#not to suck ao3 off but I’m sucking ao3 off bc I’ve lived through other fic sites and no one does it like they do | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

poursomesunaonme · 3 years

Text

living room mural

author’s note:

minors for the love of god please dni

hi friends! happy kinktober! i’ve been hard at work making sure this was finished before the end of the month, y’all 😩😩 but anyways, here’s the finished product since my brain is officially mush 😎

but (more, i think) importantly, this is my first ever upload to tumblr (and soon ao3 once i get my account set up hehe)! i have a few more WIPs, especially one that i’m dead set on also releasing later this month! but i’m super excited to finally get on here after pining about it for months:)

i’m happy that i’m finally feeling like uploading my work somewhere and making new friends, so here’s to new beginnings:) also i still suck at working tumblr so we’re learning (pls bear with me this makes me feel so ancient); also if any of you beautiful souls have the time to beta read, it would be so, so, so much appreciated!<3

so, without further ado…

🤪🤪🤪

what could be more innocent than a home reno with your partner satoru gojo? the answer: literally anything (or nothing), this is the lovable fuckable gojo we’re talkin about! he takes painting the town red to a whole other level;)

word count: 11.8k (and no i’m not sorry)

content/warnings: reader is afab; established relationship w/ satoru; NOT beta-read (if anyone wants to help pls message me😭); about a gazillion pet names, oral (fem receiving), fingering, dacryphilia, choking, teasing, a microscopic speck of angst, praising, slight degradation, spitting, body painting (bc i’ve been on this shit for weeks now), does that count as exhibitionism if it’s plastered on the walls, reader is blindfolded, biting, breeding kink, daddy kink, multiple creampies, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, spanking, edging, squirting, a sprinkle of fluff, gojo antagonizing poor nanami

(we’re gonna pretend that this paint is non-toxic and won’t permanently damage skin pls ignore how down despicable i am for this concept🥺😭)

The pungent scent of fresh paint and sawdust flooded my nostrils as I rolled the first coat of paint over the primed walls. The first stroke of beautiful white paint against the shit brown left me nearly breathless. I wanted to sit down and marvel at this step of progress, but the satisfaction of even a single stroke had me craving the finished product.

Before I got back to work, I closed my eyes, listening to the sound of Satoru working outside. He was sanding down the wood to build a bookshelf in the living room. The drone of the sander starting and stopping would provide a good rhythm for my work. A smile rose to my face as I heard him talking to himself in the same animated manner that he would use in speaking to other people. I sighed, looking back to the wall I had to tackle.

In a frenzy, I went to work, the roller gliding over the wall with ease. The streaks of paint turned into even blotches of beautiful white, which after thirty minutes of aching-inducing labor, was a finished work of a completely white wall. I stood back, setting down the roller. My fingers nimbly massaged my shoulder as I swung it around a bit to get out the cramps.

I had two more walls of white to do before I started on the last wall that we agreed to paint an olive green. The accent wall also happened to have the fireplace on it, which I was going to leave for last with how tedious the work would be. I went to the kitchen to grab a drink, deciding to make one for Satoru as well. Admiring the wall once again, I passed through the living room and looked out the back door, seeing him hard at work. The sweat glistened brightly on his forehead, accentuating his face that was contorted in focus on his task.

I kicked open the door, laughing at his face brightening when he saw me with his refreshment. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the bottom hem of his tank top, revealing his toned abs. I sighed, content, as he left his work to sit on the steps with me, groaning as his butt hit the cement. He lifted the goggles that he was wearing, setting them on his forehead. I handed him his drink wordlessly, watching his Adam’s apple bobbing as he gulped down the water.

Together, we looked out in the yard, bright with the light of the afternoon sun. It was the point in the day where the sun seemed to shine the brightest before the hue changed with the golden hour. The stacks of supplies littering the grass were the only indications that we were in the middle of a home renovation. Satoru’s work station was meticulously set up in his own specific way to make his task easier.

I set down my cup next to me after taking a sip, wiping the condensation of the glass off on my jeans. Flecks of paint littered them, down to the cuffs. Surprised, I pulled out the hem of my cami, seeing that I had also somehow gotten paint on the front of it as well. I guess I made the right decision to wear clothes I didn’t care too much about. Sighing, I picked up my glass once again, gulping down water to satiate my thirst.

“I have two more white walls to do, then it’s onto the fireplace wall,” I told him, our sweaty arms sticking together in the afternoon heat. As much as I enjoyed sitting with him in silence, I wanted to know how his work was coming along. He finished his water with a dramatic “ahh,” setting down the empty cup next to him.

“I have a lot more wood to sand down,” he commented, gesturing to the stack he had next to his workbench. “I did not think this through. Do you still want a bookshelf? I think that maybe we could do without it.”

I chuckled, nudging him with my elbow. “Yes, ‘Toru, I want one. But we can always just buy one from Ikea.” I smirked, mocking him with my next statement, hoping to injure his pride enough to spur him to finish the task. “But I at least thought that the best would be able to finish a simple bookshelf. Guess I was wrong.”

The corners of his mouth turned into a frown, lost in thought for a moment. I laughed as he jolted upright, playing right along into my hands. “I’ll finish it!”

Planting a quick kiss on my lips, he sprinted back to his work, grunting as he picked up another board and set it on his table. The sander turned on, doing its work as Satoru guided its movements with ease, muscles rippling in the afternoon sun. I watched for a bit, sipping my water as I watched him begin to sweat through his tank with his added effort. The sawdust that flew from the wood stuck to his skin.

After a few more minutes, my drink was finished. I set my hands on my knees, grunting as I stood up. Satoru noticed me taking my leave. I waved to him, which in response, he winked, gritting his teeth as he held the sander in place. I plucked our empty cups from the step, and entered the house once again. I set them in the kitchen, then got back to work on the next wall.

The work was easier as I got into a steady rhythm, even switching hands on occasion when my right arm started to wear out. The work was repetitive and calming; letting out a gruff laugh, I considered switching jobs to become a painter. It was exponentially less stressful than teaching. With a sigh, I stood back, realizing that in my reverie, I had finished the last two walls, both of which didn’t have anything that I had to paint around, making them easy to finish without incident.

I smiled to myself, wondering how Satoru was doing with his work. He had been so excited when he came up with the idea (it was more me putting the idea into his head and him taking the credit for it) of building a bookshelf for me, a light colored one that contributed to the peaceful atmosphere of the living room. I knew it would be the perfect piece that we had been looking for to complete the layout.

I sat down next to the can of green paint, prying it open and then dumping a healthy amount into the pan. I picked up the other roller, watching as it soaked up the pretty olive hue. Staring intently at the wall I had to tackle, the only thing I had to worry about was the fireplace, which we were still picking out a color for. Pieces of my hair fell out of my disheveled bun, tumbling into my eyes. I brushed them away, quickly deciding that I was going to worry about painting the wall directly next to the fireplace at the end of my work.

I thought halfway through the wall that being a professional painter would definitely be a viable side job, seeing as I was now working efficiently and had ascertained easy tips to make the work seamless. After I had finished the unblocked parts of the wall, I started at the bottom of the fireplace with a new, smaller brush, carefully tracing next to the painter’s tape. Both sides were finished quickly enough, only leaving the top of the mantle to tackle.

The fresh paint smell had attached to my body, my nose not even used to it after the seeming hours I had spent applying it to the walls. Standing on my tiptoes, I attempted to reach and stroke the paint blindly across the back edge of the mantle. No matter where I stood, I couldn’t see over the edge, and I certainly didn’t want to use a roller and get more on there than I needed. Sighing with frustration, I set down the brush on the pan. I straightened up, raking a hand through my hair, trying to figure out another way to tackle the situation.

“Only you can make painting look this good,” Satoru commented from behind me. I whirled around, seeing him leaning against the doorframe, covered in sawdust, arms crossed over his chest. His goggles were up against his hairline, pushing the hair up at a funny angle. I smiled, planting my hands on my hips and sauntering over to him. He whistled at my sultry approach and planted a kiss on my lips when I reached him.

“‘Toru,” I started sweetly, trailing a finger down his chest, “now that you’re here, would you be a doll for me and paint the spots above the mantle? I can’t reach.”

He stooped down, pressing a kiss into my sweaty forehead. “Of course, love.”

I clapped my hands, spinning back around and beginning a trot back to the fireplace. Satoru kept pace with me easily with long strides. I squealed as one of his large hands collided with my ass. I cast a glance at him, seeing the devilish grin that his spanking had caused.

He plucked the brush from the pan, dabbling a bit to get more on the bristles. With ease, he stood at the mantle, not even having to stand on his tiptoes to see what he was doing. I watched with arms crossed as he set long strokes across the base. His back muscles pulled taut and released with grace with his movements, the sparkling of his sweat glistening with the setting sun filtering in through the windows.

The sawdust that was sprinkled across his body had begun to fall off as his sweat dried, adding a certain kind of magic that only he could embody. He applied a few more strokes, then let his hand fall to his side, examining his work. Once he deemed it presentable, he turned back to me, an endearing smile gracing his lips.

I gently padded over to him, feeling like I was floating on air in the approach. He glided over to me, eyes looking me up and down from under his lids. I bit my lip, which seemed to surprise him as his eyebrows raised. Without warning, he lunged forward, brush extended. I tried to recoil, but my reflexes weren’t fast enough for the huge streak of paint he spread down my shirt.

I looked down at it, then back up at him. He let out a laugh, tossing the brush to the side, not bothering to look as it clattered over the covered floors. I jumped at him, swatting at him playfully. He grabbed my biceps with force and pulled me close to subdue me. It worked, but not before I squirmed in his embrace, making sure his shirt was covered in paint as well.

After I had stopped moving, his grip loosened and he pulled back, examining my shirt with a mock concern. He tugged at the hem, seeing that the stripe of paint had spread to cover the whole front of my shirt during our tussle.

“Hun, I think your shirt is ruined,” he commented, corners of his mouth turning up at the sight of my indignation. “Think you should get rid of it now.”

I decided to take his comment literally. I shoved him playfully, pulling it off over my head, revealing my bare chest. His jaw dropped as he tried to croak out a response to my actions, but I beat him to the punch.

“Guess I had no choice but to take it off,” I murmured, glancing at his shirt as well. He took the cue, slightly fumbling with the hem, but not making any move to remove it. I took a step toward him, my heart beginning to race. The afternoon air wasn’t nearly cold enough to make my nipples hard, but the sight of Satoru sure was. The golden light shining through the windows made him look like an angel with the way it illuminated the dust around him and the sweat still sitting on his skin.

“I think that would apply to you too, ‘Toru,” I teased, closing the gap with another step as I reached for the bottom of his shirt. He continued a forward movement, pressing his whole front against me, igniting a heat between my legs.

“‘Mkay,” he murmured, lifting a hand to gently stroke my hair. He tugged a bit, showing me the paint between his pinched fingers that he got from a few strands. I swatted his hand away, forcing his attention onto me. “Take it off then.”

A smile rose to my lips as I obliged happily, nimbly tugging his shirt up to reveal his chiseled abdomen. The sight never failed to take my breath away. I let my fingers skim over his muscles as I pulled his shirt up over his body. His arms lifted gracefully to make my job easier, and after throwing it to the side, he was bare chested.

Before I could lift my eyes to meet his, his lips met mine gently. A tiny moan left my lips as I let my hands find his arms. They skimmed up and down over his skin, eliciting heavy breaths from Satoru. The sawdust made things difficult, as it seemed to be everywhere and was rough on my fingertips. He pushed me backwards, beginning to get handsy as his tongue swiped over my bottom lip. I opened my mouth in response, letting out another moan, this one louder than the first, as his hands wandered around to my backside, giving my ass a solid squeeze, a cheek in each hand.

At the sound that I had made, I opened my eyes to see his reaction - which I was not in the least disappointed by. His eyes widened with surprise, then narrowed as his pupils blew out. Any sense of reservation with me was gone as soon as the vibrations left my throat. Half pushing, half carrying me, we collided with the fireplace wall.

The wet paint stuck to my skin, the scent once again invading my nostrils. I pulled away from the kiss, chest heaving. Satoru gave me a questioning glance before diving down to plant open mouthed kisses on my neck. My hands met his hair, lightly pushing him away, but he didn’t pay my efforts much attention.

“‘Toru, t-the paint’s still wet,” I squeaked as he sucked on the skin. He mumbled something against my neck before biting it lightly, tugging the skin between his teeth. The heat between my legs burst into an even more intense fire at Satoru’s passion. A feral groan left my lips as that one action sealed the wet walls’ fate for the night.

“Fuck it,” I sighed, my hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer to me. Our lips collided again as he took full advantage of my eagerness, wrapping me up in his arms completely. They provided a buffer between my bare back and the green paint that covered it nonetheless. With a low moan, his fingers looped through the belt loops of my jeans, tugging me impossibly closer to him, eliciting a gasp that passed between our mouths.

The moment seemed to spark something within him as he pulled back from my mouth. I pouted, trying to stand on my tiptoes to reach his mouth again. My fingers danced across his shoulders, trying to ascertain from his facial expression what he wanted. He towered over me, eyes darkened with lust.

“Open your mouth,” he commanded, pulling on my loops to emphasize his words. My response was immediate, obeying him fully, sticking out my tongue slightly as well. His hands untangled from my belt loops, ghosting over the skin of my chest up to my throat. One hand tightened around it while the other stroked my cheek lovingly. I blinked rapidly, waiting for him to do anything else.

I didn’t have to pout for much longer, as he had paused for a minute to gather spit in his mouth. Pursing his lips, he parted them slightly, letting a dribble of spit through them. Not faltering in my pose, I let it hit my tongue, watching intently as the rest of the warm liquid left his lips. Once he had finished, he gave my throat a light squeeze, signaling for me to swallow it. I obliged, taking it in full and giving him a sultry smile afterwards.

“God, you’re so hot,” he growled, our lips meeting once again. His hands left their position and wrapped around my waist once again, pulling me closer to him. As I was pried off the wall, my nipples perked at the cold hitting my back. It was accompanied by the strange feeling of the paint beginning to dry on it.

It wasn’t long before he slammed me against the far wall. At least, I thought it was. I was so disoriented already from Satoru’s intense onslaught of passionate kisses, but I didn’t care. One wall was already ruined, what was the hurt in fucking up the others?

The kissing was fierce, passionate. Both of us fought for dominance, though it was always Satoru who won out in the end, even when I decided to take control and pin him against the wall instead (which, in any case, I knew he enjoyed). Over and over we turned, covering every inch of the wall with our bodies.

It seemed that Satoru shared the same mentality, as the process repeated itself again and again until I pulled back to catch my breath. I glanced around, and a laugh escaped my lips. Satoru sighed, following my eyeline until a guffaw left his lungs as well. Our surveillance led us to the discovery that the initial makeout had left my entire backside (ass included) covered in green paint; this in turn, with Satoru’s slamming me against the far wall, had led to my ass displayed on every inch of it.

“Well, that was something I didn’t expect to ever see on the wall of a house,” I commented, bumping into my lover. He chuckled, planting a kiss on my temple. His arm wrapped around my waist, the warmth of his body sending a shiver through me.

“I personally love the view.” To emphasize his point, he grabbed my ass and squeezed it, leaving his hand covered in paint. “I think it’s missing something, though.”

“And what’s that?” I looked at him, seeing the usual devilish grin spread across his face. He didn’t even have to see my face to recognize the quizzical look that I would give him when he had one of his crazy ideas.

“Well, two things.” He held up two fingers to me like I didn’t know how to count. “First of all, I want your bare ass there, so take off your jeans. Second, mine isn’t there!”

I laughed, the sound echoing throughout the empty room. “What are we gonna do, slather paint all over your ass and have you stamp the walls?”

“Yeah? What else?” His nonchalant tone drew a giggle from me. My eyes widened with glee, not expecting him to have been serious at all. He turned to me, face brightening at my enthusiasm.

“Oh, this is gonna be golden!” I smirked, getting the paint roller and the pans of paint. Together, we stripped down bare, throwing our pants in a pile where our shirts were. Since my prints were already there, Satoru was adamant about getting painted first. Indulging him, I knelt on the ground, prying open a can of paint that we had bought in the hopes of finding a use for it. The pretty lilac color poured out into our spare paint tray. Satoru giggled in delight as I soaked the roller and gestured for him to turn around.

“Okay, it’s gonna be cold,” I warned, not hesitating to start to roll the paint on the back of his thighs and over his ass. He squealed like a schoolgirl, wincing at the temperature on his sensitive skin. “Chill out! You’ve faced worse than this, you baby.”

He didn’t say anything, but stilled his body as I put more than was needed on his skin. After I covered him with a copious amount, I tapped on his calf. “I think you’re good to try.”

“Ooh, I can’t wait to see!” He ran over to the wall and leaned against it, making sure his legs were flat against it as well. He gave me a dramatic look, crossing his arms to emphasize his mock impatience. Lifting his arm to check his imaginary watch, he sighed.

A soft smile rose to my lips, watching his theatrics. The golden light filtering in through the window illuminated him beautifully. The sawdust was almost completely shaken from his skin, as was a result of our fierce kissing earlier; however, a few motes still unstuck themselves from him and drifted away, looking like little fireflies in the dazzling light.

He sparkled like Christmas lights, standing there so nonchalantly, yet looking like a Renoir. The shadows cast by his handsome features cut so deep against his skin, the crests and valleys of his toned muscles like a landscape I felt like I had yet to explore. Eyes widening, I shook my head to bring myself from my staring.

“I don’t think it would take that long for it to settle,” I told him with a knowing smile. “Hop off and let’s see it.”

His eyes widened at the odd sensation as he pulled away from the wall. I gasped, seeing the stamp of his ass. I knew it was going to be hilarious, but the imprint of his ass seeming to hover over the backs of his thighs in the middle of the wall sent me into a fit of laughter. His laughter soon followed when he saw the shapes.

My stomach began to ache as I laid down on the ground, still in throes of giggles. Satoru came and sat down next to me, smoothing my hair down, watching me chuckle at the scene.

“Isn’t it just a work of art?” he commented. I rolled my eyes, sitting up and getting my own paint tray with the olive green still sitting inside of it. I stood up, turning and gesturing to the tools.

“My turn!” I sang, wiggling my ass. Without fail, Satoru’s hands cupped the bottom of it, lifting and shaking it. I craned my neck to see him watching it jiggle in wonder. With a sigh, I turned back around, waiting for him to roll paint onto it. Without warning, his teeth sunk into the fleshy skin.

“What the fuck!” I yelped, whirling around to flick him in the forehead. His teeth flashed into a grin as he narrowly avoided my fingers, picking up the roller instead. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“What? I just couldn’t help myself.” His sweet tone threatened to make my teeth rot. While it hurt at first, the pleasure of it was beginning to hit as the irritated skin began to heat up. I shifted uncomfortably, not exactly wanting to ask him to do it again, but wanting it all the same.

“Just paint my ass.”

“Now that’s a sentence I’d never thought I’d hear coming out of your mouth,” he snickered, not even warning me that he was going to start. I sucked in a breath at the cool feeling on my bare skin, not wanting to show my discomfort as much as he did. The coolness felt wonderful on the spot where he bit me. He finished in a few seconds, the foreign sensation ceasing as quickly as it began.

