#idk if I can buy another one if there’s a chance I won’t even get what I paid for | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jiminrings · 3 months

Text

fail-safe

pairing: yoongi x reader

wordcount: 8k

glimpse: growing up, your brother's best friend always berated you for not having a passion in life outside of loving him from afar. when yoongi leaves everything he's ever known for everything he's ever wanted, trying to move on from him becomes your biggest aspiration.

alternatively, yoongi left when you needed him the most, and comes back home at a time when you love him the least.

[ part one, intermission, part two, intermission 02, finale ]

[ a Lot of angst, eventual fluff, brother's best friend AND single dad au, So Much Yearning, unrequited love (initial), jealousy, self-deprecation, a lot of talk abt passion in an empty n hurtful way that most impassioned youngest children feel (it's a specific feeling idk!!!), eventual redemption in the next parts ]

notes: finally got to writing a new series!!! i'm beyond excited for this + this whole new concept and flow i haven't touched on before <3 i hope u love fail-safe as much as i do :-)

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!! | series masterlist

Yoongi buys atleast one scratch ticket a week.

The accessibility of buying one is top-notch considering that all he has to do is cross the street, shoot one look to the cashier, and he can either already go hunch in the corner of the road or in the comfort of his room. The moment his coin takes its first dig and he realizes that he’s won yet again, he’s satisfied enough not to buy another ticket.

He doesn’t want to risk losing the win he’s just gained, the odds of him throwing out money besting his chances in adding to his earnings. He thinks everyone’s a little greedy one way or another, but it’s the righteous part of him that thinks he’s different.

You do think that he is for all the right reasons, your vision only tunneling for him alone. He’s this fixed older figure in your life and you can’t figure out how to shrug him off — he’s this generous leech that sucks all of the rationality from your mind but returns it to you twofold, whether in the form of him saying something unintentionally endearing that it makes your chest hurt, or through him having to lightly smack the back of your head.

Yoongi’s your older brother’s best friend and there’s a novelty tag that comes with him, one that can’t be topped by any material possession to your name. He’s there for you, not in the exact way you want him to be, but nonetheless there. He’s special and unattainable at the same time, the finiteness of his love barely extending to you.

He’s there when you want him to burn the latest songs onto a CD you’ve spent all your allowance in, and he’s there when you get annoyed that he sneaked some of his own recommendations in there. You’re there when you later admit that his suggestions aren’t half-bad, and you also happen to be there when he grins at the praise.

He’s there when Namjoon won’t cough up the last slice of his cutlet, not because he’ll actually give you his, but because he’ll help your brother guard his plate. You’d only have to mope for a solid of three seconds before the two of them give up both of their last slices, and you’re there when Yoongi insists for you to try the sauce in the spirit of going out of your routine.

You don’t need Yoongi every single time but in the event that you do, he hangs back. He contemplates and hesitates and doesn’t give in to every single whim that you have, but he’ll be there. He lingers like the last holiday ornament you don’t want to remove until it’s February, his presence being oddly similar to your favorite festivities.

Yoongi’s the equivalent of a holiday you look forward to with each passing month and day; he comes around to and for you in instances, but never even in your most sincere wishes.

“I buy one scratch ticket a week — three if I’m really feeling lucky. When my palms itch, that’s when I know that I really need to buy them.”

He’s calm and collected even when you’re scrunching your nose up at him in combined worry and disbelief, humming mindlessly as you collect your thoughts. He randomly told you about his lottery routine and you’re still trying to wrap your head around how he blows his money off just easily. Yoongi has the mind to put scrap cardboard under you because sitting on the hot concrete with your uniform on can’t possible be a good idea, but you try to play off your fluster into stubbornness.

He’s just playing with his two ever-present coins (lucky charms as he calls them)— one that’s shiny and minted in the present year, the other being the oldest coin he’s ever had that happens to be older than he is — while you mutter about.

“I don’t know, Yoongs. That might be a gambling problem,” you squint, your side comment being heard clearly as day. “Might be the symptoms for hand, foot, and mouth disease too.”

“What— I do not have a gambling problem! My skin’s perfectly fine too, thanks,” he defends, the light shove he gives you doing nothing to tone down your teasing.

“That’s what people with gambling problems say.”

“Give me that-…” he mutters, trying to wrestle you for the sundae he bought you using the money he won from his scratch ticket just awhile ago. You don’t give in easily, even if your laughs that come straight from your chest suggest otherwise. “You don’t get it. It’s just this nice, fun little thing I can look forward to every week. I always buy the cheapest version anyway so when I lose, it’s not a big deal.”

You relent (like you always do when it comes to Yoongi) in understanding, waving him off after regaining your breath. “Nah. I get it. We all have to do things so we wouldn’t lose our shit,” you trail, racking your head to find the right words.“Yours is buying scratch tickets, and mine is-…”

“Yours is what?” Yoongi raises an eyebrow, lips quirked in eagerness to know where you’re going with this. He can’t pinpoint a single thing he can attach to you and neither can you, your actual interests merely reflecting those of the people whom you love.

You love cross-stitching because your mom loves doing it, the tolerance you have for accidentally being pricked by the needle growing over time.

You enjoy playing badminton because Namjoon’s obsessed with the sport, no matter how ratty your rackets and shuttlecocks have become, and no matter how much he pushes you to ring the doorbell to your neighbor’s when he’s sent it flying to their backyard.

You’re probably an imposter yet you don’t feel like it. You don’t feel bad that your life most probably and will only revolve around your mom and Namjoon (maybe even Yoongi); you don’t feel dissatisfied that your life’s mundane.

You go where your love goes.

“Mine is watching you buy scratch tickets,” you shrug easily as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, making him laugh heartily. You’ve probably done something right because he hauls you up to your feet immediately.

“Get up. I’m buying you your first ticket,” he nudges you, grabbing you by the arm in excitement.

“But I’m not even legal!” you half-heartedly argue, internally excited that you’re finally getting to try your hand at the lottery because you’ve spent a few hundred minutes of your life tuned to the channel to pass the time, awaiting the results for something you haven’t even betted for.

“Right. Like I haven’t seen you trying to squeeze out a drop of beer from our empty cans whenever Namjoon and I drink.”

“Rude,” you roll your eyes playfully, gathering your things from the ground.

“It’s okay. I’ll give you your first sip of beer too if you want,” Yoongi offers sincerely; easily as if you’ve just asked him about the weather.

He’s here to buy you your first scratch ticket, and he’s still here to offer giving you your first sip of liquor in the future.

Your family friend for a cashier vehemently ignores the fact that you’re still underage to participate in the lottery, and instead only chuckles to herself in amusement. She’s an aunt that knows when to step in and not to, and she knows you won’t be harmed by a mere bet. In fact, she knows you won’t be harmed by anything with Yoongi in tow.

“I already used up all my change,” your frown in realization, holding the ticket in your hands in despair despite having scoured your wallet repeatedly.

“Rub it against the pavement. That’s what I do,” Yoongi lies fluidly, a scoff being caught in his throat when you actually attempt to do it. “I was only kidding, Y/N. Jeez,” he groans, pulling out his wallet. “Ugh. Here. You can have one of my lucky coins.”

It’s the old one, tarnished beyond relief that you can barely recognize what it’s actual value is supposed to be.

“Ew. I’m giving it back. It looks prehistoric,” you narrow your eyes, knowing that you don’t even have to put your fingers nears your nose to know that it’s already left a faint stench on them.

Yoongi rolls his eyes, a habit he can’t tell he’s formed himself or got from you. “If you use your brain for one second, you’d realize that it’s actually worth more because it’s older. Collectors would go crazy for that in the future.”

“That sounds like a hoarding problem.”

He’s just had about enough of your whining so he attempts to trade in the old coin for his lucky new one, but you stop him at the last minute with a meek smile.

“Kidding. Thank you. I’ll keep it safe, Yoongi. I promise,” you rush out before he changes his mind, scratching your ticket in silence.

He waits for you because you’re scratching so politely and neatly, a stark opposite to his experienced skill of scratching the paint off in ten strokes or less.

Your face is too close to the ticket that Yoongi can’t tell what’s happening, making him part your hair like a curtain to peek.

“Did you win?”

“Nope.”

“Let me throw that out for you.”

“No!” you squeak, keeping the ticket close to your chest. It’s a bummer that your first time is a loss, but it didn’t mean that you wanted to forget the sentiment behind it. “I-I mean no, I’ll keep it. It’s memorable now that I think about it.”

“Alright,” he shrugs carelessly, a smile breaking out in retaliation. “Hoarder.”

“Gambler,” you spit, tucking the ticket into your pencil case. “Next week again?”

Yoongi agrees, wrapping his head around the fact that he doesn’t have to be alone in his little routine every Friday.

“Sure.”

( ♡ )

You don’t mind getting hand-me-downs.

As a matter of fact, you love receiving them. The wear and tear of the things that came before you is only proof that it’s been loved enough to be passed on to you.

You adore your mother’s dainty vintage watch that she wore throughout college, the hardware and sentiment behind it being pretty enough that you don’t mind constantly getting the battery replaced. You like Namjoon’s shirts that he’s outgrown, even through the numerous phases he’s had wherein only denim and tie-dye filled his closet.

You don’t mind the history behind the numerous things you have in your home, unbothered that you’re probably the only house in the block with the oldest possible rice cooker. The chips in the staircase aren’t covered up with marker ink and neither are the loose stitches in the couch quilt snipped off. It’s home to your mother and Namjoon — if it’s good enough for them, then it’s already the best for you.

Even on top of everything, you don’t mind your family almost always getting you shirts and shoes that have an allowance in them. Your mom would go to Seoul and pick out the exact pair of sneakers you wanted that are atleast three sizes bigger than your actual feet, and you’d barely bat an eye.

You don’t mind the coziness of things that are brought to you, because even if they weren’t offered, you’d seek them yourself.

So when Yoongi mentioned that he’s decluttering his room and needed someone (read: you) to vacuum it up for him, you jump at the chance. You take a grocery bag with you, wear the nearest pair of slippers within your vicinity, and book it to his house as soon as he finished talking.

“Go crazy, kid. Almost everything in that pile is garbage so you can take anything.”

“I feel like I should be more offended than how I feel right now,” you hum, furrowing your eyebrows at the pile in front of you. It’s a mound of Yoongi, or atleast everything he’s ever wanted up until he decided to do a general cleaning of his bedroom.

Yoongi chuckles, going through his pile of clean laundry for him to fold on the side while you scavenge for his things. “It’s either I have you take them or I get ripped off at the thrift store, then I see somebody’s uncle wearing my shirt as an added insult.”

You huff, rummaging through his heap of belongings while conveniently trying to ignore that you may look like somebody’s uncle the moment you wear his clothes. Everything is him; every distressed cap, every unfinished embroidered shirt, and every item of old significance with his initials branded on it.

The thick gray hoodie you’ve been eyeing (along with its owner) for the better part of the last few years surfaces into your field of vision, your gasp audible enough to make him jolt because he thought you’d gotten hurt.

“No way, this too? But this is your favorite,” you half-complain and half-rejoice, turning the hoodie inside-out eagerly in the fear that there’s a catch to it belonging in the pile.

“Eh. I know it looked good on me but I don’t think it’s my favorite. Besides, I’ve bulked up! Wanna feel?” Yoongi grins, his segue eerily similar to your brother’s at every given chance. A neighbor from down the block recently opened a small-time gym, and the both of them have not been able to shut their mouths about it since. From their gossiping alone, Yoongi and Namjoon have generated enough advertising already.

“You and Namjoon really have to stop asking random people to feel your biceps.”

There’s random knick-knacks throughout the clump in the middle of his bed, some being too good and actually useful that you snag them. Yoongi lets you do what you want anyways (most of the time), not having to turn his head to berate you on what you’re only allowed to grab from his stuff.

You’re not greedy — you already have his hoodie and that should be enough on its own. But there’s that handkerchief with his initials embroidered on it, then that Rubik’s cube he swore his relative got for him from New York, and even the little butterfly knife he got from a souvenir shop when his family when to the beach.

There were those and there is this, looking up at you in all of its glory.

“Yoongi.”

“What now?” he sighs at your dramatic gasp, looking up from his folded laundry to see what you were going on about. It takes a second for him to fully realize why exactly were you so pumped.

“Are you serious? Your helmet?” you squeal, already hugging the shiny red mass close to you. “Does this mean you’re passing your motorcycle to me?!”

“Are you crazy? Fuck no,” Yoongi rolls his eyes, snatching his helmet back from you. He doesn’t miss the bratty frown that fills up your entire face; he’s not exactly the biggest fan whenever you were upset or angry; maybe even both. “Obviously I forgot I even put my helmet there when I made that pile.”

You whine, stomping your feet in exasperation. You would dramatically plop down on his bed if only it wasn’t full of his shit. “Come on! You told me you were teaching me as soon as you finish teaching Joon.”

“Teaching you how to ride my scooter is not the same as giving you it. Why would I just hand you what I bought with my hard-earned money?” Yoongi scrunches his nose, tone sharper than what he intended.

“But you still haven’t taught me,” you murmur to placate yourself and dissuade yourself from the delusion that Yoongi would even exert such an effort for you because of course — why would he do that for you?

You have an inkling that you’re being irrational for all the wrong reasons, perhaps even projecting your need to be looked after… by him.

Yoongi notices your mood that turned sour quickly, the silence between you becoming loaded. He didn’t mean to be that blunt. “I don’t think you’re even old enough to have your driving permit,” he adds in consolation, voice considerably softer.

You snicker lowly, still looking at your feet with your arms crossed. “But I’m old enough to backpack whenever you need me to carry shit that can’t fit in your carrier.”

He immediately groans at your comeback, his furrowed eyebrows mirroring yours. “You’re so stubborn.”

“You’re a hypocrite,” you retort, knowing for a fact he’s known how to drive even before he was eligible for permits and licenses and whatnot.

Yoongi takes one, two seconds to himself to regain his composure, clearing his head in the process. You’re still not looking at him and you’re pouting and you don’t even notice the latter, making him crack a small smile.

“I will teach you next week.”

“Oh my-…”

He cuts you off, raising his hand in emphasis. “Provided that you listen to everything I say and wear full gear at all times. You clearly don’t have a job yet-…”

“Ouch.”

“And I don’t have the extra money to buy full gear for myself, so what you’ll do is bundle up with your padded coat and the thickest jeans you have,” Yoongi enunciates every word, eyes keenly on you. They’re too wide and alert, you actually feel like listening to him.

“You go on rides wearing your pajamas.”

“Just say ‘thank you, Yoongi’.”

“You haven’t done anything yet,” you trail off, head tilting in confusion.

You’ve had a million conversations like this with Yoongi before but of different fonts; worn, familiar, and warm.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” he mouths, nodding at you to do the same. He won’t stop until you utter them back to him, and you know you won’t go home either without giving him your gratitude as you always do.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” you relent, the grin that breaks through your lips being infectious enough that he laughs lowly to himself.

He exhales all the worries he has and could possibly ever have seeing you ride the motorcycle (or for you yearning to do everything that he does), grasping at whatever sanity he has left from looking after you.

“You can have the helmet.”

( ♡ )

Yoongi knows the ins and outs of your home.

He’s been at your house too much to the point that your mom already gave him a spare key and nobody batted an eye about it. He has his own designated slippers at the entryway too, something you would only use in a hurry if you needed to sign off on a package.

Yoongi, for some reason unfathomable (not really; you can tell exactly why because your mom is an extremely warm and inviting person), also has the power of dibs on the food in your fridge. He’d put strips of masking tape with his name on food that’s neither brought in nor made for him in the first place.

