holmes #molly hooper #dr john watson #sherlock bbc #john watson #sherlock x oc #sherlock x reader #sherlock fluff #sherlock angst #sherlock fic

[cacoetheswriting]

hi hello can i request a fic with spencer and reader being reunited after time apart? thank you!

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader warnings: minor minor angst, a swear word or two, very brief mention of food, tbh mainly just fluff & two idiots in love word count: 971

a/n: fair warning, i did not proof read this before posting.. sorry!

-

Spencer Reid travelled a lot.

That was no secret. It was the nature of his job.

He travelled a lot, and over time, you have grown used to his frequent absences.

You’ve grown used to not hearing from him for hours at a time. No phone calls, no texts. Complete radio silence. You have grown used to not seeing him for days on end, sometimes even weeks. You were used to missing the sound of his voice and his honey-like laughter. You were used to the sadness that encased the room every time his phone buzzed, and the apologetic look Spencer would give you because he knew with each ring he’d have to leave again. Used to the hollow feeling that settled in the pit of your stomach every time he crossed the threshold of your apartment, leaving you once again to be a hero.

Yes, Spencer travelled a lot but, when he was finished chasing serial killers and saving lives, he always came back to you.

He returned to the safety of your arms with stories you always attentively listened to — although, Spencer knew to spare you the more gruesome details. Once he was finished, then you would proceed to tell him everything you did while he was away. Albeit, your news was always much less exciting and dangerous than his.

The two of you would stay up talking until the sun set and the sky turned black. Until the faded purple clouds faded away and were instead replaced by a million glistening speckles. And even when the night breeze sneaked through the half-open window, sending a shiver down your spine, you were determined to spend this time with him because there was no guarantee when you woke up tomorrow morning, he would get to stay.

One coffee pot shared at an ungodly hour (accompanied by a bag of jellybeans), a seamless move from the couch to the bed, and an average of fifty-two thousand words later, you both drifted off to sleep.

That was the routine. And no matter how hard it was — being away from Spencer — nothing beat him returning home to you.

Plus, like you constantly repeated to everyone in your life, you were used to him being away.

Now, if the tables were ever reversed however… well.

“Relax, kid.” Derek’s voice chimed through the phone. The brunette doctor however couldn’t take his best friend's advice so easily. Instead he paced nervous circles around the airport arrivals area.

“The plane landed seventeen minutes ago,” Spencer declared in response, his focus continuously shifting between the watch on his wrist and the automatic double door.

Morgan chuckled on the other line, “Reid, you know better than anyone how long it takes to get through airport security.”

“On average, approximately twenty-three minutes,” Spencer sighed.

“Which means you can start panicking in six minutes.”

Spencer huffed at Morgan’s comment, but before he got a chance to rebuttal and make a remark of his own, the metal door swung open and in the sea of people, the hazel-eyed man spotted the one person he was impatiently waiting for.

You.

Emerging from between the tired bodies of various international passengers, your eyes locked with Spencer’s — like a magnet. A wide smile instantly graced your features.

For a split-second, Spencer’s heart stopped.

“I gotta go—” he mumbled into his phone, ending the call with Derek swiftly. He hastily placed the device inside his jacket pocket, his gaze never leaving yours.

You looked perfect.

To say he missed you (missed that perfect smile of yours) would be a colossal understatement. It was only a couple of days apart. Nothing the two of you haven’t faced before. In fact, it was minor compared to all the times he’s been called away for work. You still checked in with one another via sweet worded texts — good morning, have a great day, I love you, sweet dreams — and talked on the phone as often as you could. But holy fuck did he miss you.

And you undoubtedly missed him too.

The bag you were holding found itself at your feet as your arms made their way around your boyfriend's neck, your fingertips gently tugging at his soft brown curls. Spencer’s hands made home on your waist. He gave you a light squeeze before shifting them slowly to the small of your back and your whole body instantly relaxed. You felt your muscles become loose and you let yourself completely sag into his affectionate embrace.

“Hi,” Spencer mumbled into your hair before pulling away ever so slightly to take a peek at your face.

“Hey,” the corner of your mouth twirled upwards, “Ready to take me home?”

He nodded, “More than ready.”

“Good,” you muttered and pulled him in for a kiss.

Spencer smiled against your lips. He pressed you even closer to his body. His hand was now cradling the back of our head while you rested yours over his chest, allowing yourself to feel his hammering heartbeat underneath your palm.

A soft yet excited giggle escaped you, “Maybe I should be the one to leave more often,” you whispered.

Your boyfriend was quick to shake his head in disagreement. “No, no. I-I eh— Please, please don’t.” He swallowed his breath, “Turns out I don’t function well alone, without you.”

You raised a brow, “Oh really? And how do you think I feel when you leave me?”

“Well, you are arguably a lot stronger than I am,” he pointed out and reached for your suitcase.

You rolled your eyes, “Riiight… Okay Doctor FBI, whatever you say.”

With a stupid grin plastered across his face, Spencer extended his hand. You took it, instantaneously intertwining your fingers together like perfect puzzle pieces.

Yes, Spencer Reid travelled a lot.

Well…

At least he used to.

-

masterlist

spencer reid taglist: @no-honey-no​, @calm-and-doctor​, @idroppedmygourd​​, @averyhotchner, @wowitsel, @elldell1204, @hey-there-angels, @reidabookforonce, @willowrose99, @blameitonthenight21, @muffin-cup

#spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #spencer reid blurb #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fluff

[slothgiirl]

NoLita Nights

timothée and reader run into each other at night and hang out which leads to a hotel room. waitress!reader. smut. 6k works.

“Here,” the middle aged white man says, tossing his heavy card carelessly at you. You hadn’t even set the black leather book down. He hadn’t even glanced at the check. 

It was the most dismissive dehumanizing action.

It was not the first time someone had thrown their card at you. 

The famous actor sitting across from him wince, reaching to pick the card up as you go for it. Your fingers brush against Timothée’s.  

“Thank you,” you’re forced to say, customer service smile plastered on your cheeks so hard it hurts. “I’ll bring this right back.”

You knew who the actor was. You knew of Timothée Chalamet. You didn’t live under a rock. 

You also happened to be a waitress at a trendy NoLita restaurant where plenty of influencers and celebs made a pit stop when they didn’t want to be papped. This wasn’t Carbone. Tiktok hadn’t discovered it yet and that was just how the patrons liked it.

It also meant you weren’t star struck. Not that you would be by Timothée Chalamet. You knew he’d been in some movies, but you’d only watched lady bird with a friend and a pint of ben and jerry’s and quickly realized that teenage stories were not for you anymore. Somehow, you’d blinked and stopped being a teenager.

It came with having bills.

You missed being seventeen and having the whole world ahead of you. Now it was all work and school and try to get some sleep between that. 

The glitter had worn off New York City.

Did this make you a fully fledged New Yorker? 

You go to charge them, wanting whoever the man was out. Most likely some executive something. That’s usually what middle aged white men were in these parts: the fashion financiers and studio people. The faster you gave him the bill and smiled and hopefully got a tip for your troubles. 

Once again, you go to set the leather checkbook on their table, “you’re all set,” you smile. “Anything else I can get you?”

“Another pitcher of mimosa?” Mr. Saville Row suit doesn’t even look at you.

Your smile doesn’t even twitch. You were a pro at this. The early morning Starbucks rush had given you nerves of steel. There would be no cry in the walk in here. It didn’t get to you anymore. 

Timothée smiles awkwardly at you, clearly embarrassed as he shifts in his seat, “Please.”

“Sure.”

You go.

It was twenty minutes till closing so there weren’t many tables in your section to tend to. 

Twenty minutes goes by. You start clearing out the empty tables, putting the chairs on top, blowing out the candles. Thank god you were out at closing. You’d been called in early which meant you wouldn’t be sticking around to do inventory and cleaning. It’s the small things in life.

Mr. Saville Row is still talking. 

They both are. 

You want to bash your head in.

“Just to let you know, we are closed now. Is there a box or water I can get for you?”

Mr. Savile Row asks for another mimosa. Really, he could hold his alcohol if nothing else.

“Unfortunately our kitchen is closed now.” 

“That sucks. These little bitches are strong unlike brunch.”

You smile, “thank you.” 

They finally leave. 

Your last table. 

You waste no time in closing out. “Fuck this shit,” you tell Javier, the busboy. “You won’t see me until next Thursday.” Thank god for tips. Mr. Saville Row had left a fat two hundred. Chunk change but better than the assholes who asked for sides and extras and left nothing.

“Sure mija,” he laughs, “unless Kat calls out sick again.”

“Not even then.” Your feet ached. Fucking heels. 

You clock out, grab your bag, and unbutton the sleeves of your starched shirt as you make your way to the subway station. Time to go home and collapse on your mattress. You had a whole five hours to sleep before having class. 

Harlem Renaissance Literature might have been an interesting class if it wasn’t over zoom and you kept falling asleep during discussion. It didn’t help that you only needed it for the credits. 

You almost feel like a real human being by the time you swipe your card and make it to the platform that perpetually smells like dead cave air and stale sweat: like a bar when the lights come on. Sure, your makeup feels sticky and the underside of your mask has most of your foundation, but you no longer feel like your cheeks might crack from smiling in your sugary sweet customer service voice. 

You pop your headphones into your old iphone. 

It’s late. 

There’s only a few people still catching rides back. Monday was not exactly a party night. Not even hump day. 

There’s a bum with a sigh dozing off in his puffer jacket. A few others are also getting off work and aggressively avoid eye contact as they scroll through their phones. Some people are heading to work. 

You stand waiting for your train by Timothée Chalamet and politely pretend not to notice him the same way you never picked up dishes until a table was done because there was something inherently awkward about that type of confrontation you had yet to get past. You were doing him a favor. 

His wireless headphones squished his curls to his head.

With a mask on and in sweats and a puffer jacket, he could be anyone. It was impossible to tell he was the same actor whose face you couldn’t escape during publicity for some sci-fi movie. 

He was slighter than you’d imagined, and taller. But there was something alluring about his severe bone structure and you realize you’re staring out of the corner of your eye so you scroll through your podcast app and try to choose between true crime and getting depressed by current events. 

True crime it is. 

“Are those-” you hear because you weren’t about to get mugged (headphone volume low with only one earphone in) “wire? headphones?”

You look up. 

“Sorry,” Timothée says nervously. You can hear the smile in his voice. “I-You were my waitress. You probably don’t remember me.”

“I do,” your voice sounds harsh, such a contrast to the echoing station and how a waitress usually sounds. 

“Oh,” he winces. “It might be better if you didn’t. Sorry about Jack. Some people can be such assholes.”

“You know what they say,” you reply, “judge people by how they treat their staff? Waiters. Actually, I don’t think that’s a saying as I’m saying this.”

Timothée laughs, before asking, “Let me make sure I remember your name right,” and might just be one of the few people who actually paid attention when you introduced yourself. 

“And...you’re Timothée?”

“I see,” he winks playfully before pitching his voice like a bad dracula impersonator, generic eastern european accent and all, “my reputation precedes me.”

“Well you’re no Zendaya.”

"Actually," Timothée wipes imaginary dust off his shoulder, “I was in a movie with her.”

“Name dropping already?” You raise a brow. 

He laughs. 

“I served Emily Ratajowkski last month so I’m pretty connected too.”

Timothée laughs so hard he snorts. “Okay, okay. I see your point. But really, what’s with the old school headphones?”

You lift your phone. “iphone 5.”

“What!” 

“It still works,” you say defensively. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” He arches a brow, interested.

“Well,” you make a face, “doesn’t have 5G, but I don’t have a phone plan, just live off wifi, so it all works out.”

“That’s,” he humps, “actually kind of impressive.” 

“Down with big tech or whatever,” you shrug. You just tended to use things until they broke. And so far so good for your phone relic. 

“Gonna build your own computer?”

“Eh,” you admit, “I’ll probably watch a bunch of youtube videos but I’m too lazy to be a real crunchy granola girl. Though a true crunchy granola girl probably isn’t so attached to their phone.”

“You have a point there,” he nods. “So what are you listening to kn your ancient phone.”

“Come on dude, this isn't a nokia.” Now that was an idea. Flip phones or those slide phones? It was such a throwback to when there seemed to be so many shapes of phones in the 2000s. “True crime podcast. About some fundie cult? I don’t know,” you explain, “sometimes I feel like I need background noise. I don’t know what it is about my brain but it’s like I need it but I’m not listening very much.”