I ran over to where he stamped the wall and sat against it. The height difference made me giggle as I imagined the print of my ass barely level with his thighs. After a few seconds, I pulled back, grimacing at the sticky sensation. I turned around and slapped a hand over my mouth, seeing the plumpness of my ass on the wall.

“We should frame that and put it in the Louvre,” Satoru joked, coming up beside me and wrapping an arm around me. I turned to him, pulling closer, our chests pressed against each other. My mouth was slightly ajar, not even wanting to say anything to him. We were both naked, and I wanted him.

When he looked down and saw my expression, he licked his lips hungrily before our lips collided. The kiss deepened without hesitation, with Satoru’s tongue slipping into my mouth. His arms enveloped me easily, pulling me closer, roaming all over my bare back. The gentle skim of his fingers sent shivers down my spine. He tilted his head down slightly, breaking the contact of our lips but not the rest of our faces. Our eyes met as we panted heavily.

“Lay down, sweets,” he murmured, cupping my face in his hands. I nodded and obeyed without a word, the tarp crinkling underneath me. A low whistle escaped his lips as I spread my legs for him, the cool air hitting my heat. He crouched down, marveling at the view before moving in closer. As he crawled to settle between my legs, something other than the tarp crinkled.

Our eyes widened as we looked to the source of the sound, finding that Satoru had accidentally placed his hand into the lilac paint. I opened my mouth to protest as Satoru shrugged and proceeded to continue his approach, but he held his clean hand up to his lips.

“Let me paint you, baby,” he murmured. I swear he could’ve slid inside me then and there because his statement nearly made me gush. His soft white hair tickled my inner thighs as he reached his journey’s end. He looped his arms around my thighs, his left hand smearing wet paint all over my leg.

The slippery sensation felt amazing as he squeezed and massaged them, planting kisses on the sensitive skin of my thighs that made my pussy flutter. He sighed, hot breath tickling the needy skin, before licking a stripe from my entrance to my clit. I moaned, arching my back at the contact. I reached down, tangling my fingers in his hair to hold on for dear life. He chuckled lowly, his painted hand untangling from my leg. He watched, beginning to suck on my clit, as his hand snaked up my body, leaving a trail of lilac paint.

Satoru’s huge hand kneaded my tit, leaving a handprint to mark his territory. I squirmed in his grasp, the chilly paint causing my nipples to perk into peaks. He pinched one as he buried his face in my pussy, picking up the pace. The movements of his hands were exaggerated, as he was entertaining himself by smearing paint all over my torso (of course he would be).

I pulled him closer by the hair, moans spilling from my lips. Even with my eyes squeezed shut, I could imagine everything that he was doing with the heightened senses that my arousal gifted me with. His other arm unwound itself from my leg and trailed up my torso, arriving at my mouth.

“Open up, princess,” he cooed against my pussy. I did as I was told and he didn’t hesitate to slip his pointer and middle finger inside. I hollowed out my cheeks, sucking obediently, swirling my tongue around his fingers to coat them with my saliva before he pulled them out.

“Good girl.” He spread them apart, watching the trails of spit that webbed his fingers. He rubbed them on my clit, then swiftly plunged them into my cunt. I cried out as he curled them upwards, finding the spot he knew so well. He swirled them around a bit, finding a good rhythm and watching me squirm before gracing my clit with his mouth once again.

The second he began eating me out, I could already feel myself getting close. I couldn’t help that each exhale was an obnoxious moan; Satoru knew my body better than I did. The slurping sounds that came from between my legs would make a nun blush as he worked his hardest to bring me to a climax.

The heat spread everywhere on my body as the complementarity of Satoru’s rhythmic fingering and incessant tonguing worked together to stimulate me. My legs began to shake as my eyes rolled back into my head. My fingers pulled harder on his hair, telling him to keep it up since I couldn’t form the words with my own mouth.

“You’re close, hm?” he purred, scissoring his fingers against my velvet walls. I squeezed my thighs together, trapping him against me so he couldn’t escape.

“Mmhm,” I managed to squeak out. Without a word, he picked up his pace to reach a superhuman speed, my pussy throbbing against his mouth. The muscles constricted and loosened rapidly as it sucked his fingers deeper into my cunt. The intensifying loudness of my moans were telling of my quick approach to my orgasm.

“Cum for me, darling,” he egged me on, watching in satisfaction as I unraveled before him. I cried out, legs seizing up as the orgasm hit me like a freight train. He continued his onslaught, mouth and hand working to keep the stimulation going, while his other hand was still massaging my breast.

The waves of pleasure began to ebb away, and the stars cleared from my vision. I sighed happily, massaging Satoru’s scalp as he slowed his pace. My body jerked occasionally, still in the throes of the ebbing orgasm. He picked his head up, planting kisses up my abdomen, settling on the breast that he hadn’t covered in paint. His other hand remained in my cunt, still massaging my g-spot. Since his mouth wasn’t there, he used his thumb to rub my clit instead. My head spun as he tongued and sucked on my nipple, setting off fireworks all over my body.

“S’toru,” I whined, “kiss me… please?”

He released my nipple with a soft pop, teeth flashing in a luminous smile. “I love it when you beg for me,” he murmured, twisting his fingers deliciously. The buttery smoothness of his lips brushed against mine, fueling the flames in my belly. I melted into him, pliable as putty as he worked me into another climb up the mountain of pleasure.

“Ngh, fuck!” I choked out, gripping his shoulders. My moans were quickly muffled by his mouth on mine, enveloping the soft tissue and every sound that came from it. His lips were impossibly smooth, contradicting the roughness of his fingers that rolled within me. Satoru’s teeth bit and tugged on my bottom lip, before parting my lips with his tongue and gently sliding it inside my mouth. His face pulled away, watching my expression contort with neediness. The paint drying on his spare hand, he reached past my head, fumbling with his clothes.

I opened my mouth to ask what he was doing, but it quickly snapped shut when I saw his blindfold dangling from his hand. The grin on his face was telling of what he was going to say, and I was more than eager to agree. Before I knew it, Satoru was slipping the blindfold over my head, settling it gently over my eyes, surprisingly all while still keeping a steady rhythm massaging my g-spot.

“You doin’ okay, sweetheart?” Satoru’s voice showered down on me from his position above. I could hear the smile in his tone at the sight of me splayed out underneath him, completely at his mercy. The thought made me nearly gush.

“Uh-huh, ‘Toru,” I moaned sweetly, relishing in the warmth of his body on mine. The brush of his lips on my mout nearly made me jump out of my skin, but I soon dissolved into the contact as his tongue slid inside of my mouth. He threatened to swallow me whole, our tongues intertwining like snakes, salia mixing sloppily.

“Can you take another, pretty girl?” Satoru’s lips left mine and whispered the question directly into my ear. The ghost of his breath brushed against sensitive skin, sending shivers down my spine. A whimper escaped me, but I nodded, clinging to his shoulders. He didn’t hesitate to plunge an extra finger into my cunt, letting my walls assimilate to the stretch. He spread his fingers wide within me, eliciting a cry from my lips.

“Too much,” I mumbled, the familiar feeling of the tears prickling in the bridge of my nose as I struggled to take his three fingers. Despite my whimpering, he continued, relentlessly curling his long fingers to tickle the spot that ruined me every time. As he continued gently pumping his digits into me, my walls assimilated to the girth.

“Helpin’ you get ready for the main show.” The smile was evident in his voice as he planted a kiss on my open mouth, ignoring my eyebrows knitting together, ignoring the trembling of my entire body, but especially ignoring my knees weakly struggling to come together, blocked by his hips lodged between them.

The alien chill of paint covered the skin of my throat as his hand wrapped around it, gently squeezing. My head began to pound with each beat of my heart. After a few more moments of his fingers dexterously massaging the soft skin of my neck, his hand traveled upwards, grabbing the sides of my face and squishing them together.

“Open up for me, darling,” he purred. I could feel brilliant blue eyes, darkened with lust, as they pierced through me. My mouth went dry as I forced it open. My tongue protruded, waiting for what I knew was to come. His finger brushed against my cheek as he pushed the blindfold up slightly, allowing me to watch the scene that unfolded. Without fail, Satoru stuck out his own tongue, watching lazily as the spit he gathered dropped from one mouth to another.

The fire in my belly exploded at the feral gleam in his eyes, at the renewed ferocity that he plunged his fingers into my cunt, at the tantalizing movement of his thumb on my clit. A gurgle escaped my lips at a particularly potent movement within me that zapped like electricity throughout my veins. My nails dug into his skin as I fought to keep my head from spinning off.

“Uh-uh,” Satoru tsked, shaking my head back and forth easily to emphasize his words. I hadn’t even realized that my mouth snapped shut. “Don’t swallow yet.”

A tear slipped from my bleary eyes, rolling down my cheek. His lips were on my face in an instant, kissing the wetness away. My lips trembled, along with my whole body, as Satoru’s digits wreaked havoc within my velvet walls. The fire in my belly spread throughout my limbs, rendering me a shaking mess as my orgasm came barrelling at me.

“S’toru?” I mewled, drool spilling from the corner of my mouth. He fixed his attention on me without words, eyes gleaming at me as they watched me struggle to string sounds together. “Can I swallow now?”

The question must’ve sounded so silly with the amount of spit impeding my speech, but Satoru only gently kissed my forehead, his voice rumbling against me. “Of course, princess.”

As the warm liquid descended down my throat, one of my hands ceased gripping his shoulder like a lifeline and fumbled around the tarp. I could feel his eyes looking inquisitively at me, but I ignored it as my hand found what I wanted. The gooey viscosity of the olive paint coated my hand. As I removed my hand from the tray, the excess paint dripped off, splattering onto the tarp. The foreign feeling of skin through the barrier of paint met my hand as I placed it on the back of Satoru’s neck, pulling him closer to me.

My lips met his ear, the pungent scent of the fresh paint flooding my nose once again at the proximity. “Can I cum, ‘Toru? ‘M close, babe.”

With a kiss to my neck, he removed his dexterous digits. I cried out, surprised by the empty feeling, missing the stimulation both inside and out of me. Looking down, I saw that Satoru had simultaneously begun to line himself with my entrance. My eyes widened as I saw what I had been hoping for, biting my lip in excitement. His body twisted slightly as he reached for something behind him.

“You want my dick?”

He already knew the answer. A cheeky smile lit up his face, telling me everything I needed to know. His ego needed to be stroked. I needed to be filled. Mutual interests.

I shoved those thoughts out of my head, filling them with my desire for Satoru and Satoru alone. We had chosen each other, claimed the other for ourselves. Passion filled the air around us, had already begun to seep through the walls of the house as we made it our own.

I nibbled on my lower lip, blinking my eyes like a doe. He softened seeing my expression, leaning down lower so that the hair that cascaded down tickled my forehead.

“Yes, daddy.”

His thick cock plunged into my weeping cunt all while he wrapped his freshly painted hand around my throat. A struggling moan left my lips as my body attempted to become accustomed to both feelings, but the overwhelming intensity of being stretched by his cock and being painted as his property sent my head spinning.

The blindfold slipped down over my eye once again at Satoru’s slow but powerful thrusts, leaving me dazed. The tarp beneath us crinkled loudly at our movements, but we paid it no mind. His pace halted for a second, then resumed as his other hand joined in on the Pollock that was my body. His other hand remained gripping my throat as the freshly coated member roamed my body, coating it in the beautiful lilac paint.

I fumbled blindly for my paint tray, my wandering hands finally finding purchase once I gripped the plastic. I pulled it closer to me and plunged my hands into the cool liquid, not caring that paint was dripping everywhere - down my arms, onto the tarp. They slunk over Satoru’s body, coating him in the beautiful olive hue. As much as I wanted to see the art I was making, I also loved that it would be a surprise when he let me take off the blindfold.

The tip of Satoru’s dick knocked against my cervix as he picked up his pace, his cock beginning to twitch within me. I wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders, holding him closer to me. He pinched my nipples, face buried in the crook of my neck as my neediness brought him closer to his high. I wrapped my legs around his waist, hoisting myself up off the ground for him to get a better angle.

“Ah, fuck,” he panted into the sensitive skin of my neck, “you’re killin’ me, babe.”

I only smiled, tilting my head back at the way his hips rutted against mine, at the way his pubis rubbed against my clit so deliciously, at the way his balls slapped against the crease of my ass, dripping with the juices that flowed from my pussy. His tip nuzzled so perfectly within me that it brought tears to my eyes. My walls had stretched to accommodate his huge length, squeezing him so nicely.

The coil in my center needed to be unraveled. Moans poured from my lips as I used the leverage I had wrapped around him to feebly fuck him back, eliciting a string of curses falling from his mouth. Our tongues intertwined sloppily, ministrations pouring from mouth to mouth as we both approached our high.

“C-cum with me?” I panted against Satoru’s moist mouth. He only managed to get out a grunt as I felt him twitch inside me. He fucked me hard and fast, hot breath in my mouth. My wet hands roamed all over his body, quickly followed by my nails digging into his soft skin as fireworks exploded within me. Without warning, my orgasm hit harder than I expected, eliciting an obnoxious moan from my lungs as I held him impossibly close, squeezed him impossibly tighter.

That was all he needed as he came inside me, shuddering breath spewings against the soft skin of my chest as he planted open mouthed kisses against the unpainted inches of my breasts (at least, I hoped that he wasn’t ingesting paint). My walls continued to contract, milking him dry as I felt his hot seed spewing within me, painting the velvety soft walls of my sex.

My body convulsed with the power of the orgasm, my legs falling limp to the tarp, unable to hold themselves up anymore. His dick slipped out of me as my ass hit the ground, the empty feeling drawing a cry from my lips. I lay there, panting, feeling his cum leak out of me.

Satoru nestled into me, weighing on me like a security blanket, as we both recovered from our highs. My fingers tangled in his hair, relishing in the movement of his chest against mine, nothing separating us as we lay tangled on the floor of our living room, in our house, in the new chapter of our lives beginning. I pressed a kiss into his hair, letting out a content sigh.

I wanted to stay like this forever. To remain in the arms of my lover, on the floor of the living room in our new home. To freeze this moment where he was all mine, when his mind was only on me, on us, and nothing else. I knew that eventually we would both go back to work, he would go on amazing and dangerous missions, and I would be left alone in the empty house, waiting for him to come back. But, at least I would have this memory - I would know that I was his and he was mine.

“Let’s go on a field trip!” Satoru giggled, jolting me from my peaceful reverie. My hands flew to coat themselves in paint, as I knew that he was moving me away from the tray - and I wanted to continue with our game. His arms wrapped me up and lifted me. My nipples perked at the cool air on my back. Paint and cum dripped off my body as I wrapped my legs around his torso, squeaking at the slightest brush of his abs against my clit. In no time, we hit a wall. Satoru’s hands were on my ass in an instant, lowering me to sink down onto his dick.

A cry escaped my lips as I felt like being split in two all over again, our cum leaking all over his member from our last orgasm. A shudder rocked through my body as a breath hissed out of me. Nails burrowed into skin feebly to counteract the pain of his girth stretching me.

His fingers dug into the supple flesh of my ass, painting it with his lilac liquid as he easily suspended me against the wall. I felt the damp paint begin to streak across the wall as he bounced me up and down on his cock, his face buried in my neck, gently kissing and biting the sensitive skin.

The prickly feeling of tears in my nose rose to a peak as my clit dragged against his front. Swollen from overstimulation, it throbbed weakly, my cunt weeping at the painful pleasure. Tears began to stain the blindfold as they fell from my eyes, just barely leaking out from underneath to streak down my cheeks. I sniffled, clinging to Satoru’s broad shoulders.

At the sound, a chill hit my neck as Satoru removed his face. His lips were pressing to my cheeks instantly, kissing the tears away once again. Warmth spread all over my body, being wrapped up in the arms of the Sun itself.

“Oh, princess,” he muttered, still peppering kisses over my face even though the tears were gone. “Don’t cry! Look how well you’re taking my cock. You’re being so, so good for me, sweetness.”

I mustered up a smile at his praises as his lips collided with mine once again. Pressing my back against the wall, I angled my body so that I was able to grind in circles on him. The overstimulation zapped within me every few strokes, but it was beginning to ebb away at the rising crest of pleasure.

“Fuck, just like that, baby,” Satoru groaned, beginning to fuck into me faster. By now, all of his cum had leaked out of me, splattering distastefully onto the floor. He seemed to notice the sound at the same time I did, as it fueled him further.

“Maybe that attempt might not’ve gotten you pregnant,” he hissed into my ear, self control beginning to dissipate. “Maybe I should fuck another baby into you, hm?”

“Uh-huh,” was all I managed to force out at the ferocity in which he began railing into me. His energy never failed to amaze me, and never failed to pleasure me. One of my hands flew to the wall to steady myself, smearing paint all over it in the process.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s see you pumped full of cum again, baby. Is that what you want? Want me to cum in you again?”

His ministrations were nothing short of animalistic as he pushed, pressed, pinched every inch of my body, beginning to nip at the skin of my neck as he began to lose control. My feeble mind could barely keep up with his physical and spoken output. My eyes squeezed shut under the blindfold, then opened, seeing nothing.

“Yes, please, ‘Toru.” My breathing came in gasps as my high drew nearer. I could see stars in the corner of my vision as the coil in my belly threatened to unravel, spilling honey from my sex at every thrust.

“Please what?” The teasing tone of his voice was a poor cover up at the desire for me to satisfy him, to play into his fantasy that he wanted - no, needed to make a reality.

“Please - ngh!” I couldn’t finish the sentence. My mind was fogging up, halting all mental processes. All I could think about was his cock drilling into me, my walls weakly squeezing to keep up with his pace. His lips pressed against my chest, tasting the salt that covered my skin.

“Say it, baby.” The softness of his voice soothingly flowed over my ears, gently caressed me and carried me to the precipice of my orgasm. I drew a deep breath, forcing my brain to put together sounds.

“Please let me make you a daddy!”

The words tumbled from my lips like prayers, falling on the ears of a sympathetic god, who showed mercy by pounding into my sopping pussy. My lover, while he was the one who physically dominated me, was easily emotionally bent to my will like a spring sapling. His pace faltered slightly, then picked up with a new vigor as he processed my request.

“Oh, that… that’s my girl!” he forced out, cock twitching uncontrollably within me. One of his arms wrapped around my waist, holding me up, while the other reached to grab my throat. At the stimulation of the sensitive skin, he pushed me over the edge of my orgasm. We came together for the second time, mixing his seed with my juices once again as they both ran down my thighs, spilling onto his cock.

The cries that came from my lips could’ve made the neighbors call the cops. We clung to each other, suspended in a mindblowing orgasm, his hips erratically slapping against mine. Hot breath mixed between our mouths as our lips collided, soft moans expelled between the both of them. We were so close - our breaths were mixing, I couldn’t tell where his body ended and mine began, we were truly one.

“I love dragging you around like my little braindead cumslut,” Satoru whispered into my ear. My eyebrows furrowed at his unprovoked statement. As much as I wanted to inquire on why he said it, I couldn’t help that his words made my walls clench around him.