It should be off-putting — the way that for too many yet too little reason, Yoongi has become a prominent figure in your life even if you didn��t ask him to. You should be peeved that you have to set up four plates more often that you set up only three; you should be annoyed at some point that when you wake up at random times through the night, you’re not totally alone to begin with.

You shouldbe angry at Yoongi to a degree because he’s in your life and you don’t get to have a say on how he stays in it. The only problem is that you’re not, and probably never will.

“Can’t sleep?” you mutter as you look up from your strikingly clear paper, seeing Yoongi strut across the floor with a casualness that only real occupants of the house should supposedly possess. He has his brows furrowed at you as if he didn’t expect to see you in your living room, scratching his head in wonder.

“Why are you up?”

“Stressed,” you sigh, giving up altogether in attempting to make yourself look busy. Yoongi drives by your fridge to get himself a can of beer, finally seating himself beside you on the floor.

“Stressed about what? I’m sure it’s not about studying,” he snorts, unsurprised at your paper and the clear lack of motivation behind it. You only roll your eyes at him and he has half a mind to not remind you to not do it so much, the frown in your face reminding him that you really were frustrated.

It is you to throw the occasional tantrum, but he remembers that it was only when you were young; when Namjoon would whisper gibberish to his ear and purposely not whisper to yours just so he could tease you, or when nobody would believe that you taught yourself how to ride a bike with no training wheels. You didn’t know how to do the latter at all, but what had made you throw a tantrum was that nobody believed you.

You notice Yoongi’s digs, of course. You notice each one of his more than unsubtle nods to your intelligence and whatnot, the shots at your intellect not flying over your head like he expected them to. You admit that you’ve never been that scholastic; you weren’t born a genius and you don’t try exactly hard either.

Yoongi’s only joking but you can’t help but to think that he’s pertaining to something deeper, his constant digs at your lack of a passion making you sluggish.

“We have to write this essay,” you answer simply, your tone straightforward and unwilling for banter but Yoongi bites anyway.

“But essays are the easiest,” he trails, looking at you the whole time as he takes a sip of his beer.

You exhale heavily because no matter what, he just can’t seem to get it. Yoongi knows where you’re coming from but he doesn’t know where you’re headed. As a matter of fact, you don’t know where you’re headed either. “We have to write an essay about where we see ourselves ten years from now.”

“But that’s still easy.”

“If it’s so easy, then go write it for me,” you snicker, leaning back with a huff. He constantly undermines you and although you own up to your striking mundaneness from time to time, it didn’t mean that you liked being looked down on. Yoongi’s too used to you being yourself, he gets taken aback when you grow sick of your own.

He gathers all his willpower, far from being sleepy unlike you who would’ve been lulled to sleep if only you weren’t dead-set on arguing with him. “You know what? I actually will,” he claps, handing you his beer. “Go hold this for me.”

Yoongi grips your pen for dear life like you hold his beer, his hand warm as he works from sheer determination alone (he’s not competing with anyone except for whatever expectation you have for him and your paper), while yours was cold just holding his drink.

You’ve been so quiet that he actually gets curious, turning his head to check to see if you’ve dozed off when actually, it’s just you eyeing the can.

“No one’s watching,” Yoongi breaks you out of your thoughts, carelessly shrugging. He cares and he’s far too concerned for you, but he figures that nothing would hurt you so long as he can grasp you. “It’s okay. You can have your first sip.”

You blink owlishly at him and when he jokes about taking it back, you take your first swig of beer in a panic. Yoongi only shakes his head in amusement, pausing his writing just to see the look on your face.

“One more?” he asks right after he sees you wince, the unbearable sweetness yet bitter, stinging aftertaste of the beer making you shudder.

You have the urge to wash off the taste with ice cold water (you’ll even drink from the tap because you’re so desperate), but you resist it just so you wouldn’t look like a weakling in front of him. You wave him off with a bitterness, upset that beer doesn’t taste like what you’ve always imagined it to be. “Just write my essay for me,” you mull over the taste in your tongue, in deep thought while you stare at Yoongi’s back ahead of you. “Do all beers taste that way?”

“Eh. Most of them do. You develop a taste for it later on,” he answers, taking the can back from you before drinking it himself. He looks too dedicated in writing your essay, only goading the curiosity in you to peek over his shoulder.

He knows you, both in heart and memory, because he shields your own paper from you when he sees your shadow hovering above him.

“Yoongi?”

“Hm.”

“I told you why I’m up. Why are you up?”

He’s silent entirely, the only indication that he heard your question being his hand pausing abruptly. Yoongi doesn’t answer, and you don’t ask again. “Don’t worry about it.”

You take his answer to heart, dozing off on the couch before you know it. You don’t remember a blanket being placed on you, nor can you remember preparing your backpack for school the next day.

Your paper’s neatly tucked into your portfolio bearing handwriting that’s clearly not yours, but with a sentiment that’s similar nonetheless. You read through everything quickly before even stepping towards your teacher, the tips of your fingers just as cold as Yoongi’s beer last night.

You’ve committed the paper into your memory, even until the last part with an excerpt you can’t forget despite having passed the paper already. You don’t know what to feel because it’s Yoongi who’s speaking for you, detailing that ten years from now, you will still be your mother’s daughter and your brother’s sister.

He wrote your essay either for you or in behalf of you, and you can’t tell which one is better.

Yoongi, who knows the ins and outs of your home and the peaks and troughs of your heart, writes in clear handwriting — Ten years from now, I will still be Yoongi’s rock.

( ♡ )

Surprisingly, Yoongi hasn’t been around that much lately.

Even Namjoon (who you consider as his Siamese twin) is clueless to why his friend hasn’t been hanging out with him lately to do either everything or nothing, confused because they’re enrolled to the same classes all the way to the same part-time jobs, yet Yoongi’s been mostly unavailable.

When Yoongi is, however, he doesn’t speak at all about his previous absences. He comes as if he’s never disappeared a few times before that, his evasion to talk about his presence being apparent even if you’ve asked him directly.

You’re getting used to his new routine of hanging out with you only when the both of you are free, no longer moving mountains for both of your schedules to line up. He’s more present this month than he was at the last, the criteria for it being how many times you bump into him in your own home.

Despite all odds and evens though, Yoongi can’t get used to your silence. He knows you hold grudges longer than your brother, and the last time that he checked, he knows you’ve already let go of your annoyance for him suddenly being unavailable without any explanation.

It’s late, only the two of you are awake in the living room, there’s ten scratch tickets on the table for you to share, and he’s even gotten you your own glass to which he’ll put a controlled amount (a grand total of two long sips) of his own beer in. You’re not stressing about an essay this time, but the unconscious pout on your face is still the same.

“You’re awfully quiet.”

The frown on your face only goes deeper at being found out, the scratch of your lucky coin being the only clear thing that Yoongi hears.

“My best friends want to have this slumber party,” you sigh, more upset about what you’ve just uttered than you are happy about the cash prize you’ve just won.

Yoongi takes what you say at face-value, groaning at his third straight loss for the night. “That’s great. Wear cute pajamas, snap a couple of polaroids, don’t be the first to fall asleep and last to wake up, and just keep a pocket knife with you when you’re going out by yourself.”

The awe (and slight concern) over what he said should roll in any time now.

You should be comforted at Yoongi’s words because they’re supposed to ease the swirl of your stomach, even if what he just said is a repackaged version of what your family said before. You should let go of your worries because Yoongi, of all people, says that it’s supposed to be great.

Instead, you feel neither of what you think Yoongi wants you to.

“Was it something I said?” he mumbles after some time, turning his nose up at you as he tries to retrace his words. “I have an extra pocket knife you can borrow if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“We’re gonna be talking about boys, Yoongi,” you screw your eyes shut, sighing into the palms of your hands with a heaviness. “We’re gonna talk about crushes and experiences and all that.”

He shudders at that, his reaction mirroring Namjoon’s when you tried opening up to him. You get your brother’s reaction to a degree, of course, because you feel as if you’d be disgusted too if the roles were reversed. You want to talk about it with your mom too, but at the end of the day, she’s your parent and you just can’t talk about anything and everything with her.

Yoongi’s your next plausible option.

“Do you want some ice cream right now? You know what, I’ll buy you-…” Yoongi tries to evade the topic altogether, his attempt of escaping feeble as you drag him down by his hoodie.

“I haven’t had my first kiss yet.”

“Heh.”

Yoongi shrugs at that, regaining his words when you deadpan at him. “So? What about it?”

You starfish on the floor at that out of frustration, the whine you’ve been bottling up coming out in the open because as usual, Yoongi doesn’t get it. “I-I’m probably the only one in my grade who hasn’t kissed someone yet! I can’t just lie carelessly because obviously, they’ll ask around.”

“So?” Yoongi chuckles, his breeze towards your state shocking you. “What’s it to them if you haven’t had your first kiss?”

“You don’t get it,” you grit through your teeth, crossing your arms so hard that it feels hard to inhale.

“I’m pretty sure I do,” he sing-songs, drinking the last of his beer. When you’re not looking though, he plans to either drink or chuck the remainder of your share because he doesn’t want you to develop a taste for it.

The anger you have for Yoongi bubbles up once again, the itch in your throat unbearable. You’re presented with the age gap between you once more, along with the raging emptiness in you that Yoongi’s reached so far and you’ve reached so little.

“You don’t get it because you’ve had all of these experiences when you were younger than my age right now,” you snap, although you don’t look at him when you do. If you do look at him though, you’ll only be reminded of how a face like his could have everything in this world — even a first kiss you’ve never had.

“Yeah, and so?” he knits his brows, growing defensive. You weren’t lying at all, but he still feels a little offended at the dig. He’s not not proud of it, but with the way you say it, it’s like you want him to burn in shame,

“Stop saying so,” you angrily mumble in frustration, a little breathless because you still don’t ease up on crossing your arms.

Yoongi straightens his posture, staring you down with his jaw set. He’s stern as he is, nostrils flaring in irritation. “No, Y/N. I’m genuinely asking — so what? What’s it to you if I had my first kiss at a younger age? What about it if everyone else in your grade has kissed someone and you haven’t? It’s not the end of the world.”

“I-I don’t know! It’s just unfair!” you let up, yielding to both the facts that Yoongi’s right with it not being the end of the world, and that you’re still entitled to feeling upset.

“Instead of spending time obsessing over your first kiss, maybe I don’t know, try being productive? You’re heading to college soon and you haven’t even thought of a career,” Yoongi goes off on you, making you roll your eyes automatically. There he goes again with the great big push of trying to push you into your supposed passions in life. “Someone else’s luck doesn’t mean it’s already your misfortune.”

“But it is.”

You say it so definitively, you almost convince him. You have your principles and so does Yoongi, but not everyone else. You have your principles yet you don’t have the luck. You’re not getting anywhere in life just like Yoongi or anyone else who was remotely born into wealth, no matter how quiet or obvious.

You can’t pursue something that interests you in the slightest without thinking what would come out of it. You can’t think of a degree and a course you’ll stick with, enough to do for the rest of your life because the only other option is to fail completely if you don’t. You have no plan and no passion and you don’t know if you’ll ever amount to anything to anyone at all.

By all means, you don’t agree with Yoongi this time. Someone else’s luck is your misfortune, in the same way that his first kiss doesn’t mean that it’s yours.

The sidetrack to your argument is a closed case already, judging by your downcast gaze. “I just have to put myself out there, that’s all. My first kiss doesn’t even have to mean anything. I just want to have it,” you admit, shoulders relaxing.

“Don’t,” Yoongi groans, the opposite of you as his whole body tenses.

He thinks that you don’t get him at all.

“What do you meandon’t?”

Your argument’s long-over (atleast you thought it was) but Yoongi’s getting more agitated by the minute, the disbelief on his face throwing you off. “Don’t do things just because you feel like you have to! Are you even hearing yourself right now?”

“I don’t want to be left behind, Yoongi! That’s all I’m trying to get at,” you raise your hands in surrender, shrugging thoughtlessly — it makes him want yell into a paper bag in exasperation. “I don’t want to be picked last. I don’t want to not be wanted.”

Yoongi exhales, screwing his eyes shut. It stays silent like that for a little while; him calming himself down, and you scratching your tickets. The calm doesn’t stay for long because you open your mouth carelessly, again.

“Can you be my first kiss?”

“Are you insane?”

“Ugh.”

You go back to your fourth scratch ticket, pouting in disappointment. You’re unfazed about the win that’s probably the largest sum you’ve had ever since you started doing the lottery.

You’re upset and you’re sick in the stomach but you stay silent like you never asked Yoongi to be your first kiss; it’s like you haven’t indirectly admitted to him that you love him enough, more than so, to want him to be your first.

You’re about to scratch the final ticket when Yoongi juts his hand out, fingers barely brushing yours to stop you.

“On second thought, don’t scratch that. Just keep it.”

“Because you want to turn me into a hoarder too?” you snicker, heeding his suggestion regardless.

“Because I’m not going to be right about everything,” Yoongi mumbles, looking at you with a solemnness you can’t decipher.

You try until the solemnness turns into pity.

“Still don’t want to be my first kiss?”

Yoongi softly laughs to your face, smiling as he lets you down — whether easily or harshly, you can’t tell.

“You already know what I’m going to say.”

( ♡ )

You’d like to think that you’re not kept in the dark about most things.

You already know that although your mom hasn’t had any relationships since your dad left, she still has plenty of suitors. Some of them are the reason why you have random food deliveries in the middle of the dinner that she’s already cooked, some have sucked up to her by getting you and Namjoon gifts.

You know about Namjoon’s growing love for football, even with the lessons he takes in secret because he didn’t want to trouble your mom for the money. It’s why he does his part-time job and why you’re looking for one anyways. You don’t want nor need much, so you almost always give him the remainder of your allowance by the end of each week.

Yoongi, on the other hand, you don’t know much about. You know that he’s an only child with a doting mom who works overseas and a rich but emotionally unavailable dad at home, and that’s about it. His home life is synonymous with yours, considering that your four walls have become an extension of his.

Maybe you’ve become too lenient on him — either that, or he’s become too disrespectful. It’s at times like these where your house is not his home, sickeningly so that you don’t want it to be yours either.

Yoongi is a sight to behold as he makes out with a half-naked girl on your bed, in your room. Your room has never been the neatest but with everything going on, it feels that it’s become the dirtiest that it’s ever been. Your house slippers are on the floor even if you always leave them by the entryway, and your sheets are a mess despite being one of the only things you try to keep folded in the room.

You’re angry, too much to the point that the words get caught in your throat. They catch onto bile and venom and everything at once, the strain in your voice heard when you yell.

“What the fuck?!”

Yoongi and the girl, whom you figure out to be Hyewon that he’s shared his first kiss with, jolt in unison. Hyewon’s scared shitless while Yoongi’s annoyed to death, the grunt he lets out pricking your ears further. “Sorry, sorry. She’s my best friend’s sister. She’s so annoying,” he drags you out of your room before he even gives you the entitlement to storm out of there in a fit of rage, seeing red the longer that he seems upset at you.

“What the fuck was that, Yoongi?” you grit through your teeth, the moment of you seeing red turn into white because you’re so frustrated that you could actually cry. Your chest’s heavy, not only out of rage, but out of everything that’s built up in the course of years.

“Can you keep it down?” Yoongi seethes, pursing his lips. “What, would you rather see us do it in the living room?”

“In the — what? Who do you think you are? This isn’t even your house, why are you bringing these girls here?” you point an accusing finger at him yet he doesn’t back away, his annoyance for you only growing tenfold.