“To decompress?”

“Yeah. Along those lines. Now what are you listening to?”

Timothée answers, “a spotify playlist. Don’t laugh, I have one for subway rides at night, weekday edition.”

“No. I get it. I have a shower playlist for when I’m depressed and it's cold water.”

“Completely different vibes,” Timothée nods, eyes crinkling with a smile. “Subway during the day or night.”

“Wednesday night, Saturday night,” you add. “So what’s the vibe?”

“Currently, Grandmaster Flash.”

“Ah. I have no clue.” You shrug. 

“That’s fine. I have no clue what a fundie is,” he admits with a chuckle. 

“I can put on a playlist and we can compare notes,” you offer, keeping the conversation going. His laugh did something to you. You felt warm and bubbly the more you talked to Timothée. 

“Or you could give me your spotify.”

“No,” you tease, “I have to keep my love of,” you try and figure out something that was cringy to like but can’t really figure out what, “I feel like nothing’s all that cringy anymore. Oh! Um. Olivia Rodrigo?” But she wasn’t either. She was just getting into overplayed territory because of how much she had blown up. “Grimes after the whole Elon Musk thing?”

“You have it out for big tech,” he teases right back. “Going to wear a mask forever to be anti-facial recognition.”

“You caught me. That is why I wear a face mask. Not the global pandemic,” you deadpan, trying to stifle a laugh. “At least there’s no mask tan in winter.”

“Maskne.”

“You too!”

“Around the chin,” Timothée tilts his head back even though the fabric of his face mask covers his chin. You just see the pale expanse of his throat, the way his adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. 

“I bought a cleanser with salicylic acid for the first time in years.”

“That’s the real pandemic.” He smiled easily, his eyes shining with mirth. “Maskne.”

“So many pandemics.”

“Knock on wood.”

Somehow, you had both ended up standing next to each other. No longer just waiting for the train but together like you’d planned to meet up, only inches between you both. 

The MTA ruins everything.

Speaker from the 80s crackling, the MTA announces an hour delay that means you’ll easily be stuck here for two hours. Fuck.

You groan. 

Your feet hurt from walking all over the restaurant. You’d had a thirty minute break hours ago now. It was a mix of numbness in your calves and an ache in the arch of your foot. 

Timothée says smoothly, “do you want to split a cab or is Uber too big tech for you?”

You snort. “Don’t really Uber, but that’s more of a saving money thing when the MTA isn’t trying to fuck with my day. Sure.”

“Okay.”

It’s much colder outside the subway station as you wait with Timothée for the uber. 

You regret your thin sweater. You zip up thinking about the coats you had back home, in your closet, safe and warm while the wind ripped right through your jacket.

“I’m in Hell’s kitchen. Do you ever think about how Uber pool used to be so normal? I definitely sat with random drunk people going home from work when I didn't want to wait.”

“ I’m going to sound like such an asshole,” Timothée warns, “but I never uberpooled.”

You tilt your head up at him, “Yeah. I get that. That would be like, well maybe not a Beatle but like a second tier marvel actor uber pooled.”

“Thanks,” he says sarcastically, “It’s like I just read celebrity mean tweets for fun.” 

“You're welcome.” You do a little bow. “Does that work for you? Hell’s kitchen?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Hey, do you mind if I take off my mask? I’m good either way.”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” you wink, lowering your mask over your chin. “I’m ready for the black plague to take me if I don’t have to work 8 hours while wearing a mask.”

“That bad?”

“No. It’s more annoying than anything. Not as bad as summer when I’d start dripping sweat.”

“Gross,” Timothée says. “TMI dude.”

So of course you keep going, “it would pool on my top lip and there’d be a damp spot.”

When he shakes his head at you while laughing, you can see his smile. It’s ridiculous how easy you feel yourself getting flustered over him. Timothée runs a hand through his curls and you melt. 

“That was me in the desert,” he admits, “cold air’s better for it,” Timothée tells you, “and then in the summer!”

“Poor you.” You giggle, “truly suffering out here. I’m getting cards thrown at me but you,” you point at him,  “have it bad.”

“Do you get that a lot,” he looks worried. 

“Sometimes. I feel like it doesn't really matter where I work, there's shit customers everywhere. Like they are either the type to be nice or they’re not. The type to tip or they don’t no matter if you get on your hands and knees.”

“That really sucks.”

“It’s not forever,” you tell him, “I’ll finish school and go get shit in some other work where I can sit down. It’s the little things.”

“That’s depressing.”

“I like what I’m studying,” you shrug, “I just don't know what I’ll do with it.” 

“Did you move to New York for school?”

“Yeah, I did. Nothing fancy, I just came for community college from upstate and transferred to a four year. Cheaper.”

“I would’ve liked to keep studying. There were a lot of cool classes that looked interesting.”

“Right! But it’s like I have to do my major classes so I can’t just take whatever I want. Pre-Columbian History of North America sounds so cool, but I don’t technically need it.” 

Timothée looks down at his phone, “hey, don’t hate me-”

“What?”

“The Uber just cancelled,” he winces looking up. 

“What.” You look up at the sky, “the universe is fucking with me tonight.”

“You know what makes everything better,” he grins at you.

You raise a brow, “what?” Curious.

“New York pizza.”

“Scar’s or?”

“I think Joe’s is nearby,” he tilts his head thinking, “and it closes late as fuck.”

“Yeah. It’s a short walk,” then laugh, “I’m a New Yorker with my ‘short walks’ when it's like thirty fourty minutes.”

“You couldn’t do it in LA so it’s nice. You can walk around most major cities in Europe.”

“Never been. I was supposed to but then this whole Covid thing messes up my plans.”

“Oh shit,” Timothée goes, “where were you going to go?”

“Germany. For the clubs and museums. You know.”

“EDM rave type,” he asks, “or,”

“I love a good trance night. The club with the disco shark,” you grin, “though is there anything like a house party where you all show up to class hungover and it’s like ‘I see you’.” 

“Showing up to class? You’re so responsible,” he makes fun of you, “Paris is fun for a night out too.”

“Let me call up my private jet then.”

“Oh fuck you.”

You laugh with Timothée. 

Joe’s is dead at this time of night so you both grab a slice of pizza and, “Yes, coffee,” you cry excitedly because you are cold. 

You hold it in both hands urging feeling to return to your fingertips. 

“Don’t knock it until you watch it,” Timothée says as he takes a huge bite of his slice. You rip part of the crust off like it’s a croissant and fuck yeah, this sort of makes up for the MTA being shitty and Ubers hating your guts. 

“I’m still scarred for life from the Johnny Depp remake so no thanks,” you melt from how quickly the warmth of the coffee fills you up and his knees knocking against yours. You’ve only known him for hours but you fall into step with him like you’ve known him for years. It’s finally meeting up with your group the night before it’s due and going through the five stages of friendship in six hours. “I’ll pass.”

“I’m not saying I’ll be better than Gene Wilder, I’m not a monster.”

“Sure,” you tease, “you’ll just scar another generation with your remake. I don’t want to know anything about the oompa loompas.”

Timothée laughs, “I’m hurt.”

“If you want I can lie.” You wipe tomato sauce from the corners of your mouth before starting, “It’s a game changer. Best actor. That scene with the chocolate really moved me,” you pretend to wipe away tears, “and the oompa loompas!”

“Better than. . .”

“Better than Johnny Depp. Ha, I had you.”

“It’s Gene Wilder.”

“Young Frankenstein is a classic,” you agree. “The boat scene still gets me. Someone should make that a roller coaster or something.”

“Coney Island?”

“That could work though I feel like you go to Coney Island to say you’ve been. That’s what I did with Times Square. Me and this girl who moved here from Indiana. It was a very is this it by the strokes moment.”

Timothée laughs, “no. you’re totally right. It’s Piccadilly circus all over again. Just a bunch of billboards. And signs. Broadway is fun though. I’ve seen Phantom every time my aunt flies over from France and it still slaps.”

“I,” you put a hand over your chest as you sit up straight, “go see my school’s theater stuff. Support your community or whatever.”

“Hey,” he knocks his knee against yours on purpose, “theater was hit hard by the pandemic.” 

“I believe you. I just don’t see the point of paying broadway prices. I’d see like a good play. . .Oh or Hamlet. I love Hamlet.”

“Slave Play,” he arches a brow.

“Isn’t that the one Kanye West went to?”

Timothée gives you an are you for real look and says, “that’s been popping off since before the pandemic.”

“You got me,” you blush, shielding your eyes with a hand, “I’m uncultured, only auteur Michael Bay movies. And Fast and the Furious when I want some philosophy.” 

Like a chef, Timothée pinches his fingers together in the air, “it’s about family.”

You giggle. 

He smiles. 

“What makes me feel real old is realizing Kanye West isn’t the most relevant anymore like he was during Watch the Throne,” you muse, “the kids don’t know.”

“Boomer.” He wiggles his brows.

“Asshole.” You crumple a clean napkin and throw it at him.

Timothée laughs. “It’s all about Kid Cudi, ASAP Rocky, Tyler the Creator  now.”

“I raise you Frank Ocean.”

“That’s almost most R&B.”

You sing a bit of TLC, “don’t go chasing waterfalls.” You drink more of your coffee. It could be any random bodega cup and that’s what you love about it. 

“You ready to go,” Timothée asks, “I saw a couple of cabs drive by outside. I’m protesting Uber now.”

“Until you’re coming back from the club and need a ride,” you grin.

“True. But for now,” he spreads his hands out with a smile and shrug.

“Um, I don’t think I can get up.” You slump in the booth, kicking your feet up on the bench he was sitting on. “My feet are dead.”

“I’ll carry you,” he smirks. 

You look him over. Sure, he was tall, but you could carry four plates, a whole tray full of drinks, “I’ll carry you.” You lift your arm and flex. 

“Damn,” he cows, resting his hand on your calf and the feel of his large hand on your leg, even over the fabric of your black trousers, is a hot spark of electricity. Your mouth feels all cottony as you smile at him, flustered. 

“Too bad about the epic food baby,” you pat your belly, regaining your footing. You had some belly rolls from all the delicious food a stone’s throw from your apartment. Tacos did damage. 

Timothée bites his bottom lip, “well, New York pizza is the best,” he smirks, shifting so he’s leaning towards you, arms on the table. 

Neither of you make a move to leave. 

“Hard to argue with that,” you nod, looking into his eyes. You loved the muddy green of them. He had such an expressive face, it was hard to look away, it was hard not to smile back at him.

“Where to?” The cabbie asks. His accent was thick middle eastern. 

You’re about to give your cross streets when Timothée cuts in, sitting next to you even though there was more than enough room and you’re not mad. You like having his leg against yours. You liked having his hand on your knee and being able to smell the crisp linen scent of him that held just a hint of earthy patchouli that was probably weed. You leaned into his side.

“Times Square.”

You look over at him, “really?”

“It’s 1 am. It’s dead,” he points out, “why not? Unless you want to go home?”

“No,” you shake your head, deciding to go with it if it meant stretching out the time you had with Timothée for a while more. “Let’s do it when it’s not infested with tourists.”

“Okay fake New Yorker.”

“Hey! I’m from upstate. New Yorker with a soft -er.” 

He laughs, “bullshit. That’s a whole other place.”

“I trudged through a flooded subway,” you argue back. 

Timothée leans in close, “okay, that’s pretty hardcore New York, but,” he glances down at your lips and you think about cutting him off entirely, “do you know how to hop over the turnstyle?”

“Every college kid knows how,” you utter back with a smirk, “nothing like being broke and choosing between a breakfast bagel or putting money on the metrocard.”

The cab meter runs up a total but because it’s money night, the streets are pretty empty. It’s a scene out of Taxi Driver without Robert De Nero going crazy. 

Timothée closes the last bit of distance between you, pressing you against the seat as he kisses you. 

You waste no time in kissing him back, threading your hands through his hair before resting them against the back of his neck. You play with his curls as he pulls your bottom lip with his teeth before asking, “is this okay?”

“More than okay,” you breath out, running your tongue over his mouth for a moment before Timothée parts his lips and then you’re both making out in the back of the cab. His tongue explores your mouth. He runs it against your own tongue as he trails a hand up your hip to palm your breast, coping a feel. 