All of a sudden, his arms disappeared, and I was supported by nothing. Struggling to find my bearings, being blindfolded, I flailed wildly. Satoru’s laughter drew a smile from my own lips as he caught me again and set me down, letting me find my footing.

I wanted to slap at him for teasing me, but my brain was still recovering, still searching my other senses to make sense of my reality. Before I could string two thoughts together, his hand was on the small of my back, guiding me a few paces away. Without warning, he pushed me over, sending me slamming face first into a wall.

“Fuck! ‘Toru, that hurt!” My whines fell on deaf ears as he spread my cheeks, whistling at the sight of the cum dripping between my thighs. My hands flew to brace myself on the wall as he began ramming into me once again, slipping in without incident. His hands slid down my arms, coating them in paint. They finally found purchase as they reached my hands, intertwining with my fingers and raising them far up over my head.

As much as I struggled against him, I was powerless to tear my hands from his grasp. His cock slid in and out of me seamlessly, coated with the results of… how many orgasms? Five? I didn’t know, I lost count. Satoru peppered my shoulders, the rutted blades of my back, the nape of my neck, with kisses, eliciting soft moans from my mouth in opposition to the jarring ones that occurred if he thrusted into me, hitting a certain point that made my body twitch.

His hands released mine and they fell to my eye level, resuming their position in holding me up against the wall. Right after I had righted myself, had steady footing, was about to fuck him back, he surprised me with slaps to my ass. They were oddly dulled. The paint.

I turned to look at him, sneakily pushing up the blindfold to take in the sight, watching as he, tongue sticking out of his lips in focus, reared back, hand dripping with paint. The cold sting of his palm met the sensitive skin of my ass as he cocked his arm back for another hit in quick succession, almost making a drumbeat of spanking my ass. The movement was carefree, as if he was swatting an annoying bug away from him.

Paint covered his front, the lilac and olive and white all mixing together to make a swirl of beauty. It mesmerized me, the way it clung to his body, emphasizing and complimenting his stunning figure, the valleys of his abdominals, the rugged landscape of his muscles.

I turned back to the wall, the blindfold slipping over my eyes once again. They squeezed shut as he ceased, obviously pleased with how the lilac paint melted in with the redness of the plowed skin. He grabbed my cheeks in his ginormous hands, gently massaging them, spreading and closing them, using them in ways that took both he and I to new heights of pleasure.

“Definitely think,” he panted, lips against my ear, “that we need to frame your ass.”

Before I could even open my mouth to answer, my hands were in his once again, but he twisted my arms around to my back. He looped an arm through mine, settling the lock at the crooks of my elbows, decommissioning my movements once again. My hands opened and snapped shut, grasping as nothing as his thrusts intensified.

His other hand, still damp with paint, roamed over my breasts, massaging and pinching the bare skin. They had been previously coated, but knowing how meticulous Satoru could be, he made sure they were absolutely slathered in copious amounts of his paint.

He pressed me into the wall again, and I felt the paint stick to the surface in the shape of my breasts. My cheeks flamed at the thought of my entire body painted across the living room walls. But I knew that Satoru loved it, that he would be drooling over it until I decided to paint over the walls and adjust the hues to match the aesthetic that I was aiming for.

With his free hand finished with creating art out of my breasts, it traveled north, finding purchase around my neck like a piece of jewelry I’d always worn. He squeezed lightly and tilted my head back, just barely restricting my airway enough for my breath to come in rasps.

“Open up, darling.”

Like a robot, my jaw dropped and my tongue shot out, waiting for the familiar feeling of his spit. He didn’t leave me waiting long, as almost as soon as I obeyed him, his saliva was dribbling down onto my taste buds. I smiled lightly at the feeling, loving the fact that we could share this moment and label it as intimate.

“Swallow.”

My pussy fluttered around his length, eager to obey. A sigh escaped his lips as he watched my throat bob with the odd angle that it was working against. He planted a sweet kiss to my lips, his nose brushing against my chin. The contact was lost, then found again as he nuzzled his face against my neck for a moment, before pulling away again.

“Open.” His command seemed desperate, like it was the only thing keeping him from stepping off a ledge. As much as I wanted to make fun of his theatrics, my mouth snapped open, eager to have another part of him in me. He wasted no time, coating my tongue with his saliva.

“Now wait.”

The only thing I could do was whine as my jaw began to ache from holding my mouth open for so long. He released his hold on my throat, but in true Gojo fashion, wasted no time in executing his next movement. He swiftly looped an arm under my left leg, pulling it upwards until I felt like my hips would split in half. I squealed in discomfort, drool spilling from the corners of my lips, my body being bent a million different ways. For the first time in the afternoon, Satoru relented, releasing my arms.

My hands tangled in his hair as he bit into the soft skin of my neck, of my shoulders, back pressed against his chest. His dick, at this new angle, hit my sweet spot more perfect than before, if that was even possible. He went deeper, I squeezed him tighter, we were closer.

He thrusted into me, the tempo threatening to cast me into nothingness. With each movement I was pressed harder and harder into the wall, the paint sticking to the surface. It ached to pull me in, to suck me into the drywall, to the white paint that was still drying, now mixing with the two hues that Satoru and I decorated each other with.

“One more, baby,” he cooed against the reddened skin of my shoulder. “L-lemme cum… one more time… in you.”

“Anytime, ‘Toru,” I teased, but the playful lilt in my voice was lost as he didn’t hesitate to shoot his seed inside of me. I squealed at the way his cock jumped in me, knocking against the spot that was my downfall. His balls slapped against my clit, shoving me over the edge of an orgasm I didn’t know I was approaching.

My toes curled and cracked at the force in which the crest of pleasure hit me. My legs gave way and I lost control of myself for a moment, the drool I had been holding in my mouth spilling like a waterfall over my bruised lips. Satoru was quick to catch me, laughing at my frailty, which for once, I didn’t mind.

His lips were on my face, kissing and licking away the spit that had escaped the trap of my mouth. He supported me in a way I didn’t think I’d ever need, but surprisingly, I didn’t mind relying on someone for help. A warmness spread in my chest at the affirmation that I truly loved him - I loved him enough to not complain at him holding my drool-soaked and cumstained body limp in his arms.

“God, you are just so full of cum, aren’t you, baby?” Satoru purred into my hair, stroking it gently. I could only muster a weak “mmhm,” my body still shaking from the overstimulation and the last orgasm he unleashed on me. “Well, are you gonna let me taste?”

I didn’t have time to answer before he scooped me up in his arms, giving me the vivid sensation of flying. A coolness met my ass as he set me down on what I could only assume was the mantle of the fireplace. He spread my legs apart, ignoring the fact that they attempted to squeeze together to protect my weeping cunt from being stimulated further.

“S-satoru,” I winced, “I’m sensitive!”

It was no matter to him, however. He pulled my bottom slightly forward, so that my ass was teetering on the edge of the tile, giving him better access to my aching center. A loud cry escaped my lips as he gave my swollen clit a few soft licks.

I whimpered, my thighs trembling around him as he sucked on my impossibly sensitive bud. My hands tangled in his hair, the gummy paint clinging to it and clumping it together. After a few more moments of relentless stimulation, he seemed to ease up, giving way to softer movements against my weeping cunt.

“You should see yourself,” Satoru muttered against me. “Sitting like a queen.”

Perched like royalty on the furnishing that had given me enough trouble to start this whole session in the first place. I chuckled at the thought of it, at the sight of our past selves wrestling to coat each other in paint what seemed like days ago. It was fitting to end our love making where it began. Fitting to christen our house to be ours.

“Hah,” I breathed, “I can only imagine the sight.”

A sigh escaped his lips, the hot breath on my sensitive center making my legs twinge. His hands gently squeezed my thighs, each press planting flowers across my skin. The soft tufts of his hair tickled the inside of my legs as he nuzzled impossibly closer to my pussy.

“Spit in my mouth.” His request couldn’t have been more foreign, but I tried my best anyway. I leaned over, assuming that my trajectory would be right, or that he would make it work. Gathering the saliva in my mouth, I let it fall from my lips. A chuckle came from beneath me, so I assumed my aim was okay.

Our mixed spit was spewed from Satoru’s mouth as he spit it onto my already dripping cunt, the liquid leaking down between my asscheeks. I gasped at the sensation, beginning to lose feeling in my toes as another orgasm approached. My eyes shut tight, but even with the blindfold, fireworks still exploded in my vision.

I was definitely not going to be able to walk for a few days.

The thought drew a bitter laugh from my lips that was quickly cut short by Satoru’s dexterous tongue flicking across my clit. My teeth sunk so deep into my bottom lip that the skin threatened to tear. At his relentless pace, my muscles pulled impossibly tense, taut, as I sat, rigid, teeth bared as ungodly sounds poured from my mouth.

And then, he would soften. Pull back and kiss and lick the inside of my thighs, place love bites, suckle on the warm skin to leave marks I would marvel at for days. He’d massage the tender skin, draw patterns with the remaining paint. He’d study me like a scholar, memorizing the view of my exposed throat as my head tilted back, mouth open as moans spilled forth.

It was a cycle that he continued, pressing me further to my orgasm, then relenting to give me a break. Over and over again, never stopping, like I was the shore and he was the tide, pressing in and pulling away, constant, always present.

After what seemed like hours of edging, I was finally on the precipice of what I actually hoped was my last orgasm. My body couldn’t take much more, as I probably would stroke out or something else that was equally disastrous, but it would be something that would elicit an awkward urgent care visit.

“Satoru…” I whispered, not even needing to finish my sentence.

“One more time, love. Cum for me.”

The affirmation was all I needed before I gushed all over his face. His gasp of surprise was cut short as he dove right back in, ignoring the waterworks. My entire body shook with the force of my orgasm, sending my hands flying everywhere - into his hair, gripping the mantle, smearing paint all over the wall behind me.

But nothing was enough to ground me as I cut the tether and drifted off into space. My body floated, suspended at the force of this orgasm. I could barely feel Satoru’s warmth between my legs as the buzzing took over my entire body, my skin flush with pleasure as I feebly grinded on his tongue.

My pussy throbbed, achingly swollen at the multiple orgasms Satoru had guided me to. As this last one ebbed, he wrapped his arms tenderly around me, lifting me from the throne he had placed me on. He planted kisses on my head, on my forehead, on my cheeks as he carried me bridal style across the room, then gently plopped down on the ground.

I remained nestled between his legs, our fingers intertwined as we sat together, relishing in the closeness of each other. His mind-numbingly warm skin was pressed against mine, sending sparks firing off all across my body. After a few more moments of blissful silence, Satoru cleared his throat.

“Are you ready for the grand reveal?” His smile broke through the phrase like a sunbeam. I nodded, not feeling like using my voice. His dexterous fingers hooked under the blindfold as I shut my eyes tight, not wanting to hurt my eyes by immediately exposing them to the light.

After a few more moments, my eyes creaked open, blinking to clear away the crusty remains of tears and to focus on the sight that presented itself to me. The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the world cast into an eerie twilight that was so magical. It was the perfect lighting to behold the mural that we created in our living room.

Streaks of paint covered the walls, most of them completely indiscernible as to what part of the body they were made by, except for a few, such as our ass prints and the plumpness of my breasts. Heat rose to my cheeks at the sight of such an abstract portrayal of art, and how breathtakingly beautiful it was. I sunk further into Satoru, insanely grateful at his stupid antics and what they spiraled into.

“I guess I have to restart my paint job, huh?” I nudged him with my elbow, the gooey, sweaty skin sticking together. I tilted my head up, observing his reaction. Satoru furrowed his brows, his hair falling into his face in green clumps.

“I don’t know…” he trailed off, flashing an award-winning smile. “I kinda like it!”

He was right. The messy pieces of our love were growing on me as I studied them further. It was pure art, pure passion, splayed across the walls of our home. The handprints, clinging to nothingness in the hopes of being steadied. The smears, results of loving and pleasurable thrusts. The asscheeks, of course, the lovers who facilitated the beautiful creation.

A calm settled on me like nothing I had ever felt before. A sense of security folded in around me as I lay in my lover’s arms, proudly surveying what we had made together. I closed my eyes in bliss, relishing in the warmth and peace.

Wait…

My heart fell to my ass at an intrusive, yet irrevocably important fact. Eyes widening, I shot up, ignoring the chills that spread throughout my body in the absence of Satoru’s warm skin pressed against me.

“Shit!” I gasped, the detail that we had glossed over for the entire afternoon expanding to take up the entirety of my mind. “Kento’ll be here in an hour.”

Satoru laughed at my scrambling to pick up our clothes and throw them in a basket, trying my best to tidy up the living room. I put the paint together in a neat fashion; I smoothed the tarp, ignoring the imprints of our bodies and the paint smears that littered it; I also did my best to avert my gaze from the numerous pools of cum that were scattered across the floor. My eyes widened in horror at the thing that I was just marveling at - the one thing we couldn’t hide from our best friend.

The living room walls, like a subdued pornographic mural, stared back at me. The tarp crackled as my lover stood. I looked at Satoru, my eyes big as saucers. He smiled gently, taking my hands in his and pulling me closer to him, placing them on his chest.

“There’s nothing we can do to fix it, so let’s just get cleaned up, alright?” His arms wrapped around me, snuggling me to his chest. I sighed, turning my head to the side to hear his heart thumping. He planted a kiss on the top of my head.

“Okay,” I murmured, then peered up at him with a devilish grin, “but only if you join me.”