He’s in the wrong no matter which way you look at it yet he doesn’t realize it, the epiphany that Yoongi genuinely thinks he’s in the right for doing this to you making your skin burn in fire.

“This is literally the first time I’ve ever done this! I can’t bring her back to my place, my dad has guests over!”

“So your smartest idea is to fuck someone in my bed?”

“Oh, you’re welcome. It’s the most action your four walls have ever seen,” he spits sarcastically, eyes narrowing at you. It takes little effort for him to dig up what you came to him for in worry and it terrifies you. The facet of Yoongi who had sternly told you that it was okay to be left behind if it means getting what you deserve, resembling nothing like him at the moment.

“I can’t believe you!” you whisper as you tremble, the tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. “I told you that in confidence.”

“In confidence? It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that you’re not exactly a catch, Y/N.”

You clench your jaw so hard that it hurts, you ball your fists so tightly that it stings.

You leave your home without saying another word.

Namjoon’s panicked.

He came home a little later than usual because he had maximized the life out of his soccer lessons, only getting the signal to leave when the lights were turned off. He was only slightly worried at the first place because he was supposed to cook dinner for the both of you, but he placated himself by realizing that you’re not the baby that he still thinks you are — you could cook dinner for yourself if you were hungry already.

He thinks nothing of it. In fact, he just makes a quick stop at the convenience store so the both of you could indulge in a liter of ice cream without your mom urging to leave some for another night. You could think of a recipe from scratch (and it almost always works out at the end), so Namjoon walked in fully thinking he’ll get to sniff whatever concoction you have.

Except, he walks into a completely dark house, and that’s when he panics.

He can’t find your slippers by the entryway and you’re not in your room either. You’re not at the other convenience store hunched over taking your chances on scratch tickets, and you’re not out on the street either going people-watching.

The panic rises in him the more that Namjoon grasps this is the first time that this has ever happened and he doesn’t know why. He’s always made an effort to be absorbed into both your personal and academic affairs, and as far as he knows, you’re neither in a sleepover nor on a field trip somewhere.

Namjoon thinks it’s his fault someway somehow, and the guilt can’t fully dissipate from him until he sees you.

“Hey, Yoongi,” he breathlessly gasps the moment his friend answers, the latter being surprised because he thought it was you who was calling him after what happened awhile ago.

It’s his fault and he’s realized that hours too late, and the selfish part of him thinks that it’s you calling at ten in the evening begging for forgiveness.

“What’s up, man? It’s late,” he wonders out loud, thinking for a second if they were too much of the Siamese twins that you tease them to be because he can’t think of a rational reason why Namjoon would call him at this time of night.

Namjoon raggedly exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, sorry about that. I’m just wondering if you’ve seen Y/N by any chance?”

Yoongi’s heart drops so loudly that Namjoon thought for second that his friend had hung up on him, his urgency being shared the moment that he asked.

“What? Y/N isn’t home?” Yoongi asks in disbelief, immediately being filled with anxiety and disbelief. Just awhile ago, the two of you were arguing outside of your room. He did hear you leave, but he had fully expected for you to be back hours ago. He’s wracked with guilt all over, the drop in his chest amplified by the pit in his stomach.

“She’s not. Practice ran late and I-I know she’s responsible so I didn’t hurry home,” Namjoon recalls, being more and more frazzled by the second. “She left her phone here, and mom isn’t here either because she’s visiting my grandparents, a-and I don’t want to call her because I know she’ll be worried, a-and-…”

Yoongi interrupts him, the tremble in his fingers only enabling him to dig his nails into his palm deeper. “I’m coming over. Let’s look for her together.”

It barely takes a minute for the both of them to come together, not even exchanging any pleasantries with each other before Yoongi steps on the gas.

Namjoon’s filled with guilt, the type that only a sibling could carry as a burden. He thinks he was too selfish — too accustomed to pulling your own weight that it must have given you the impression that you had no other choice but to. Whatever it was that made you leave out of the blue, Namjoon thinks he could’ve done more. He should’ve came home and made you dinner as promised, for starters. He’s guilty over the fact that he’s the only close familial male figure in your life and he let this happen, as he makes Yoongi put his headlights on high-beam, scanning for anyone that looks remotely like you.

Yoongi, on the other hand, is filled with a guilt he can’t even begin to explain. It corrodes him from the inside-out in realization that he’s to blame for your sudden disappearance, the fact that Namjoon comes to him first to help find you not helping at all. If only your brother knew what he had done to you, he’s positive that he’ll be on the receiving end of a punch — what gets him more is that Yoongi wouldn’t blame him at all.

They see you in the bus stop two cities away, dressed in the same clothes you ran out with.

Namjoon’s relieved beyond compare while Yoongi’s fuming, his hands tucked inside his jacket to prevent himself from squeezing you into an embrace; neither of you deserve it.

There’s an underlying anger within Namjoon, one that lies behind the back of his throat as he checks you over for any injuries. The two of you walk ahead to Yoongi’s car while he himself trails behind, his heart significantly calmer than it was the past hour, yet nowhere near normal.

“Wanna tell me what you did?” your brother hums, trying to exhale the worry that’s embedded into him with each squeeze he gives around your shoulders.

“Went to the convenience store, bumped into my friends, then we took this impromptu roadtrip to go to the night market, then we all had our first actual shot of liquor and not just beer, my friend who owns the car turned out to be a lightweight, and now everyone just has to commute home,” you narrate in recollection, squeezing Namjoon back to try and ground him.

“Okay,” he answers simply, nodding. “Wanna tell me what happened before you did all those things?”

The breathless chuckle that leaves you is empty, void of any amusement at all. You smile nonetheless, unable to placate both yourself and Namjoon. “Nope.”

You arrive in silence to Yoongi’s car, the words unsaid between the three of you generating more tension than your brief disappearance itself.

Yoongi opens the front door for you, but you settle for sitting in the backseat.

#HOW R WE FEELING TARGET AUDIENCE!!! :O #yoongi imagine #yoongi oneshot #yoongi oneshots #yoongi series #yoongi angst #yoongi angst imagine #yoongi fluff #yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #yoongi au #min yoongi imagine #min yoongi scenario #yoongi fanfic #yoongi x you #bts yoongi imagine #bts yoongi x reader

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quizzicalwriter · 5 months

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Hi! Idk if you do headcanons but if you do can you do boyfriend headcanons for Dallas? It can be up to you to make it general things or just smut related things.

Dating Dallas HC’s

Despite what you may think, I don’t see Dallas being an overly possessive boyfriend. You two go about your business and that’s that, but the moment he catches someone flirting with you he’s bounding over and making sure everyone knows you’re his. Beyond that? He’s alright with PDA, but he’s not about to make out in front of his friends, that’s private stuff.

He’d let you wear his jacket, necklace, rings, everything. He loves seeing you in his clothing, and he’d certainly notice the moment you aren’t wearing one item that you usually do - and it’s not even for the reason you think, he’s just worried you’ll lose his stuff and he’ll have to find another one.

He has no problem remembering birthdays, anniversaries, all that jazz. He loves surprising you by remembering important dates for you. But the moment you ask him if he remembers someone you met last week he’s pulling a blank. He’ll remember eventually, but he sucks at remembering faces.

You ever need something but don’t have the money for it? Dallas does! Don’t ask where he got it, most of the time he doesn’t remember or doesn’t want you worrying about him - he doesn’t know which is worse and he ain’t about to find out.

On the topic of money, if you tried to pay him back he’d act personally offended and never accept the money. I’m talking full-on mouth dropping open, loud scoff, all of it. You’re his girl, why the hell are you trying to pay him back? Just give him a kiss or something.

Loves driving you places, and lets you control the music in reasonable amounts - meaning, you cannot play the same song over, and over. He’d let you get away with three replays max before he’s groaning and turning the radio off and tossing the mix out the window. He’d apologize afterward and buy you a new cassette.

I do not see him being a kind driver, the man has road rage and you’ve seen it. There have been multiple instances where you’ve ducked into the passenger seat and whisper-yelled at him to shut up - he never does.

The man is like a corpse when he sleeps. You want him to move over? Good luck. You’d have a better chance rolling over onto him to get sleep, he wouldn’t wake up either way unless you pushed him from the bed.

Speaking of sleep, if you’re ever cold and plaster your morgue-like hands against his back, he will shriek. His back will arch, his legs will shoot out, and he’ll throw every curse known to man your way as he moves away from your hands - your hands still end up warm.

His friends are his family and he takes their opinions seriously, I can see him genuinely fretting over their view of you if he cares enough for you. Hell, he’s got feelings for you, of course, he’s going to want his family to like you. They will, it’ll take a while to get used to their form of joking, but you’ll be at home with them and it’ll make Dallas smile.

On the subject of family, Dallas doesn’t mention his much. He might if you’re close enough, but you’re likely to get bits and pieces as time goes by until he’s sure you won’t leave either. When he finally tells you about his upbringing it hurts your heart, you’re both mentally spent by the end of it and you promise him to never mention it unless he does first. He appreciates you for it.

If you stay over at his place often enough he’ll try to make the place look more presentable. Mainly rearranging stuff that he hasn’t touched in months, maybe buying another set of bedsheets. You notice every time something changes in his room and whenever you mention it he’s happy to talk about it, even if he tries to play it off cool.

He watches you sleep, not so much in a creepy way, but it’s something he loves to do. If you talk or snore in your sleep he will imitate it in the morning. In the moment he finds it cute, but he’ll never admit it.

His version of helping you cook breakfast, lunch, or dinner is standing behind you with his chin on your shoulder, or leaning against the kitchen counter with a cigarette between his lips. The man can’t cook, maybe he could, but he likes watching you cook too much to try - that and the one time he tried to help he burnt the shit out of his hand.

If you smoke he’ll light your cigarettes or share his own, if you don’t he’ll appreciate you standing beside him while he smokes, but he ain’t gonna force you to be near him when he does - just don’t nag the man, he’s been smoking since he was a kid, I don’t think he could stop even if he wanted to.

Whenever he smokes he’ll blow the smoke to the side, always ensuring it doesn’t blow in your face. But, if the smoke follows you he’ll murmur some cliche line like “Smoke follows beauty.”

Any music he’s into he will show you in a heartbeat. He thrives on showing you things you haven’t seen yet, whether it’s movies at the drive-in he’s sneaking you into, or a cassette he snagged from a nearby store - either way, his eyes watch you for any reaction.

Definitely considers going on a walk or eating food in Buck’s T-Bird a date. You’ll have to specify what you want if you want anything different, otherwise he’s content with the routine. If you ask for something different he won’t take offense to it, but he might chide you for it.

Words aren’t his forte, actions are. He’ll try his best to be kind, but he’ll occasionally slip and might say something rude. If you can shoot back your own sarcastic quips it’ll make him swoon, he loves nothing more than someone who can fire back at him.

Likely won’t tell you that he loves you for YEARS. You can say it first, he’ll nod and likely kiss your cheek or forehead in return. You know what he means, but he’s not the type to say it until he feels absolutely certain about you. Dallas knows how he feels about someone rather quickly, but he’s wary when it comes to love. He wants to mean it, mean it in a way that scares him.

The first time he tells you he loves you will be when you’re asleep. He’ll continue doing that until one day when he randomly springs it on you. It’ll likely be around a cigarette, but you’ll be able to tell from his eyes how deeply he means it. Don’t expect him to say it often, but know that he always feels it.

A/N: This is so short, I’m so sorry. I’ve never done headcanons before, so I hope this was good! I think about Dallas’s character so much that I actually had a bit of fun with this! This is a late night post for me, but I finished it up and figured I’d post it for y’all anyways. Thank you all for the continued love and support you’ve shown me and my work!! I appreciate you all more than words could ever describe! <3

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kiwisofsharks · 7 months

Text

he finds out that you vape m.m. 1610 & 42

summary: your best friend caught you smoking out your dorm window while he’s on patrol.

pairings: earth 1610! miles morales & earth 42! miles morales x gn! reader

warnings: not proofread and unedited, there will be uses of yn (idk why i put that as a warning), nicotine addiction, weeds, cussing,

earth 1610 miles morales

he will get mad at you.

miles will be giving you an hour long sermon of the cons and no pros of nicotine.

he’s mad but mile’s is just worried for your health and he’s showing it the best way that he knows; through lecturing you, like how his mom does to him.

he thinks its annoying when he’s on the receiving end but he finds it fun when he’s the one lecturing you.

will ask to try it once out of curiosity and have a high chance of developing into an occasional smoker.

he still lectures you when he catches you doing it too much or taking higher concentrations.

he tries to find you substitutes or distracts you with something else if he thinks you’re starting to develop an addiction/dependency to nic as a stress reliever.

“Y/n?”

you turned to your right and almost screamed when you saw miles at the fire escape beside your open window, “what are you doing here, morales? how did you get in there?!”

“that doesn’t matter, what is that?” miles interrogated you while he fits himself through your window sill. “where’s your roommate?”

“she’s in her other friend’s room to hangout,” you answered, discreetly hiding your vape from his view. “anyways, how’d you get out there? are you spiderman now or something?” you laughed nervously, deterring the topic from you.

“Yn, you vape?!”

“shhhhh! do you want me to get caught?”

“dios mío, yn…” miles paced from one corner of your room to another, his hand on his forehead like how an angry mother would. “do you know how bad vaping is for you? you remember that time when cigarettes were first invented and then 50 years later people are dying because of smoking? yeah, that’s about to be you in… dentro de cincuenta años!” he rambles, forgetting some words in english.

“ ay ay ay, yn…” he sighed.

“do you wanna try?”

“no, i don’t, yn.”

“it’s melon flavored,” you persuade him further, extending it towards him with a smile that you know makes him reconsider your offers even if he’s against it.

“just one hit.”

earth 42 miles morales

now this miles, while he’s still worried for you, he won’t scold you as bad as how earth 1610 miles would.

he’ll keep tabs on the concentration you’re taking, making sure that you’re not depending on it or getting too addicted to it.

he knows that someone like you who rarely lets loose might have a pretty little secret, he just didn’t expect that it would be this.

i don’t see him as someone who owns one as it can hinder his prowler business if he’s huffing too hard from the side effects but he sometimes ask for a hit.

“didn’t expect you to be the type to vape.”

you whipped your head towards your window, there sat your best friend; miles g. morales in all his glory, sat at your widow sill.

bugged eyed, you lowered your hand that was still holding the device close to your lips, as if you haven’t been caught red handed inhaling hit after hit while reviewing for the exams.

“don’t bother hiding it, muñeca. i already saw it.” getting inside your room, snatching the vape from your hands and flopping down onto your roommate’s bed.

he took as hit, “it tastes like that one probiotic drink that you always buy.” nodding to himself, he continues, “it hits harder than i thought.”

“yea, i wanted to try a higher concentration, didn’t make that much difference.”

“how much?”

“cinco,” you answered. popping the last c from the word.

“¿qué?”