You suck on his tongue, smiling into him when he groans against you. 

Fuck.

Timothée’s exhale warms you cheek as he kisses you hard. It’s not rough so much as intense. He knows what he’s doing and he wants you. It’s knowing the cab ride would end and he’d have to let you go so he’s going to devour as much of you as he can between the street lights and turns. 

You welcome the feel of his chest against yours, wanting nothing more than to go on kissing him in the liminal space that was a cab ride. 

Timothée nips your lip before pressing a wet kiss against the skin by the corner of your mouth, lingering as you catch your breath. He doesn’t pull away, smiling against your skin before kissing your jaw, “you’re so fucking beautiful.”

“Oh man,” you tease, “and here I thought it was my amazing sense of humor.”

He laughs, pressing a sweet kiss against your mouth which you eagerly return. 

You’re hyper aware his hand is still splayed over your breast, sending shivers down your spine at the potential of it all. You want to know how warm his fingers would be against your bare skin, hot and heavy, how his tongue would feel against your nipples. 

You swallow hard before Timothée’s kiss blots out everything. The world boils down to you and him, and the back of the cab. 

You stroke his tongue with your own, venturing into him. It’s hot. You get lost in the taste of him. Your hand runs down his chest and fuck when you feel the flex of his abdomen, the movement of his body falling under your spell, leaning towards you helplessly. 

It’s a moment; it’s a lifetime. 

You could spend the whole night just making out with him. It would be enough. 

“That’ll be-,” the cabbie interrupts.

Timothée is shameless, only leaning back far enough to get his card, tapping it to pay, still pressed against you.

You rest your head against the window, looking out into the glowing ads towering as Times Square welcomes you into its kitch embrace. The cool glass helps your head stop spinning from how aflame your skin is. 

You feel every movement he makes.

“Thanks man,” Timothée tells the cab driver. “Have a good night,” he adds like the nice man he is. 

The idea that he might fuck you in the back of a cab and then thank the driver like nothing’s happened goes straight to your core. You want him to fuck you, and if you’re being honest, that is where this night is headed. 

You’re just not sure how Times Square fits into it.

Timothée presses a soft kiss against your throat, “come on babe.” His smile is smug, aware of his effect on you.

You roll your eyes, sitting up and popping open the door. “Not sure this counts as a good thing,” you comment. New Yorker’s avoided this place like the plague. 

Right now it's pretty dead. 

There’s still people hawking their wares on the streets, thirty dollar I <3 New York sweaters, shirts, and keychains. 

“It’s kind of nice,” he tries, looking around, up at the huge Hamilton advertisement though you doubted that musical needed the publicity after it had gone supernova. “In a fever dream kind of way?”

You tilt your head with a hum, walking around as he trails after you, “I think Rockerfeller center and the Statue of Liberty live up to the hype. Central Park too but I’m always down to lay on the grass in a good park, central or not.”

“Listen to how someone got brutally murdered?” Timothée bumps his shoulder against yours. “Or how democracy is fucked?” 

“Don’t even joke about that! I streamed all of It could happen here, this podcast about how america could go into a civil war and I didn’t leave my house for a month after the election. No. I think I need to stick to listening to Cobra Starship for my own mental health.”

“That is a throwback.” He grins, before looking down at his phone, “Here,” he clicks something and his headphones blare out Good Morning from Singing in the Rain at a volume you can hear. 

Timothée watches carefully for your reaction, looking like an adorable puppy waiting for a treat after shaking your hand with his paw. 

“Ah, I see what you did there,” you laugh and he steps towards you, taking your hands in his. Timothée leans into you, “you’re so fucking smooth,” you tell him. It was true. 

“Thank you,” he grins, “I do try.”

“Aren’t you supposed to lie and go all I don’t even try?”

He laughs with you, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek as Debbie Reynolds sings and then he’s spinning you on the sidewalk in a bad dance because you weren’t expecting it and also can’t dance if it’s not Doja Cat style. You laugh harder as he goes “Buenos dias,” along to the song and you think this is the closest thing to love at first sight you’ve ever experienced. You're also old enough to know how rare a connection like this is and it’s likely the only time you’ll ever find yourself half in love with a man hours after meeting him as you dance with Timothée in Times Square and no one even looks your way. 

He buys you a cheap keychain.

Timothée asks if you want to get a hotel room. 

The balcony has a view. 

If you lean out just so you can see Times Square but you can’t really hear it. “I have class in a few hours,” you tell him even as you kick off your shoes and collapse in the bed. 

He tosses his puffer and hoodie on a chair. “I’ll wake you up.” 

“Oh yeah,” you arch a brow imagining you looked sexy like the kind of vixen men got on their knees for instead of a barely floating young adult that smelled like restaurant burnt oil. 

Timothée nods, earnest, “yeah.” He kicks his sneakers off and joins you in bed. 

There’s no pretense. 

His knees on either side of your hips, Timothée kisses you passionately, pressing you against the sheets and you melt against him, arching your back as you dig your nails into his shoulders. 

He slides a hand under your shirt.

It sends a shiver down your sound that has nothing to do with the cold night.

“Your cold,” he utters agaisnt your skin, trailing kisses down your neck hard, bruising your soft skin, leaving his mark on you. 

“Sweater didn’t cut it,” you pull him down farther on you, enjoying the press of his chest on yours. 

“You should’ve told me,” he tells you, worry coloring his voice, “I would’ve given you my jacket.”

“I can think of another way you can warm me up,” you say, cringing at how you sound but he’s into it, laughing as he tilts his head up to yours, capturing your mouth in a kiss that’s all intimacy, that means so much on it’s own. 

Then his hands are popping the buttons of your button down, “as much as I love a woman in uniform,” he grins, sitting back as your shirt falls to your sides. Your bra is boring. 

White so it doesn’t contrast against your work shirt.

You giggle, “you should’ve seen me on halloween.”

“Yeah?”

“Black Widow,” you wink, tugging on the hem of his shirt.

Timothée obliges, pulling off his long sleeves short with some graffiti logo in neon colors. He tosses it before bending back over you, running his hands up your sides and squeezing your breasts.

You moan. 

Fuck his touch felt so good against your skin. There was something so delicious about something as simple as contact that was working you up as he kisses your mouth, swallowing the sounds you make while feeling your breasts, his fingers sliding over your nipples. 

Fuck.

Thank god for the small things. Your bra unclips from the front. 

As much as you want to fuck him, kissing him is to amazing to rush. You lose yourself in his lips, cupping his jaw with your hand and feeling his back flex under your other hand. 

Red paints his face, flushed and just as heady as you feel when you look up at Timothée. “Tell me what you want,” he begs in a choked whine. 

A certain thread of everyday bossiness comes to a head in the bedroom, you tell him, “I want your mouth on my breasts. Your mouth’s so fucking good Timothée,” you mummer wantonly. 

His nimble fingers unclasp your bra and he runs his tongue over your breast, massaging your other with his long fingers. You throw your head back as he finally takes your nipple into his mouth and sucks. 

“Just like that,” you tell him, carding a hand through his curls, “you’re making me feel so good!”

You moan from his ministrations, the heat almost unbearable. Your toes curl and you’re wearing way too many clothes still. 

With a wet pop, Timothée looks up at you, “you want me to fuck you? I’m going to make you feel so good baby,” he says all husky and worked and you believe him. He’s already making you come undone for him. You’re putty in his hands with his smooth words and entrancing smiles. “My dick’s going to make you feel so fucking good.”

“Yes,” you manage with a whine, “please, fuck, I need your dick! I want it so bad! I want you…”

He pulls back. You fumble with your trousers wanting them off. You wanted Timothée so bad. 

This wasn’t some I guess you’ll do one night stand, or alcohol fuelled horniness. 

You wanted him. Fullstop.

His sweats come off easy and then he’s helping you out of your trousers. His touch lingers and then Timothée is pulling down the hem of your cotton underwear. 

“Fuck,” he says looking down at you and then he goes, “fuck, I think I’ve got a condom in my wallet.” He shuts his eyes looking sheepish and reluctantly gets off you.

You sit up on your elbows, “I thought you were smooth,” you tease him.

Timothée grins back, looking through his wallet and making a mess, “see what you do to me!” He gestures down. His dick was hard. 

You laugh, sitting up on your knees and you meet him halfway with a kiss. 

He moans into your mouth with want and by now you’re all worked up. Wet for him. You’ve never felt sexier than you do in the moment, you’ve never felt more wanted then when his hands squeeze your ass. 

You lay back on the bed, knees welcoming Timothée. 

He slots himself between your legs, stopping to press a soft kiss on your knee before lining up his dick at your entrance and pushing inside you.

“Fuck, you feel so fucking good. So wet for me,” he mutters, head thrown back and he shuts his eyes. 

He filled you up so well, stretching you out around him. 

You love seeing how much you affect him. 

But you want more.

You cross your legs around his waist and urge him down towards you. 

Timothée’s lips meet yours and he finally moves, thrusting into your. His hips against yours. His hands caressing you, trying to get enough of you but he can’t. It’s driving you crazy, how he seems to have swallowed you up. 

In that moment, you don’t know anything but Timothée as he fucks you, the matress shifting, making you moan into his mouth. He takes it all from you, smothering the noises you make from how good he feels inside you, against you, with his lips. 

You whine, his name all you can think about. Timothée is all you can think about as the heat inside you becomes unbearable. Your core is ready to burn right through you. 

Timothée breaks away and you try to catch your breath as he thrusts hard. 

He places his hand over your abdomen, pulling out so that only the head of his dick is still inside your pussy. 

You rake your nails lightly down his back, leaving marks. “Please, fuck me. I need you.”

He smirks, pressing his hand against you, “I know. I know. I’m going to make you come all over my dick. That’s what you want isn’t it?”

“Yes, fuck yes!”

Timothée strokes into you slowly, savoring how your pussy takes every inch of him greedily. You can see the bulge in your lower belly as he fills you up. The feeling is intensified by his hand pushing down, feeling himself inside you.

“You take my dick so well babe,” he utters, moaning. “Fuck.”

Something seems to snap. 

Building up the pleasure in both of you comes to a head and Timothée buries his head in the crook of your neck, kissing and sucking at your collarbone, larving his tongue over the valley of your breasts that he leaves marked with his teeth. 

His thrusts become quick and erratic and fuck. The room is filled with your moans and the wet sound of sex and his balls slapping against you as he pumps into you. 

Fuck. 

It’s too much. 

You’re senseless in a feverish haze of desire and Timothée and the heat in your core crashes over you like a wave dragging you under. You feel so fucking good. 

You feel weightless and all fucked out in the best way. 

Lost in your orgasam, your pussy clenches around him and it’s all he needs to finally send him over the edge. 

He comes.

Timothée collapses on top of you, his name the only thing on his lips. 

Your breathing is labored.

The post orgamic bliss might as well be the sensation of your first ever edible hitting. 

He rolls off of you, “was that as good for you as it was for me?”

“Oh,” you manage, not sounding as sarcastic as you want when you look at him and partially swoon. Was it love or a really good fuck? “That’s a loaded question.”

“Give me a second,” he smiles at you, “and we can go again. Just to double check.”

You laugh. 

Timothée’s still there in the morning, waking you for a class you end up missing when you’d much rather be in bed with him. 

“So,” he says lazily, “you want to grab breakfast or should I get your number first?”

“Are those the only options,” you ask, pressing a soft kiss to his chest. 

You don’t need to tell him twice. 

He adds his number to your phone TiMo-THaY while you take a break from having sex and order room service. 

#Timothee Chalamet #timothée chalamet x reader #timothée chalamet imagine #timothée chalamet #timothée imagine #timothée x you #nolita nights #me trying to write smut

[flareish]

Anxiety

kuroo x reader

summary: you hide your anxiety from basically everyone including your boyfriend, until he finds out for himself

genre: hurt/comfort

warnings: Emetophobia Warning! description of nausea/vomit, anxiety, bit of angst but ends in fluff

word count: 2.0k

a/n: I tried to make this as close to my anxiety since I hadn’t known anyone with my kind of anxiety(symptom wise) until I was seventeen, which was a good ways into when I realized I had anxiety. So here is some nausea anxiety representation!

masterlist

You tap your fingers in a mindless rhythm. Alternating the fingers and repeating them back and forth, trying to make it a game, a challenge. You did this over and over again to distract yourself from that all too familiar sinking feeling. That feeling like your stomach has managed to twist and knot itself a million times. Each bump of the bus made acid crawl up your throat. You crunched a mint in your mouth hoping the peppermint would soothe some of the nausea. It didn’t, but the thought was there. You just will yourself not to throw up on the bus, anything but that. The thought in itself makes you even more nervous, and in turn even sicker.