“That was implied!”

~~~

Once we had gone for another round in the shower and managed to scrape the paint off of our bodies, we were ready for the dinner that Kento was bringing. Earlier that day, he had offered to bring us food to celebrate the end of the first day of home renovation - which we eagerly accepted. Pizza was easy to clean up, and a viable way to recharge, so that was an easy decision to make.

A knock on the door sounded as soon as we were making our way down the stairs. Satoru took off in a sprint, reaching the front door in just a few strides. He threw it open, spreading his arms wide for a hug. I hung back, trying to avert my gaze from our living room mural.

“Nanami!” he yelled, embracing his friend despite the boxes of pizzas he was carrying. Kento’s eyes narrowed as he struggled to keep his balance at Satoru’s enthused greeting.

“Careful, Gojo!” the tall man growled, pushing Satoru away to keep the boxes from tumbling all across our porch. I laughed at their interaction, catching up to them and taking the boxes from Kento.

“How are you, y/n?” he asked, silently thanking me for taking his burden, but ignoring the fact that I left him with a bigger one instead. A playful smile toyed with my lips as a strand of wet hair fell into my face.

“Tired, but glad to have one day down,” I admitted, turning and leading the way to the kitchen. Satoru tsked as I set down the boxes of pizza on the kitchen table. I whirled around to face him, setting my hands on my hips.

“Now, y/n,” he began, voice chiding, as if speaking to a child, “you know you aren’t supposed to eat in the kitchen until the renovations are finished.

My heart fell into my stomach when I saw the expression on Satoru’s face. He was an absolute menace, looking to antagonize me in any way he could; however, I thought this ploy was geared more towards Kento’s discomfort. I gritted my teeth and decided to do my best to gear the conversation in a way that I wouldn’t have to expose our deeds. Blinking innocently, I fixed my mouth into a smile, trying not to look pained.

“What?”

“Yeah,” Kento agreed, walking to the table to grab the boxes of pizza, not knowing that he was playing directly into Satoru’s sick idea of a joke, “I actually heard that’s bad luck.”

I wanted to slap my palm into my forehead. As smart as Nanami was, he was almost always stroking Gojo’s ego whether he knew it, liked it, or not. I fired a glance at Satoru, pleading for him to not go through with this antagonizing, but he ignored me.

“Bad luck!” Satoru gasped dramatically, eyes widening as he wiggled his brows at me. A sigh escaped my lips as I cast him a warning glare instead. This, also, was a fruitless effort. Satoru was dead set on torturing his best friend.

“So where the hell are we supposed to eat?” I shot at Satoru, not even bothering to look at him anymore as I shuffled towards the two towering men. My grip had tightened, my nails digging into my palms.

“Uh, I dunno, the living room?”

“Satoru…” The tone in my voice would make a child cry. I trotted to the cabinet to scoop up paper plates and napkins to intercept him before he made another move to expose our afternoon.

“No, I wanna see it!” Nanami insisted, picking up the pizza boxes. The doors slammed shut behind me as I whirled around, seeing Satoru’s sly glance. I wanted to wipe the smile off his face. “Didn’t you say you were gonna paint it today?”

Satoru gently led him to the living room. I tried to catch up with them, but the tall men had long strides. My head was screaming for him to stop, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself and make matters worse.

“Yes but-“

I was too late; Nanami and Gojo had already entered the living room. The boxes of pizza clattered to the floor as Nanami ripped off his goggles, eyes widening in horror at the sight of our bodies sloppily painted on the wall.

“What the fuck happened here?!”

201 notes · View notes

snowstark · 3 years

Note

hero worship !! preferably starker bc that just fits

READ ON AO3 For @peterparkerbingo | Fill: Adopted Fic premise was @carelessannie’s idea, thank you bb!! <3 i’m also making this omegaverse; hope you don’t mind, anon! I really, really want to write a full fic for this — maybe in the near future?

Tony’s done a lot of things in his life, but he’s never expected to feel like a cornered wild animal by none other than a shitstain like Senator Stern. It’s revolting, really. But there’s no way in hell Stern’s gonna let it go: the great Iron Man, saviour of all, NYC’s superhero—of course he has to be rewarded.

He just wasn’t expecting them to come to his penthouse at one in the morning to drop off a pretty omega who’s only wearing panties.

“What,” he says, appalled, “the fuck is this?”

The guy looks up at him with his dead, beady eyes as he nudges the boy inside. He looks exhausted. He has to be, if this is his job, Tony thinks scornfully.

He leaves without a word, the door falling shut behind him, and Tony’s left staring at the boy, who’s still on his knees with his wrists tied behind his back.

This is a disaster.

“Do— can you get up?” he asks dumbly.

The boy blinks up at him. “Yes, alpha,” he says, “but ‘m comfy here.”

Of course he is.

Tony doesn’t even know what to say to that. He’s a bit freaked out, in all honesty. So, he tries, “What’s your name, kid?”

“Peter, Sir. Peter Parker.” Peter’s chest is rising and falling, quickening with each breath he takes, and he adds, “You’re Tony Stark.” He ducks his head, flushing. “It’s— ‘m really honoured to be here, alpha.”

Oh, god.

“Honoured,” Tony repeats slowly, then runs a hand down his face. This is fine. It’s fine. He can handle this. He’s been through worse. He can take care of it. He looks down at Peter, who’s still looking up at him, beaming. “Let me take you home. C’mon, I have some clothes that might fit you.”

Peter’s smile immediately drops into a frown. “Home?” he echoes, eyes wide. “This— this is home, alpha. I don’t understand.” He looks close to tears, the entire hallway filling up with the scent of distressed-upset-sad omega.

“Okay, okay, that’s— alright, we can talk about it. Just, c’mon, kid, off your knees.” They have to be hurting. His floor is marble, for fuck’s sake. “We’ll move to the couch, okay? Let’s go.”

Peter blinks up at him wetly, then follows him. He shuffles on his knees, and after some futile coaxing, Tony gives up entirely and lets him. He sits down, expecting Peter to follow him, but the kid just remains on his knees and bumps his forehead against his knee in a fond gesture, lingering there for a moment to breathe him in. Tony watches him, then tentatively sets a hand down on the nest of soft brown hair.

Peter’s pretty. He has to admit it, in any other circumstance, he’d be bending him right over to see just how pretty his moans and whines are.

It’s a bit unnerving. It’s like adopting a new pet, except this isn’t some mutt or some tabby cat, it’s another human being who’s been sent to worship him for his heroic deeds.

The silence is awkward, at first.

Tony tries to fill it in by prodding him with questions. After a decent conversation (read: interrogation), he quickly finds out that the kid’s a recent high school graduate with no living family members, which leaves him to be, according to Peter, “a little orphaned omega runt.” And to top it all off, he signed up for this program (Tony sneers at the word) to pay for his tuition.

“I’ll pay for it,” Tony says instantly, the moment Peter tells him. “You can leave this— thing. Hell, I’ll even find a place for you to live.”

Peter just blinks wetly up at him, looking distressed, then asks softly, “I can’t stay with you?”

Tony stares down at him, captivated by how teary he gets, so quickly. He looks… really pretty when he cries. He has to pinch his thigh to stop his thoughts from going there. “I… you can, if you want,” he eventually says, even as his entire brain screams, “This is a horrible idea,” at him. “But— I don’t— look, I want you in this situation because you want to be in it, not because you need… money.”

“I do want it,” Peter says tearfully. “I was— I just want an alpha. And I’ve found one, now, ‘m not a runt anymore. And it’s you, Mr. Stark. I—” He breaks off, flushing.

Tony’s intrigued. More than he should be. “You what?”

“I’ve always wanted you,” Peter whispers, voice cracking, and he goes a deep shade of red. “Just— you’re Iron Man, and all the Stark tech and— and I went to the Expo when I was a kid, once, I saw you for a moment there, but— but now I— I’ve found you.”

God.

They’re quiet for a few more moments. And then Tony completely switches the topic. “You like tech stuff, kid?”

It turns out that Peter’s not just pretty, but he’s smart, too, when he’s not reduced to basic omega nature—he laps up information about the arc reactor and nanotech really fast, even asks questions and counters some of Tony’s arguments.

And then he throws Tony off for what seems like the fifth time that night by saying, “Alpha? Can I— can I please suck you off tonight?”

Tony chokes on the water he’s sipping and Peter blinks, patiently waiting for him to regain his composure before adding timidly, “I’d really like to have you in my mouth.”

“Oh my god,” Tony says, voice strained. His dick should not be getting hard. Fuck. “Kid, I—”

“Please,” Peter says, eyes wide and pleading. It’s a beautiful sight.

Tony wants to say yes.

He really, really wants to say yes.

He shouldn’t.

But he does.

“Yeah,” he breathes, the word coming out in one huge, guilty exhale. “Yeah, kid.”

He watches Peter’s nimble fingers fumbling with his pants, pulling them down and letting his cock spring free, tongue poking out wetly between his pretty pink lips, eyes flicking up to his face as he gags himself on his dick like he’s grateful for it.

Peter worships him, and Tony lets him.

#starker #ironspider #nff #only at the end tho #my fics #word + ship #omegaverse #tysm for this prompt anon! i think it was my fav to write so far

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kim-ruzek · 3 years

Text

Girl Crush

Summary: This time, Sylvie does not laugh at the bluntness of Kim’s words, instead blushing a fierce shade of pink. She was only half looking at Kim when she said those words, but now Sylvie looks at the other woman more directly. She is greeted by Kim looking at her—although, maybe staring would be more accurate. It’s an intense look, a look her friend has never given her before, a look that says that maybe Kim doesn’t want to be just her friend tonight.

Or; at the end of 3x23, Sylvie doesn't go home with Roman-- but instead with Kim. And gets the fucking she deserves.

Warnings: Smut, smut, smut. This is just my excuse to give Sylvie the orgasm she deserves and the one she clearly did not get with Ratman. And so there's also Roman bashing bc Roman is trash.

Word Count: 4.5k

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Notes: For @gilbxrt-blythe bc Abby started™ something in my mind on Sunday, thus leading me to writing this all yesterday bc,,, our girls deserve so much better than Sean Roman and this fandom needs more wlw content. Let's save our darling girls!!

Someone’s hooking up tonight.

Chili’s words go around in Sylvie’s head all night. Largely, she ignores them—or rather, tries to—just focusing on the beer she’s sipping faster than usual and the joyous atmosphere in the bar but there’s those moments it creeps into her thoughts.

Her PIC is right about one thing, the thing she said about volcanoes. The firehouse has been so tense of late and she can tell that a weight has been lifted off them, and Sylvie thinks that’s quite like a volcano. But she—perhaps, stubbornly—refuses to admit Chili might be right about the hooking up part.

If anyone was to know Sylvie’s thoughts, know that she’s trying, more vehemently that she should, to deny that, they question why. To which Sylvie would just claim that it’s because she hates gossiping about her co-workers, people who are her friends are family, and that she doesn’t like speculating on their sex lives.

Sylvie even tried to insist this to herself, not that it works. How can it when she can feel her toes curl slightly at the thought of just... Throwing everything to the wind and just enjoying some pure, unadulterated primal ecstasy. That she finds herself subconsciously looking around the bar, as if she’s trying to find a suitable candidate.

She has always felt the weight of her friends’ turmoil so heavily. Empathetic to the core, her father said, when he grinned at her becoming a paramedic, telling her it’s what she was born to do. She likes it, she does. She likes caring about those important to her, to care about anyone who’s a decent human—and even those who aren’t—but it gets tiring, feeling the weight of their unhappiness on her shoulders.

It’s not even like she was directly wrapped up in the drama going around in the house, but it was so intense—a volcano getting ready to burst. And something tells her that she won’t be able to shake it off with just getting drunk amongst her friends.

“Hey, Brett,” Sylvie looks to her left, seeing Sean Roman slip into the seat beside her. The paramedic smiles at him, ever polite, turning so she’s more face on to him. He was close to her before she shifted, and she thought that would be annoying, if he wanted to converse.

Only, Sylvie quickly gets that he doesn’t have talking on mind.

The patrol officer is quick to close the space between them again, shifting himself and resting a hand on the back edge of her seat. She could get away if she wanted, but it gives off a certain trapped vibe, a vibe that shows exactly the kind of intentions Roman has.

There’s a twist of uncomfortableness in her stomach. Roman is sort of attractive, she guesses, although she doesn’t know if she’d fully trust her taste in men yet; there being too many wrongly stacked choices compared to the right. But even if he was the hottest specimen she had ever seen, there’s something off putting about his approach, leaving her with the impression he doesn’t want her to move away from him.

But there’s that volcano inside her, wanting to explode, and the alcohol is already coursing through her veins, so despite the sober parts of her brain metaphorically screwing up its nose at the officer, Sylvie doesn’t attempt to move again, instead leaning on her arm, interested in whatever he has to say.

“I’ve got a few more interesting stories like that, if you want to hear more?” Roman smiles hungrily at her, his eyes making her feel like a piece of meat. He had just finished telling her an amusing story from patrol and she gets the impression that’s his hook, and that now he’s trying to reel her in.

“The bar’s a bit loud, though. So we should go back to mine,” There it is, the beginning of the reel. He’s looking hopeful at her, and there’s an attempt to look appealing, sexy. It doesn’t work, but Sylvie finds herself shrugging, thinking that she could do a lot worse that Sean Roman.

“Hey, Sylvie. Roman.” Before she can agree, Kim appears, seemingly out of nowhere.

The brunette is on the other side of her, her arm lightly touching her as she greets them. In a way, Kim is affectively penning Sylvie in like her partner did, but it doesn’t make her stomach twist in that same uncomfortable way. There’s some meaning to that, she knows, but she doesn’t bother to reflect on what.

“Hey, Burgess.” Roman seems irked. He’s looking at her rather rudely, and Sylvie doesn’t like that. She cares about her friends and Kim is one of her first Chicago friends who doesn’t work with her. So she grins at her a little wider then she already would, wrapping her arms around the other officer.

“Hey, Kim!” If Roman picks up on the pointedness in Sylvie’s tone, he doesn’t let on.

“Hi,” Kim smiles at her again, repeating a greeting before continuing and Sylvie must be a little more tipsy than she thought because her mind is immediately drawn to how pretty Kim looks when she smiles. “Chili had to leave early and asked me if I could drive you home instead. She said sorry, but there was a cute guy who she needed to know a bit better,”

Sylvie knows instantly that Kim is lying. Chili asked no such thing, considering she wanted to get absolutely wasted tonight and had no intention of driving herself home, let alone Sylvie. This lie is an anchor, a get out of jail card, a bailout. For who, she doesn’t know—doesn’t think that she’s too drunk to need it, but she takes it anyway.

“Oh, she promised she wouldn’t!” Sylvie goes along with the lie Kim has spun. “I’m sorry for inconveniencing you,”

“Eh. It’s no problem.” Kim shrugs her off with a wave of a hand.

“I was actually about to leave myself. I can take Brett, you can just relax. That way I can continue telling her some patrol stories,” Roman inserts himself back in the conversation but Kim has no patience for him.

“We’re partners, I can tell her the stories. C’mon, Sylvie, let’s go.” Kim gently encourages Sylvie up. There’s a disappointment at not being able to expend all this tension away, but girl code is more important, and girl code is telling her to go with Kim.

“We have to walk around the block—I don’t actually have my car, so we’ll have to call a taxi.” Kim tells her when they leave Molly’s, arms linked. Neither of them are anything more than tipsy, but Sylvie finds herself giggling at her words.

“Then why did you drag me out? Was a guy bothering you?” She asks.

“Oh, trust me, I did that for you. You’d regret that so much tomorrow. The guy’s my partner and all, but he... I was on patrol with his ex. Going there—that wouldn’t give you any sort of satisfaction.” Kim explains, and Sylvie widens her eyes, giggling again.

“Really?” The irony of Sylvie spending the evening denying that she cares about gossip saying this, leaning in with intrigue, is not lost on her.

“Jenn didn’t say anything outright but... I asked why she got engaged so quickly and she expressed that he—her fiancé—is very talented with his tongue, if you get what I mean. I inferred the rest. A man who won’t eat out his girl is not a man worth your time.” Kim says very manner of fact, and Sylvie laughs at it, the brunette joining in shortly after.

“It’s the truth!” Kim insists through her laughter. They’ve walked around the corner, now, Kim quickly dialling for a taxi through her laughs.

“My ex fiancé never did.” Sylvie confesses when their laughter died down. Kim lifts an eyebrow.

“Never?”

“Never. He said it was disgusting. Didn’t stop him wanting me to suck him, though.” Sylvie can’t help the bitter edge to her words, thinking about Harrison and thinking about how she could waste her time on him. Kim, evidently, thinks the same.

“Life is too short for those kinds of men.” Kim says. Her words are assured, confident, just a statement and Sylvie just hums in response, thinking that Kim probably never wasted years like she did.

“Hey, Sylvie. I don’t mean that like... You deserve so much better.” Kim picks up on her sudden drop of mood. “I don’t know why we lower ourselves for arses like that, but you deserve so much better. Better than people like Harrison and Roman.”

“So do you—if your exes never..?” Sylvie quickly adds on and Kim lets out a snort.

“Oh yeah. I’ve dated my fair share of arseholes.” She nods. “I don’t know why they’re like this. You’re so pretty, I don’t know how anyone could want to fuck you and not completely worship you.”

This time, Sylvie does not laugh at the bluntness of Kim’s words, instead blushing a fierce shade of pink. She was only half looking at Kim when she said those words, but now Sylvie looks at the other woman more directly. She is greeted by Kim looking at her—although, maybe staring would be more accurate. It’s an intense look, a look her friend has never given her before, a look that says that maybe Kim doesn’t want to be just her friend tonight.

It deepens Sylvie’s blush.

The air between them immediately shifts, and it feels almost so natural, Sylvie finds herself questioning whether the air always felt this thick and charged. The air is heavy, and there’s this certain kind of electricity between them; an electric energy of sorts that reminds her of when she was eighteen and her friends and her caught a ride into the nearest big town and snuck into the club—and of Sylvie waiting outside for her friends after and sharing her first—and only—kiss with a girl.

“That’s cos we’re women, though? We know what we want.” Sylvie tries to push all those thoughts aside.

Tries to ignore what she feels building in the air—because surely, it’s just in her mind? Just because she was thinking about throwing caution to the wind and having a night of passionate, explosive sex—and tries to not focus on how pretty Kim looks, how she looks like she’s the best and worst decision she could ever make wrapped up in one.

On how Kim is looking at her with such intense eyes, almost hungry eyes, eyes that says she wants to be one of those men.

“That’s not just why. I wouldn’t just eat you out until you come screaming because I’m a woman, I’d do it because I want to make you come undone at my doing—like you deserve.” Kim’s words sends pulsating throbs through her body, and she can feel herself getting turned on, her body feeling like Kim has just found the secret code to her with just her words. Sylvie stares at Kim, with shock.

“You... I... What?” Sylvie splutters, unsure of what exactly Kim is saying.

“I’m just saying. You’re hot, Brett. I can see why Roman tried.” There’s a pause. “I’m not trying to ruin our friendship. Tell me if I’m wrong, that I’m not picking up on some things and I’ll shut up and just get you home. But if I’m right, I’ll fuck you right.”

“I...” Sylvie is facing Kim dead on, now, the space between them feeling like too much, electric and heavy. It’s dark, the only light being the street lamp. But it catches the side of Kim’s face, lighting it up in such a pretty way and it stirs something deep and primal inside her.

The dark, positively hungry eyes Kim is looking at her with doesn’t help, either. It’s not like earlier, with Roman, it doesn’t make her feel like a piece of meat. It makes her feel like she’s the world’s most precious delicacy and that Kim would give her left arm just to get a taste.

“You’re right.” The words are barely out of her mouth when Kim is closing the space between them. One of her arms slips around the blonde’s waist, pulling her flush to her, the other gently resting on the bend of Sylvie’s neck as she kisses her.

Kim’s lips are soft, her touch gentle. The kiss starts off slow, although Sylvie wouldn’t have thought it with the way her body immediately responds, aching and her heart beating. But then Kim deepens the kiss, encouraging her mouth to open wider, slipping in her tongue. Sylvie responds eagerly, her arms wrapping around Kim, practically grabbing hold of her so she can return the kiss more fiercely.

If this was a preview into the abilities of Kim’s tongue, Sylvie doesn’t think that she’ll have to work her long before—to use Kim’s words—Sylvie’s coming undone at her doing.

When the taxi arrives, honking it’s horn on the two, busy kissing each other like they’re the only people in the world, the alcohol running through their veins and their and respective tiring days edging them on, making them so filled with want for this, they pull apart, out of breath, chest heaving.