#miles morales x reader #earth 42 miles x reader #earth 1610 miles morales x reader #across the spiderverse #into the spider verse #earth 42 miles morales x reader

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britcision · 3 months

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I dunno if I touched on this already but I am Obsessed so you’re stuck with it

Just

Idk the Adventurer’s Bible calls it “cruel” that Mithrun told Thistle that Delgal wanted him dead in the end, but… it just doesn’t read that way to me

No one questions that Laios and co didn’t want to start a fight and just wanted to talk, but I feel like Mithrun was coming from a pretty similar place

He gives every prospective dungeon lord a chance, speaks to them more readily than anyone else, and always offers them a chance to back down despite clearly believing they won’t take it

And I mean I can’t 1000% cite it so I might be wrong, but… I think it’s also the only time he openly empathizes? He’s more emotive, with more facial expressions, but I can’t really think of another time he openly talks about what other people want

He’ll drop all his own trauma without batting an eye, but with Thistle and then with Marcille he tries to work out what their motivations are, what they want to wish for, and use his own experiences to warn them it can’t work and they won’t actually get it

It’s kinda cursory, but much less than Lycion asking Laios to give up on Marcille; he’s seeking a connection to spare them his fate, and while seeing Thistle catatonic doesn’t noticeably phase him, he’s pretty disinterested in the dungeon lords when you compare it to his reaction to the winged lion

(Full feral, 30 seconds flat, not a word before it’s peanut butter murder time)

The dungeon lords are ostensibly natural enemies as much as the demon is, and all the other Canaries are pretty focused on eliminating the dungeon lord as the first priority, and I dunno if any of the rest would even bother asking them to stand down

Lycion sure as hell doesn’t bother trying to justify to Laios why he shouldn’t go side with Marcille; he just asks him to abandon his friend, no, entirely expected, and he’s pretty clearly just humouring Kabru

Officially, they have to kill the dungeon lord to get a shot at the demon, and with a direct shot Mithrun loses his shit

But either dungeon lord alone? He doesn’t even try to seriously hurt them until he’s made the offer, he gets them temporarily incapacitated at best and he’s perfectly happy to let Laios free Marcille if he thinks he has even a vague shot at it

And sure, it might all be calculated to throw them off their game, to find weaknesses and rattle them before the fighting starts, but then why would he agree to let Laios help her stop being a dungeon lord without a fight?

The other captains sure as hell aren’t buying in, but Mithrun signs off without question, and it also might be that he just doesn’t care about the dungeon lords; any way he can get to the demon works

But he could have killed Marcille instead of trying to restrain or search her

He’s a fucking madlad, the time he used tackling her and starting the pat down could have begin with cape-decapitation to solve the problem before it occurred

He could have sent the plank into Thistle’s chest, not his arm to make him drop the book - that’s even a bigger target

They’re the Canaries. They already heard Laios say he wanted to be the dungeon lord. If they’d tpk’d the entire party there, it’d have been their job description, and we only got a dramatic final showdown because he gave Marcille a chance to just hand the books over… or let him take them

(Bet Pattadol and Lycion regretted pulling him off her, optics be damned, for at least a couple hours there)

Idk I just think it’s interesting that despite being the character with no wants or opinions on most things… he really does try to save the dungeon lords, and his squad follow his lead until they can’t even in his absence

(Talking to Laios and Chilchuck even after he’s fucked off, giving Laios even a cursory chance to quit)

It just… doesn’t add up that he told Thistle what Delgal wanted to be cruel, not on top of everything else

It wasn’t fucking tactful, but it was true, and if Thistle had believed him and realized that what he was doing was pointless…

That woulda been the fight. Wrap on Dungeon Lord Thistle, just a hop down for the other book, the status quo is mostly intact but the Island is saved

I don’t think it’s necessarily cruel to not want to kill someone

(But then the Golden Country woulda had to deal with King Mithrun Who 10000% Is Leaving To Find Another Demon Murder Opportunity, so like it was never an option narratively… which makes it all the more interesting that he tried)

#delicious in dungeon #dungeon meshi #dungeon meshi spoilers #delicious in dungeon spoilers #dunmeshi #dunmeshi spoilers #mithrun #mithrun dungeon meshi #listen i just have so many thoughts about him #and tbh am the person who usually asks ‘why didn’t they just try x’#ao this may also be why i am feral for his ass #cuz he DID try x and it didn’t work and we move on #but he fucking tried

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carolmunson · 1 year

Text

once bitten, twice shy (pbv!steve x f!thick reader)

finally, we made it. been writing this since october with breaks in between. if you're new to the pbv!steve universe (which is just an incredibly wealthy big money version of steve), i'd recommend reading 'peanut butter vibe' first.

here, steve invites his thick hottie bestie (you, who we're calling natalie because i HATE 'y/n') to his office holiday party. this fic has everything: sugardaddy!steve, casual dominance, office sex, unrequited love, some guy named rob -- anyway, enjoy. warnings/content prev: piv sex (protected), fingering/oral (f receiving), mentions of oral (m receiving) some angst/unrequited feelings, casual dominance, light spanking, office sex, sort of a 'boss' kink?? idk what to call it, rich people behavior, snide comments about thick!reader but not really about her body, some body descriptions but nothing wild, mentions of clothing sizes, lots of fluff, steve is a hot hot hottie throughout. little christmas light dividers by @newlips

“Is it fancy?” you ask, “I don’t really have anything to wear to a cocktail party.”

“I’ll take you to get something tomorrow,” he insists.

“I can buy my own dress, Steve,” you sigh, he can hear the eye roll through the phone.

“Yeah, yeah, everyone in Indiana knows you can buy your own dress, Manhattan, we get it,” Steve’s eye roll is even more audible than yours, “But you only have to get one because I’m asking you to come to this party. Let me get it for you.”

“Steve,” you scold, “No.”

“I have to finish shopping anyway — don’t you still have to finish getting gifts for your niece? We can go to the mall, two birds one stone!” he quickly adds. He hopes the thought of your niece’s tiny toes in some new little socks or a cute little outfit will soften you up.

“The mall is going to be a mess, Steve. It’s the weekend before Christmas,” you complain.

“We can go to a boutique or something,” he counters, determined to get you in a dress so you had no reason not to go to this party.

“Boutiques in Indiana aren’t making dresses for girls like me, Harrington,” you laugh, he doesn’t. He’s quiet for a moment until you hear his signature aggravated sigh come through the ear piece.

“You can just say you don’t wanna come,” his voice sounds slightly sullen, “Just wanted to show you the office, since you won’t get a chance to see it after I move.”

“It’s not that I don’t wanna come, Steve,” you say softly, “It’s just..it’s what it implies.”

“It doesn’t have to imply anything! Can’t you just come have fun with me? It’ll be so fun, I promise!” there’s a mild whine to his claim and you have to stifle a laugh.

Breaking News in Indiana: Poor little rich boy wants his big booty Barbie to play with at a party — throws minor tantrum when he might not get what he wants! "Fine, fine, Jesus Christ," you tease, "You're so annoying when you get whiny."

"So I'll pick you up in the morning? Is nine okay?" he asks, voice back to his regular charm. "Yeah, that's fine," you start, "Wait, we're not taking the Porsche to the mall, are we?" "Uh, yeah?" he replies, confused, "Did you want me to take a different car?" "Ugh, Steve that's so tooly," you moan, "You're such a tool."

"I'm about to uninvite you," he huffs, "Do you want me to buy you something pretty tomorrow or--" "I can buy my own dress," you yell over him. He lets out another aggravated sigh. "Tomorrow, nine, in the Porsche," he says finally, you hear the click of the dial tone as soon as he finishes speaking.

The Porsche rolls up at 8:58 and he knows better than to honk the horn, lest he wake your sister's newborn. Instead, he parks and walks up to the porch of your sister's house; knocking on the door and waiting for you with his hands clasped behind his back. When the door opens, he's surprised to see your mom behind it. She smiles, big and warm. She looks familiar, definitely a face in the stands at basketball games because your older sister Carly was a cheerleader. She was a senior when you were both freshman, before Steve was King Steve. "Oh, hi. You must be Steven," she whispers, when the door opens further he spots your little niece propped up high on your mom's chest, "I'm Maureen. Come in, come in. S'way too cold to be standing out here." "Thanks, thank you," he smiles, the kind of smile that makes mom's melt. Steve takes a step inside and your mom steps back, patting the baby's back to burp her. He wipes his shoes on the welcome mat and undoes the buttons on his Hugo Boss wool coat. His cashmere scarf hung loosely over his shoulders down his chest. "I've heard so much about you. Nat should be out in a second," heat blooming in her cheeks, "Make yourself comfortable." Maureen disappears into the kitchen but he can hear the gurgles of your niece and your mom's little titters to her. He leans on the back of the couch, the house smells like you and his heart swells. So this is what it looks like when you go inside after he drops you off. This is where you go when you're not with him. It feels like a secret he's not supposed to know. "Oh, hi, you're in my house," his eyes snap up when he hears your voice. His teeth shine through his smile, he waves with a leather gloved hand. "Good morning," he says, his voice is low and warm. Your heartrate speeds up when he says it. It's awkward when you walk up to him, unsure if you should hug or kiss on the cheek. It's normally never awkward, but you're always meeting at the bar or in his car. He's never been so...available at the first greeting. You don't want to kiss in front of your mom because then she'll have questions. She already asks too many about Steve to begin with. He scans you, your white sweater and jeans, square toe brown boots on your feet. You reach for a black parka on the coat rack and a scarf that he recognizes as a polyblend. He makes a mental note to get you a cashmere one when you're not paying attention. "Good morning," you reply, shrugging the coat on and tossing the scarf around your neck sloppily. He walks towards you, tutting while he does, reaching out to flip your hair out from under the scarf. He readjusts the material so it lays neater against you, tucked in and under the jacket so you actually stay warm. "Gonna freeze if you don't wear it right," he sing songs, shaking his head while he works. "Okay dad," you roll your eyes, swatting his hands away when he goes to zip up your coat, "I can do it." You don't zip your parka up, instead you peek your head into the kitchen and whisper a quick goodbye to your mom and your niece. Maureen appears with the baby again and says a motherly goodbye and 'Merry Christmas' to Steve. "It's very nice to finally meet you, Maureen," he almost flirts, "Have a Merry Christmas." She winks at you when he turns towards the door, mouthing a very enthusiastic 'He's cute.'

You have half a mind to say, 'Yeah, he knows. That's what's so infuriating.' But you think it, instead. You opt to mouth a simple 'Stop,' at her before following him outside towards the car. "You're mom's so sweet," he says when he gets to the side walk from your porch, hand immediately coming out to support you down the icy steps, "Careful." "There's a railing," you explain, using him for support, "It's there so I don't fall." "Well, you're holding my hand anyway, so," he shrugs. You bristle at his coolness, always so slick even when it's innocent. He's so hateable, it's almost unfair how excited he makes you. "As I was saying," he starts again when you make it to the end of the stairs, "Your mom's so nice." "Maureen? Yeah, she's a sweetie," you agree when you get the passenger door. He reaches past you to open it, and in doing so has you chest to chest with him. He lingers there for a moment, looking at you down the slope of his nose. He cocks his head, eyes a little hard, lips pulling into a smirk. "So what happened to you, then?" he teases, lips dangerously close to yours. You catch your mom peaking out of the living room window and sink down into the open door onto the leather seat. "Shut up," you huff, "You're not funny." "I'm so funny," he corrects, shutting the door, appearing on the drivers side moments later. "The stores don't open for at least an hour," you say, buckling into the seat, "Why'd you wanna leave so early?" "Thought we could get breakfast first," he shrugs, looking your over in the passengers side. He bites his lip, eyes flitting from your thighs to your face, "You look nice."

"It's nine in the morning Harrington, keep it in your pants," you shove his shoulder and he grins while he puts his attention back on the road, pulling forward away from the sidewalk. "It's 9:07 actually," he says, aloof, hand resting on your inner thigh once he had his bearings on the road infront of him, "You're so warm." "Perks of big thighs, I guess," you shrug, "You're wearing gloves though, I think that helps." "Nah, your thighs are just warm," he grins again, "Haven't had to buy ear muffs for the last five years cause'a them."

"You're so gross," you turn to him as you say it, exasperated. The car rolls to a stop at a redlight and he turns to look at you. "I'm so gross, huh?" he asks, leaning in. His hand floating from your thigh to under your chin. The leather is smooth on your skin, you can smell his cologne as he moves closer, "S'that why you want me to kiss you so bad?" "I think you wanna kiss me so bad," you tease back. His lips catch yours, fingers gently wrapping around your jaw as they do. The leather sinks into your full cheeks, flush from the cold and the way his mouth fits against yours. His nose bumps your cheek and your ungloved hand finds his, you can feel the smoothness from his shave this morning. Smell his moisturizer, his shaving cream. Taste the mint from his mouth wash in your mouth. A soft hum leaks from your chest and you feel him smile into the kiss before he breaks away, the light turning green against the white cloudy sky. "You're right, I did wanna kiss you so bad," he admits. His hand falls right back on your thigh, hitting the gas to pull onto the highway.

You'd been at it for a couple of hours now, store after store, the mall littered with families and screaming children. "We can go to the west wing. I don't know why you keep avoiding it," he chides. He puts all the shopping bags you've both already accumulated into the hand furthest from you, offering you the empty one. You take it, your other hand empty since he wouldn't let you carry your own bags. "That's the nice part of the mall," you say, "I don't want to spend that much on a dress for one night."

"Then it's a good thing you're not spending any money on it," he smiles. "Steven," you chide, "Enough, pl--" "Don't use that voice with me. I told you a thousand times I want to get you something pretty. So we're getting you something pretty," he urges, "Let's go." The west wing has all the fancy stores in it. Luxury brands, far stretches from Kay Jewelers and JC Penney. You aren't sure if they even carry your size in stores like this, but maybe you'll be surprised. It's not long before he has you in a dressing room, working with the attendants and tossing dress after dress in behind the curtain. Steve sits on one of the waiting area couches with the rest of the men. Your purse and coat is on his lap, the shopping bags resting between his feet. You poke your head out after the fourth dress, looking for an attendant but they're all busy. He notices your nervous face and waves to get your attention. "Need help?" he asks. You flush. "Can you get this zipper for me? It's not a side zipper so I can't reach," you ask. He nods, slinging your purse over himself with the cross body strap, asking the guy next to him to watch the bags with a quick 'Would you mind, chief? Thanks a million.' He comes up to the curtain and sees the front of the dress, red bursting to his cheeks, tinging his ears, "Good fucking lord." "Oh stop it," you blush back. You turn around and zips up the dress, some resistance meeting at the top. You walk closer to the mirror and inspect yourself, scrunching your face at your reflecting. "You don't like it?" he asks with a frown. "It's just not me," you shrug, "It's a little tight, and I don't want to be thinking about that the whole time, y'know?"

He nods, looking over his shoulder to see a dress on the 'put away' rack, dark green and off the shoulder. The style a mix between Herve Leger and vintage Dior. "Ma'am," he calls out when he sees an attendant walk by, "Would you mind pulling that dress for me? The green one?" She scans her hand over the rack and points at it, reading out the size. "That's perfect, actually," he smiles, that winning Harrington smile that makes the girls melt, "Thank you." "You're very welcome," she says sweetly, posture straightening when she brings it over. You peak back out and he turns you around to start the zipper down on the number you'd just tried on. "You look so good in green, try this one," he says, passing it to you, "Very Hawkins High." You hold it up in front of you and consider, it's a bodycon but still somehow classic looking. A velvet piece that you wouldn't have picked out yourself. "Hm, okay, I'll try it," you say, turning to him with a furrowed brow, "Now get out, perv." He smiles, closing the curtain carefully and retreating back to the couches, "Thanks for watching the bags, man." The guy smiles, "Us husbands gotta look out for each other, right?"

Steve bites his lip in a toothy grin, nodding, "Yeah, for sure."