You don’t even know why you are anxious. Today is Kuroo’s big game, but it isn’t yours. You’ve been to a hundred of his games before but never before did you feel like this. Normally you get cute little butterflies, not an angry swarm of bees. The worst part is, there is Kuroo sat next to you happy as can be, completely oblivious. He keeps trying to drag you into conversations but you fear if you open your mouth for too long, all that will come up is vomit. So you keep your mouth firmly closed only smiling tightly or shaking your head at his prompts.

It's not exactly his fault though. He doesn’t actually know you have anxiety. It’s not something you really like to talk about. You are all for promoting the acceptance of mental health but you just find every time you tell someone the dynamic changes. Either they flat out don’t believe you since you “don’t seem like the type with anxiety”. Well duh, I don’t have social anxiety, I have situational anxiety. Like here in this situation. That or they suddenly treat me like I am incapable of handling myself. That whenever a slightly stressful event comes up, I am going to melt into a puddle of pure anxiety. Sorry but I’ve made it this far, I may have to throw up a few times on the way but I am still making it. 

So you just haven’t told Kuroo. You're just nervous that it will change the dynamic. You also don’t want to steal his spotlight. Today is supposed to be all about him. It's his big game. To suddenly speak up and tell him that his game is giving you anxiety would be selfish. So like you always have, you put a brave face on and face it head-on.

“Hey, are you okay?” Kuroo asks you, now facing you, “You look a little pale.”

“Hmm?,” You also turn to look at him, “Oh I am just a bit tired that’s all. I will be fine in an hour or so.” You hope at least. He nods relieved it's not something worse. 

You finally pull into the stadium and everyone is pushing their way off the bus. Luckily Kuroo is right by you to make sure you don't get accidentally pushed down the bus stairs and trampled. The team makes it’s to the bulletin board where they are given their matchups. Nekoma is paired with a pretty hard team. Suddenly, out of nowhere, you dry heave. You knew at the point you were going to throw up and within the next few minutes. 

“Hey I think I left something in the bus I’ll be right back.” You say to Kuroo before dashing off. He goes to reply but you are already gone. 

You make it around the back of the building before you throw up. At this point you’re kinda out of it, your mind is occupied on emptying your already empty stomach. Then you feel someone pull your hair back and gently rub your back. You don’t even have to look up to know it’s Kuroo. When you finish he hands you his water bottle.  You waterfall it and rinse your mouth out of that acidic taste. 

“What’s going on are you okay?” Kuroo asks full of concern. You hesitate for a moment, thinking of telling the truth. Then you remember this is supposed to be his day. 

“Sorry I must have caught a stomach bug.” He doesn’t completely buy it so you quickly add to it.

“I didn't feel great on the bus but I just thought it was because I was tired.” You feel bad lying, “I also don’t want to distract you before your game.” At that Kuroo quickly pulls you into a hug, “Your not a distraction, I just want to make sure you’re okay.” Your cheek is pressed against his chest and your hands grip the front of his shirt. 

“We should probably head back.” You mumble.

“Yeah.” He leans down to kiss you but you duck away. He looks incredibly offended and hurt at this.

“Dude I just threw up I don’t know if you want to do that.” 

“…Point.”

The two of you head back inside to the team, you feeling much better after throwing up. Before you know it, the competition has begun and Nekoma has won. You run down and celebrate with the team and it’s a happy day.

On the bus ride home Kuroo has a strange energy about him. Not like he’s mad more just like he’s just realized something. You nudge him and smile hoping to break him out of his little funk. He immediately smiles back and goes back to celebrating with the team. His reaction was almost like putting a mask on. You watch him for a moment before slipping into a conversation of your own.

When you make it back to school you go your separate ways. Him going to shower, and you to get home before it gets too late. A big hug before pushing away. You still refusing to kiss him after throwing up earlier in the day. 

You are laying on your bed, exhausted. Anxiety really takes a toll on your energy. Your thoughts are broken when your phone chimes with a text.  Leaning over to grab your phone off your bedside table you see it is from Kuroo. 

“Can you come over? I want to talk.”

No cute pet names. No slowly easing into it. Actually using proper grammar. Nothing in that message was a good sign. Just “I want to talk” was enough to make the acid begin to crawl again. You knew it had to be about today. Especially after you saw him zoning out on the bus. It had to be your anxiety episode. You knew he wouldn’t be happy you lied but going to this extent. Like he just found out you have anxiety and this is what he hits you with? The world’s most nerve-wracking text message. The only worse place than this would be “we need to talk”. That’s when you have really screwed up. So maybe you’ve only minorly screwed up since he said want not need. Does that mean you have the choice to say no? That was kind of tempting but you knew you would be tossing and turning all night thinking about what might be wrong. 

“Okay.” You reply to the text. Short and sweet. Putting on some shoes and grabbing a hoodie, you quietly slip out of your house. Kuroo’s house wasn’t too far but it was far enough. Enough to continue to stir in your intrusive and unstoppable thoughts. You eventually make it to his house and head in going straight for his room. Before you reach the door you hesitate and gather yourself. Preparing for whatever was about to come. 

When you go in you find Kuroo sat on the floor of his bedroom, back pressed against the bed. He jerkily looks up and you and gives you a tight smile. None of this is giving good signs. Something is very heavy on his mind. You sit down across from him, your back against the wall your feet almost touching. 

“So what was it you wanting to talk about.” You break the silence. He doesn’t respond for a moment. Just as you are about to try again he speaks up.

“Do you still love me?” Your face drops into confusion.

“Why wouldn’t I love you anymore?” You ask, suddenly realizing this wasn’t the conversation you were prepping yourself for. 

“You’ve been distant lately. You don’t tell me things like when you don’t feel good. I thought about it when I got home and I was wondering if you weren’t actually sick but just making the excuse because you got caught.” He’s very serious at the moment and his words hold a cold edge. 

“What do you mean get caught?” You match his tone. You weren’t planning on fighting but something about how he said it just set something off in you.

“You didn’t want to be there. Ever since this morning you were quiet and reserved. Even after the game, you wouldn’t even kiss me-”

“Yeah, cause I threw up! And how could I be faking it when I literally threw up.” You snap.

“You’ve been like this before though! Like last year’s big tournament you would barely talk to me.”

“That’s not true!” Although it kind of was just not the reason he thought.

“Oh yeah? What about at training camp you wouldn’t talk to me then either, you didn’t even eat with us you just sat on your own.” He threw back.

“Yeah, cause I have anxiety!” The words left your mouth before you knew it. Kuroo looked taken back.

“What?” His brow furrows, “Since when?” He’s not sure what to believe. You’re not surprised since you have worked very hard to hide it from everyone, accidentally sabotaging your own relationship without even knowing it. 

“Since forever. I just never told anyone.” You quietly say, ducking your head down.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” You didn’t even need to look up to see the hurt on his face, it was apparent in his voice. You start playing with your finger, tapping them in rhythms.

“I wanted to,” You mumble, “But whenever I do stuff changes and I didn’t want anything to change.” He shifts forward and you think he’s going to leave. Instead, he grabs your hands, stopping the pattern you had going. You look up.

“Did you think I would judge you?” He was staring straight into you, willing the truth to come out.

“Whenever I tell people they either don’t believe me and brush it off or treat me like I’m incapable of handling any amount of stress. I’ve never seen anyone react any differently so I was scared you would fall into one of those reactions and I didn’t know how I could handle that. I didn’t want my anxiety to be the thing to tear us apart. But I guess it still was.” By the end of your speech, your gaze has returned back to the floor, unable to hold eye contact for that long with him staring at you so strongly. You hear him sigh then you are pulled forward and into his arms. 

“I want to be your pillar of support. I want to be that third reaction that is one of acceptance, one that doesn’t drive you crazy.” He strokes your hair soothingly, his words making you tear up, “When you are ready I want you to tell me everything. From when you first noticed it, to where it is now, to how you deal with it, everything.” By now you are fully crying, absolutely collapsed into his chest. “I love you so much.” It gets muffled in his shirt but he hears it.

“I know, and I love you.”

It would take some time for Kuroo to get used to this change but slowly but surely he will be different from the rest and he will support you no matter what. Although he also respects your strength and knows you can handle your anxiety on your own, he is always there when you need it. He becomes the third unexpected and unheard-of reaction; acceptance.

#haikyuu imagines #haikyuu oneshot #haikyuu #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x reader #nekoma #kuroo #kuroo fluff #kuroo tetsuro imagine #kuroo tetsuro oneshot #kuroo scenarios #kuroo hurt/comfort #kuroo x reader #hq kuroo

[heroloverangel]

Cloud City

We interrupt your regularly-scheduled filth for some surprise Sad Boy Hours.

You’re six years old when Oboro Shirakumo drops into your life. Quite literally, in fact.

It’s your first day of school, and you’re terrified. Your family only moved to this city a few weeks ago, and you haven’t had a chance to meet any of the other kids in the neighborhood. So here you stand in the school yard, shyly watching from behind a tree as your new classmates play together. You’re lonely, but too nervous to approach them. Your tiny mind is on the verge of a breakdown and you can feel the sting of tears in your eyes. “Don’t cry,” you whisper to yourself. “I’m not a baby, don’t cry.” You sniffle, but your train of thought is interrupted by the sound of a twig snapping above you.

There’s a boy floating on a cloud several feet over your head, one hand grasping a branch to keep himself steady. “Hi!” He grins down at you, and you look back with wide eyes. “I’m Oboro! Wanna be friends?” You gawk up at him; you’ve never seen a quirk like that before. Even his hair looks like a fluffy cloud in the breeze. 

“Okay,” you agree after a few more seconds of confused staring. Your new friend gives you a thumbs up, immediately loses his focus, and the cloud dissipates underneath him. Both of you scream as he comes crashing to the ground, landing on your back. You’re rewarded with some impressive scrapes to both your knees, and him with both his front teeth knocked out. You’re inseparable from that moment on.

You’re the best of friends through elementary, but things begin to change once you hit middle school. It’s cute when you’re six and happily tell your parents that you’re going to get married when you grow up. It’s just awkward when you hit puberty and start to discover that your feelings for your best friend suddenly aren’t so cute anymore. The two of you grow apart with separate friends and different interests, but still make it a priority to walk home together every day. 

“High school admissions are due soon,” he points out during one of these walks. It’s been storming all day, and the two of you huddle under the same umbrella in a half-hearted attempt to stay dry. He’s hit a growth spurt over the years and towers above you now; it’s hard for both of you to stay out of the rain if you’re not nestled suspiciously close together. “You figure out where you’re applying yet?”

You shrug, stepping wide to avoid a puddle that he ignores. “Probably just Endor. It’s close, and they’ve got a pretty decent reputation.” You nudge him with your shoulder. “You’re going for UA, right?”

It’s never been a secret that Shirakumo wants to be a hero, and there’s no doubt in your mind that he’ll be great at it. He stops walking and you look at him, surprised to see his expression so discouraged.. “Yeah, of course. You’re not? Their general studies class is supposed to be one of the best, too.”

You glance away. “Too much pressure, I think. And it’d be hard, going to school in a different city where I wouldn’t know anyone.”

“You’ll know me.” You’ve both had a grip on the umbrella, but now his fingers wrap tightly around your hand and squeeze.

“Oboro…” You’re not used to him having such a serious look on his face, his eyes wide and unblinking as they stare into yours.

“Come with me.” It’s not an order, it’s a plea, and your chest feels tight at the thought of disappointing him. You swallow hard and nod. It won’t hurt to apply, you think. You probably won’t even get in.

Shirakumo pushes a stray strand of hair out of your face and leans down to press his lips against yours. Your first kiss isn’t perfect; his neck is bent at an uncomfortable angle to make up for your height difference, your nose bumps awkwardly into his as you shift, a car drives by too fast and splashes both of you with frigid water. Still, when he pulls away his smile is as warm and bright as the sun. You’ll gladly follow him to UA. You’ll gladly follow him to hell and back if it makes him happy.