They share smiles, little light-hearted giggles as they pull apart, climbing into the taxi. Kim opens the door, grabbing at Sylvie’s hand as she does so before moving swiftly out the way so she can climb in first.

They don’t make out in the taxi. They’re not even jammed up too close together, their bodies just turned towards each other. They are close enough for them to still have their hands interlocked, although it’s more like their arms at places and for their feet to lightly tap at the other’s, playing a footsy kind of game but they’re friends, they shared a taxi before, they’ve even had this ease of physical contact before.

Sylvie would almost wouldn’t be able to tell that the line between friends and lovers had been blurred for tonight, if it wasn’t for the electric energy between them, from how Sylvie’s just waiting until they can get back to hers, and how whenever Kim moves her fingers up and down her arm, gently running against her skin, it feels like little shocks.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to yours,” Kim says as Sylvie leads her up the stairs. They’re deviating between holding hands and not, joking around as they make their way. Sometimes Kim’s spinning ahead of her, their hands dropping from their grip, and sometimes Sylvie is.

“We have only known each other a year and we have busy jobs.” Sylvie points out. Kim sticks out her tongue playfully and Sylvie has to stop herself from capturing it, and kissing Kim again. “This is me.”

Sylvie goes in first, opening her front door and placing her keys in her pot. Kim follows, and Sylvie watches as the brunette kicks off her shoes immediately, shrugging off her coat. For someone who’s never been here before, Kim fills the air with a confidence and it only fuels Sylvie’s need, her own confidence as the volcano erupts.

With a swift kick, Sylvie shuts her door and then her hands are on Kim, pulling her close. She grabs her hand, stopping her from moving further away from her, pulling her to her and capturing her lips in a kiss.

“Hm,” Kim moans against her, kissing her with a casual, yet urgent force. The melodic hum is tinted in amusement, and she pulls away briefly, to Sylvie’s disappointment. “So, we’re going straight to this? Aren’t even going to ask if I want a beer?”

Her words are said in an amused tone, but Sylvie still finds herself blushing, cursing herself slightly.

“Oh. Right. Sorry. Do you—” She’s interrupted by Kim kissing her.

“You’re so easy to tease. Don’t worry, I don’t want anything to drink. Eat, maybe.” Sylvie goes to panic again but then she sees the glint sparkling away in her eye and she blushes, getting the play on words.

“Hm, well there’s only one thing on the menu if you’re,” she pauses, “Hungry,”

Sylvie could swear that Kim licks her lips but then the brunette is kissing her again and all thoughts go out of her head, the only thing on her mind being the taste of Kim and getting her to her bedroom as soon as she can.

Neither of them are determined to disconnect from one another for long, not even in the interest in getting to her bed unscathed from injuries. Kim hits into the sofa and Sylvie nearly trips over something she left on the floor, but the two stay touching, kissing each other hungrily and needily.

Sylvie would love to say that she savoured the moment Kim took off her top, but any clothes removed is done hastily, urgently, the clothes feeling too much, too intrusive. All Sylvie can do is give Kim a quick, appreciative look over after she tosses off her top.

Although, she thinks, that could do more with that Kim then helps her get her top off, and rewards her with her lips on her neck immediately after.

“There,” Sylvie manages to gasp out, pointing at which door is her bedroom’s, as Kim pushes her up against her wall, attacking her neck, nipping and sucking at the flesh. She’s going to have a mark there tomorrow, but tonight, tonight she doesn’t care, just tilting her head aside for her to have more access, her hands just grabbing at Kim as she does so.

Despite the urgency to get this far into her apartment, Kim has apparently decided they don’t need to finish the stretch right now, focusing on kissing along her collarbone, back up along her neck and jawline, stealing kisses from her lips before heading back down. She doesn’t go too far down with her kisses, but it’s enough to send Sylvie’s mind haywire, especially when she brushes along with her teeth.

All Sylvie can do is grab at Kim’s hair, the other hand resting on her waist, running up and down her back with her nails and moan at the kisses, grasping at her. One of Sylvie’s legs loops around Kim’s in a kind of way, pulling her lower body closer to her own, in the perfect place for Sylvie to grind against, needing to alleviate some tension.

It’s only when Kim’s hand snakes away from it’s current position and runs along the waistband of her jeans, deftly undoing her button and slipping inside does Sylvie gasp, pushing at Kim slightly. Kim’s hand is still cold from the cool Chicago night air, and Sylvie can feel the cold as Kim runs her hand against the cotton of her panties, lightly brushing over her throbbing clit.

“Bedroom. Kim, bedroom,” Sylvie gasps.

“Hm. Impatient, are we?” Kim grins at her, and Sylvie can’t help comparing it to a wolf looking at it’s prey. The brunette is so sweet and kind, Sylvie never would’ve guessed that she was like this—so confident and devious—in the bedroom. Or, rather, the hallway. But Sylvie wouldn’t have it any other way.

Kim steps away from Sylvie then, and she immediately misses the warmth of her body, and her hand's presence from where it was so close to where she wants—no, needs—her. She’s going into Sylvie’s bedroom, beckoning the blonde to follow.

Sylvie is starting to rather feel like putty in Kim’s hands, and she’s never been a passive participant in her sex life—well, except when she lets men (Harrison) rule how she should be—and she’s not about to start.

She follows Kim on through, and she already has an advantage knowing the layout of her bedroom. Sylvie’s hands are on Kim again, and she’s leading, practically pushing, Kim to her bed, the brunette having no choice but to lie down on it, Sylvie immediately straddling her.

“Not a very good cop, are you?” Sylvie teases her, and when Kim goes to protest, she grinds down slightly, knowing exactly where it’ll cause friction. It has the desired effect, Kim moaning, her eyes fluttering shut slightly. Her hands are resting of Sylvie’s hips, and they go up then, stroking at the soft skin of her stomach.

“Bra, off. Now,” Kim says, running a hand along the edge of the bra. Sylvie grins wickedly at her, wondering why Kim ever thought she still had the upper hand, to doll out an order.

“Yes. That’s a good idea.” Sylvie shifts down Kim slightly, resting more weight on her own kneeled legs, allowing for Kim to sit up. The brunette clearly thinks it’s so she can help Sylvie with the bra, but Sylvie catches her hands, stopping her, and instead undoes Kim’s bra.

Sylvie’s never been intimate with a woman like this. There’s been those dreams—day dreams and actual dreams—that she spent a while trying to ignore, and thinking she’ll never act upon. But she’s never, physically, been with one and whereas her confidence has gotten her this far, she falters as Kim takes off her bra.

There’s that hesitation, that hesitation that she wants Kim—needs Kim—that this is exactly how she wants to explode tonight, but there’s that knowledge that she’s inexperienced in this, hitting her as she’s confronted with Kim’s naked chest.

“Is this too much?” Kim picks up straight away that Sylvie is having a moment, her eyebrows furrowing, turning concerned. “We can stop or just make out. Whatever you want—consent still applies with two women, y’know, and I won’t mind.”

Sylvie looks at her, Kim’s voice so gentle and caring, her big, brown eyes only filled with concerned, and something inside her throbs and Sylvie’s hesitation wears off as she realises that there’s nothing to be intimidated by, and Kim won’t mind if she has to guide her a little.

“Nah, I’m just taking your beauty in.” Sylvie jokes, before adding more seriously, “This is exactly what I want, Kim.”

“Good.” Kim smiles. “Because I’m feeling that we should even things here.”

Sylvie should’ve know that Kim would take off her bra as soon as she could, the brunette raking her eyes greedily over her body. She grabs at Sylvie’s thighs, positioning her in a way that she can sit on her and they can kiss with ease.

Kim doesn’t spend long kissing her lips before she’s travelling again, her fingers gently tracing patterns on her back as she kisses down her neck, collarbone, going between kisses and nips. Sylvie tries to adjust herself so that she can kiss the dip of Kim’s shoulder as she does so, but Kim tries her hardest to stop any attempts, not wanting to be restricted in her own explorations.

When Kim’s mouth gets to her chest, she pauses. Sylvie has barely any time to wonder what will happen next when Kim’s hand is palming one breast, making her gasp in surprise. The brunette lifts her mouth from her body, instead taking advantage of her agape mouth, kissing her deep. And then she’s moving them, laying Sylvie down, shifting who’s winning this lustful game of cat and mouse they’re playing.

Kim doesn’t straddle her like Sylvie did earlier, just making them vertical, Kim between her legs. She’s squeezing her breast again, and then her mouth is around the other’s nipple, rolling her tongue around it, and Sylvie lets out a loud moan she’d almost be embarrassed about if it didn’t feel so good. Kim works her like this for god knows how long before switching.

And then Kim is once again pulling away and Sylvie pouts, to Kim’s amusement.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Kim coos at her. “I’m just taking off your jeans so I can fuck you with my mouth.”

Sylvie never knew hearing Kim swear could sound so hot.

“Your jeans too. I was you as naked as I am,” She doesn’t know how she still has brain power to compose thoughts, focused so much on the needy ache in her body.

Kim steps off the bed so that she can shimmy off her jeans. Her panties match the bra she was wearing and Sylvie couldn’t even describe how much that made her desire spike. She wonders if Kim was working today and if she changed before going to Molly’s—curious to know if Kim wore such lacy stuff to work.

Surely not? Sylvie sure as hell doesn’t, let alone wearing a matching set.

“Like what you see?” Kim flirts before climbing back onto the bed, immediately getting to work on helping Sylvie get off her own jeans. There’s a moment when they’re off that Sylvie gets momentarily self conscious of her near-naked body, but then Kim’s running a finger along her panties again, pressing down on her clit through the fabric.

The sound it elicits from her is a mix between a gasp, moan and whine.

“Kim,” Sylvie practically begs as she releases the pressure, resuming to gentle barely there strokes as she returns her mouth to her breasts, collarbone and neck. Kim seems to get the message because then she’s—with skill that makes Sylvie wonder just how many times Kim has done this—hooking her fingers around her panties and taking them off.

She doesn’t hesitate to resume her actions, now without the fabric in the way. Kim dips a finger inside her, her thumb brushing against her clit with differentiating levels of pressure and Sylvie can’t help but shut her eyes and moan at the sensation, Kim working her with her talented fingers.

“You’re so wet,” Kim whispers into her ear, nibbling against her jawline before adding another finger. She laughs hotly against her as Sylvie tightens, squeezing Kim’s fingers. She’s just about used to the feeling, and the motions, a pressure inside her building, but then Kim’s pulling them out and she’s whining.

And then Kim’s pulling away from her, and Sylvie just about opens her eyes, lifting up her head, in time to see down her body, looking devilishly. And then Kim’s licking her and it’s everything she’s wanted, needed, and her head is falling back down. Kim works her with her mouth, and all Sylvie can think is about how indeed, Kim is mightily skilled with her tongue.

The tension in Sylvie builds quickly, fast approaching her orgasm, Kim lapping at her and using her fingers to add that extra sensation, rubbing and pinching, alternating between making she’s in place and fondling her breasts and Sylvie’s gripping at her covers, gasping and whining as she writhes, overwhelmed at the sensations.

All thoughts have left her mind, and all Sylvie can focus on is the quick approaching climax, not caring about how lost in it she must be—not caring how loud she’s being, how unfiltered and uncontrolled she is, just focused on how good Kim is making her feel.

And then she reaches her climax, Kim is taking her over and she gets her wish—it’s everything Sylvie has needed, and she screams, full of ecstasy, her body overcome with sensation, toes curling as she comes around Kim’s tongue, the brunette continuing to lap at her, guiding her through her orgasm.

“That...” Sylvie pants as soon as she can. “That—exactly what I needed.”

It’s not perfect grammar, but she thinks Kim gets it, if how she smiles and moves so she’s cuddling against Sylvie, is any indication.

#kim burgess #sylvie brett #chicago pd #Chicago fire #kim burgess x sylvie brett #Chicago pd fanfiction #Chicago fire fanfiction #ree writes #ree's.writing #ree.smut #ree.wlw

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unbridgeabledistances · 3 years

Note

I love your last fic so much it got me thinking could you write something about like the gallaghers( +Kev and v and sandy etc) observing Ian and Mickey’s relationship? Like their perspectives of seeing them be soft with each other and just their dynamic? I’m sorry if this doesn’t make sense lol <3

hiiiii anon!<3 okay i want to start off by saying that this got WAY too long, bc i loved this prompt a lot- so much that i think i might make this a multi-part thing on ao3! i started with sandy (since i am in love with her) but i’ll also go through the gallaghers/kev & v soon- lmk if u guys want me to continue, and who u would want me to write next if i do (or if u want me to continue with sandy lol i have lots of thoughts and feelings)

this ended up taking place in s10 when we first meet sandy, fyi:) also tw for brief mentions of abuse (as always, bc of terry 🙄) -- and there is a reference to the line in 10x07 that jokes about mickey and sandy for a brief moment

When Sandy heard her phone buzz on that Tuesday afternoon, sitting on the stained and lumpy couch in her shithead uncle’s living room while drinking a beer and arguing with Alek about what type of insurance fraud could make the biggest payout, she had no idea what to expect on the other end of the line. The phone kept ringing, the contact info lighting up the screen: MICKEY.

Mickey? Shit. It had been a long fucking time. Between her own various juvie stints as a kid and Mickey’s time behind bars overlapping just as she got released, Sandy hadn’t seen Mickey since… high school, maybe? Whenever it was, it was back when Mickey was a grimy kid with spikey hair and dirty fingernails, a kid with an obsession with guns and way too much time on his hands, back when they would hang out by the train tracks and drink beer and get way too high and do stupid shit; all in all, back when everything was a hell of a lot simpler. Sandy assumed Mickey had met Royal and been clued in about her shitshow of a life at some point while she’d been gone, and they’d possibly overlapped at a family party or two a few years ago when they both were in town— but other than hearing about the aftershocks of Mickey coming out and driving Terry up a goddamn wall, so much so that Terry broke his parole and was headed straight back to prison hours after his release, Sandy hadn’t seen Mickey in forever.

Which is why this call intrigued her so much— Mickey was supposed to be in prison for at least a couple more years, or at least that’s what his brothers had said, so why the fuck was he using a cell phone right now?

Sandy nodded her head towards the cellphone, cutting Alek off mid-sentence and sliding her thumb across the screen to pick up the call. Before saying anything, she rose off the creaky springs of the couch and speedwalked out to the front porch before answering— whatever the fuck Mickey wanted, she assumed he was calling her because this conversation wasn’t for the ears of any other Milkoviches. She lit a cigarette and leaned against the post of the front stoop, listening to the silence hanging heavy on her phone’s speaker.

“Mickey? You there?”

A low chuckle came from the other end of the line.

“Fuck. Been a long time.” Mickey’s voice sounded the same; punchy and snarky, maybe a little gruffer and raspier after years of cigarette smoke. Sandy waited a moment for Mickey to give more of a reply, or an explanation for his call, but it was clear that Mickey wasn’t going to give one right away— it was like he was testing the waters, like he was deciding if making this call was the right move. Soft static echoed on the phone line.

Sandy totally got it— reemerging from a life of cinderblock cell walls and barbed wire fences fucking sucked, especially when you were a Milkovich and the moment you got out you were faced with a choice, an opportunity: did you want to go back home, or did you want to start fresh, erase your own name, and forget this dysfunctional family ever existed? Sandy knew she felt the same way when she got out. Mickey deciding to call Sandy was a big fucking move, and she realized that— reclaiming your life as a Milkovich on the brink of a new beginning took guts.

“So, I take it you’re out of prison?” Sandy asked after a moment, inhaling another slow puff of her cigarette.

There was that laugh again— Sandy had weirdly missed it. Honestly, Mickey hadn’t ever been too bad to be around— they’d both felt like outsiders in the family, had both always had a strong head on their shoulders and a fucking moral compass, unlike the rest of Terry’s sheep who did his bidding and got swastikas tattooed on their chest. When he was younger Mickey used to follow Terry and his older brothers around like a lost puppy, and he even got those fucking knuckle tats—but later in high school, Sandy remembered seeing something deep snap inside him, bleeding out in “STAY THE FUCK OUT” and “FUCK LOVE” signs taped onto his bedroom walls. At the time she thought it was the fucked-up shit with Terry and Mandy driving him up a wall— but now she realized the constant bombardment of homophobia, coupled with the cuts and bruises blooming on his cheeks and the cigarette burn scars on his arms, must have been signs of Mickey realizing the rude awakening that was inevitably going to come if he wanted to be who he was. Sandy couldn’t even imagine— no one really gave a shit who she fucked, and her cousins didn’t know anything about her sex life—but she couldn’t fathom being Terry’s son, the pride and joy of the Milkovich clan, and needing to outwardly admit those deeper parts of herself.

“Yup, I’m free to join civilization as of this morning. Overcrowding or some shit.” Sandy could hear Mickey also taking a drag of a cigarette on the other end of the line. She smirked to herself. Guess we both didn’t break the Milkovich nicotine addiction.

“So, uh, listen,” Mickey continued, and Sandy immediately knew he was in deep shit if she was the one he was calling to ask for a favor. “I’m in a bit of a… situation. Don’t wanna go into too many specifics, but there might be a massive fucking Mexican cartel after me right now.”

Sandy barked out a laugh before she could help herself. Fucking Mickey. “Oh yeah? Sounds like you’re feeling thrilled to be a free man again.”

Mickey chuckled again. “Fuck you. But hey, d’you think you can bring my shit by to me, so I don’t have to stop by the house and get fucking killed? You don’t gotta rush or whatever, just didn’t wanna show my face quite yet.”

Sandy could feel all the unsaid things wrapped in the way Mickey’s sentence ended. Didn’t want to show his face quite yet because of this cartel bullshit, or because of Terry? She decided it didn’t really matter— Mickey was a good guy, she could spend an hour or so rounding up his shit and bringing it to him if that’s what he needed.

“Got it.” She blew out more smoke, watching it curl and drift over the wasteland of the front yard on a gust of summer air.

Mickey cleared his throat, like he was gearing up to say more. When he spoke, his voice was softer around the edges, more genuine than before.

“I’m, uh. I’m sure you heard everything about me while I was gone. About Terry flipping his shit. Probably not the best idea for me to come around the house quite yet—my brothers n’ I haven’t really talked much since then either.” He paused, inhaling another drag of his cigarette. “I figured you’d get it. And hey, if you can bring the stuff by, I’d love to hear all the badass shit you’ve been up to the past few years.”

Sandy nearly winced—yeah, if by “badass shit” you mean getting forcibly married to a douchebag and then couch surfing for months— but she tried to keep her shit together for Mickey’s sake. She stubbed out her cigarette on the railing of the porch, straightening from where she was leaning.

“I’ve got it Mickey, don’t worry about it. Where are you right now, anyways?”

She could hear the hint of relief bleeding into Mickey’s voice when he replied. “I’m at the Gallagher house? The grey one by the tracks.”

Sandy rolled her eyes. “I was in jail for a couple of years Mickey, not braindead. I know where the Gallagher house is.”

Mickey huffed out a breath, but there wasn’t any sharpness in it. “Excuse me for tryin’ to be helpful, smartass.”

“Why the fuck are you there, anyways?”

“I’m, uh, crashing with my partner for now. Ian?”

Holy shit, Mickey was still fucking Ian Gallagher? Sandy had pieced together that Ian was the reason Mickey came out months after getting married to some Russian bitch, and according to Iggy the whole reason Mickey went to jail in the first place was some love-crazed revenge plot on Ian’s behalf— but since getting locked up Mickey hadn’t kept in touch with anyone, other than a shady-as-fuck message to his brothers after he’d busted out of prison letting everyone know that he was in Mexico, despite getting thrown back into jail in Chicago a couple months later. Sandy didn’t really know the details, and she especially didn’t know anything about Mickey’s love life— but it was wild as fuck that someone as unsettled and ruthless and batshit crazy as Mickey could’ve been with the same person all this time, especially someone as seemingly bland as Ian Gallagher. Huh. Wonder if I’ll get to see Ian.

“Got it. I’ll round up your shit and bring it by the Gallagher house later today. And don’t worry, I won’t let anyone know you called til you’re ready.”

Mickey exhaled on the other end of the line. “There shouldn’t be much, just check the drawers or whatever. “