"How long you been married?" he asked. "Few years," he lies, it's fun to lie when people have asked about you before. He'd get comments every now and again at Porter's, have chats with bar stoll warmers about you like you'd been together forever. "Few years? You look like babies," he laughs, the gray smattered in the man's hair shines in the pristine white lights of the store. "When you know, you know," Steve shrugs. The man nods, "They do say that, don't they? Well, I'll give ya a little advice. Fifteen years down the line, here -- they aren't lying when they say 'happy wife, happy life'. So just, y'know, do whatever she says and you're golden." "Great advice, honey," a woman's voice coo's above them. Steve sees her Vivienne Westwood shoes first, head tilting up to see a very expensive woman in front of him. She has a few dresses in her hand that he immediately stands up and takes from her. "Merry Christmas, kid," he says while they head out, the wife nods toward Steve in acknowledgement and he gives them a small wave. "Oh Steve, this is it, this is the one," you say, stepping out of the dressing room with the dress in your arm, the 'no's' in the other. His shoulders slump, "You didn't even let me see it."

"It'll be a surprise. You'll see it tomorrow night," you smile. He instinctively gets up and takes the dresses you don't want to hang up them for you on the rack. You exchange them for your purse and jacket, scarf previously abandoned in a shopping bag. "You all set to go? You have any other shopping you wanna do?" you ask.

"Hmm," he thinks, "Let's stop by jewelry first."

"Something for your mom?" you ask, putting your parka back on. "Something for you," he says, "To go with that dress."

"No, no, I have jewelry at home. I'll ask my mom if I can borrow something," you wave your hand off at him while you walk out of the dressing area and back into the store together. "Hey, hey," he shushes you, raising his neck to look into your eyes, "Let me spoil you a little, okay?"

"You already got me a new scarf and gloves," you say earnestly, "It's too much, Steve."

"You needed a new scarf and gloves," he says knowingly, "Let's get you a necklace to go with that dress, hm? You need shoes, too?" "I'm drawing the line at shoes," you warn, putting your purse over yourself while you walk through the beauty section, "I brought plenty of shoes with me."

He shrugs, "Suit yourelf."

Monday night comes quicker than expected, but you'd stayed the night at Steve's after shopping, only to wake up in the late morning with him the next day. You'd been up late fucking mercilessly wrapping gifts with each other, teaching him how to curl ribbon, watching him fold wrapping paper with obscene precision. The only reason you went home is because he had to go into the office to finish up some reports. You arrive around seven-thirty, a little late but still there, heels clicking on the marble floor of the lobby -- and there he is, waiting for you behind the turnstyles to the elevators -- suit jacket fitting him almost criminally.

"Fashionably late?" he teases, opening the side gate to let you through to him, "Everyone thinks my date stood me up."

"Oh, I'm sure your secretary will be so disappointed to know I'm here," you joke back.

"I don't fuck my secretary," he shakes his head, hitting the call button, "I fuck Rob's secretary. God, do you ever listen to me when I talk?"

Rob, Steve's work nemesis.

"Oh forgive me, there's so only many office flings I can keep up with," you say, stepping into the elevator. You take off your scarf from under your coat, revealing the necklace Steve bought you at the mall. He smiles to himself, seeing your adorned by his gifts. The scarf, the necklace, the gloves. He's excited to see the dress, it's all he thought about today. When you get the floor of the party, you wince a bit at the noise. It's rowdy, a lot of the men are already drunk. And boy is it, fancy. Men in suits, women is cocktail dresses in sky-high heels, hair in big blowouts with glowing gold and silver jewelry. You're suddenly thankful for the necklace Steve bought you. You'd been around your fair share of fancy in New York, but never really living it outside of your own work holiday parties. Sometimes you forget that this is Steve's day to day. "The actual offices are the next floors up, this is just our meeting hall. They really go all out, huh?" he smiles, "Let me bring you to coat check." On the walk to coat check you scan the room, it's decked out in gold and red. Ten foot Christmas trees sit in every corner, draped in garland, ribbon, and tinsel. Lights leaving a soft glow out of the floor to ceiling windows of the room. Intricately placed curtains of warm white christmas lights hang from the ceiling, dress the walls and windows. The room is a halo, glowing and warm. In the center of the room is the open dance floor, flanked by tables covered in white cloths -- drinks already littering them. Speakers boom top 40 and Christmas music, chatter and laughter booms over it.

"Here, let me get it," he says when you reach the coat check area, a little set up of a few racks with a sweet woman at a table, writing out tickets for you to keep track of for the end of the night. He undoes the buttons of your coat and you shrug it off slowly. His eyes round and he gulps, mouth going dry at the sight of you.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes out, pulling your coat back over you, "You can't be serious rigt now."

"What?" you ask, suddenly self concious, "Does it look bad?"

"No, oh my god, no, it's..." he pulls your coat away again and sucks in a sharp intake of breath, "If I knew you were gonna look like this, I wouldn't have let you wear it here. Can't have everyone looking at you when you're here with me."

He looks you over, the way your breasts sit in the sweetheart neckline, how tightly it clings to your curves, the shape of your hipes, the outline of your belly in the fabric. He licks his lips, knowing he's not strong enough to see you from the back just yet.

"God damn," he shakes his head, "You're gonna kill me." "Well, you look very handsome too," the compliment is genuine but it doesn't register for him. He's busy looking at your glossed lips, the necklace places perfectly above your chest, the smell of your perfume. He licks his lips and your words finally hit him, so does the feeling of the fabric of your coat in his hands. "Th-thank you," he smiles, "Thanks." He checks your jacket and gives the lady at the table a $20 even though the coat check is free. Waiters walk around with hor d'ourves and drinks and he reaches for the champagne flutes, nodding to you to see if you want one. "It's kind of chilly, is there coffee or anything?" you ask, running your hands over your arms. "There's hot toddy's," he says, "They're by the bar but you don't like whiskey."

"I can pretend to like it for right now," you smile, he smiles back, placing his champagne flute on a table that he'd been sat at earlier, your name card placed on the seat next to him. He takes your hand and leads you to the bar, running his own hands over arms to warm you up while you wait behind a small line of people.

"This is pretty," you tell him, "Looks like everyone is having a good time."

"Half of these guys have been drinking since four," he laughs a little, "I'd hope they're having a good time."

"Oh, Harrington, is this her?" you hear a gruff voice ask. Steve's arm sling protectively around your waist at the sound. "This is she," he says back, he presents you like a trophy to him. His best Vanna White while he scans a hand over you to show you off. "Rob Delaney," he smiles, a smile that rivals Steve's, and offers his hand. He is devilishly handsome, no wonder Steve hates him so much, "You must be the girl that's got Harrington running to the big city."

"I think it's the pay raise that has him running to the big city, but thank you," you giggle, shaking his hand. It's a firm shake, a businessman's shake. You feel the chill of his gold pinky ring brush against your skin. "Pretty thing like you got a name?" he flirts, you feel Steve pull you closer, his hand splaying at the curve of your waist. Your face heats up at the feeling, knowing he doesn't like sharing you even though you weren't his to begin with. "Natalie," you smile. "Natalie," he repeats, giving you a once over, "Pretty name for a pretty girl." "Well, thank you," you say politely, letting go of his hand. He puts his own in his pants pocket, smiling at the both of you. "It's nice to meet you. Save me a dance, will ya?" he smirks when he asks.

"Don't know how free I'll be for a dance, Delaney," Steve replies with a tight voice, ffingers digging into the velvet of your dress, "She's kinda got me tied up all night. Maybe next time." Rob nods, biting back at snicker before walking away with his drink. "See, angel, this dress is dangerous," Steve says in your ear, you hold back from having your eyes roll back in your head at the feeling of his voice in your chest. He orders your hot toddy and a whiskey on the rocks for himself, you nurse it slowly back to the table -- the drink is strong and the food here is light. You feel lucky you ate dinner before you left or else this night would've been ten times more dangerous than the dress you were wearing.

An hour and two hot toddies later and you're chatty at the table with Steve's work friends. He glows while he watches you, the way you are able to blend in so seamlessly with everything. Like you've known these people longer than he has.

"And so I'm still on the phone after he puts me on hold for thirty minutes," you continue through gasps and giggles, the whole table is crying with laughter, "And -- and he comes back and is like, "Oh ma'am, I'm so sorry. Did you say L'Oreal? I thought this was the Oriole's marketing office!"

The table erupts in laughter, feet stomping, glasses clinking while men bang on the table. The women dab tears away with their napkins. Business talk, business jokes. Two big kids in their parents clothes again, at a fancy office party that they don't need to go to.

"Oh god," Steve's co-worker says, face red with liquor and laughter, "That is fuckin' marketing for you. I'm gonna go get a drink, you all want another round?" The group at the table nods, but Steve waves off a no for both of you. 'Last Christmas' flows through the speakers and some people have found their way to the dance floor. He takes the hand resting on your lap and gives it a light squeeze to get your attention. "Hey," you say, turning towards him.

"Hey," he says back, thumb brushing your skin, "You wanna dance with me?" You blush, nodding when he stands up. He's almost too charming, who are you to say no to him.

“Happy Christmas, I wrapped it up and sent it — with a note saying I loved you, I meant it —” Steve mouthed along with the words dramatically, guiding you to the dance floor on gliding backwards feet. His hips swayed expertly — surprising since he didn’t strike you as much of a dancer. You saw him at many a homecoming dance, he was not incredibly impressive in the 80s.

“Now I know, what a fool I’ve been, but if you kiss me now, I know you’d fool me again,” he sings along softly while he pulls you into him. His hand presses against your lower back until you’re chest to chest, hips against his hips, holding your other hand outside the both of you. Your face burns in the low light, noticing the other couples on the dance floor — women with engagement rings and wedding bands, women introduced as ‘my girlfriend _____’ who would be fiancés soon.

“When did you get so good at dancing?” you ask, looking up at him.

“This year to save me from tears — been going to a lot of weddings — give it to someone special,” he explained through his soft singing, “Got good at dancing so I could pick up bridesmaids. What about you?”

You scoff at his answer before answering yourself, "I was always a good dancer, Steve."

"How was I supposed to know?" he shrugged. Hair falls in his face when he leans forward to brush his nose against yours, his tell that he wants to kiss you.

"Should've danced with you at prom," he mumbles, resting his forehead down on yours.

"I didn't go to prom," you smile, moving your head on his chest, "Wasn't really my thing." His hand travels from your lower back to just below your shoulder blades, holding you while you both sway in time with the music.

"What'd you do instead?" he asks, you can't help but giggle and he can feel it in his chest.

"Ugh, it's embarrassing," your face burns while you nuzzle into the lapel of his jacket.

"It was years ago, c'mon," he urges, “Tell me.”

You look up at him and scrunch your nose, “I let Eddie Munson take my V-card that night.”

Steve gasps, you want to punch him in his perfect teeth.

“Right on his stained mattress at his uncle's,” you laugh and scrunch your nose harder.

“Oh, no…” he laughs, a twinge of jealously plucks in his chest, “Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson?”

“I mean he was a different kind of freak for me,” you shrug and Steve presses you even closer, feeling your breats and tummy squish against him. Warm and soft.

“Any good?” he asks, trying to make it casual. But even if it was so long ago, he had to know. "Good for seventeen," you shrugged, "And eighteen, and nineteen, and twenty. Then Corrded Coffin took off and he left."

"So you kept fucking him when you'd come back for breaks?" he laughs.

"It's a long winter break, Harrington," you explained, "I had a life before you, y'know."

"Yeah, but, was it a good one?" he squints when he asks, so you know he's joking. You roll your eyes at him, anyway. While George Michael wails, Steve can't help himself while looking at you in the low light. His body so close to yours he could barely breathe correctly. His hand skates up the the top of your back to your neck, pulling you in for a kiss that only both of your lips understand. Sharing secrets with eachother through clicks of spit, soft breaths, and swipes of tongue. If it weren't for the hot toddies, you'd never let him kiss you like this with people around. When you break away, he's breathless. "You look so good tonight," he confesses, the hand holding yours leaving to meet your cheek, "Can't stop lookin' at you." "Well thank you for the dress," you smile, "It's all you."

"Fits you like a glove," he smirks, "No lines or anything."

You blush but he can't tell, "Well I'm not wearing anything under this so that's why."

Steve chokes, sputtering, astounded at how you can say that to him so casually. The whole time he's had his hands on you, it's only been this flimsy velvet fabric keeping him from feeling your skin. All night you've been naked under this -- and you're just telling him now?

"Uh -- um," his voice cracks, "Do you uh, um, you wanna see my -- um, my office?" "I don't know, is it interesting?" you ask with a laugh. His hands skate down to your ass, the whiskey in your system tells you its okay when he lets his palms roam the mass of it. "Can make it so interesting for you," he says, lips brushing yours, "So, so interesting."

His hands and lips are on you the moment you step into the elevator and the doors close. His tongue runs a flat stripe over your collar bone, over the twenty four karat gold chain around your neck, following your jugular until he gets to your job.

"Your quarterly review came in," he murmurs in your ear, hand skating up your dress to tease you. Fingers brushing over your inner thighs, creeping slowly upward while you whine, "It's abysmal."

The doors ding open and he pulls you by the hand down the hall to the corner office. The windows show off the Indianapolis skyline, buildings glittering from floor to ceiling. There were packing boxes littered around, leather chairs and a couch cross from his desk for meetings. A bar cart left abandon in the corner with a large oak desk in the center. "Abysmal?" you reply innocently while he shuts the door behind you, "Does that mean I'm gonna get fired?"

He finally gets a good view of you from behind and bites his fist bringing the other hand down hard with a loud CRACK! against your ass. He smirks to himself with you yelp. "It might," Steve sinks down into the chair behind his desk, beckoning you over with a finger.

“Wanna keep your job?” he asks with a sly smirk, the authority building in his chest.

“Yes, Mr. Harrington," you playfully whisper. "Then show me," he sighs, reaching for his belt. The clink of the metal on the buckle being undone sent a shiver through you. He stayed relaxed in his office chair, pulling out his length to pump it lazily in his fist.

"Don't be such a tease," he scolds while you stand there, gaping at his cock, feeling behind you to twist the lock on the door.

"Steve! You can't just -- you're at work!" you gasp, eyebrows raised in genuine surprise.

"You just locked the door," he shrugged, "They're all downstairs, c'mon just -- please, come suck my dick. It's already out."

“You’re insane,” you laugh, “We have to go back out there eventually, Harrington.”

“I promise I won’t mess up your makeup,” he pleads, a soft grunt escaping his lips while he quickens his pace on his cock.

“So, I suck your dick,” you start, walking slowly back towards his desk, “And what do I get?”

“Baby, in that dress, you can have anything you want,” he gasps as he runs his thumb over his leaking tip, watching your hips sway while you continuing your slow strut toward him.

“Want me to fuck you instead?” he asks, “God, fuck, bend over the desk. I’ll fuckin’ give it to you.”

“Very forward, Mr. Harrington,” you coo, slowly reaching for the hem of your dress, “Can I keep my job if I let you fuck me?” "Keep your job?" he pants while you bend over in front of him, hem slowly rising over your thighs, "Give you the whole--whole fucking c-company." Your dress slips over the curve of your ass, legs taught and flexed while balancing your weight on your tall heels.

"Oh fuck, fuck, fuck," he whispers while he stands, still fucking his fist while he does it, "Your body's just...shit, you're so...I wish you could see how you look."

He clumsily reaches for the middle drawers on the side of his desk, hastily fishing into a half empty box of condoms. You can't stifle the laugh that bubbles out of your chest, "How many people are you fucking in here, Steve?"