He’s accepted into the hero course without a problem, but you make him promise that he’ll go even if you fail. You’re more shocked than anyone when you open the envelope to find an acceptance letter welcoming you to UA, and you finally allow yourself to feel excited. You’ll be going to the best school in the country, and you’ll be there with your favorite person in the world. For the first time you won’t be in the same class, but you’ll still be close enough to watch him reach his dreams. 

The first few weeks of high school are a whirlwind of chaos before you settle into a routine. You have to be at the train station before dawn; every morning Shirakumo meets you outside your house, still half-asleep and groggy as you walk. You split something simple for breakfast most days while you ride. When you’re lucky enough to find two open seats together, you can manage a well-deserved nap slumped against each other’s shoulders. Your classes are tough but with enough effort you manage to do well once you form a study group going with the other girls in your class. They’re friendly, and they’re both impressed and jealous to learn that you’re already dating a hero student. They swoon when he appears at your side on the first day of school to buy you lunch, and you can’t help but gloat just a little at your good fortune.

The hero course is even busier than general studies, and you don’t get to see much of your boyfriend during school hours. It’s nearly a month into the term before he catches sight of you at lunch again and practically sprints over, flanked by two classmates you recognize from the stories he’s told you on the ride home every day. “Guys,” he grins and throws an arm around your shoulder. “This is my girl! The one I’ve been telling you about.” Your heart skips a beat at being called his girl, and knowing he’s been gushing about you to his friends. Yamada’s a bright, loud ball of energy when he introduces himself, while Aizawa barely mumbles his name and looks like he’s been dragged over against his will. They both seem nice, and you’re happy he’s found some good friends to work with.

Everything goes surprisingly well for your first year at UA, and your second seems like it’ll be just as good. It’s late one night, several months into the school year, when you’re woken by a tapping at your bedroom window. This isn’t the first time Shirakumo’s snuck you out of your house, but the window gets harder to crawl out of every year and you’re glad that graduation isn’t too far off. “Hey, come look at the stars with me. They’re really pretty tonight.” It’s not like he needs to give you the excuse, but you can see he has a point.

Ten minutes later you’re laying on a cloud together, floating a few feet over the power lines in your neighborhood. It’s cold up there, and you cuddle together for warmth as you watch the stars overhead. You know more about the sky than him, and he’s happy to listen while you point out a few things above you. A chilly breeze blows through your thin pajamas and makes you shiver, and he pulls you in closer to share his heat. “Was all of this just an excuse to get me alone up here?” You laugh, kissing his smiling lips.

“Not all of it,” he jokes with a smirk. “We’re past the halfway point this year already. Just one more, can you believe it?” You curl up close and listen to him chatter about his big plans for the future. You’ve heard this all before; he’s always so excited about the idea of opening that hero agency with Aizawa and Yamada. “I figure we’ll do the sidekick think for awhile, work up some solid experience, y’know? Then it’ll be smooth sailing when we break off on our own after that. Four, maybe five years?” You nod, running your fingers through his familiar fluffy hair. “And then once things settle with the agency, we can get married if you want,” he announces with only the faintest blush betraying his nerves.

“Oboro, what?” You bolt into a sitting position, gawking at him with wide eyes. Sure you’ve thought about the future you might have together, but the two of you have never talked about it before. “You can’t just spring that on me out of nowhere!”

He folds his arms behind his head, totally unconcerned. “It’s not really out of nowhere, is it? You know I’ve been in love with you since we were six, right?”

This boy is ridiculous. “Me too, but still! Isn’t this a little sudden? There’s so much more to talk about if you want to get married.”

He shrugs. “Like I said, it won’t be for a couple of years. We’ve got plenty of time to talk it over.” He grabs your hand and pulls you back down to rest your head against his chest. “I’ll wait for you, as long as you want.” You stay like this for a few minutes, mulling the proposal over in your head. “Just think about it for a couple years, okay?”

Slowly, you nod. “Okay.” You’re already warming up to the thought of marrying him. You’re seventeen, and you’ve been together for eleven years now. You can give him another five. Or ten. Or fifty, if that’s what he wants. In your heart you already know you’ve decided on an answer, and you murmur it into his ear later as he’s helping you climb back through the window into your bedroom. He’s beaming with happiness as he kisses you goodnight and flies off. You’re too giddy with love to sleep the rest of the night.

If you’d known what was coming only a week later, you never would have said goodbye. He promised to call you after his internship the night before, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d fallen asleep instead as soon as he got home. You’re not worried until he doesn’t show up in the morning to walk with you, even after you call him twice with no answer and wait until the last possible minute to leave on your own. You arrive at school just as the final bell rings, and it’s a bit of a relief when you catch a glimpse of Aizawa looking even more tired than he normally does. They must have had a really tough time on their patrol, you assume, and Oboro just decided to take a well-deserved day off.

Your day is uneventful until lunch, when you hear your name called to the office. The principal sits there with your homeroom teacher and the counselor, all of them looking grim. A lump forms in your throat; you’ve got no idea what you could have done. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes. We understand that you’re particularly close with Oboro Shirakumo from the hero class.”

You nod. “Yeah, we’re dating. Um, actually we’re kind of engaged now, I guess?” Your stomach drops at the sad expressions facing you. “Did...did something happen? I haven’t seen him all day. Is he hurt?”

Nothing in the world could have prepared you for the answer. “He was killed in an encounter with a villain yesterday. I’m sorry for your loss.”

You want to argue, insist there’s been some mistake, but the words don’t come. A sudden sense of numbness sweeps through you as it sinks in, and it feels like everything within you shuts down. Your brain doesn’t process the voices offering you sympathy and compassion. Your lungs refuse to take in air. You’d swear that your heart itself stops beating in some attempt to defend itself. You’re not even aware of your movements as you stand and leave the room while your teachers are mid-speech. You need to get out of there. You need to be alone. You need to breathe, but you can’t. You’re on autopilot as you rush down the empty hall, if you can get up to the roof there’ll be fresh air-

Completely blinded by your grief, you collide hard with another body and almost fall before hands grab your shoulders to steady you. “Sorry,” you gasp through the lump in your throat. “I just-” You blink back your tears and stop when you recognize him. Up close, he looks even worse than usual. His eyes are red and hollow, the dark bags under them could pass as bruises. It’s obvious he hasn’t slept all night, you can practically feel the exhaustion radiating off of him. “Aizawa,” you croak, your voice cracking on the syllables. He doesn’t say anything, only gives your shoulder a squeeze, and something inside you completely breaks.

“Oboro, he’s...” is all you can manage through your tears. You fists ball into Aizawa’s jacket as you sob against his chest, and he doesn’t stop you. He knows there’s no comforting you; the only thing he can do is let you use his shirt as a tissue while you mourn. You’re vaguely aware that a bell rings to resume class, but you ignore it. You can’t bring yourself to do anything except cry until there’s nothing left, and he stands there holding your shoulders to keep you upright. It’s the best way anyone can help you right now.

An eternity later, you wear yourself out. Your throat feels raw, your eyes are burning, and your fingers hurt from the grip you’ve had on his uniform. “Thanks,” you manage out, and he nods silently. He’s not the most exciting, but you’ve always liked Aizawa’s calm personality as a match to your boyfriend’s unstoppable energy. Your own emotions are a train wreck, and you don’t think you could handle being around anyone else after that news. “I’m glad he had you,” you muse out loud.

“Thanks,” he says awkwardly with a shrug before fixing his wrinkled jacket. “You should get back to class.” Aizawa walks off before you can think of anything else to say.

You don’t go back to class. The other students have noticed something’s off, and rumors are beginning to spread around campus already that there’s a new, empty space in the hero course. You grab your bag and head for the exit as fast as you can, ignoring everyone else along the way. You spend the rest of the week at home; your parents allow it once they learn what happened. It’s a struggle to get through the first month without Shirakumo’s presence hanging over you like a cheerful little cloud, and the rest of the year doesn’t get any easier. Your friends do their best to console you, but it’s a losing battle when you feel his absence every minute of your day. It’s all too familiar, too easy to see the missing piece that’s been a part of your life for so long. You transfer to Shiketsu for your final year, where no one knows about Loud Cloud and you aren’t stuck going through a routine that’s been irreparably broken.

It’s an uphill fight. You force yourself to do well in school, because it’s what he’d want for you. You throw yourself into work and establish a good career, because it’s what he’d want for you. You make yourself move past your loss and date other men, because it’s what he’d want for you. By the time you’re 31 you’ve got a divorce under your belt, a sad excuse for a social life, and a cat with fluffy white fur; you loved him the moment you laid eyes on him. You’re not entirely satisfied with how your life has turned out, but it could be worse. You can go entire weeks now without thinking about him. Sometimes you wonder what kind of life the two of you would have, but you try not to dwell on those thoughts. 

You’ve had the day off and have spent it happily lounging around the house. You treat yourself to lunch and settle on your couch to watch a movie with your beloved cat when an unfamiliar number pops up on your phone. You answer without a second thought. “Hi, if you’re out of noodles, I can just get rice instead. It’s fine.”

There’s a beat of silence before the man confirms this is the correct number. You don’t immediately recognize his voice, but you’re sure you’ve heard it somewhere before. “I’m not with a restaurant. This is Aizawa, from...from UA, when we were younger.” You can tell he’s choosing his words carefully, and he continues. “We need to talk. It’s about Shirakumo.”

It’s surprising how hearing his name is enough to reopen wounds you thought healed years ago. You swallow nervously, fresh dread pooling in your gut. You can hear how hoarse your voice is when you answer. “Okay. I’m off today, if you want to meet.”

You’ve got a very bad feeling about what you’re about to learn.

#bnha x reader #oboro shirakumo x reader

[awkwardgtace]

Secret Brother Pt1

New OCs let's go. Trying out something idk if I'll write more with these guys. Realizing some bit of traumatic past seems required in my ocs so far.

TW: mentions of abandonment. Later parts will have mentions of a borrower being treated like a pet this is entirely painted in how fuckin wrong it is and how it added to the trauma.

Part 2 Part 3 (Final)

Secret Brother Part 1

Everything started when Mikhail’s students were talking about some weird happenings in their dorm. Things were going missing and a voice was heard commonly late at night. They started to say they thought it was haunted. He offered to host a study session to disprove anything, making sure to bring his shoulder bag. It was easy enough to leave open on the ground and should be tempting enough for the ‘ghost’ to climb in. He kept a close eye out and sat near a wall he thought he saw a crack in. He was starting to worry that this wouldn’t work, until he saw a small form climbing up the edge of his bag. He didn’t like doing this, but he knew the students in this dorm were more likely to share their discovery. They were being too obvious here, probably someone who just struck out on their own. Now the dorm ‘ghost’ would be somewhere much safer and could learn the skills they needed.

Mikhail was anxious for the remainder of the session. He couldn’t be obvious for the sake of the one in his bag, and the others around him. He carefully placed his bag on his shoulder, opting to carry the books he’d used out as he continued speaking with the students. He rushed to his car, placing the bag safely on the floor of the passenger seat. He took the drive slower than normal, eyes constantly drifting to his bag. He parked and rushed straight to his door. Once inside he placed his bag on the ground, unzipped it, and pulled out a random book. He quickly walked off, settling down in a chair pretending to read. He was keeping an eye out for when his passenger left the bag. After an hour he decided to just leave the bag on the floor for a few days, give the little one time to get out.

It took a few days, but he finally heard the ‘ghost’ acting. It started with a clatter sound from his kitchen late at night. He held his breath, waiting for another sign. A voice that sounded somewhat young started mumbling. He wanted to get involved and help, but it’s never gone well in the past. He would just stay as an oblivious human and they could figure this all out. At least that was his promise to himself, but the little one was far from subtle. He could hear them talking to themselves on a daily basis, they were leaving messes, and worst of all they left trails back to their entrances. Mikhail had promised himself he wouldn’t get involved anymore, but he couldn’t leave this. He sighed, gathering what he needed to help out the inexperienced borrower.

He faked a phone call claiming he’d be gone for a few days then left shutting the door loudly. He went around to the back of his house, pulling out a fishing hook with a line attached and hanging it on the windowsill of the kitchen window. He’d left it open just enough someone the size of his guest could squeeze through. He focused on the feeling he’d grown used to over the years and watched the world slowly grow around him. In only a few seconds the world towered around him. He started climbing quickly, a little out of practice since he’d gotten his size under control.