Sandy knew for a fact that most of Mickey’s lingering possessions had probably been taken, sold, or thrown out by a zealously homophobic Terry by now, but she wasn’t going to say as much to Mickey over the phone.

“I’m on it. See you in a couple hours.”

“Hey, Sandy?” Mickey blew out a long breath, and this time Sandy couldn’t tell if it was because he was still smoking or because he was riding a wave of relief, releasing the floodgates of anxiousness he’d been holding in the whole conversation. “Thanks. I fuckin’ owe you one.”

Sandy smirked. Maybe Mickey being let out of jail early was a good thing, despite how fucked his whole situation seemed— maybe, for once, someone in her family would be fun to be around, wouldn’t set her teeth on edge every two seconds by making a racist comment or forcing her to be something she wasn’t.

“I’ll text you when I’m almost at your love nest.”

She imagined Mickey’s grin as he replied. “Fuck you. See ya soon.”

After scraping through every rickety dresser drawer in Terry’s house for nearly an hour, Sandy could barely come up with anything that was reportedly Mickey’s: a couple of tattered shirts, an impressively overused-looking bong, and a single sneaker she’d left behind because she couldn’t find the other one. She threw it all in some shitty burlap rucksack she’d found on one of the bedroom floors, assuming no one would miss it— it dawned on her that maybe her cousins were lying, and some of the other stuff in the house was still Mickey’s, but she’d collected what she could based on the whispered directions Alek and Iggy had given her when Terry was out of the room.

Sandy unlocked her phone, and typed a quick message to Mickey. “Out front.”

Mickey’s reply came quickly, and Sandy noticed the front curtains rustling on the top floor of the Gallagher house.

“Coming down”

The front door creaked open, and Mickey walked out onto the front porch. He looked good; he looked cleaner, sure, but also like a fucking adult—like he’d grown into himself, like he actually carried himself with confidence instead of just pretending to. He nodded his chin up at Sandy in acknowledgement.

“Long time no see.” He smirked, leaning on the banister. “You make a good delivery service. All those hauls we did with Terry must’ve been good training.”

Sandy lazily walked up the front steps, reaching the bag out in front of her for Mickey to take. “Here’s all the shit I could find. It’s not much.”

Mickey jerked his head to the open door behind him. “You wanna come in for a sec?”

Sandy grinned. Why the fuck not. “Sure."

So that was how she found herself perched on what was presumably Ian Gallagher’s bed, watching Mickey ruffle through the burlap bag, his brows furrowed as he realized just how much of his shit was actually gone.

“This everything?”

“As much as I could find.”

They comfortably chatted back and forth about how everyone was— Sandy decided to divulge the fact that Mickey’s brothers were idiots who tried to crawl in bed with her every night, which is something that she had to joke about so she didn’t go fucking insane sleeping under the same roof as them.

“Fuck ‘em, chop their nuts off next time they try it.”

Sandy smirked. Finally, a decent fucking relative. She made some hollow joke about staying with Mickey, alluding to the extra-shitty night decades ago when their cousins had forced them to make out when they were way too high on something.

“Or I could stay here with you. Have fun like we did when we were kids.”

“You know that’s fucked up, right? We’re fucking cousins!”

“Plus he’s taken.” A voice came from around the corner.

Ian Gallagher looked bigger, taller, and more solid than Sandy remembered; he was definitely miles away from the scrawny kid with the bangs who worked at the Kash N Grab that Sandy and her cousins endlessly used to fuck with in middle school. Ian’s shoulders were wide, his body imposing in the tiny room; immediately, Mickey’s aggravated stance softened when Ian walked in, wrapped in a towel from the waist down.

“Oh right, you.” Sandy grinned as Ian hunched over the bed and grabbed his deodorant from the nightstand.

Mickey had turned back to the bag of clothes. “Hey, I had shampoo and shit, is there soap anywhere?”

Sandy rolled her eyes. “You’ve been gone for years, you think your brothers would save that shit for you?” she bit out— and okay, maybe she was a little pissed at Mickey’s brothers for the constant-sexual-assault thing.

Ian just applied his deodorant and leaned in close to Mickey as he passed by the bed towards the doorframe. “You can use mine. We’ll hit Costco later, I’m getting paid.”

It was stupid, but Sandy felt something soft pang in her chest at Ian’s words; it was just now that she was realizing it, but she didn’t think she’d ever seen someone take care of Mickey before, or so… automatically factor Mickey’s needs into a situation. Being a Milkovich was all about scrounging and scraping, and guarding what little you had; a Milkovich would never let someone use their fucking soap just because they cared about them, or not as an immediate reaction anyways.

“Nah, I can’t, man. PO texted me when you were in the shower, he’s got a job for me.”

Ian kept looking at Mickey from where he was leaning in the doorway. “Then give me a list of shit you need, and I’ll pick it up for you,” Ian said in an overly simple tone, like he was mocking the fact that Mickey didn’t realize Ian would run an errand for him.

Sandy smirked. Jesus, Gallagher is whipped.

“Isn’t that cute, little domestic bitches,” Sandy crooned before she could help herself.

Ian stepped into the room again and leaned in towards Mickey, pressing a kiss to Mickey’s cheek while Mickey aggressively tried to uncrumple one of the pile of shirts from the bag.

“Mm, thank you,” Ian said in reply, his voice muffling as he smushed his face closer to Mickey’s.

Mickey instantly smiled smugly as Ian’s lips pressed against his cheek—then he noticed Sandy was staring, so he flipped her off and smiled even wider. What the fuck? Sure, Mickey had flipped Sandy off, but he was practically fucking beaming in a way that Sandy had never seen. God, wonder if I’ll find this shit someday.

Ian detached himself from Mickey and walked out of the room, Mickey’s eyes lingering on his torso. Once Ian had turned the corner Mickey snapped back to attention, fixing his eyes back onto the small mountain of clothes spread on the bed in front of him. Mickey lifted the bong off the bedsheets, and met Sandy’s gaze.

“You have to go, or d’you wanna hang for a bit? I don’t have to be at work for a couple hours, and it’s gonna suck enough that I should probably be high before I get there.”

Sandy grinned. “Hell yeah, I’m down.”

They sat on the rickety back steps of the Gallagher house, silently taking hits and passing the bong back and forth. It had been years since they’d been in the same space, but Sandy and Mickey easily sank into a comfortable silence, passively surrounded by the shrieks of kids playing across the alleyway and the bubbling of water as they inhaled. Mickey blew smoke out of his nose, then sat back so he was leaning against the banister and passed the glass pipe to Sandy.

“So,” Sandy started as she held the lighter to the bong and inhaled deeply. “Ian Gallagher.”

Mickey huffed out a laugh. “Yup. That’s some Romeo and Juliet shit for ya.”

Sandy smirked as she exhaled. “You really fucking love him, huh?”

Mickey eyebrows raised almost imperceptibly as he looked towards her. “Yeah. Guess I do.” He took the bong from Sandy’s outstretched hand. “Took me forever to get shit straight with him, though.”

Ah. So their road to domestic bliss wasn’t as straightforward as it seemed. Sandy’s curiosity was growing.

“Because of shit with Terry?”

Mickey stiffened, coughing a bit as he exhaled smoke, like Sandy’s question caught him off guard. “Shit. Yeah. That too. Let’s just say there were lots of fucking ups and downs, and we both had a lot of shit to unpack.”

Sandy snickered. “You sound like a fucking couples therapist.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “If you wanna see couples therapy, I should tell you about the months me and Ian were sharing a fucking cell. We nearly ripped each other’s heads off. We literally stabbed someone so one of us might get sent to fucking solitary.”

Sandy’s laughter grew. “Are you fucking serious?”

Mickey grinned, and passed the bong back to Sandy again. “Fuck. Yeah. I fucking love him, though. He’s fucking crazy, and I still can’t let him go.” Mickey looked off into the distance across the alleyway, and either the weed was really hitting him right now, or he was being a very sappy motherfucker.

Sandy nudged Mickey’s knee. “You guys are cute together.” Mickey’s eyebrows raised when he heard the word “cute,” and Sandy quickly tried to rephrase. “Not cute, but y’know. Good for each other. You seem happy. Happy is... good.”

Mickey nodded pensively. “How’re you doing, anyways?”

Sandy shrugged noncommittally. “Eh. We can talk about me another time. How the fuck did you and Ian end up sharing a jail cell, anyways?”

Mickey let out a throaty laugh. “I heard Gallagher was getting locked up when I was down south, so I essentially pulled some strings and fucking snitched on the cartel I was working for. Hauled my ass back up here so we could be together.”

Holy fuck. Sandy’s jaw nearly dropped. “Mickey, you’re batshit crazy.” She shoved him squarely in the chest this time. “Are you fucking serious?! You evaded the feds, were living in Mexico, and you came back for Ian Gallagher?”

Mickey rolled his eyes again, placing the bong on the steps. “I can’t explain it, man. I just didn’t wanna be anywhere else, I guess.”

Sandy leaned back onto the banister. “Shit.” She paused for a moment, wondering if she should ask the next question. “Do you… want me to tell anyone you’re back?”

Mickey glanced over at her, his eyes alert. “Nah. Not yet. That okay with you?”

Sandy nodded. “Of course.” Mickey pulled out his phone, checking the time and presumably looking for a distraction from tiptoeing around talking about Terry— but Sandy had to tell him, had to let him know one more thing.

“Hey, Mickey?”

Mickey looked up. “Yeah?”

“I don’t really know the details of what went down with Terry, or whatever— but I just wanted to let you know that… if you ever wanna come home, I’m on your side. No questions asked. And I think a lot of the others are, too.”

The corner of Mickey’s mouth ticked upward. “Thanks.”

Sandy stood, checking her phone and zipping her leather jacket. “Well, I’d probably let you sober up a bit before your big parolee first day of work.”

Mickey raised a middle finger up to her from where he was seated, but then rose to stand.

“Thanks for comin’ by. And hey—you’re free to crash here anytime. There’s a million fucking kids running around all the time, but there’s always a couch or something open if everyone at home’s giving you too much shit.”

Sandy felt something warm growing in her chest. It had been a long fucking time since someone offered to take care of her, just because they could, just because they wanted to— maybe being a Milkovich wasn’t half bad. Maybe there were some good ones.

Sandy nodded in acknowledgement, and turned to walk down the creaky back steps. Wow. If Sandy was sure of one thing right now, it was that Mickey really, really fucking loved Ian Gallagher.

#also this goes without saying but i am not acknowledging the inc*st jokes as things that actually happened #bc that makes me!! wildly uncomfortable!!! lmao #but that being said hope y’all enjoyed this :)#gallavich #gallavich fanfiction #shameless #shameless fic #ian x mickey #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #sandy milkovich #gallavich fic

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detectivereyes · 3 years

Text

The Sun Still Rises, Even with the Pain

for my love, and my official virtual-con buddy @rafaelsilva! jill - hope you have a day that’s as lovely as you are 💗 thank you for always being so sweet and supportive and for providing this fandom with all of your incredible gifs!!

this might be the first time i’ve ever written a fic and posted it without showing anyone (at the very least, usually paige will read it over..) so yeah if you’re like this sucks this seems different than your usual work, that’s bc i didn’t have max and/or jillian rewriting paragraphs for me. we’ll see how this goes 😂

title from “another story” by the head and the heart

(read on ao3)

Kicking off his shoes as he walks through the door, TK sighs. It had been yet another long shift and he could feel it in his bones.

Not only is his body aching from the never-ending day, but his pain could also be explained from one specific call the 126 responded to where TK fell through the burning floor of the first floor of a home, landing in the basement.

It could have been a lot worse; he’s definitely seen his fair share of more severe injuries. But fortunately today he was able to walk away with only some bad bruising on his back.

“Hey, I didn’t hear you come in,” Carlos rounds the corner, greeting him with a smile.

Carlos, who is also not yet aware of what happened.

Michelle had offered to give him a heads up as she looked TK over to make sure the bruises were the worst of it. TK waved her off though, saying that he wanted to let Carlos know himself. He spent the rest of the shift figuring out how to word that text. There are only so many ways you can say ‘hey I got hurt again, but don’t worry I’m fine.’ So he instead chose the option of not worrying Carlos, and keeping it to himself for now.

“Hey,” TK plasters on his best fake smile to hide the pain, and moves across the room to plant a soft kiss on his boyfriend’s lips.

Carlos smiles into the kiss, and moves his hand to cup the small of TK’s back, pulling him in closer. His breath hitches at the contact on the tender area but he tries to keep smiling. However the way Carlos furrows his brow when they pull apart makes it clear that he did hide the wince as well as he thought he did.

“What happened?”

“Why do you assume something happened?” TK tries to laugh it off but Carlos is unphased. He softens and sighs. “I got hurt today on a call but it’s just some bad bruising. Michelle looked me over and I’m fine, you don’t have to worry.”

“Oh baby, I’m always going to worry about you,” Carlos frowns, cupping TK’s cheek. “Can I see?”

TK nods, pulling up the back of his shirt and turning around to reveal a large bruise of all shades purple and blue. Peeking over his shoulder, he can tell it already looks worse than when he last looked.

Carlos ghosts his hand over the bruise, his fingers lightly tracing around the edge. “This looks like it hurts.”

TK shrugs, pulling his shirt back down to face Carlos. “It hurt a lot when it happened, but now it just kinda aches.”

“Did you take anything for the pain?”

TK shakes his head. While he knows that taking a low-dose aspirin wouldn’t mess with his sobriety, he also tries to avoid any pills if he can. “I’m good for now.”

“Okay,” Carlos nods, knowing not pressing the issue any further. “How about icing it? That might help.”

“Yeah, okay,” TK agrees and Carlos places a soft kiss on his cheek.

“Go sit down and I’ll grab an ice pack for you.”

TK obliges, heading toward the couch and watching as Carlos bustles around the kitchen. He pulls out an ice pack from the freezer and wraps it in a towel before heading into the living room and handing it to TK.

“Thanks,” he says, accepting the ice pack and pressing it on his back, hissing at the cold contact.

Carlos takes a seat next to him, pulling TK close while still trying to be mindful of his injuries. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“It’s not that exciting. We were called to a house fire and before we could finish sweeping the ground floor, the floor broke and I fell through to the basement,” he explains, watching Carlos’ eyes widen as he recounts the story. “I was fine though, I got up right away.”

“Yeah, that giant bruise on your back sure screams ‘I’m fine’ to me.”

TK gently swats him. “I mean, it could have been a lot worse.”

“I know,” Carlos smiles. “But, I’m glad you are okay.”

“Me too. Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Of course,” Carlos replies, running his fingers through TK’s hair. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

#911 lone star #911 lone star fic #tarlos fic #my fic #userjilly #i don't feel like tagging other people #jill is the only one who really needs to see it #is this gonna flop bc everyone is busy talking about the new promo?#probably

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notveryglittery · 4 years

Text

mice on venus (1.1)

summary: gee, those forest ravines really pop out at you, huh? wc: 2k / ships: romantic royality, qpr prinxiety, romantic analogical. warnings: falling off a cliff, injuries, janus is a lil rough around the edges but sometimes u gotta be when living in a dangerous blocky world... author’s note: i couldn’t sleep last night... bc brain was making this... and also @thoriffix makes nice minecraft art... so yeah, minecraft sanders sides au? i have no clue what i’m doing besides having fun :) not too much knowledge of the game is needed; you can look at it as a basic adventure au. enjoy!

mice on venus (1.1) (you are here) | far (1.2) title inspo: (spotify link) (youtube link) idk if this will go on ao3 but here’s a spot for editing

— — —

Patton’s voice tears from his throat in a raw and terrified shout. "Roman!" He screams, hands outstretched uselessly, as Roman tips backwards over the edge of a ravine, and disappears.

Logan is there, barely a second later. He rifles through his bag, finds what he needs, and throws it with all the force he can muster. Gravity won't let it hit the ground before Roman does, but it will help when it arrives nonetheless. He hurries to stand, turn, and face —

"What happened?!" Virgil asks breathlessly, daggers drawn and at the ready.

"Roman fell into a ravine," Logan answers with so little tact that Patton would scold him for it if he were paying enough attention to overhear. The color in Virgil's face drains. "I threw a Splash Potion of Healing after him," Logan reassures without pausing, "but we need to get down there."

"I knew I should've stayed home," drawls their final party member, sounding awfully bored despite the situation.

Patron does hear this and he rounds on Janus with fire in his eyes. "How could you be so cruel?! Roman might be dead!"

Janus raises an eyebrow. "Were you not listening just now? Our local brewer lobbed a potion. Roman's seen worse. He'll be fine."

Patton's lower lip trembles but it's hard to tell whether he wants to cry or to berate. Maybe both. He looks for Virgil, only to find him at the ravine's edge with a bucket. Water is flowing from where it's been poured, creating a safe passage for them to traverse down in once safe.

Roman, meanwhile, is falling.

His only warning had been the horror dawning on Patton's face and even then, it came after his foot met air instead of solid ground like he expected. For some inane reason, his first thought as he went plummeting was "who put this ravine in the middle of a forest?" Next, it was panic and "AHHHHHHHHHHHHH—"

With the wind stinging his face and his blood roaring in his ears, Roman knows he has mere seconds to figure out how to make this suck less. He struggles to right himself until he's facing the ground that is rushing up to meet him. He pulls his shield from where it is strapped to his back and thanks Jeb that he'd had the foresight, as their fighter, to give himself something sturdier. The rickety thing the others use wouldn't have done much for him here but the curved, solid iron plate he tucks himself into should absorb most of the impact.

That doesn't mean it doesn't still hurt like hell. He can barely cry out with how his breath is knocked out of him. Pain shoots up his ankles and legs, lighting every nerve along the way. He tilts over, gritting his teeth and trying to see beyond the stars that swim through his vision. He isn't safe… There could… Mobs…

Glass shatters next to him and he flinches from it. Please not a witch, please not a witch, please not a witch —

As opposed to the nauseous kick of poison or the heavy weight of slowness, however, warmth of healing washes over him. In his shock, he'd forgotten anyone had been with him but of course, Logan would have been right behind Patton, with his emergency potions. Relief floods over everything else. He isn't alone. He has help.

"— an idiot!" is the first thing Roman hears when he comes to. He opens his eyes to see Virgil pacing beside him, flailing his arms, and apparently mid-rant. It's probably Logan at his feet, wrapping his ankle in a splint. Ah… the pain from it being jostled must've woken him… He's glad he doesn't remember it.

"Honey," Patton's voice whimpers, close to him, choked and scared and none of that will do —

"C'mere," Roman croaks, reaching for his beloved. Patton catches Roman's hand and holds it almost too tightly. Roman isn't sure which one of them is shaking. He brings Patton's hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles. "I'm okay, sweetness. Don't cry. Please. You know a smile will help me recover better than anything."

"That's not true," Logan pipes up, deadpan.

Patton gives him a tremulous smile anyway.

"Learn to watch—" Virgil stops. Freezes. Looks up. "Oh. Great." He's rifling through his supplies before the others even have time to ask him what's wrong.

The sudden realization of dimming light answers them well enough, though. Janus wastes no time in beginning to help Virgil, moving with him to the ravine's wall to back their makeshift base against. Sunset brings with it monsters and they certainly aren’t in the best place to handle that.

"You need to sleep before you get back on your feet," Logan tells Roman as he packs away his med kit. "No adventures for at least three days."

Roman gasps, as if Logan has just told him his birthday is canceled.

"Logan's right, dear," Patton intervenes, pulling one of Roman's arms over and around his shoulder. He helps him stand slowly, making sure Roman favors weight on his less injured ankle. "It's okay, I'm gonna stay with you! It'll go by so quick, you won't even know it happened."

Roman wants to complain further but he’s lightheaded from his now-vertical position. With practiced ease, Virgil and Janus have a lean-to set up to keep them safe from the nights terrors. Unfortunately, there’s only enough materials for two beds. Fortunately, they sleep in shifts anyway. It takes some coaxing to convince Roman that he doesn’t need to stay awake for one but once his head is on the pillow and Patton is combing a hand through his hair, he’s out.

Logan sits up for the first two hours. Forty minutes in, Janus leaves to explore the ravine. The others know better than to even try stopping him. He returns, laden with coal and iron ore.

“Roman’s shield is gonna need repairing,” Janus says matter-of-factly as he takes over for the next watch.

Logan groans. “I suppose, at least, the painting will keep him busy while he’s grounded.”

“He’ll last…” Janus pauses, considering. “I give him no more than a day and a half.”