"Shh, just shut up," he huffs while he quickly works the latex over his shaft. "Well excuse me," you murmur, bracing yourself while he puts one hand on your hip. The other dips between your legs, pressing against your entrance. "You nice and wet for me?" he asks gently, soaking his fingers in his mouth and coating your opening with a mix of your slick and his spit. "Y-yeah," you say breathily, rocking back onto his hand. Steve smirks, feeling your walls puff and twitch as his touch. You feel his length slide between your thighs, hand guiding his tip to drag across your folds, parting them as he pushes in just an inch or two. You hiss at the intrustion, you were wet but not relaxed. The let downs of not having enough time for foreplay. He runs a calming hand down your back over your dress. "Sorry, I'm sorry," he soothes, "I'll go slow." You feel his hips slowly pull out and push in again, coaxing your walls to start accomdating him. You part your legs a little, the arch in your back matching the porn stars in 'SLUTS AND CEOS XXX' videos you were sure Steve had seen before. Slickness builds between your legs while he pushes his hips in and out again, more and more of his length getting sucked in. You hear him groan when it gets all the way to the hilt.

"So tight..." he grumbles. It was almost uncomfortable for him, he knew you were turned on enough, "You feeling okay?"

"Yeah, sort of," you nod, wincing, "Hurts a little."

"Sorry," he apologizes again while running a hand through his hair, "Lemme...hm..." You hiss again when he pulls out, looking back to see him get to his knees while his hands grip your thighs. Steve just goes for it. His tongue immedately making contact with your entrance. "Steve, oh..." your eyes roll back when he parts your lips with his thumbs, tongue gliding forward to your clit while his fingers find home inside of you. "There we go," he chuckles darkly, "Did she just need a little somethin' extra from me?" "Oh, shit, that's so good," you whisper, covering your mouth to stop your whimpers escaping from under his office door. His fingers pumped like pistons inside of you, teasing your g-spot just enough to get you dripping down your thighs. "Think it'll be okay now?" he asks, his hand meeting your hip while he gets back to full height. "Mhm," you gulp when you feel his head push in, and then the rest of him. Much easier this time around. "Fuuuuck, me," he groans, his hips rolling in steady thrusts against you. You cover your mouth harder, moans caught in your throat, in your palm, threatening to ricochet of the high ceilings of his office. "Better, baby? That feel good?" he asks, his voice clouded behind breathy grunts. You were still tighter than normal, and while that was great, he'd fucked you enough times to know when something wasn't working. "Really good, Steve," you whine through gritted teeth. His speed picks up, the skin of his thighs clapping loudly against the backs of yours. Steve's thrusts are shallow, hitting deeper and deeper until you're on the toes of your heels. "Look--oh fucking fuck--Look back at me," he pleads, "Wanna see you." You oblige and he sighs at the sight of you, reaching forward to move your hair away from you, "So pretty for me."

Steve never looked at the girls he was fucking in his office. It was always just to get off, to feel good after a rough meeting. To let off some steam after his underlings fucked up yet another sale. New secretaries, mail girls, office assistants, you name it -- all he had to do is wink and they'd be bent over his desk by lunch. "I'm close," he admits with a blush, "S'just...mmm fuck, s'what you do to me." "That's okay," you smile, his hand reaching forward again to touch your face. "Been hard since you fuckin'--oh shit, Christ--since you got here," his brows are furrowed while he watches you. Swollen wet lips letting out soft moans while he pumps into you. God, he'd do anything to keep you like this -- wet and ready for him. You catch his hand, pressing kisses to his fingertips, eyeing him mischeviously while you do it.

"D-don't, you're gonna m-make me---" he warns, another groan taking over while you slip his first and middle finger into your mouth. Sucking expertly, your lipstick smearing on his knuckles. "J-just need s-something in your mouth, hm?" his face contorts, brows furrowing while he clamps his eyes down. Whatever authority he had in his voice falls into boyish whines when your tongue swirls between his fingers. It's a sensation he didn't know he'd like so much, having his fingers sucked on while he was buried inside you. Something about the warm wetness of your mouth. The dirtiness of it. The way you'd wink at him while you did. He took his fingers out with a sharp inhale of breath, trying to stave off his orgasm. Instead, he uses them to wrench your hair back, your chest arching off the desk. The sound of your cry would definitely be heard a few doors down if anyone else was around. You involuntarily clench down on him, gushing. "Oh I see, you want me to be a little mean?" he asks against your neck, open palm coming down against your ass again, "Put you in your place?"

"In my p-place? Please. I thought I was getting the whole c-company?" you ask slyly, turning back to face him against the hold in your hair, "Isn't that what you promised...?"

You raise your eyebrows at him, mocking his own approach to the edge, mouth gaping. "Isn't that what you p-promised, Mr. Harrington?"

He gasps, hips stuttering while his grip in your hair slacks and clutches your shoulder. Gutteral groans flow from his throat, a string of expletives pour from his mouth. Gasps of phrases like, "My little office whore...fucking Jesus, my perfect girl...Pretty -- oh god -- pretty baby..." Steve slows his thrusts to nothing, heaving his breaths until they steady and leaning forward to rest his forehead on your back. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, "You didn't..." "I didn't," you shake your head, "But it's okay."

"It's not okay," he says while pulling out, carefully removing the condom and tossing it in the trash can under his desk. "Gross, Steve," you admonish, standing up. You adjust your dress while turning to face him and he frowns, "Someone has to clean that up."

"Don't put your dress down, let me --" he reaches for the hem, but you stop him.

"Steve, it's fine. We have to go back downstairs, they're gonna know you're missing," you smile while you say it, "They're loving you down there."

"I'll make it up to you later," he promises, pressing a soft kiss against your lips, "Wake up all the neighbors when we get home tonight."

"Whatever you say, Harrington," you roll your eyes while you get to the door, clicking the lock. You both make your way to the bathroom when you leave his office, making quick work of cleaning up. He waits for you against the wall across from the door, your purse in his hand. "Hi," he smiles, when you exit, "Missed you."

You scoff, reaching for your purse and fishing out a compact to touch up your lipstick and powder. He walks next to you while you touch up, arm slinging around your waist while he does.

"You're gonna make me mess it up," you say, swiping a line of color over your lips. "I already messed it up back there," he shrugs while the elevator doors ding open, "What's a second time?" He pushes you up against the elevator wall when the doors close behind you, "Or a third time?" You hum into his kiss, hungry and touchy, feeling yourself swell between your legs.

Another drink and an hour on the dance floor later and you're back at the table while the guys chat with cigars on the opposite side of the room. Steve stands with a hand in his pocket, cocky and confident, while he talks with his work friends -- you're sure about something he doesn't really care about. Mergers and acquistions.

"He sent Rob's secretary three dozen roses as a goodbye gift," one of the women at the table behind you said to another. "Oh, you know he just did that to piss him off," her friend replied, "Muffy told me she doesn't even like him like that. It's all been for fun."

"He told her to come visit him in New York any time," she shrugged, "But he stopped sleeping with her earlier this month cause he said he's got himself a girl in the city."

"Can't believe he's going to New York for some girl," she complains, "He stopped flirting with everyone. But you know what? Good riddance, he's fucking boring now. Hot but boring." "It's not the girl he brought tonight, right?" the other woman asks, "That's gotta be a friend from school or something. She's not very New York looking, pretty home grown if you ask me."

It doesn't bother you, but your shoulders tense a little. In your own little world with Steve was one thing, but to hear people confirm your slight fears about what the future could hold was another. You couldn't deny the sinking feeling in your chest every time you remembered he was moving to New York. Moving into your life in a way you'd never had him before. Disrupting the whole life you built there by yourself, a place you've been able to call home without anyone from your real home to bother you. 'Got himself a girl', since when? Weren't you just having fun? Before you can get too lost in your thoughts, he's coming towards you with your coats in his arms, holding yours out in front of him. "You wanna get outta here, baby?" he asks, there's a slight slur to his words that makes you laugh. "Sure," you smile. You hear a soft 'Oh, shit,' come from the table behind you. "You need me to find a phone to call for a car?" you ask him. He shakes his head, "No, they'll call one for us downstairs." You put on your coats, led around for a flurry of goodbyes before heading back into the elevator to the lobby. He takes your hand immeidately, leading you to the front desk to ask for a car before taking you outside to wait. "You have fun?" he asks, pulling you in to hold you, protecting you from the cold. "Oh, a lot of fun," you smile, "You brought your dancin' shoes, for sure." "Had to, since you're so nice to dance with," he smiles, hands dropping from your arms to laces fingers with yours. You smile, but he notices there's something off about it, not as genuine, "You okay?"

"Oh yeah, yeah, fine," you shake your head, "Just thinkin'."

"Yeah, I've been thinkin' too and um..." he starts, looking down, brows furrowing, "Thinking about you and uh--"

"What did you mean the other night, on the phone? When you said 'It's what it implies'?" he asks, thumb gliding idly against your gloved hand. One of his co-workers came bumbling through the revolving door, eyes glazed over with the buzz of alcohol. You dropped his hand before whoever this was could register it, embarrassment buzzing through you. If the women were talking about you, you couldn't imagine what the men were saying.

"Hey man, goodnight -- good to see you and uh -- yeah g-good luck if oh, shit I'm so fucked up dude -- good luck if I don't see you," he slurred, pulling Steve in for a hug. "Thanks, Jack. Easy there, buddy," Steve rolled his eyes at you from over his shoulder before he let go, "You're not driving tonight, right?"

Jack shakes his head and laughs, leaning against are large stone sqaure pillar. His eyes semi-follow the figure of a beautiful woman in a maroon dress pushing through the revolving door.

"Jack, let's go," she calls, like a mother to a son. She waves him over with her clutch, engagement ring glinting in the buildings facades.

"That's my ride," he smiles, stumbling over to her. They take eachother's hand and she offers an apology over her shoulder, saying goodnight to Steve and smiling at you.

"Sorry about that,” Steve says apologetically, reaching for your hand again, “You we’re saying.”

“Just that,” you stuttered, unable to find the right words to say to explain it, “I don’t know Steve. I’m not like — I don’t — This isn’t — ugh..”

“Take your time, Manhattan,” he teases. You don’t want to hurt him, especially not when he smiles at you like that.

“Bringing me here,” you start, “In this dress you bought me, in this necklace. Dancing with me, taking me to your office. It’s making people think we’re together.”

“Are we not?” Steve asked, his brows furrowing, “Cause I thought that — like, we talked about — have you been sleeping with other people?”

“No, Steve, I haven’t,” you shake your head, keeping your voice calm, “But I’m not going around telling people that you’re my boyfriend.”

Steve’s face drops a little, some pink rising in his cheeks that isn’t coming from the cold, “Oh.”

“I thought you liked me,” Steve confessed, “That you, y’know — that you wanted me. That you liked me the way I like you.”

“I do like you, Steve,” you tell him, your hand resting on his chest, “But what if this isn’t what you really want? What if this is just fun for now?”

"I mean, I -- I uprooted my whole life for you," Steve argues, "I'm moving to New York in a week and a half."

"I didn't ask you to do that for me. You wanted to do something new," you calmly explained back, "I said I thought it would be a good idea."

"You said we could try it for real..." his voice got weak, caught in his throat. Steve's amber eyes rounding while he looks at you, how the street lights dance across the jewelry he bought you, the gloss on your lips.

"When you got there," you corrected, "And what if you get there and that's not what you want anymore? There's a lot to offer guys like you in the city, Steve. It's a totally different world than the one I'm living in."

"I can bring you into it with me," he pleads, hands sneaking under your coat and finding your waist.

"Steve..." you say knowlingly, your shoulders sinking. Your fingers reach up and brush his hair out of his face, delicately following the line of his cheek.

"Nat, please, I..." his voice trails off when he realizes what he's about to say. You watch his Adam's apple bob while he swallows the words.

"Don't say it," you whisper softly, shaking your head, "You don't mean it."

A cab finally pulls in, and you take a glance at it over your shoulder. "I'm gonna go home, okay?" you ask. You turn to pull out of his hold, but he pulls you in desperately.

"Natalie..." disappointment soaks your name when he says it, "Just -- c'mon. We can forget this whole conversation. Please, come home with me."

You shake your head no.

"Please?" he begs, pulling you a little closer to him, "Please?"

You lean in to kiss him, taking him all in. His cologne, the way his lips taste, the way he moves his hands from your waist to your jaw. He wants to keep you there forever, pausing his life for however long it took to get bored of how our lips feel against his. He doesn't think there's a time when he will.

You break away when the cab beeps, brushing your nose against his like he does to you, "I had a really nice time."

"Me too," Steve kisses your forehead, swallowing the lump in his throat when he accepts that you're not staying the night, "Call me a little later? So I know you made it in okay?"

"Of course," you promise. It hurts to look at him like that, tears shining in his eyes that he’s trying to blink away.

“Goodnight Steve,” you smile with your lips closed, afraid that if you open them you’ll never stop talking about all the things you’re afraid to talk to him about.

“Night,” he says while you turn to hurry towards the cab. As it drives away, you see him wipe at his nose and shake his head, crossing his arms tightly around himself to protect him from the cold now that you weren’t there to keep him warm.

Steve watches the cab leave with a lump in his throat, sniffling hard enough that the cold air burns the back of his throat. There's no way in hell you don't love him back, he thinks. There's no fucking way. When the red lights from the back of the cab disappear onto the city streets he turns back into the lobby, Last Christmas plays again softly over the speakers like it's mocking him. The tinny layments bouncing off the marble floor and back into his ears, down to his chest where his heart thumps painfully. Rob, and his secretary Muffy, stumble out of the elevator bank drunk with giggles and empty champagne flutes. He catches Steve walking towards the security desk and lets out a hearty laugh. "You goin' home alone Harrington?" he asks with a grin, "Shoulda let me know, would've brought your friend along. Three's company, huh?" Steve's jaw ticks but he ignores him, letting the gush of cold air soothe over his mixture of sadness and frustration while Muffy and Rob open the door. His shoes click on the marble as he approaches the desk, the music taunts him as he does it. 'A face of a lover with a fire in his heart, a man undercover but you tore me apart...'

"Can I help you with anything else, Mr. Harrington?" the attendant asks. Steve sighs, the breath comes out in a shudder, "Would you mind calling me another cab?" "Right away," he says warmly. Steve appreciates the kindness, he wishes he got the man a goodbye card. The sound of the phonecall for the car is muffled as Steve thinks about how it felt to dance with you, the warmth of your skin, your giggles at the mall, the way you kissed him goodmorning in his bed earlier. He swallows, tears pooling in his eyes. 'But the very next day, you gave it away. This year, to save me from tears, I'll give it to someone special. Special -- someone --' "Car should be here shortly."

"Thanks man, thanks so much," Steve says without turning around to face him. He wipes at his eyes with gloved hand, heading back into the cold to wait for the cab.

Alone.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fan fiction #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington #steve harrington smut #stranger things fan fiction #stranger things fanfic #steve harrington x you smut #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fluff

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saetoru · 1 year

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tee! i want to hear more about shidou rear ending you afterwards! i think it’d be so cute like as literally the first gift he ever buys you, it’s a new car! idk if he’s rich but in my head he’ll make it happen! (maybe another reason why he gets arrested ?!!?? idk!)

REINS. i would be so happy to tell you about this NDJSJD. “shidou ryusei arrested for stealing his crush a new car !!” on the next headline 💀

it happens when he’s rushing to practice—shidou isn’t exactly known for always being punctual, but practice? practice is something he takes really seriously. sure, he’s been late to past dates and doctor’s appointments and heck, he was late to his own high school graduation. but practice? everyone better get out of the way because he’s driving like he owns these roads today.

but then there’s this car. this one slow car (it’s not really slow, it’s just on the speed limit, but he’s going way too fast) and he just can’t find a way to cut in front because traffic is getting too packed and this damn car won’t move and he needs to get to fucking practice.

and then it happens, and he almost watches it in slow motion, in all honesty. you brake out of nowhere because there’s a squirrel on the road that you just can’t kill, and he’s tailing too close to you because he’s determined to cut around you, and boom. he rears right into you. doesn’t even realize he’s supposed to brake until he hears the crunching sound of his bumper digging into yours and busting your taillights.

and now he’s pissed—he’s about to let you have it too. you’re gonna drive like a geriatric, make him later than he already is, not give him room to swerve around you, and now you’ve managed to ruin his relatively new car? he’s had it with you, climbs out the driver’s seat and is ready to start swinging without even giving you a chance to talk this through—because he already knows how this is gonna go if insurances get involved. he knows the chances of not being held liable for a rear end are slim to none.

but then out comes you. you in all your glory—your soft wobbly lips and your slightly watery eyes, your shaky hands that hold your phone tightly to your chest as you debate what to do, your apologetic little face like it’s your fault he was driving too close and too fast to you on a busy road.