He squeezed through the open window, reminding himself to open it just a bit more next time. Once inside he froze, he never once considered the borrower might recognize him. He considered squeezing out the window again, but was stopped before taking a step. He heard a small clatter, and saw a poorly made paper clip hook fail to catch. He heard a groan from below as the paper clip fell from the counter. He just had to hope they wouldn’t notice the similarities between the human they were living with and the new borrower in the house. He took a steadying breath then marched to the edge of the counter. The borrower was already murmuring to themselves, it was clearly a problem.

“You know you’ll get caught talking to yourself like that right?” he called down. The source of the failed hook screamed, clearly not expecting anyone to be here. Mikhail hadn’t been wrong, this was definitely a kid. They were probably a teenager, and honestly didn’t look like they’d had an easy time. He took his own hook, placing it down and throwing the string off the edge. “Climb up and we can talk. Don’t want to be too loud in case the human is around.”

The kid had no hesitation climbing up, that much trust could be dangerous. Although most people this size trusted each other almost blindly. They were worn out and panting once they were at the top of the counter, clearly new to borrowing. Had he accidentally kidnapped a young curious kid? He’d find out if anyone else was there once he’d trained the kid a bit. He gave them another minute before finally starting with his plan.

“Kid, why were you making so much noise? Half of being a borrower is being quiet especially when out in the open.” he said. The kid opened their eyes and Mikhail realized he’d made a mistake. Their eyes were watery, they must have been terrified. The kid sniffled a bit as they finally got their breath back.

“I-I didn’t mean to,” they said, “my parents didn’t really teach me how to borrow yet. W-we were on our way to a new home when a storm hit and I got separated. I wound up here by accident. I climbed in the human’s bag, I thought I saw loose threads I could use, along with some food. Th-they closed the bag on me and I wound up in this house.”

“Where were you before?” Mikhail asked. He wondered if there was a chance he could find the kid’s parents at the school.

“I’m not sure, I was dragged by water for a long time. When I got out of it I-I ran to the first building I found. I’m pretty sure they got dragged away too...” the kid’s voice was quiet. They seemed to know they weren’t going to find their parents. It sounded like there may be more to the story the kid didn’t want to mention yet. Mikhail would do everything he could to make sure they could survive on their own. He was getting attached already and he hated it.

“Well I was planning to stay here for a few days before moving on again,” he started. “I can teach you the basics. I happen to know you picked a pretty good human to live with. This one doesn’t tend to investigate small noises, but he has gotten curious from times I took too much.”

“Wait wait, you'll teach me? W-why? Isn’t it better to just move on and leave me to whatever happens?”

“Who told you that?” Mikhail’s voice went icy. The kid lost their family and just needed some guidance.

“Well, I uh, I met other borrowers who always said that. Then my parents too...sometimes.”

Mikhail was ready to scream hearing that. He’d dealt with people like that a lot since he lost his parents. He wrapped his arm around the kid’s shoulders and pulled him into a half hug. They froze but soon melted into the contact, he started rubbing his arm on their arm to calm them. The kid started to cry and Mikhail just let them. He knew they were safe and later, he’d say they should be careful. He let them go as long as they wanted, he knew sometimes you just needed times like this. The kid was the first one to pull away, looking a bit ashamed as they did so.

“I’m sorry about that,” they said. “We were lucky the human didn’t come back, I could have gotten us both caught. I-if this is where you usually live I can leave. I don’t want to put you at risk.”

“I offered to teach you, didn't I? No one has to leave, besides I tend to be a bit more nomadic. My name is Mik, he and him,” he said.

“I-I,” the kid shook his head, “My name is Ian, he and him too, I think. Are you really all right to teach me?”

“Don’t worry about the he and him thing too much, if something else feels right just tell me, ok Ian?”

Ian nodded his head. Mikhail took the time to really assess him now that he didn’t have to worry about being an accidental kidnapper. He didn’t look like he’d had much to eat recently, although that wasn’t uncommon for borrowers. His clothes were a bit baggy, and needed some patching. Mikhail may try to pull some tricks with his shifting to get him some better clothes. Ian seemed to be at least a full inch shorter than Mikhail, which wasn’t reassuring if they ever met when he was human.

“Ian, how old are you?” he finally asked. He needed an idea before deciding the next steps.

“I-I’m seventeen, or well I’m almost seventeen.”

Mikhail nodded, a little surprised he was that old. Ian was just a teenager after all. He knew what to do then. First they’d make a better hook, then practice having it catch on tables and counters. Then how to grab supplies without leaving a trace. He’d leave him with the fish hook once the few days he gave himself were up. The fish hook and line is sturdier, and would last with fewer replacements longer. Perfect for someone still just learning, plus he could just start a collection of random hooks to leave out.

“All right, here's the plan,” Mikhail explained. It didn’t take more than that for Ian to get excited. He trailed behind Mikhail hanging on every word, mouthing the important things. Mikhail felt like he had a little brother with how this was going. He couldn’t deny that he was enjoying being with Ian like this. It’s been a while since he really spent time with people outside of work. By the time the weekend ended and ‘Mik’ had to move on, neither was happy with it. Mikhail knew Ian would get better without trouble, but he didn’t want to leave him alone.

They were sitting in Ian’s home, set up a lot better with the supplies they grabbed safely over two days. Ian had gotten into a habit of staying almost on top of Mikhail while in the home, like he thought he’d disappear. It left Mikhail with a sour feeling, knowing he had to leave the kid at least for the week. He jumped a little as that thought crossed his mind. He could, probably, keep this up on the weekends. Eventually Ian would see the human’s face and he may put two and two together, until then he could keep this up. He’d only come back until he was positive Ian wasn’t being reckless, if he went a week without seeing him then ‘Mik’ would come to say goodbye. It would work fine and then Ian wouldn’t have to deal with everything that’s happened alone.

“Can I go with you?” Ian asked, it knocked Mikhail from his thoughts. Mikhail looked at him with a sad smile shaking his head. “Why not? You said I was doing well. I can get used to being an outdoors borrower. Or, or just a traveling one or whatever. Please?”

“It’s too dangerous. Maybe when you’ve improved more. I don’t want you taking risks you don’t have to. I was told the same thing by the person who taught me everything,” Mikhail explained, he knew he couldn’t just abandon him. “I can try to come back though. I help keep some others connected, but I’ll come back, I promise.”

Ian grabbed him tight into a hug, the promise barely keeping him together. Mikhail knew it was a dumb idea, but he couldn’t do it. He’d promised himself not to get involved with borrowers again after the last time, but he never expected to find a kid who had no one. Once Ian could take care of himself he’d tell him the truth and then deal with the consequences. For now he’d help him stay safe. Ian fell asleep holding Mikhail in a tight hug. He knew he shouldn’t stay like this, but it was nice to be with someone else. After a few hours he knew he had to leave. It was Monday so he had to be a human again and go to work.

He slipped out of Ian’s grasp, careful not to wake him. Quietly he grabbed the hook that they’d fashioned out of some threads and a paper clip, leaving Ian the one that he’d brought. He snuck through the walls until reaching an entrance that he’d leave open just enough to come in through again. Once out of the walls he focused on shifting back to his human size, the world slowly matching him again. He quickly made his way to the front door, keeping an eye out for anyone awake right now. He snuck in quietly, trying to avoid being loud enough to wake Ian up. He collapsed on his bed, turning his phone on with an alarm set for the class that started in a few hours.

#gt writing #gt #giant/tiny #gianttiny #g/t #g/t writing #OC:Ian #OC:Mikhail/Mik #OC:Mik/Mikhail

[sqoiler]

On the Thursday of the last week of kindergarten, the DVD that Miss Martinez was going to play turns out to be scratched beyond recognition, and so she gets out construction paper, scissors, markers, and glitter glue. 

“Father’s Day isn’t for a few more weeks,” she says. “But why don’t we make some cards, just like we did for Mother’s Day, okay?” 

The kids all get to work, reaching for the pile of brightly-colored paper. Stephanie Brown, who will be turning six in August, is the last one to get up. She shifts through the leftover colors--black, a pukey shade of green, blue, white. She picks up the black one and takes it back to her desk. She does not want to make a stupid card for her stupid dad. The other kids at her table are enthusiastically chattering about their dads’ favorite colors and jobs and drawing crayon drawings onto the paper. The girl next to her is cutting a snowflake out with safety scissors. 

Steph picks up a white crayon and stares at her blank card. Across the room, Dexter raises his hand. 

“What if we don’t have a dad?” he asks. Steph remembers from Mother’s Day that Dexter has two moms. 

“Make a card for someone else,” Miss Martinez suggests. “Your grandfather, maybe. Or a neighbor, or a hero.”

A hero?

Steph looks at the black card before her, and her white crayon. She smiles.

And she makes a Father’s Day card for Batman.

-----

On the Monday of the last week of first grade, Mrs. Arnold, the art teacher, sits down her class and passes out white paper. 

“Father’s Day cards,” she explains. Stephanie Brown, seven in August, considers making her own father a card. She didn’t get him anything last year but he didn’t seem to notice, and she’s not really that mad at him this year. But he didn’t seem to notice, and when Steph thinks about it, she thinks Robin probably doesn’t make Batman a card. Steph could make another card for her own dad at home, and make one for Batman at school. 

Mind made up, she reaches for black markers and gets to work. 

-----

On the Tuesday of the last week of second grade, Stephanie Brown, almost eight years old, sits down in art class and carefully draws a black blob with pointy ears, and a red and green and yellow stick figure, next to it, and she tries to remember what Nightwing looks like, and when she can’t remember she just draws Robin again but bigger.

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY, she writes in red marker, and she closes the card.

------

On the Wednesday of the last week of third grade, Mrs. Arnold passes out watercolors in art class with pieces of thick paper, and tells them to make presents for their dads. Stephanie Brown, nearly nine, hasn’t seen her dad in almost four months, and she uses up almost all the black water colors at her table painting a picture of Batman. 

------

On the last week of fourth grade, nobody sits down their class to have them make Father’s Day cards. 

On the Thursday before Father’s Day, Crystal passes Stephanie Brown, age almost-ten, a card bought from the store and tells her that they’ll mail it to Blackgate the next morning. Happy Father’s Day, the card says. You’re the best dad ever! the card says. 

Steph stares at it for a long time.

Then she tears out a piece of notebook paper and folds it in half, taking the rainbow gel pens she got in December and picking up the pink one. She squints at it and sees that it’s nearly run out, so she picks up the purple one instead. 

When she’s done drawing Batman and Batgirl and Robin and Nightwing, she decides she likes purple, and she folds the notebook paper inside the card her mother gave her, and she doesn’t mail anything to Blackgate the next day.

-----

On the last day of fifth grade, Mr. Robinson turns on The Great Mouse Detective and sets out a stack of colored paper and scissors. He tells the class they can do whatever they want during the movie and even sets up chips and cookies, then he sits in the back of the classroom and maybe falls asleep. Stephanie Brown, ten-going-on-eleven, wants something to do with her hands, so she takes a black piece of paper and cuts out a batsymbol. She learned how to draw them by sticking her head out her window at night and looking at the sky, and she’s proud of her newfound skill. When she’s done cutting it out, she’s not really sure what to do besides maybe tape it to her shirt, but her dad’s been out for a week now and she thinks he’d be mad if he saw that. 

Instead, she folds it in half and writes HAPPY FATHERS DAY across the middle using white-out. Skye, the girl who sits next to her, leans over and asks what she’s doing, and Steph pauses. She’s...she’s not really sure why she keeps making these. To prove a point, maybe. She’s not really sure what point, though.

“Do you think Batman ever gets cards?” she asks in a whisper. 

“Yes,” Skye says. “Probably every day.”

“Oh,” Steph says. “Well, I probably won’t send it then.”

“Okay,” Skye says, and then she downs half of her dixie cup of orange juice and turns back to the movie. Steph puts purple glitter glue on her batsymbol. 

------

On the first week of April, Stephanie Brown, age seventeen, pulls a plastic bin out from under her desk. There’s a cardboard box beside her, and two other cardboard boxes on her empty mattress, full and taped shut. There’s a full duffel bag of clothes next to her, and her posters from her walls have been taken down and rolled up. All she has to do is finish going through her desk, and then she’s done. The rest of her things will be sold or something, she’s not sure. 