“If he wants to sustain his injuries, sure.”

“Bet you he’ll try stealing an Instant Health potion.”

“Not if he knows what’s best for him,” Logan snaps.

Janus smiles with too many teeth which isn’t to say he has too many teeth, just that normally his smiles are close-lipped. Logan scowls before ducking into their small shelter to try and get some rest.

The next two hours pass without trouble. Virgil takes his turn. The howling screech of an enderman startles Logan awake but just as quick, Virgil is peeking in on the party and waving the concern away with an ender pearl clutched in his fist.

“Didn’t wanna pass up the opportunity,” he whispers, before returning to his post.

Patton sets up for the last watch. Virgil makes Logan take the free bed, which doesn’t take much convincing seeing as he’s half-asleep already. Roman begins to toss and turn so Virgil sits on the ground beside him, reaches up, and holds his hand.

“Sap,” Janus says from the corner where he’s been making torches.

“Have you slept at all?” Virgil asks instead of taking the bait.

When Janus doesn’t answer, Virgil frowns. “How long has it been?”

Another round of silence.

“J, what the fuck? We don’t need phantoms on top of everything else!” Virgil raises his voice without meaning to. Logan stirs at the sound of it; he’s always been a light sleeper.

“Hush,” Janus hisses. They wait a few moments more until Logan has settled. “I will when we get back home. I’ve got at least one more safe night.”

Virgil’s glare sharpens but he doesn’t push any further. Janus goes back to his crafting but Virgil notices now how slowly he works. Instead of staring and letting his concern build, Virgil leans back and shuts his eyes, focusing on Roman’s warm hand in his.

Sunrise means a quick breakfast of bread and crisp apples. They share amongst themselves before Logan and Patton take down the lean-to. Janus returns to the top of the ravine, making sure to dispatch any mobs lurking in the shade of the trees. Virgil remembers the leads Patton had brought with him, for if they had come across any horses, and suggests tying Roman to one of them, just in case things go wrong on the swim up the waterfall.

Roman, ever full of bravado, insists he would be just fine on his own. Looks of concern and frustration come from his boyfriend and queerplatonic partner, respectively, and he quickly gives in without much fuss. Janus joins them again and offers to build a ladder back up, especially since there’s no short supply of wood; Logan disagrees, worried that it would take too long and they’d be caught out once more at nighttime.

Eventually, they do all get up and out of the ravine. Roman’s splint needs redoing now that it’s wet and heavy but afterwards, they are on their way home. He relies heavily on Patton and Virgil to help him, careful to not put too much weight on his injured foot; he hates needing so much help, but he supposes it’s mostly alright, what with Patton keeping him entertained with stories and Virgil teasing him about dumb little mistakes made in the past.

Slow going as as they are, they make it just as the sun is beginning to set. The lanterns are lit at the village they had set up nearby roughly a year ago and their neighbors are gathered at the bell for gossip and trade. Patton wants to swing by to say hello and offer some cake but Roman is really struggling beside him now.

“Oh, sweetpea, you must be so tired,” Patton murmurs, shifting so that he can take more pressure off of Roman. “I’m gonna get you the best dinner… And hot cocoa, too, how’s that sound?”

“We haven’t got a steady supply of cocoa beans yet,” Roman says without much conviction.

“I’ll cocoa bean anyone that tries to stop me,” Patton insists.

Virgil stifles a laugh behind his hand and pretends he didn’t hear the thinly veiled threat disguised as a pun. He makes a note to kick their search for a jungle into first gear and wonders if Janus would be up for a trip to the west. It is the least explored direction and their terribly empty maps remind them every day. In the meantime, he’ll help Patton to get Roman comfortable and settled. He makes sure Janus goes to bed that night, keeping him company until he’s well and truly deep in sleep.

After one last sweep of the perimeter, Virgil retires to his and Logan’s room. Logan is waiting up for him, reading by candlelight. Virgil changes into his night clothes and slides in under the covers. Logan is warm and, with a fond eye roll, compliant as Virgil tugs at his sleeve until he eventually puts his book away. Logan lays on his back with Virgil splayed half-across his chest; the sensation has always put Logan at ease, having his partner’s presence so physical and grounding and there.

“Will Roman be okay?” Virgil asks in a voice so small that Logan almost doesn’t hear him.

“Like Janus said, Roman has been through worse.” Logan hesitates but not long enough for either of them to actually start thinking about it. “As long as he is careful, which I’m sure Patton will help him be, he’ll recover in no time.”

The tension flows out of Virgil in one slow exhale. “Thanks, L.” He shuffles deeper into the blankets and Logan’s embrace. “Love you.”

“And I you,” Logan responds with a hum, pressing a kiss to the top of Virgil’s head.

#sanders sides fan fiction #royality #prinxiety #analogical #ts deceit #dani writes #minecraft au #sanders sides #romantic royality #qpr prinxiety #romantic analogical

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akvtsuki-ari · 4 years

Text

Sweetheart (Ch.1)

Warnings: Mentions of BDSM and bunch of other kinks but nothing sexual in this chapter lol. Sub!Spencer and Femdom!Reader

Length: 5.3k

Authors Note: this is hands down the most self-indulgent shit ive ever wrote but do i care? the answer is no dsjk but this that series i had planned where the reader introduces spencer to proper BDSM and all that. hoping to make this fic kinda informative also lol. also im uploading this fic on ao3 as well. also no tags for this fic bc its really specific and ill probably be writing for it for a while! sorry about that

Plot Summary: Spencer Reid just wanted to be.., well, you know. He doesn’t expect to find much when he signs up for a BDSM dating website but somehow he manages you and he couldn’t be more delighted

Spencer Reid was certainly a lot of things. He was a lover of the arts, someone who had a particular affinity for 15th-century literature, a magician at best, a theater nerd at worst, and a teacher when life called for it. He loves the world even when it's really dark and he loves sleeping in even more. He loves his friends and they love him too - even when they pretend that his random facts annoy them. Spencer Reid was a friend, an FBI agent, a genius with an IQ of 187, and a son to a mother he loves wholly. He was a lot of things and for the most part - he knew a lot about what he really loved to do. He supposed that it's been like that his whole life.

It's not everyday that he discovers something new about himself. About everything else? Always. He loves to learn, but about himself? There's never all that much on the frontier.

It's hard to say, because of that, when Spencer discovered he was a sub. It's difficult to pinpoint a specific time and place, or even how the pieces got put together. He just remembers how it felt when it hit him, like a freight train going 100 miles an hour into a concrete wall. Or a plane crashing onto an island. Or like a fly hitting the glass panes of a delivery truck. He remembers the feeling when he was deftly reminded of this fact. Spencer Reid was a sub - through and through and he wasn't really sure what to make of it.

Surprisingly to most of his direct peers, Spencer wasn't a virgin. He'd had sex with 2 people who he'd been kinda friends with at some point, but it always got a little weird after that. The second time though, the girl ended up choking him a little bit when she got off and Spencer thought he had died. Not in a bad way, more in a "I'm so turned on by this I feel like I've genuinely gone to heaven," sort of way. He didn't think it was possible for a sexual encounter to make him feel like that but it did. It didn't stop after that either, which was the most agitating part.

Spencer doesn't consider himself a sexual person. Sex is about intimacy and companionship, and hopefully love when he finds that someday. Sex isn't necessarily about pleasure but that wasn't an easy lesson to learn.

Spencer just wanted to understand - so like any great genius he participated in thought experiments. It's normally a female superhero/supervillain that crosses his mind (he has an affinity for Poison Ivy), and he just kinda imagines what it would be like if they did what she did. The choking turned him on, but it wasn't enough. Through that, he figures out that he had more than a choking kink and that he was more than a little interested in a partner having complete access to him. He thought about it for weeks and the getting off was working for him but he couldn't get the fantasy out of his head. He wanted more - he wanted someone to fulfill his wishes.

It was too much for him to ignore. Those months of being able to hold off through masturbating are over and he's just sorta itching. Aching to act on those impulses with another person who can give him what he needs, and he doesn't want it to be transactional. Maybe it's too ideal to want a partner out of such an endeavor but was it so wrong? To want real affection and romance from someone who could also overpower him wasn't a crime and he'd be damned if he pretended to want any less. Spencer was just searching, even if it was rather desperately.

So, when Spencer finds himself on a BDSM dating site and he feels like his life is in shambles, he can only blame himself. It's not something he'd normally do but he's getting a little more than relentless about it but he also just wants to see what's out there. He's so out of it was it happens, it felt like he was being possessed as he made a fake email and wrote out his account information. Definitely blaming it on possession, he thinks.

It's too late to go back, as he scrolls through tons of profiles of rather intense looking people. He's not surprised, this is where people go to express themselves. They're entitled to that, it just sucks since he's just not ready for such levels of intensity. He wonders if he's in too deep yet, but he figures he'd hit that mark a long time ago and keeps scrolling through profiles. There wasn't much to go off of, many people not choosing to use photos for the sake of anonymity, which was good for Spencer. He clicks onto his own profile, reading his own bio carefully.

USERNAME: DOC187

SUB/ SWITCH / DOM

M / F / O

FETISHES: N/A

BIO: Interest in a dominant female companion. Completely inexperienced.

Spencer feels ridiculous, but he doubts anyone would even message him. He doesn't have much on his profile and he keeps things short for that purpose. He wanted to stay as low to the ground as possible - more curious to explore what was going in the world than to find anything legitimate. He scrolls through hundreds of profiles, mostly of people who were BDSM vets looking for new connections or fun. Some people catch his eye but they don't match his interests so he doesn't bother.

Except, one profile. The bio was beyond interesting to Spencer.

USERNAME: MISS—LILAC

SUB / SWITCH / DOM

M / F / O

FETISHES: Sadomasochist, Degradation, Humiliation, Pegging, Overstimulation, Edging, Crossdressing, Exhibitionism, Mutual Masturbation, Dacryphilia, Shibari/Gags/Bondage, Wax Play, Impact Play, Breath Play, General Sensation Play, Discipline, Collaring, Begging. Willing to try most things.

BIO: Interested in submissive males of any experience level. Helps if you're interesting and like to read and watch indie films. Looking for genuine connection and plenty of good banter. Curly hair is nice too. lol.

Before Spencer can think about it for too long his mouse clicks over that stupid little message button next to your profile. Spencer shakes his head at his own existence as he types you a message. Says you're online right now, but Spencer's sure he won't get a response for a while.

DOC187: Seems I fit who you're interested in. I even have the curly hair.

Spencer chews on his nails anxiously before he sighs at himself. He has no clue what's gotten into him belle before he can think he sees your 3-dotted bubble pop up. He feels his body wracked with nerves.

MISS—LILAC: I'm guessing you like to read and watch indie films too?

Spencer smiles. You seem interesting and the fact that the two of you were just talking normal was making Spencer happy.

DOC187: Indeed. I'm a sucker for 15-century literature and anything in Russian and foreign language. You?

MISS—LILAC: 15th century huh? I'll assume Chaucer. And Russian? You're interesting, doc. I'm more modern and English, hope you're not deterred.

Spencer smiles, surprised that you recognize an author as niche as Chaucer. He shakes his head at your commentary. He almost forgets that both of you are on a BDSM dating site and the irony doesn't escape him.

DOC187: Deterred? Never. I think you're rather interesting too, Miss Lilac.

MISS—LILAC: Ever the gentleman doc. I'm hoping you won't run away if I ask you more personal questions.

Spencer swallows. He types back quickly.

DOC187: What kinds of questions?

MISS—LILAC: If it's okay, you're real name and what you do. My names Y/N, and I'm a florist. I live in DC and I love romance novels.

Spencer smiles. He appreciates you laying down the path for him, knowing the stakes.

DOC187: My names Spencer and I work for the FBI. I also live in DC, and I love magic.

MISS—LILAC: Magic? I'd love for you to show me sometime.

Spencer swallows. Part of him feels like it's a stupid idea to ask you out so early but if you asked, he'd likely say yes. He decides to wait it out.

DOC187: I'd be more than happy to show you.

MISS—LILAC: I suppose you could send me a video but that's not the same as seeing the magic in real life, now is it?

Spencer is smiling like an idiot at this point. He shakes his head a little, jittery.

DOC187: Infinitely better live, I would say.

MISS—LILAC: Seems like I've found an excuse to ask you on a date then. Saturday's work for me but I'm sure it depends on you, FBI man. Before that, I'm gonna drop my number and I'll be expecting your call. (XXX-XXX-XXXX)

Spencer giggles. It's a little out of range for things he's used to doing, giggling aloud for someone else is certainly new. Spencer picks up his phone and dials away, anxious to call you but excited nonetheless. He heard you pick up the phone and his heart catches in his throat.

"Hello?," Your voice is smooth, and a little bit lower than he was expecting. It sounds pretty.

"Hello, Y/N," Spencer says back. He heard you laugh on the other side and can't help the way his heart flutters.

"Lovely to talk to you doc,"

"Still Doc? Not Spencer?" Spencer questions. You smile on the other side of the line.

"Doc seems to fit you. But, for the sake of formality, hello Spencer,"

"I like Doc too, but it feels like I should have a nickname for you as well. Only seems fair," Spencer says laughing quietly.

"If it's your prerogative you can call me Miss Lilac, or just Miss but..." you trail off for a minute. Spencer squints.

"Miss is a title, you know? Doesn't seem fair for you to call me that when I haven't earned it from you yet. I'm sure we'll get there but for now you can just call me Y/N," you say softly. Spencer blushes bright red, his voice betraying him as he speaks.

"O-Oh, well um - where does the name Lilac come from? Normally people go with their names when it comes to stuff like that," Spencer says shyly. He heard you laugh on the other side of the phone and blushes again, grateful you can't see him.

"I love the language of flowers and flowers themselves. It's a way to speak that not many people know - but I like the meaning and look of lilacs. White lilacs represent purity, so that was a bit of irony, but light purple lilacs mean first love," you say carefully.

"First love?," Spencer asks. You bite your lip for a moment.

"I joke that BDSM is my first love since it's such a big part of my life. Not as big as some but not small for certain. It gave me much needed confidence so I joke that it was my first," You say lightly. You hear Spencer giggle on the other side and you smile.

"What about your username? Any significance to DOC187 that I should know of?," you readjust your seat on your couch as you talk. Spencer grows a bit embarrassed.

"I normally introduce myself as Doctor Spencer Reid for work, not a medical doctor but I have three PhD's," Spencer admits. You raise your brows but hear the hesitation in his voice.

"Very, very impressive doc. What about the 187? It could be a plain ol' number but my guess would be otherwise,"

"That's my IQ, actually. I don't think intelligence can be boiled down and quantified like that but I couldn't think of anything else," Spencer explains.

"So you're a certified genius with 3 PhD's? To say I'm impressed is an understatement. Anything else impressive you'd like to tell me before I totally pick your brains," you say a little shocked.

"You wanna pick my brains?," Spencer asks. You wanna laugh at the irony of such a silly question from such an intelligent man but you refrain.

"Who wouldn't?," you say incredulously. Spencer smiles shyly.

"The only other thing is that I can read 20,000 words per minute," Spencer says trying to deflect. Your jaw dropped before but it manages to unhinge a little further.

"There's a lot to get to know about you Doctor Reid,"

"I'm sure it's the same for you," Spencer replies.

"Guess we'll have to find out won't we?," you say smiling.

Damn, Spencer got lucky. Hopefully he'd get to find out soon

_____

"Reid, are you listening?," Derek's voice snaps Spencer out of his entranced state. His smiling expression snaps up to look at Derek who looks a little exasperated.

"Sorry, what was that?," Spencer asks back. Derek puts down the case file they were working on. They had just finished a case and needed to complete some paperwork before submitting it for review and to be used in court. The job was given to him and Morgan and Spencer was evidently distracted.

"Alright, kid - what is up with you? All case you've been checking your phone non-stop and spacing out, all smiles and giggles. C'mon now kid, seriously. You got a little lady at home waiting for you or is there something else I don't know about?," Derek interrogates. Spencer doesn't really know what to make of it, though it's not really in his interest to hide you, it hasn't really come up with anyone on the team yet so it was proving difficult to decide what to do. The smile on his face manages to appear again as he starts to think about you, the tips of his ears red.

"Reid," Morgan says again, with a small look of irritation.

"Her names Y/N," Spencer blurts out faster than he can't think. Derek gives him a huge grin, holding his hand out to dap Spencer up. Spencer just looks at it confused for a second before getting the memo.

"'My man," Derek says chuckling. Before Spencer can continue Prentiss, JJ, and Garcia walk in. Hotch is the only one missing, and Spencer's a little grateful.

"What are we celebrating in here you guys?," Prentiss asks first. Spencer goes to say something to move away from his sudden confession but Derek is quick to cut him off.

"Our boy genius over here got him a little lady," Derek announces. The whole team erupts in questions and Spencer wants to bury himself.

"Congratulations, Spencer!! How long have you two been dating?," Prentiss asks.

"You guys are so dramatic. It's only been two months but no first date because well..." Spencer trails off. JJ just nods her head.

"Duty calls, I'm guessing" JJ finishes. Spencer nods deflated hearing Emily draw a breath between her teeth.

"That's tough, Spence,"

Just as Spencer goes to give a response back he gets a text from you that makes his day a little better. It's a selfie of you at work, a picture your employee must've taken of you in a room full of new flower deliveries. You're giving Spencer a toothy grin as you hold a bunch of gardenias in your hand.

Y/N 🌸: *image attachment*

Gardenias// You're lovely + Secret Love <33

Spencer cannot control the way his whole face bunches up in a smile, as if there's no one else in the room with him. Everyone just looks at him surprised, Garcia giving him a side-eye.

"How can you guys trust this stranger? We don't even know who she is! I haven't even run any background checks on her," Garcia complains. Prentiss nudges her side.

"I don't know if it matters - look at how hard he's smiling over there," Prentiss says. Garcia reluctantly looks and can't help but sigh.

"Okay well he seems really happy but still! We don't even know her," she pouts.

"I'm sure we'll meet her soon," JJ snickers at Spencer's lovestruck expression. Derek leans over Spencer's shoulder and raises his brows.

"Is that her, kid?," Derek asks. Spencer nods, simply staring at the picture you sent. Derek whistles when he sees you - you're genuinely stunning and he's surprised to say the least.

"Hot mama, pretty boy - how'd you manage that?," Derek asks, dumbfounded. Emily rolls her eyes.

"C'mon Derek, I'm sure - oh wow," Emily leans over Spencer's shoulder to see you and is met with the same reaction. JJ and Garcia are quick to follow thereafter, both looking equally as surprised.

"She's..." JJ trails off. The rest of the team just nods as Spencer grins ear to ear.

Spencer 🐻: Beautiful, as always.

Spencer ignores the rest of the team as they look at each other in disbelief.

Y/N🌸: Me or the flowers, Doc?

Spencer🐻: Both, but mostly you.

"Wow, Spencer you're really -" Prentiss starts

"You're whipped, kid. I mean seriously whipped," Derek finishes, nodding in agreement. JJ can't help but smile, giving Spencer a small pat on the back.

"She seems lovely, Spencer. How'd you two meet?," JJ says. Garcia stands around looking rather suspicious. A blush creeps onto Spencer's neck as he's reminded of how you two met.

"Online," Spencer says shortly. No one decides to question it, and Spencer thanks every god he can think of.

"Have you two FaceTimed yet? How can we know she's not, I don't know - catfishing you? Or scamming you in some other cyber criminal way?," Garcia sounds distressed. Spencer gives a small smile.

"We fall asleep over FaceTime every night," Spencer admits. Penelope's expression falls, and Prentiss gives a smile.

"That is disgustingly cute," JJ says laughing.

"Okay, well - I'm still running a background check on her," Garcia says stubbornly "But, I'm happy for you,"

"Thanks Garcia," Spencer mumbles out as he texts you again.

Y/N🌸: I wanna see you, love

Spencer blushes red as he reads your message. The word love makes his whole face hot.

Spencer🐻: I can't take a selfie for my life

Y/N🌸: You're with your team aren't you? Get them to take a picture of you.

Spencer wants to fold away, not ever really being the picture type, but how could he ever deny you.

Spencer🐻: How could I ever say no to you?