“i-i’m…i’m not sure what happened there—i was…there was a squirrel and…and…” and then you sigh, sniffling as you pout and resign yourself to this sense of pure defeat that he finds equal parts cute and equal parts amusing. “i’m gonna need your insurance info,” you say dully, “this sucks. i already have two accidents on my record.”

he almost feels bad—and if he does, he gives no indication of it because there’s a wide grin as he stares at you with crossed arms. what a sweet thing, he thinks, eyeing you up and down like you’re candy.

“sorry about this, sweetheart,” he says smoothly—because practice be damned and screw all worries of his car. you’re much more interesting—and he’s going to get to know you through this lucky twist of fate if it’s the last thing he does. “how about we forget about insurance, yeah? i’ll just pay the damages.”

“what?” you look shocked. he doesn’t want to battle it out? he doesn’t want to claim that you cut in front of him suddenly and that it’s your fault he hit you? he’s just…willing to pay the damages?

“yeah, as a matter of fact,” he says through a smile that’s a little too excited to be well intentioned, “here’s my number. why don’t you give me yours—you know, to keep in touch so i can send the money.”

“o-oh, right,” you mumble, still unsure what’s really happening—but the handsome stranger in front of you is offering to pay for your damages and not file a claim against you. you’re going to count your blessings where you can.

“make sure you answer me,” he calls as he goes to climb back into his car, “don’t wanna leave me hanging, do you?”

#yeah i want him yall #i gotta have him sooooooo bad #shidou x reader #shidou fluff #blue lock x reader #blue lock fluff #teepods.writings #drabbles.

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charcadett · 1 year

Note

Can I get some good old domestic headcannons with either Larry or Brassius? Idk like their morning routines with their spouse. I bet Brassius’s bead head is hilarious

Yessssss, two of my favs. I had fun thinking about their morning routines. Larry’s mornings are normal (with little sprinkles of odd) and Brassius’ mornings technically aren’t even mornings half the time. I also think Brassius wakes up how moms wake up. You know, with a full body jolt and wide eyes.

Domestic Mornings With Larry & Brassius

Larry

- Mornings with Larry are, ultimately, uneventful. He sticks to his routine like a well-oiled machine, and it’s up to you whether you want to get up with him. While he cherishes the mornings that you spend with him, he recognizes it’s early and won’t begrudge you for sleeping in. He doesn’t use an alarm clock. He wakes up at the same time every day. It’s earlier than you’d expect. The first time he accidentally wakes you up getting out of bed, you look at the time, confused. It’s to make up for his insanely long showers and breakfast at his favorite diner.

- You can get him to stay in bed and cuddle for a little bit if you cook him breakfast. Larry will never pass up a chance to eat something you make. Having you up also helps to get him out of the shower faster. If you don’t want to cook, he’d be ecstatic to buy you breakfast. He enjoys the company. It helps him feel more energized for the workday.

- On the weekends, while he wakes up at the same time, he’ll lay in bed for hours on end waiting for you to wake up. If you talk in your sleep, he’ll respond to you like any other conversation. It’s the only time you can get him to do nothing, and you aren’t even awake for it. As soon as you open your eyes, he’s out of bed. He brings you a cup of coffee and asks if you want to get breakfast somewhere. He already has the menu pulled up on his phone for a place he wants to try and will lay next to you while you scroll through it.

- Fun facts: Larry’s morning breath is really bad. He doesn’t move when he sleeps, and sometimes, he sleeps with his eyes open. He’s scared you a few times. He won’t wake you up when he leaves the house. You’ll text him asking where he is, and he responds, “I went for a walk.” accompanied by a picture of a bird. Brings you back food if he goes out to get some; he has your order memorized.

Brassius

- Mornings with Brassius are interesting because he doesn’t sleep often. When he does, it’s always at ridiculous and erratic times. One night, he’ll go to bed at 8 AM, another Brassius is asleep by 10 PM. On top of that, he might sleep for two hours or twelve. It really depends on the night. To him, morning is the time you wake up, and breakfast is the first meal you eat that day. He can go days without sleeping sometimes. When he eventually rolls into bed, it’s in his clothes, covered in paint and clay.

- Because of this, Brassius doesn’t have a morning routine. On some mornings, when he’s got a particular sculpture he’s working on, he’s out of bed and in his studio in a flash. On other mornings, he’ll sit on the couch wrapped in a blanket with a cup of coffee. You’ve even caught him pacing back and forth and muttering to himself a few times. The one thing that stays the same, is that he always greets you with a kiss on the cheek. Brassius also tends to be a bit grumpy when he first wakes up, so he won’t say much.

- Where you fit into his schedule is up to you. He’s not talkative when he first wakes up, but he always appreciates your company. Sometimes, he’ll wake up mid-afternoon, so, likely, you’re already out of the house by then. Brassius will shoot you a quick text that he’s awake. It’s not really common that you wake up at the same time, but on the off chance that you do, the only difference is Brassius mutters a husky “good morning” and holds you for five minutes before heaving himself out of bed. He times it. If he stays any longer he’ll fall back asleep. Which would probably be good for him you try to tell him. It never works.

- Brassius doesn’t expect you to cook him breakfast. He knows his sleep schedule is abysmal, and he’s rather unpleasant in the mornings. However, if you choose to surprise him, he’ll light up. Breakfast for him is usually a slice of toast at best and a handful of the first thing he can grab at worst. (Nuts usually, but it’s been shredded cheese before) Even something as simple as scrambled eggs will be met with high praise.

- Fun facts: Like Larry, he won’t wake you up if he leaves. However, he will leave you a cute note written with dramatic, swooping calligraphy. His bedhead is bad. Really, really bad. If you laugh at him, he’ll scowl. Total blanket hog. You've woken up to the sound of him falling out of bed before.

#pokemon x reader #pokemon imagines #pokemon headcanons #gym leader larry x reader #gym leader brassius x reader #elite four larry x reader #brassius x reader

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a-sad-machine · 1 year

Text

The truth (part three)

uhhhhh, hey there! I’m alive? :D

I also thinkI might change the style with making a part per region, since characters are getting added to regions retroactively and i dont wanna go and edit every region. mayhaps I’ll just do it in version installments from now on? like, with the newest characters or smth

Anyways, enjoy!

Sumeru

once again, starting with the characters who would know who you really are: Alhaitham, Aranara, Nahida, Wanderer

Of course as the archon of knowledge, Nahida would instantly know who you are! She would definitely be the one to catch on the fastest and luckily for you, since she has experience with being confined in a place for too long, she won’t tell on you! Though she’ll try to not leave you alone in these dangerous lands, either accompanying you herself or checking in through others’ minds.

Through his brief time as almost god, Wanderer will recognise that something is off with you, in a probably-is-a-god-style, almost right away. If you slip up and mention anything from his past he’ll be even more suspicious, after all those memories should be long gone, right?

Alhaitham knows. I am not sure how, he just does. He is just built different ig. But jokes aside, he is very observant and smart enough to connect the dots. Might try to ignore you, since he doesn’t want to deal with the situation, as well as his newly acquired duty as ‘acting’ grand sage

the ones that are suspicious of who your are: Cyno, Dehya, Tighnari

Both Cyno and Tighnari will both share their suspicions, but they have duties that usually don’t involve you too much. Cyno needs to hunt criminals (which you aren’t) and Tighnari is bound to his forest. Unless you’re unlucky enough to encounter criminals or eat the wrong mushroom, there is very little chance for them to find any incriminating evidence.

Dehya is a seasoned bodyguard, where she has a lot of practice reading people and her surroundings. She’ll get weird vibes from you, as if you’re constantly hiding something, but won’t push too much if she doesn’t see you as a threat.

those who are too naive to question the identity of the creator: Collei, Dunyarzad, Faruzan, Nilou

Collei, Dunyarzad and Nilou all are too optimistic to think they have been lied to about the creators identity. All three have also been through quite a lot, Collei and Dunyarzad with their Eleazar affliction, and Nilou with her struggle against the academia. They’re still very kind though, so they might be fun to be around without having to worry about revealing clues to who you are.

lastly, the ones who don’t care, or don’t seem religious: Candace, Dori, Jeht, Layla

Both Candace and Jeht are children of the desert, which can be a hard place to live in. While they don’t not believe in the creator, they have a lot of responsibilities to take care of, leaving little time to worship a god who has not helped them with their struggles of survival. They’re more likely to judge you for traveling the dangerous sands, especially if you are alone and not a seasoned traveler yet.

Dori might notice something off about you, but as long as you’ve got enough mora to buy goods from her store, she couldn’t care less about your identity. She’s also part of the blackmarket, where customers hiding their identity isn’t uncommon.

Layla is too tired to care most of the time. Unless you meet her nighttime persona the chances of even talking to her for long are decently low. She’s more worried about her studies and deadlines rather than a random traveler. Though you have to take care to not be too obvious when you have her attention, she is pretty smart after all.

(And another part done! I thought Dunyarzard and Jeht deserve to be here, since you spend so much time with em! and I know, I didn’t include Kaveh, but I haven’t done the recent event quest yet so idk what he’s like qwq )

(Next time will probably be mixed nationalities, including Kaveh, Mika, Baizhu, Yaoyao and maybe even Kirara! I’ll have to wait till enough characters are released for a while part tho)

#genshin #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #sagau genshin #friendly impostor sagau #sumeru x reader #genshin sumeru

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goblins-riddles-or-frocks · 5 months

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So many languages and you spoke to spit facts ✊🏻. I myself lean on he didn't plan on doing that to Genya because well if he wanted a spy to sleep with Tsar he could have also sent an adult woman .. it's not like supernaturally beautiful grisha will have difficulty in catching an old bastard's attention but once that happened he definitely could have easily gotten her out of that situation instead of the manipulative crap he pulled to turn the situation in his favour. I also think Genya was slightly ooc with regards to her apologizing to Alina and everything but when she put the bastard (as if the most heinous thing he has ever done is existing) in hie place, that was 👏🏻👏🏻. Oh wait another thing that was slightly ooc for me was everybody being so keen on eternal suffering for him because well eternal suffering is eternal and i pictured them to be more conflicted (hate him and he deserves to suffer but this is a bit much and also their compassion and gratefulness (he saved the world) colliding with their hate and betrayed feelings. Anyways.)

re: this ask (I’m assuming)

I agree, I really don’t think he planned things to go down like that with genya. but he probably thought it was advantageous! the tsar is more important than the tsaritsa anyway and like genya was already losing favor with her. for all his manipulation, I do think he was mostly just incredibly callous and was like “yeah I gave her an out and she very conveniently didn’t take it but that sets my morals at ease.” and just didn’t think about it further? I really think it’s a case of him not needing to think about it because he is secure and powerful and has lost touch with any sense of danger or vulnerability. but if he like remotely cared at all he wouldn’t let things get to that or would have her extracted immediately in a way that doesn’t seem to imply upending everything she’s ever known. (I’m putting a lot of weight on him being like “you won’t have to wear those colors or any colors” as implied like total abandonment)

idk claim you need a tailor for a super secret espionage thing! make some sort of trade. and it’s very strongly implied that the tsar isn’t exactly picky on who he’s preying on and that it’s not just genya being singled out. so it’s definitely not like that is their only possible chance for a honeypot scheme ever and otherwise all their plans will crumble.

anyway I didn’t think the apology was really ooc tbh because genya’s just working through so much and from her pov in the tailor we know she was feeling VERY guilty. so I think she would say that!

and I do get your point about the eternal suffering. but also they do kind of just… immediately resolve to save him. so genya having that sort of anger and conviction in the moment makes sense— and I don’t think it would even be that odd for her to simply want him to literally burn in hell forever, but the ending frames it super impermanently. and I feel it’s believable that zoyalai in that moment are both just too busy being relieved that it didn’t have to be either of them. so it feels more like a particular burst of feeling, then thinking about it for awhile longer and being like. sigh. guess this isn’t tenable. and I can buy that!

anyway idk a lot of RoW did just feel deeply inorganic to me. the way that characters got into situations and what plot points were going down often felt forced? but the contents of the scenes themselves didn’t feel flagrantly ooc from a character standpoint. I don’t think any character said anything they wouldn’t typically etc. I just had trouble buying that they were in those situations at all? it reads very like… fanfic of itself to me. like put that on ao3 and I would call it very good and ic fanfic but the trajectory is something I just struggle to buy at all for a definitive published story. so that’s the flavor of annoyance I generally have with it.

I was about to end it there but actually shdgd one more thing! this has been on my mind for fic reasons but it’s topical here: I do think there was an avoidance with engaging with any vestigial complicated feelings zoya or genya might have about him though, and that got frustrating. it feels in keeping with how alina runs after the fete makeout scene, on the precipice of having slept with him but not having actually made that plunge, and from that point on it’s like a switch has flipped in her feelings. she was pulled back before she could cross any too emotionally compromising lines and then after she just always has her hackles up.

leigh bardugo seems very interested in stories about manipulation and abuse but seems really uncomfortable with portraying the actual manipulation and effects of it without pulling punches or flinching away imo. she tends to keep her characters kind of aloof and removed even when it seems like they ostensibly wouldn’t be.

like we know zoya was fanatical enough in her faith in the darkling that the only thing that bothered her about novokribirsk was that her own aunt died there. personal loss was the wake up call. genya was willing to overlook it entirely, iirc she was willing to believe it was an accident? either way she’s still very much team darkling in S&S and ostensibly would have remained so if he hadn’t mutilated her for failing to stop alina from running away. he essentially throws her out. but there’s not much focus on any sense of abandonment. but yeah they’d both been hardcore drinking the koolaid! I can believe that they’d intellectually be at a point where they’re like “hate that bitch!!! hope he dies horrifically (again!)” but I just think there would be more general emotional turmoil. if nothing else I think there should just be more of a consistent vibe of like acknowledgement of a past warped perspective that they no longer hold. like the starless could have been such a good foil! zoya’s utter hatred for them does already read to me like mortification at how that basically used to be her? but I’d just like it to be explicit and unpacked more overtly! I want genya to just have more she’s working through. like would she have turned on him if he hadn’t set the nichevo’ya on her? does that question haunt her?

I personally haaaate and do not agree with the criticisms that either of them were ooc or like co-opted to be author mouthpieces in RoW when they say they hate him! first of all, I absolutely do not think leigh bardugo hates him lol. that is a character she basically broke her entire series ending to bring back from the dead, to then give him a big hero’s sacrifice ending that’s not even going to stick! because the protagonists are going to fucking save him!! it’s such an absurd choice like I would argue that the KoS duology was actually stunningly soft on him! so I want to be clear that’s not my problem here, but I just wanted it to be messier and to have room for more complexity

#grishaverse #shadow and bone #king of scars #rule of wolves #i ramble sometimes #all the bendy punctuations #a mysterious stranger has appeared #long post

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destiny-fics · 2 years

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Thigh Riding-The Boyz Hyung Line

[The Boyz Hyung Line × GN!Reader]

Genre: Smut

Pairing: The Boyz Hyung Line x Reader (individual blurb for each member)

Warnings: Smut, thigh riding, dom/sub dynamics, dry humping, dirty talk, degradation and light humiliation

Hyung Line '98 Line Maknae Line

Smut under the cut. Minors DNI.