She pries off the lid of the bin before her and takes out old school binders and ragged notebooks, paper folders falling apart and ancient art projects. She lifts out a collage she probably made in seventh grade and tries to decipher the meaning behind it. There is a cutout of red heels from Kohls on top of a blue betta fish. 

Steph decides it will go in the trash pile and sets it aside, lifting out a yellow plastic folder. She opens it, curious, and lifts out a black paper batsymbol. She gasps when she opens it.

Her Father’s Day cards! 

Of course, she had never sent them, so she has all--she counts quickly--six of them. She looks them over, laughing at her kindergarten misspellings and looking at the evolution of her drawing ability fondly. This is--she totally forgot about this. Steph closes the folder reverently and puts it on top of her duffel bag. There’s no way she can get rid of this--especially with the purple cape still in the hidden part of her closet. Especially not with where she’s packing up to move to.

----

On the third Sunday in June, Stephanie Brown, age eighteen-in-August, takes up her yellow plastic folder from where she hid it under her new mattress, and she leaves her room, tucking it under her arm. She gets like four steps down the hall before another door opens, and already an accusing voice says, “What’s that?” 

Steph whirls around. 

“None of your business,” she says. Tim makes a face at her and she makes the same one back, because she is very mature. To prove her maturity, she slides down the banister on her way to the kitchen. 

Dick and Cass are in there, doing the dishes. Steph watches them for a second and then says, “Why do you have dishes at this hour?” ‘This hour’, upon checking, turns out to be almost noon, but nobody wakes up early in this house. 

“Breakfast for Alfred,” Cass says. 

“You can do that?” Steph asks, thinking that Alfred would get offended if someone tried to cook for him. 

“You can today,” Dick says, shrugging, and Steph frowns, realizes that they ganged together to make breakfast on Father’s Day for Alfred and didn’t invite her. 

It was probably an accident, she reasons, but then she remembers Tim and turns to face him. 

“Why didn’t you make breakfast for Alfred?”

“I was sleeping,” he says. 

“He’s impossible to wake up so we called it a lost cause,” Dick says. “We have extra pancakes, though, help yourself.”

Steph is still a little affronted, but she knows that she’s the newest person in the house and she’s only staying here until her mom’s done with rehab and whatever, so they probably didn’t think she’d want to be included, even though Alfred is everyone’s grandpa, even Babs’s. She goes to pick up a pair of pancakes and bites into one, deciding syrup can wait, and she leaves before they can rope her into conversation. Besides, she’s a little scared they’ll start referring to whatever plans they have with Bruce, and she doesn’t know how she’s supposed to react. 

She heads to Bruce’s study and pushes open the door, glad to find him in there. She thinks if she had to search for him she’d probably lose her nerve and chicken out. Bruce glances up for like half a second and then looks back at the computer, and she takes a deep breath and steps inside fully. 

Now or never, she thinks, and so she marches right up to him and slams the yellow folder on the desk. 

“What’s this?” Bruce says, and Steph isn’t really sure how to explain, so she says, “It’s, uh, I found it when I was packing my stuff, and it’s...it’s from a while ago, but I thought you might, um…”

She trails off as he picks up the folder and opens it, raising an eyebrow at the contents from inside. She kinda wants to look at his face, but also totally doesn’t want to do that, so instead she looks at the desk, and opens her dumb mouth back up. “They always used to have us do Father’s Day cards at school or whatever and I never wanted to make one for Arthur so I made those instead ‘cause...well I don’t really remember why but whatever I thought you might want to see them.”

“Stephanie,” Bruce says, and she shuts up and bites her lip, looking up at him. “You...made these?”

“Yeah,” she says. He looks back down at the cards in his hands, all spread out--even the one that was intended for Arthur that Steph never sent. He touches the one from kindergarten. “Um. You can keep them.”

Bruce stands up. Steph isn’t really sure at all what he’s thinking, but he steps away from his chair and wraps his arms around her, holds her tight. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. 

“Happy Father’s Day,” she says, and when he squeezes her she closes her eyes, exhales, and squeezes him back. 

(based on this post x) (ao3 here x)

#(posts fathers day fic in december) #stephanie brown #bruce wayne #brotp: slap #my writing #long post

[t-o-m-hollands]

Summary: It’s the late summer of 2004. You are set to travel across the country for university and your best friend Tom is staying behind. You spend your last night together before you leave. 

Themes: Friends to lovers, love confessions, first love. 

Warnings: Drinking beer. One mention of smoking weed. Mentions of parents fighting and also implied neglectful parents. Smut (+18), two spanks?? otherwise pretty tame.  

Word count: 3,4 k

Notes: I don’t know, this might be a bit different? Or it might just feel that way to me. It’s very reminiscent of teenage years and first love and nostalgia. Please let me know your thoughts, I’m genuinely not sure what to think about this one. 

Massive thank you to @augustholland​ who read through it and very kindly reassured me that it wasn’t bad 💖

Also, this fic was inspired by the Phoebe Bridgers song. I’ve never actually listened to it but it keeps showing up in my recommendation and i like the title of it so this is what i imagine that song is about. Mostly I listened to Harry Styles - Fine Line while writing this.

You finish up early that afternoon. Wayne, your old boss, tries not to cry as he hugs you goodbye. He tells you to take care in a gravelly voice close to breaking, as he avoids looking at you. It’s your last shift in the greasy bar, where for the last two years you’ve been selling cheap beer and watered down whiskey to weary old men and rowdy students who come in for a game of pool. It hasn’t paid much, just a few pounds an hour; just enough so that on each thursday you and Tom have enough money for movie tickets at the local cinema. It’s your tradition. Like a religious man goes to church each sunday; you spend your thursday nights with Tom’s arm slung around your shoulders, watching whatever new film they have on, sharing a bowl of popcorn between you. Afterwards you'll have burgers at the fast food joint across the street; talking about the movie long into the night, sharing a bag of fries. 

When you were younger and hadn’t been able to afford to pay Tom had sneaked you both into the cinema anyway.  Your hand in his, he had led the way into the movie theatre when no one was looking. Sitting in the back row he’d sneak you Fruit Polos to snack on, his arm slung around your shoulders, as you watched movies you were way too young for.

Last week was your final movie screening; some light-hearted American comedy, and the entire way through it you fought the lump in your throat, forcing yourself not to cry. Tom hadn’t laughed either; had just held you closer than usual. 

Tomorrow you are set to leave the small seaside town behind you, the place where you have spent most of your life, for a drive all across the country; to start university in a city you’ve only visited once before. You’re not sure when you’ll return.

Thus lately everything has been laced with goodbyes; childhood having reached its end.

Just two days ago there had been the last bonfire where you had watched the Holland boys fight each other while playing football as his parents looked on and laughed, grilling sausages over the open fire. 

It was on the same rocky beach where you have spent many summer days; grilling food on the open fire and throwing back cheap beer with your friends from school. You have scraped your knees on these rocks, burned your skin from both the bonfire and the sun there; have had your heart broken over and over and over again during your school years as you watched Tom kiss whatever girl he was dating at the time by the fire during summer night parties.

Maybe you had broken his heart a few times as well. 

As the afternoon light turns everything golden you drive through the main street in the small town where  everyone knows everybody, and has done for generations. You watch the people as you drive them by. You know everyone’s name, know each crack in the pavement; can find your way home in the dark. 

God knows how many shoes you’ve worn out over the years walking down these streets. 

The radio plays a blink-182 song you know by heart as you follow the road out of the city, through the woods and up to the coast. At the end of a muddy track, on the border to the forest, stands a shabby old caravan. It faces the beach and above the door christmas lights are lit up all year round. 

The Holland family legend says that Tom’s great uncle had won the small patch of land in a bet. Unable to build a large house he had bought a caravan and put it on the lot. The old man had lived in the Shed for the rest of his lifetime, before passing it on to Tom; the youngster of the family, his younger brothers having yet to be born. When he had turned seventeen he moved out of his parents larger, more comfortable house, and into the Shed. His mother had agreed on it on the condition he took on the apprenticeship to become a carpenter that he had been offered. 

You remember when he had told you of his decided future, one late evening as you sat on the driftwood by the beach, smoking weed and watching the sun set over the horizon. It had felt right somehow, you had been able to  imagine him working with his hands, skillfully forming and bending wood to his will; his long and slender fingers knowing just how to fix things. Tom has always been good at mending things. It had been three years now and he was a full time employee at the JBT Carpentry Services. He says it doesn’t pay much, but he’s happy; and that's all that matters.

As you park the car outside the Shed Tom comes out. Standing under the colorful christmas lights he grins widely as he sees you, his eyes crinkling at the sides. The most genuine smile you know. He’s tanned from a summer spent on the beach, his hair a wavy mess; as if he’d just woken up from sleep. It’s a warm august day and the world seems sunbleached somehow; but in the afternoon light Tom looks golden. 

You are painfully aware that it is the last time you’ll see him like this for many months to come.

Walking up to him and he gives you a bear-hug; his warm, hard body pressed against yours, holding onto you tightly. With your face in the crook of his neck you breathe him in and discover that a faint trace of bonfire smoke still lingers on his skin. It all feels achingly familiar and safe. So heartrendingly unlike the uncertain life at university that lies in front of you.

Tom is your safe place.

Your parents had always fought like cat and dog and sometimes when you were younger and  they’d argue you’d climb through your window and walk all the way over to the Holland household. You were always welcomed there and his parents didn’t ask any questions, no matter how late the hour; instead they fed you, treating you like a member of the family around the dining table with gentle teasing and reminders of homework that needed to be done, letting you sleep over when needed. No questions asked. 

With the years the fighting at home got worse. When Tom fixed himself a beat-up old Land Rover and moved out to the Shed you’d call him from the payphone down the road. He’d always answer, telling you to pack up; and that he was on his way. He’d pick you up by the end of the street, a duffle bag with schoolbooks and a change of clothes slung over your shoulder. He’d take you back to his place to sleep. His caravan only had one bed, so you used to curl up next to each other in bed. On the nights when you were crying he’d hold you, and in the morning he’d make you breakfast before you both went off to school. 

Your parents never noticed your temporary absence. 

Tom lets go of the hug, but with an arm around your waist he leads you into his home. There’s a lingering scent of fried food in the air and the boombox is playing the 3 Doors down CD he’s been obsessed with since you bought it for his birthday. You tread the cherry wood veneered flooring with your battered tennis shoes, feeling more at home here than anywhere else on earth.

 “Fancy a beer?” Tom asks, leading the way to the kitchen area. “Warn you though, it's warm. Just got back from the store so they haven’t had time to cool”.

Everything is warm today, and the caravan is no exception. The ancient AC had given in years ago and Tom could never afford having it fixed. You heave yourself up on the countertop, replying a simple “sure” to his question. 

He opens a Stella and hands it to you. He isn’t wrong, the beer is tepid. Yet you drown half the bottle in one big swig; happy just to have something to do with your hands when he’s standing so close to you. Gulping down on the liquid and you cannot help but notice Tom’s eyes on your throat as you swallow. He opens a bottle for himself and takes a swig. 

You smile at the ancient gray t-shirt he’s wearing. At one point there had been a band logo on it, but it has long since been washed out. He notices you smiling at him and as if it's infectious a smile broadens on his face as well. “What?” he asks, leaning against the small counter across from you.

“Nothing” you say, smiling wider. “Just wondered how many times I’ve seen you in that shirt. I mean, it has to be near a couple of thousand times by now”.

“You don't exactly love buying new clothes either” he says, a teasing smile playing at his lips as he looks at your washed out jeans shorts. “I know for a fact that those aren’t new, darling”. His eyes linger on your legs for a moment too long before he looks away, taking a swig from his beer. 

“So, when are you leaving?” He asks, and you can tell that he’s trying to sound relaxed, but leaned against the countertop, his arms crossed in front of him, head bowed; holding onto the bottle of Stella he’s nursing with a tight grip. He looks tense and on edge. 

“Tomorrow morning”

He takes a swig from his beer. There’s nothing more to say, not really. Everything that happens now is just aftermath; you might as well have already left. 

“I’m nervous” you admit, biting your lip, trying hard not to et out the tears you’ve been holding in for days now; embarrassed that your voice trembles on the last word. 

His head snaps up to look at you. Pushing off the counter he takes a step forward, placing himself in between your legs. 