Lee Sangyeon:

Listen to me, listen. You cannot convince me that Mr. Lee Sangyeon. Mr ½ of the ‘Rose would call daddy,’ line. You cannot convince me he wouldn’t be into thigh riding. Like it is his shit. It just has to be. I won’t hear anything different.

He has some of the nicest thighs I’ve ever seen and he would relish in any chance he gets to use them to make his partner fall apart. His favourite way to do it is absolutely him shirtless but still in his pants (only if they’re jeans or slacks otherwise he’s naked too), while his partner is completely naked and in his lap, straddling one of his thighs. Why do I feel like he’s a left thigh man? Like that’s his preferred thigh to have his partner ride? Don’t mind me I’m rambling.

But yeah, he wants to be able to see the wet spot his partner is leaving on his pants as they rut against his thigh. He wants to have them leaking and trembling on top of him because of only high thigh. And Sangyeon’s a giver and he’s absolutely a praiser and he just wants his partner to know how sexy they are riding his thigh. So I can clearly hear him saying shit like:

“look at you, absolutely soaking my thigh.”

“gonna ruin my pants baby, but that’s alright, I’ll just buy new ones.”

“look so gorgeous like this. Wanna cum? Wanna cum from just my thigh?”

You bet he’s going to be flexing his thighs underneath you to give the right amount of pressure that it’s pleasurable.

Sangyeon wants you to cum on his thigh so badly, he needs to see the mess you’ve made on his pants. It makes him so incredibly hard.

And he’d definitely fuck his partner afterwards. No doubt about it.

Jacob Bae:

This 👏 man 👏 lives 👏 for 👏 this 👏 shit 👏 I will not hear anything different. He’s absolutely such a tease about it, way more than Sangyeon and Younghoon, but a little less than Hyunjae. He’s still a massive tease though.

Like you can’t tell me Cobie’s not gonna be leaning back with a smirk on his face as his partner unravels on his thigh. He’ll clench and unclench the muscle, bounce his leg up and down, pull his partner across his thigh, with his hands tight on their hips, not enough to bruise, but definitely enough to leave marks.

He’d chuckle at his partner’s desperate moans and whines and only encourage them to make more noise.

“Come on babylove, I know you can be louder than that.”

“Let everyone hear how good my thigh feels.”

“Sweet thing, so desperate that you have to get off on my thigh.”

Idk why but Jacob strikes me as a thigh riding in sweatpants kind of guy. Like shirtless, grey sweatpants letting you bounce on his thigh. His lips between his teeth as he watches his partner just completely fall apart.

And you know right as you’re on the edge of cumming he’s gonna stop your movements completely, ignoring your whimpers before letting you start up again.

He’d probably edge his partner a few times before he lets them cum on his thigh and then you’re definitely having sex.

Every single time.

He’s not gonna not fuck you.

Kim Younghoon:

I feel like Hoon doesn’t feel too strongly either way about it.

Like he definitely doesn’t hate it. But also he’s not as invested in it as say Sangyeon or Jacob are.

Like for him, having his partner get off on his thigh is just another type of foreplay, maybe even a quickie when he wants you both to cum, but is too lazy to fuck you, or you don’t want to have penetrative sex.

He’s definitely the type to push your knee into his crotch so that he gets friction as well and you’re definitely both cumming from this. Sometimes you’re not even really riding his thigh, you more just grinding against his erection.

He’s not gonna tease you about being desperate because he is as equally desperate for you as you are for him. And he definitely gets super whimpery when you’re simultaneously riding his thigh and using your own to get him off.

I feel like Younghoon would also be into riding his partner’s thigh.

Like, he may even like that more? idk it just feels so Younghoon. And When he’s riding your thigh, you can bet that he gets so loud, like I can just hear the moans and whimpers. And he’d probably try his best to get you off too, the same way you do when you ride his thigh, but there will come a point when the pleasure of dragging his leaking cock over your thigh will get too overwhelming and he’ll not be able to concentrate on anything but that feeling.

It’s okay though, because he’ll definitely make it up to you once he’s come down from his first orgasm.

Lee Hyunjae:

On the total flip side to this. Hyunjae is the devil incarnate when you’re riding his thigh.

You want his help? Too bad because he will sit back with his hands behind his head and a lazy smirk on his face as he watches you try to get off on his thigh.

Key word: try. Because let’s face it, he’s absolutely going to make it so that you’re getting pleasure, but not enough to cum, and you’ll absolutely need to ask him for help in order to properly get off.

And he’d act all smug and coo at you, bringing his hands up to grip your hips and drag you across his thigh at the right speed and pressure to help you reach your orgasm. And he’d say some shit like “aww, poor baby’s too desperate to get off properly without my help huh?”

Which makes you both extremely turned on and extremely angry. But how can you dwell that much on your anger when Hyunjae is bringing you closer and closer to orgasm at a record fast pace, all still with that stupid, smug smirk.

You definitely get once back on him though by doing the exact same thing when he rides your thigh.

Sitting back with your hands behind your head, practically mirroring Hyunjae’s poses and expressions when you’re riding his thigh.

And when he’s a mess, huffing and whimpering and begging, you’ll lean forward with a smirk scarily similar to the ones he does, put your hands on his hips to help him fuck himself on your thigh and whisper “aww poor baby’s too desperate to get off properly without my help huh?”

Hyunjae would cum immediately.

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#kpop smut #hard thoughts with rose #the boyz smut #lee sangyeon smut #jacob bae smut #lee hyunjae smut #kim younghoon smut #kpop hard hours #the boyz hard hours

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moonknightly · 2 years

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what a shame : one

marc spector x reader, eventual steven grant x reader

an au in which marc is a creative writing professor who doesn’t think love exists outside of words on a page *:･ﾟ✧:*

word count: 2.2k

warnings: rough sex, choking/breath play, blood kink, other mentions of blood, age gap, p in v sex, uhhhh i probably said a bad word somewhere idk

author’s note: i was originally working on this series for poe, but...surprise? lmfao

[ s e r i e s m a s t e r l i s t ]

It’s not the kind of meeting you’re going to tell your kids about. No, not at all.

It’s a quick glance across a crowded bar, eyes immediately locking with the other’s and it’s anything but love at first sight. It’s quick, it’s dirty, and it’s dark — he has the kind of eyes you could imagine yourself getting lost in, not because you’re head over heels for the man but because you can already feel how they’ll burn as you stare into them from underneath him, his hips moving against yours and his tongue licking sweat from your collarbone.

No, it’s definitely not love at first sight.

It’s a distraction. Entangling yourself with him seems like an open invitation for distraction and you’d be lying to yourself if you said it wasn’t one that you needed, one that you craved.

And apparently he’s in need of a distraction as well, because it doesn’t take him very long at all to wag his finger at you, beckoning you closer. You know he’s looking directly at you, asking for you and not one of the girls to your left or even behind you but you still tilt your head, anxiety rooting you to your spot as you question him — you just need to be sure. Absolutely, completely one hundred percent sure.

He nods at the confusion clear on your face, curling his finger a second time as his smirk deepens, making your insides twist and turn.

He’s sure, so you guess that means you’re sure.

Professor Spector gets to call the shots here, because he’s the one with everything on the line — his job, his life, his future, even if he doesn’t know it yet. Even if he doesn’t know that come Monday, you’ll be sitting amongst the rest of his class in an overcrowded lecture hall. Even when you know that that’s exactly where you’ll be.

And you think that maybe you should tell him. Maybe he should know that he’s looking at a future student in a way that is so sinful, you can feel the heat of his gaze working deep in the pit of your stomach and twisting up into your veins.

You should tell him. He deserves to know exactly what he’s getting into as he buys you a drink and sets his hand on your thigh, but you won’t tell him. You can’t.

You need this distraction, you need it more than you need to take his class, more than you need any chance at a future professional relationship with him. You need it. The mess you’re about to make can wait for Monday. Tonight, you’re just a guy and a girl in a bar and you think that's alright.

“What’s your name?” he asks, his lips by your ear so you can hear him over the sound of the music and chatter blaring throughout the bar.

You tell him, and you wonder if he even listens. You’re not sure he does, but it doesn’t matter. Not really.

He smiles politely nonetheless, his eyes still holding yours, trapping you there like you wouldn’t stay on your own accord.

“Marc.”

You almost slip up and tell him you know, but you only smile in return, reaching for your drink as soon as it’s placed in front of you. A margarita. Your drink of choice. It takes you by surprise, but before you can ask, Marc answers.

“I could see you drinking one before. Just figured you’d want another.”

Right. You can see your glass on the counter, still half full with the drink you’d abandoned for him.

“Thank you,” you mumble, feeling the heat in your stomach move to your cheeks. You reach forward and take a sip, hoping the additional alcohol will help calm your nerves. They’re so evident, even Marc can sense them — it doesn’t take much effort on his part at all but neither of you seem to notice how easy it is, or if you do, you don’t think about it. You just write it off to you being painfully obvious.

“You don’t do this very often, do you?”

You set your glass back on the counter, clearing your throat to give yourself another second to try and settle the nerves compiling in your fingertips.

“Do what exactly?”

Marc tilts his head, his smirk twitching into a small smile. He shrugs first, then speaks again.

“Let a stranger buy you a drink.”

Is that all the night would bring?

“That obvious?”

He shakes his head, and for the first time since your eyes met, he looks away and chuckles to himself. “Not really. You just seem a little out of your element is all.”

His words don’t really bother you, you know you’re completely out of your element. He’s right, you didn’t do this very often at all but you just shrug.

“I don’t really do bars.”

He tilts his head again, showing you that it’s a common mannerism for him. “So what are you doin’ out at one then, huh?”

“Some person way smarter than I am once said stepping out of your comfort zone can be a good thing.”

Marc smiles again, nodding slowly as he considers your words and lets them sink in, scrunching his nose. “I personally think it’s always a good thing.”

The conversation flows easily as you listen to him explain his view point, and you can’t help but think that if he talks about writing the same way he’s talking about testing his boundaries, his class will be your favorite. He’s passionate, enthusiastic, not just in his words but in the way he kisses too — that’s your first thought after he gets you back to his place and pins you against the door.

His lips are chapped, rough like his hands but you don’t care. You don’t care at all.

Because you’re sure nothing has ever felt so good as those rough, calloused hands gripping your hips so hard that you know you’ll find bruises in the morning.

“Is this okay?” he mumbles against you. It’s a little redundant, considering he’d kissed you before he asked and that you aren’t even attempting to hide the desperation behind your lips, but you still appreciate it nonetheless.

“More than.”

He takes your words as a hint to push forward, and the next thing you know you're sitting on top of his kitchen island with his firm body between your thighs. His lips stay locked with yours for so long you can’t help but gasp for air when he finally pulls away to trail them down your neck. The stubble along his jaw makes you shiver, and you start wondering what it’ll feel like between your legs, if it’ll tickle or if it’ll burn.

You hope the latter. He’s already showing you that there’s pleasure in the pain he’s causing. It’s subtle, he doesn’t want to push too far too soon, but he bites and he nips and he smacks your cheek when he asks you a question that you don’t hear the first time.

“I said, tell me what you want sweetheart.”

The slap doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t even sting really. It’s just enough to get you wanting more.

“You.”

He chuckles at your response, he can’t help it. It’s so cute and innocent, so broad.

“What do you want from me, hm? My lips, my fingers...something else?”

You whimper at the suggestion, unable to do anything but nod your head. Marc doesn’t like that.

“Use your words babe or you’re not gonna get shit.”

“Something else,” you answer immediately, the prospect of getting nothing too much. “I...fuck, I want your cock.”

He chuckles again, but it’s darker this time, and so are his eyes. “We’ve got time to work up to that sweetheart. We’ve got all night if you want.”

You perk up at his words, it’s obvious in the gleam in your eyes and how you sit up just a little bit straighter.

“Just tonight though. Understand?”

And that makes you falter, lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed. He pulls back, giving you the space to dip if that’s what you want to do.

“I don’t do repeats. Makes shit complicated and I’d just rather not deal with any of it,” he shrugs, and you can’t quite place the emotion on his face. It’s not exactly nonchalance, but it also doesn’t seem like he one hundred percent doesn’t care. It’s odd.

“I’m clean though, m’promise,” he says after you hesitate, holding his hands up.

You consider it for a moment — after he learns who you are, he’d never want to go for round two anyways. “Fine by me.”

“Good,” he says simply, pulling you back to his lips in a kiss that’s even harder than the first.

It doesn’t occur to you that you’re really about to do this until a half hour later, when your naked back finally meets cool marble, sending a shiver down your spine almost as violent as the one his fingertips sent across your skin.

He’s made you come twice already, once on his fingers and once on his tongue, and as he takes his cock out from his jeans you wonder how many more he’ll give you before he lets you go for the night. The fire in his eyes suggests that he doesn’t plan on stopping anytime soon.

Marc pulls your hips to the edge of the counter, keeping his eyes locked on yours while he drags the tip of his cock through your folds, nudging at your clit a few times just to tease you. You’re still so sensitive from your last orgasm, you can’t help but try to back away and he only holds you tighter.

“Stay still for me, come on. Be a good girl.”

You want to oblige him, you want to be a good girl and listen but when he presses against your entrance, you can’t help but squirm — he’s so big, the stretch is so delicious but you’re not entirely sure he’ll fit.

His eyes flutter down to your pussy, spread and glistening for him, and you think that maybe he has the same thought but then he’s pushing into you with such reckless abandon, you’re positive that he wasn’t worried. He was just getting off on the thought of breaking your cunt, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t just as turned on by the idea.

The moan that escapes you when he bottoms out is the most desperate sound you’ve ever heard, somehow more erotic than any porn. The sound makes Marc’s cock twitch, and he has to hold himself still for a moment, his eyes closing and adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Finally, he relaxes, bringing his hand to your throat. He uses the leverage over you to start his pace, finding a rhythm that’s slow and hard and makes you see stars every time he hits a certain spot inside of you.

And once he finds it, when he sees your face twist up in pleasure, he’s relentless. His hips pick up speed and you’re almost dizzy from the pleasure, your nails dragging down his back, leaving red marks in their wake.

“Harder,” he grunts, squeezing down on your neck just a bit. “Fuck, scratch me harder.”

If you do, you know he’ll bleed, there’s no way he won’t but the feral look in his eye tells you that that’s what he wants. You do it again and again and again, thrilled with every noise you’re able to pull from him, but nothing sounds as good as when you come together — you’d been ready for several minutes, but he’d forced you to hold it and wait for him. He wanted to feel you squeeze around him while he pumped his come into you.

The rest of the night continued similarly — he took you on his couch, on his balcony, over the counter instead of on top of it, but he never once offered to take you to his bed.

Not that you really thought about it, it didn’t mean anything. It was nothing more than a one night stand, of course it didn’t matter where he fucked you or how he fucked you.

It still didn’t matter when you made it back to your dorm for the night, after a quick “that was fun” and a thanks that made you feel more awkward than anything. It didn’t matter when you changed into your pajamas and noticed a little pool of red in your panties, or when you laid down in your bed and could still feel him in the pit of your stomach.

It didn’t matter. None of it did.

At least until Monday.

#marc spector #marc spector x reader #steven grant #steven grant x reader #moon knight

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