“Hey” he says, with a voice a low and gentle as a whisper, his hand cupping your cheek. You look up at him; long dark eyelashes framing his beautiful brown eyes, his thin lips slightly parted and across his nose freckles are spread out, the result from a summer spent in the sun. His calloused hand strokes your cheek. “You’re going to take them by storm, Pebbles”.

You smile, despite your fluttering heart. He hasn’t called you Pebbles for a long time. It had been his nickname for you when you first became friends, the reason behind it long forgotten. He was the only one to ever call you it, and the name had lingered long into your late teenage years. 

“You took me by storm,” he admits. 

You blink up at him through wet eyelashes. Your family had moved to the town when you were ten years old. This was the kind of small town that strangers seldom came to and inhabitants rarely left; and so the new addition to the small local school had everyone talking. You had felt like an astronaut shuffled into space on your first day, trying to find gravity in the unfamiliar school corridors. You had felt the pull of gravity in form of the brown-eyed boy sitting next to you in english class. He had given you a warm smile as you sat down next to him. He had made you his friend, listened to you and confided in you; had made you laugh until your stomach ached. You found further gravity in his home; surrounded by his family and their endless squabbles and laughter, sitting next to Tom at the dinner table.

It hadn’t taken long before you and Tom were an inseparable item; your names always linked to one another in the mouths of others. 

“You’ve worked so hard for this scholarship” he says, and the corners of his mouth tugs up into a smile, “I mean, I’m pretty certain you’re the only reason I even finished school”.

You had helped him write most of his essays at school. He’d struggled with reading a lot and found the assigned novels difficult. There were evenings where you’d spend hours laying on the bed; twisting the phone cord between your fingers, as you read the books out loud for him. 

Sometimes, in order to be left alone from his parents and younger brothers, he’d walk down to the end of the street and to the payphone there, where he’d spend all his pennies listening to you reading. You had talked and talked until your voice got hoarse; until he ran out of pennies. Yet when he hung up you always felt a tug of longing in your chest, knowing you wouldn’t be able to see him until the next day in school. 

“Well,  I heard you’re doing pretty good as a carpenter” you say, smiling up at him. “I always knew you’d be good with your hands”. 

As soon as you’ve said it you can feel your face heat up. You had heard the rumours at school; Tom Holland is a stellar fuck. Once, while you were in the bathroom stall, you had heard a gang of girls discuss it as they reapplied their lipgloss in the mirror. One of them told the story of her one night stand with Tom, how he had made her come several times over with his hands and mouth; how he’d fucked her so long and so good. You had stood in the stall, your heart in your throat; feeling sick to your stomach, but unable to stop listening.

There were girls that reached out to you in school, knowing you were Tom’s closest friend, and asked you in hushed but awed voices if it was true. If he really that good in bed.

He looks you dead in the eye, an unusual seriousness to his warm eyes. He knows what you’re thinking, knows what thoughts have made your cheeks flush with colour. Letting go of your cheek he places his arms on either side of you on the counter; caging you in. 

“There’s never been anyone but you, Pebbles. Not really.” His tone is heavy with meaning and you feel light-headed; both oddly detached from your own body and painfully aware of the closeness of his. Your heart is beating hard in your chest. 

This is a line you’ve never crossed before. 

“I know I’m ruining everything by saying this, but you’re leaving tomorrow and I’ve been walking around with this secret lodged in my chest like a bullet since i was ten years old; I love you, Pebbles. I’ve always have”.

You should speak. You should tell him that you’ve known for a long time how he’s felt. That it’s been evident in the way his eyes keep lingering on your legs, in the way his arm usually finds its way to rest around your waist. In the way he’s always been there for you. You should tell him that you understand why he hasn’t been able to voice his feelings for you; because you haven’t done it either. Too scared of losing him. But your breath has caught in your throat and all you can focus on is those caramel eyes on you, and how hard your heart is beating in your chest.

“I love you too” you say, voice hardly louder than a whisper. You swear there was music coming from the boom box but all you can hear is the blood rushing through your body. 

He kisses you.

He takes your mouth slowly, kissing you thoroughly until you can’t think straight; can’t remember any other kiss than his. Then his lips move over yours with more fervour; more urgency, one hand around your throat and the other tangled in your hair. He kisses you until you're both moaning and gasping for more. 

This is it. You’ve crossed the invisible line between friends and lovers; and there is no return, no going back from here. When you leave tomorrow you will leave knowing what his mouth feels like pressed against your.

You dig your hands into his soft hair, runs them both up his chest, realising that this is what your hands were made for. He lifts you off the counter and you wrap your legs around his waist. He moves you both across the caravan and into the bedroom. It’s baking hot in there and you can already feel sweat forming at the low end of your back. The room, just big enough for a bed to fit, is lit up with sunlight. His bed is a mess of rumpled white sheets and the walls are the same cherry wood colour as the rest of the caravan. 

You kiss and lick his jaw, his neck, his throat; anywhere you can reach you stroke him. You tug at his hair, kiss his soft lips, and nib at his ear. It’s like the gates have been opened, because even though his arm has always been a comforting presence around your waist; and even though you’ve slept in the same bed more times than you can count, his body curled up next to yours, forming himself like a question mark around your body; he’s never been yours to touch before. Not like this.

His breathing is accelerated, his chest rising and falling in rapid speed, and so is yours. There’s a heat to his eyes that tells you he’s just as turned on as you are. You pull at his shirt before he’s even laid you down on the bed; impatiently craving all his warm, suntanned skin pressed against yours. It’s an almost feverish frenzy, and in the back of your mind you know that you should take this slow. You don’t want this to end too soon, because this might be all you get. But the sun hasn’t even set yet and through the old white-washed curtains you helped put up and light shines through, bathing you both sunshine. 

Outside the waves keep crashing against the shore and in the kitchen his boombox keeps playing songs you’ve heard a million times before. It is like it always has been at Tom’s, except that for laying on his sofa and talking he’s removing your clothes; kissing his way down your body. Wet, opened mouth kisses that leave a trail of heat in its wake that have you bucking your hips up for more. His hands are everywhere, exploring your legs. He’s looking at your skin with wide-eyes adoration. With his body in between your wide spread legs he kisses the soft inside of your thighs. 

“So soft” he groans against your skin, “and so sweet”.

You feel overheated and breathless; aching all over from wanting him. Perched up on your elbows you observe him; his dark hair brushing against the low of your stomach as he kisses the tender skin of your hip bone. He bares his teeth and bites the sensitive flesh. 

His hand cups your cunt. You’re wet and aching and as you presses his thumb to your clit, gently but steadily moving up and down, you feel like you’re going to combust. His strokes are soft at first, before speeding up, making you moan wantonly, spreading your legs wider for him.

“Glad you like that,” he says, a satisfied smile spreading on his face. “Do my fingers feel good on you, darling?”

All you can do is moan in response, arching and moving your hips up to meet his hand. His movements are fast and slippery and it doesn’t take long until your close, so close, so close; on the brink of tipping over and then - 

A sharp slap on your pussy, leaving a stinging bite, and it is like the world splits into two. 

“God” you moan, voice hoarse. You’re shuddering all over; moanes falling freely from your lips. 

He looks up at you from his position in between your legs, his dark eyes sparkling. He kisses the soft inside of your thighs again. “You have any idea how long I’ve wanted to kiss you here?” he asks. “I bet you do, torturing me for fun in those short jeans shorts”. He spanks your pussy again and you couldn’t have stopped the moan falling from your lips even if you tried. “How long I’ve wanted to taste you here?”. And he places a hot kiss on your wet slit. You can feel his soft hair pressed against your thighs; his warm breath against your skin.

His lips part and he covers you with his mouth, his tongue moving over your opening; touching you, stroking you, tasting you. A guttural moan leaves him. He looks up at you through tassels of hair, caramel eyes glued to your face.

You fall back against the mattress, “more” you demand, in a voice that sounds a lot like begging. “Please, more”.

It is as if he’s been unleashed. You have never felt anything like it, but he laps you up, tastes you; his fingers moving inside you; pressing against the place that has you seeing stars. You can’t even look at him now, you’re eyes shut; too overwhelmed by the stimulation. Both aching for more but not sure if your body can handle that kind of pleasure. Your thighs are shaking, and something in your stomach grows tighter and tighter by each flick of his tongue against your clit.

“I’m coming” you cry out breathlessly “fuck I’m coming”

And you do. Hard. He keeps kissing and touching you through it; both grounding you and dragging out the intense sensation. 

His hands, now familiar with your thighs, make their way up to the soft swell of your breasts, as you struggle to regain your breath. He’s cupping them in his hands, pinching your nipples in between his fingers, kissing them with ferveor. Hungry hands move over your breasts, your stomach, your face; cupping it so that he can kiss you with the sort of yearning that comes from years of unanswered desire. 

Your hands move over his body as well, moving over his abdomen chest and arms, defined from long hours of hard work. You kiss his throat and collarbones, kissing at the skin; licking, sucking and biting until you hear guttural moans coming from his throat. His lips are slightly parted, and his glossy dark eyes are fixed on your face; his fingers loosely tangled in your hair. 

He presses you down onto the mattress again, until he’s face to face; his arms on each side of your face, holding himself over you.

“You sure?” he asks, voice hoarse, panting slightly. 

“I want this” you answer him, voice low but clear, “I really, really want this Tom”

He smiles, breathing out the breath he’d been holding and moves away from you, reaching for the side of his bed and to take out a condom from the drawer. 

He places a quick kiss to your lips, your cheek, your belly button, before he sits up. He removes his underwear and you can feel your face heat up again. Because this is Tom, your Tom, whom you’ve been in love with for half your life. But being with him, both naked as the day you were born, feels right. You know everything about this man, all his preferences and secrets; his favourite movie and how he likes his food and why he skipped class every day for a month in year nine. And he knows everything about you. It feels right that he should know this as well; know each curve of your body and the way you like to be kissed and what has you moaning and begging for more. 

He unwraps the foil package and puts the condom on with firm fingers. Leaning over you again he lines up against your opening. His eyes glossy with lust, damp hair falling over his face; his mouth swollen and wet from kissing you.

Then with a sharp thrust and a groan he’s inside you. 

All coherent thoughts go out the window as he starts moving in and out of you. The only thing that exists is his strong, sweaty body above you, moving in and out of you with slow, deep thrusts. He’s so hard where you are soft and you can’t stop touching him, dragging your fingers over his back, pulling at his hair, kissing his arms. It’s like the wires in your brain have crossed, sending out sparks of pure pleasure in your body. 

He hits a particularly tender spot inside you and the groan that leaves you is almost animalistic.

Tom nearly halters in his pace, before collecting himself again. “Fuck” he moans out, kissing your neck. His movements become more frenzied and you roll your hips under him, meeting his movements; trying to get him deeper inside you. 

He pushes himself up onto his hands, pulls back slightly; and pushes in. Starting to really fuck you. 

You can’t stop looking up at him; naked body damp with sweat, muscles moving as he works; arms flexed and cheeks flushed. His eyes are closed pleasure now. Your hands are on his hips helping him set the pace as he fucks into you with fast, hard thrusts. Without warning you clutch around him in pleasure and he groans loudly.

“How the fuck does your cunt feel better than it tastes?” he asks, panting for air. “

He presses a hand over your heart, letting it rest there. You wonder if he can feel it pounding for him. You feel like you’re dissolving into a thousand tiny pieces as you come around him with a choked scream. 

He’s so close and you can practically feel it; aching for him to have it. You want him to come; in you, on you, over you. 

And then he does, his brows furrows; like the pleasure is so intense it hurts him. The sounds he makes when he comes are guttural; almost whimpering. 

As he falls down on the bed beside you he pulls you close, has you pressed against his body, an arm firmly wrapped around you. The sun has set now, but the ocean waves still crash onto the shore, the sound of it the only thing to fill the silence part from your laboured breathing; the music having gone quiet in the other room. 

Neither one of you say anything. You knew the end to this when he kissed you. You’ve regretted nothing that has happened here, and you know that he doesn’t either; but tomorrow you are leaving to drive all the way across the country and he cannot follow. You don’t know what will happen now, and he doesn't have the answer to that either. And so you just let him hold you; wishing with all your might that you could stop the morning from coming.

***

Please let me know your thoughts, genuinely don’t know what to make of this one. 

#tom holland #tom holland smut #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland imagine #tom holland fanfic