"Hey guys, can one of you take a picture of me for Y/N?" Spencer asks embarrassingly red. The whole team sends him a look of surprise.

"I'll take it Spence, try not to look as uncomfortable as you do right now," JJ says. The whole team refrains from laughing as Spencer gives an awkward smile. He thanks JJ who hands him back his phone before texting you again.

Spencer🐻: *image attachment* You owe me one

Y/N🌸: you're stunning as always. hadn't seen you in so long I almost forgot what you looked like.

Spencer🐻: stunnings an interesting choice of words.

Y/N🌸: I said what I said, doc.

Spencer can't help but do a little giggle, that causes the whole team to give him a look. Morgan just shakes his head, shrugging. Emily, JJ, and Garcia just look at each other before the room draws into a subtle but comfortable silence as Spencer just smiles, totally unaware of how whipped he happened to look. He didn’t seem to mind either way.

___

"How was work?," Spencer asks over the phone, kicking his shoes off as he looks into his fridge for something to eat. He hears you sigh on the other side of the line.

"Busy today - wedding season is coming up so tons of calls for centerpiece designs and costs. It's going well though, business couldn't be better," you say, clearly tired yet content. Spencer gives a small smile and feels relieved that things are going okay for you.

"That's really good. I'm glad you're feeling alright," Spencer replies. You ease into the couch as you talk to Spencer, relaxing by the second.

"What about you, FBI man? You have an okay day?," Your voice is full of a gentle concern that Spencer appreciates.

"Yeah, just paperwork and JJ said that we shouldn't have any upcoming cases this week to be worried about so I have the weekend off," Spencer says without thought.

"Have any special plans for the weekend?," you say cheekily. Spencer, still not having caught on, shakes his head for a second.

"No, why?,"

"Hm... well - would you like to go on a date with me then Doctor Reid?," You ask, giggling. Spencer's eyes widen in realization as he facepalms for a moment.

"Wow, I didn't even think... yes - yes I would love to go on a date with you Y/N," Spencer says laughing at his own misfortune. You shake your head instinctively, but the growing smile and even further growing adoration makes it hard to sit still.

"Hey, Spencer," you say, butterflies filling your stomach.

"Yeah?"

"I really like you,"

____

Saturday comes quicker than Spencer can really understand. You told him not to worry about what the days plans would be but he can't help it. Anxiously awaiting you in front of the cafe that the two of you were supposed to meet at, in a part of town Spencer hasn't really seen before. You said that you'd lead the way and the irony isn't lost on him.

"Spencer?," Your voice is small, as you call out to what you think is Spencer Reid. Of course, you'd seen him before but to see him in person like this was still so unfamiliar. His head shoots up, eyes searching for you. He's delighted to have found you, certainly that was true as he walks towards you. Your arms envelop him in a friendly hug and he can't help but find himself sinking into. You smelled sweet, like fruit and flowers (which makes sense, the more he thinks about it)

"Lovely to finally meet you, Y/N,"

"Same goes for you, doc. Would you like to be informed of our plans for the day, or do you prefer the element of surprise?," You ask smiling. Spencer laughs at your question.

"Details would be appreciated, but I get the feeling you're not gonna give me those."

"You're right! It's a trick question, since it's a surprise. But, promise it'll be good,"

"I'll take your word for it then," Spencer says with a small smile. You hold your hand out for Spencer which he accepts, locking his hands with yours. The affection makes him feel full of warmth, as you lead him away for the day you had planned for the both of you.

___

Spencer underestimated how well you knew him. He really, really did. It's hard to explain since Spencers been on a date before but this was so profoundly different. He's a little touched, but beyond that he's just.. surprised? Every date he'd been on before this, he'd have to play the gentleman but it never seemed like the other person was interested in just him. It was always casual small-talk over dinner, or a mid-day coffee date or something else that just felt mundane but this was beyond Spencer's imagination.

The first place you took him was a bookstore - which was in Spencers mind already a winner for best date he'd ever been on. You walked inside with him and told him he had to pick up a book for you and you had to pick up a book for him and to say his heart absolutely fluttered would be an understatement. He picked up up a copy of "The Screwtape Tales," by C.S. Lewis for you, and you gave him a copy of Shel Silverstein's "Where The Sidewalk Ends." For you, you got a glimpse to see what Spencer's sense of humor was and you gave Spencer a piece of your childhood. Both equal but opposite forms of intimacy. The only thing was Spencer had to wait to read his book because it's relatively shorter than yours and he reads 20,000 words per minute.

The next place you took Spencer was an indoor butterfly garden. Does he have to explain why that's a good date? He heard you talk about all the scientific names for the different flowers and why they attract butterflies and he wasn't sure he could crush any harder on you if he tried. A particular moment sticks out to him on which a butterfly landed on your shoulders and just stayed there like it didn't want to leave. Spencer's eyes were fixated on it the whole time - and he had never wanted to be a butterfly in his life before but he figures there's a first time for everything.

The last place, where the both of you were at now was just a small coffee shop, locally owned and supported by the community here. You told Spencer that when you started up your shop, you'd come in here to work on big orders before you'd expanded enough to have employees. Spencer admires your work ethic, much more than he could ever anticipate as he sits down at a small booth, totally covering the both of you as you return to the table with a little plate of banana bread and two iced coffees. Spencer pouts as he looks up at you, watching you flash him a grin.

"I could've helped you carry this over," Spencer complains gently. You roll your eyes.

"Maybe next time doc," you say softly. You hold back your commentary often on the date, and Spencer pretends not to notice for your sake but he'd be lying if he said he didn't wanna know. You always had something sly to say but you'd kept it from him so many times now he figures it's better if he didn't ask.

Spencer looks at you as you push a plate of banana bread towards him. He looks at you with curious eyes before reading your clearly excited face and laughs. He picks up a piece and examines it, before taking a bite. If it tasted as good as it smelled then he would be more than obliged.

The involuntary moan that escapes Spencer's throat makes you choke with laughter. Shit, you weren't kidding when you said this was the best banana bread in the city. Spencer just looks up at you like he's about to cry with joy as you double over in giggles.

"I know," You say softly, taking a bite yourself eyes filling with joy "I ordered some more for us to take home - you're welcome," you say with confidence. Spencer smiles because that is genuinely thoughtful, but it was more endearing to see you pretend it wasn't. He just shakes his head, a blush arising to his face as he looks at you. You're staring at him with intent. He quirks his brow at you in question.

"I had a good time today, Spencer" You say warmly. You only called him Spencer when you were saying something affectionate and a bit serious. He gives you a toothy smile.

"I haven't been on very many dates, but this was easily the best one I'd ever been on," Spencer says honestly. You grin ear to ear, hands carefully holding Spencer across the table, running your thumb over his knuckles for a few seconds. You couldn't say for sure whether it was too soon to ask him to be your boyfriend, but you'd be damned if you said it didn't cross your mind.

Spencer was mind-numbingly unaware of what good boyfriend material he was, but beyond that - what good submissive boyfriend material he was. It was driving you nuts, but you knew this was all new for him and you didn't wanna freak him out. Even when guys say they're interested in being submissive, they're still often times uncomfortable with you being fully dominant. Dominant in public and in bed, if you will. You wanted to pay for dates, and buy him flowers, and make him feel special too - at least on the occasion. That role came naturally to you, that let me make you feel owned type affection that only a dominant person can give. It scared men off - out of relationships, and you totally got why - but you liked Spencer too much as a person to risk iit.

Spencer holds your hands together, gathering your attention. You looked at him spaced out and he gives you a look of concern.

"You okay?," Spencer asks. You nod, chewing your lip in debate of whether or not you should express your concerns. Spencer just tugs on your hand and looks at you intently.

You sigh, looking at Spencer softly.

"I'm okay I just really like you," you say a little exasperated. Spencer laughs but is filled with relief.

"I'm glad to hear that. What else is on your mind?,"

"I really like you - like in an, I want you to officially by my boyfriend way and I hope it's not too soon but I'm just, worried I guess," you say nervously. Spencer can't help the way his heart beats in his chest when he hears you say boyfriend. God did he want to be your boyfriend.

"What're you worried about?,"

"I'm worried about freaking you out. I can be a lot since I'm... you know?," You say nervously. Spencer looks at you to continue.

"I'm more than just dominant in bed, and for a lot of guys it's not their thing and that's their right but I like you so much. I really don't want that to happen if I ask you out now and you realize that it's not for you," you say in clear upset.

Spencer looks at you in disbelief. You were worried that he was gonna freak out over that? That you were too dominant for him? It feels like such a silly concern but the expression on your face tells him you're speaking from experience.

"I mean, it's all kinda new to me but, well - I do like how you treat me? It's a nice change, I can't imagine myself getting tired of it, or of you. I really like you too," Spencer tried his best to reassure you without totally embarrassing you. You smiles at Spencer but your face is still full of doubt.

"If that ever changes, I'll tell you but I'd really like to call you my girlfriend," Spencer finishes. You can't help the warmth that spreads in your stomach at the offer. You just nod, looking up at him. You stand and walk to Spencer's side of the booth, sliding in next to him, leaning your head into his shoulder for a few while seconds. You sit back up, and Spencer turns to you.

"Hey, doc," you say softly. Spencer hums in acknowledgement.

"Can I kiss you?," you ask softly. Spencer chews his lip and nods, looking down at your lip. You're wearing lipgloss and it makes them look pretty - you are so pretty to Spencer.

Kisses are their own language, Spencer figures. The way someone kisses you can tell you a lot about who they are - so, when you put your hands on the side of Spencer's face, pulling him closer to you with such care and adoration - Spencer can feel what you were referencing earlier. The word Miss rings out in his mind, the way you pay attention to him with your hands. He feels your lips press against his, slowly gliding your fingers in his hair, thumb brushing agains the side of his cheek. Your other hand rested on his inner thigh and he has to think about anything other than that not to get hard. Spencer didn't get how much he'd been thinking about touching you until you'd do with no hesitation and he lets out a small whine. You pull back and Spencer has to catch his breath.

His lashes blink up at you and you're absolutely beaming.

"You're cute baby,"

Baby? Spencer wants to cover his face when you say it. You kiss him again and he can't help but feel flush.

You were Spencer's girlfriend and then some and he couldn't be more happy.

#spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid smut #spencer reid angst #spencer reid oneshot #spencer x y/n #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #Criminal Minds #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x y/n #sub!spencer #sub!spencer reid #so nervous abt uploading this lol

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sassycc8 · 3 years

Text

The First Snow

pairing: Analogical

wc: 913

everyonesfavoriteemo: holy shit its snowing

everyonesfavoriteemo: logan its snowing

logan: Is it now?

everyonesfavoriteemo: yes!!

everyonesfavoriteemo: its kinda slushy rn and it prolly wont stick but first snow of the yr!

logan: I imagine that is exciting.

everyonesfavoriteemo: it is trust me

everyonesfavoriteemo: i cant believe youve never seen snow

logan: I’ve seen snow, Virgil, I do travel sometimes.

everyonesfavoriteemo: yea but youve never seen a white christmas

logan: I suppose this is true.

logan: Those are rare in Florida.

everyonesfavoriteemo: exactly bc florida sucks

everyonesfavoriteemo: NE superiority

logan: Don’t you have homework, Virgil.

everyonesfavoriteemo: what are you a cop

logan: Go do your homework, you will be glad later.

everyonesfavoriteemo: but it’s chem

everyonesfavoriteemo: and no one likes chem

logan: That’s not true, I like chemistry.

everyonesfavoriteemo: do you like it enough to help me with it??

logan: You know, sometimes I think you’re only friends with me, so I can help you in school.

everyonesfavoriteemo: is that a yes?

INCOMING VOICE CALL FROM: logan

VOICE CALL ACCEPTED

“Let’s go!” Virgil cheered as the call connected.

“Yes, I know, I’m very awesome,” Logan drawls, a little crackly through Virgil’s headset.

“Something like that,” Virgil shot back as he sorted out his papers. “Okay, so we’re doing something to do with orbitals? Or something?” he sighed. “I hate this class.”

Logan hummed in thought. “Don’t fear, Virgil, we’ll get through this.” Over the line, Virgil heard Logan turn a few pages in his notebook. “Do you want me to explain electron orbitals to you?”

“Please, I don’t understand anything,” Virgil sighed.

“It’s no worries. Would you rather we video-call, so I can explain visually?”

“Sure why not.” Virgil turned on his camera, as did Logan, and both of them popped up onto Virgil’s screen. In Virgil’s window, he could see himself seated in his room, dark purple lights twinkling behind him. In Logan’s, the nerd was sitting prim and proper in his desk chair, the bookshelf behind him neatly organized without a single item out of place. Virgil smiled when he spotted the book he’d sent Logan for his birthday, the card he’d drawn peeking out of the pages.

“So,” Logan started. “Electron orbitals are essentially just the fancier version of the Octet Rule, do you remember that?”

Virgil was listening, of course, but his focus had been dragged away from his Floridian friend to the window besides his laptop. The snow had turned from the frozen rain it had been before to perfect, fluttering powder, settling neatly along the trees and grass outside. With the lamplights illuminating the snowflakes, and the occasional car driving by, taking with it the promise of someone on their way to a warm home, Virgil felt a sense of peace.

“Virgil?” Logan asked, distantly.

“It’s so pretty outside,” Virgil said breathlessly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Logan staring at him, a small smile on his face, and a hint of… something on his face. “I wish you could see it.” Virgil turned back to his computer. “Do you think you could ever visit?”

Logan shrugged, casting a cursory glance towards his door. “I don’t know. You know how my parents are about online friends. They’d probably think I was getting kidnapped.”

Virgil laughed a little. “Yeah, I know. But hey, maybe you’ll come, and I’ll just keep you here forever, and your parents will have been right.”

Logan smiled at that, proving Virgli’s jokes had eased at least some of his worries. “Maybe, maybe. Shall we start your work, however?”

“Ugh, if you insist.”

***

INCOMING VOICE CALL FROM: logan

VOICE CALL ACCEPTED

“Hey, Logan, what’s up?” Virgil asked, fiddling with his microphone to get it in the right position.

“Virgil, I have very, very good news.”

“Yeah?”

“I got in.”

Silence. Just for a moment. A moment in which Virgil couldn’t help the instant pooling of excitement mixed with anxiety in his gut as he nearly forgot how to breathe.

“You – here?”

“There.”

“I – holy shit. Logan that – that means we’re gonna be, what, like 10 minutes away from each other.”

“Indeed.”

“Oh my god.” Virgil’s hand had yet to leave his mouth after having flown there after receiving the news. “Does that mean we can–“

“Meet? Yes, I believe so. My parents can hardly monitor my actions while I’m at university.”

“Holy shit. I- holy shit, Logan.”

“So, got any tips for New England living?” Logan asked with a smile, the very implication of Logan being near Virgil sending grins across their faces.

“Bring a coat.”

***

everyonesfavoriteemo: where are you?

logan: Upstairs. At our usual table.

Virgil shut off his phone and pushed open the doors to the campus Starbucks. Well into their junior year of college now, both Logan and Virgil had changed quite a bit. Virgil had long since retired the chemistry knowledge he learned that snowy day, and Logan only had a fraction of the books he kept in his bedroom at home in his college dorm (but it should be noted he took care to bring Virgil’s birthday book).

The biggest change, however, was that when Virgil finally caught sight of Logan sitting at the table, open book in one hand, steaming coffee in the other, he could sit next to him, rest his head on his shoulder, and even leave a small kiss on his cheek, all without a screen present.

Logan would, of course, let an endearing smile grace his features before tilting his head back onto Virgil’s. Virgil, of course, would read over Logan’s shoulder, even if he didn’t understand what the story was about.

“Logan, look,” Virgil said, gesturing to the street outside, where, as it is often wanted to do in the early Novembers of New England, the snow fell, settling on the ground for the first time that year.

find it on AO3!: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28257057

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #analogical #virgil sanders #logan sanders #long post #sanders sides fic #sass writes

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yeontanismypresident · 3 years

Text

truth untold | jikook

a/n: uh hey guys i know this isn't what i normally post, but i did a roleplay with a friend (they're so talented holy fuck i'm in love bro) and decided to post it on here since it's already on ao3! they wrote for jimin and i wrote for jungkook. so, come cry with us and watch jikook be all lovey dovey after their rainy day fight hehe <33 thanks for being an amazing rp partner @eglantinian and s/o to my baby @minloop for making this awesome header love you bb <3

pairing: park jimin x jeon jungkook

word count: 11.1k (yikes good luck)

genre: angst, fluff, smut, idolverse

warning(s): unprotected sex (pls be safe babies), finger sucking/fucking (yes, it's a warning bc fuck i love it 🥵), oral sex, fingering, the authors falling in love, Feelings™, okay i think that’s it ghfjd

summary: I love you, I love you, I love you, and I didn't want to be forgiven. That's the hardest part. I looked at you, and I didn't want to be forgiven. Because loving you is not a sin.

But that's it.

I love you, Jimin. In spite of everything.

Park Jimin doesn't trust words.

Pretty ridiculous, given how much he loves being affirmed by it, but there's such a thing as "loving compliments'' but not allowing yourself to be deceived by it. There's also the fact that he's got a vendetta... against some words and how someone says it. Not to mention, words are highly fluid, able to empower or destroy when choreographed into perfection. Just like the twists and turns of chaînés or the smooth glide of a moonwalk. An emotion in motion rehearsed a-plenty with the intent to electrify.

To dazzle, to revive, to thunder people's spiritless lives.

Words.

That's it.

That's why he remains a stoic sceptic, pining and fawning over words, but never also completely trusting them until he's sure that the person speaking them does not intend to deceive him. It's very exhausting, but it's a struggle he puts up with in order to protect himself from getting hurt.

Honey, it is one of the sweetest things in the world, but only because they were a product of the labour of a thousand bees. Because while others may think he just readily wears his heart on his sleeve when he's acting like a mochi, they don't realise that it took years to get to the level of confidence he has today. Persistent and consistent labour, that's what it took to make himself appear effortless, not birth lottery.

Not ever.

Which was why he kept rewinding Jungkook's speech, nay, confession, in his head over and over again when they argued in the practice studio. He's practically memorised every word, the heartache and the love in the maknae's voice ringing clearly through the space between them. Jimin's stupid mind even etched in his memories the way Jungkook's brows furrowed in frustration when he shouted at him to "do what you want."

Or the way the tears fell from Jungkook's eyes when he slammed the door to his face, intent on leaving him there in the studio. Jimin wanted some time to himself while walking to their dorm — it was only 20 minutes away, anyway — because he doesn't trust himself alone with Jungkook. He'll end up ruffling Jungkook's dark hair before tugging it back so that he could tilt his head to face him and lose himself in the depths of his dark, dark gaze.

The sweetest eyes in the world, he'd once thought to himself when he first met the maknae. It was just. Just looking at him then, he already knew it was over for him. Jeon Jungkook wasn't just some band member of BTS to him. Neither was he just some cute boy that he can't help feeling fond of. Nor a younger brother he'd dote on endlessly. No, not at all. Once he looked at Jungkook and got to know him throughout the years, Jimin just knew.

One way or another, their lives will always be intertwined.

Serendipity.

He didn't expect it. And yet here he was, falling in love with him. Can't get him out of his head. Can't get him to be affectionate with him even as a joke. Can't get him to stop pushing him away in front of the camera. But still. Still, he kept trying because Jungkook....

Just now, his eyes, his voice... none of it ever held any intent to deceive him.

Not at all.

It's just that today, Jungkook really had to tell him everything he's wanted to hear from him. And while Jimin knew that Jungkook's words carried weight, he just couldn't help doubting it.

Especially when Jungkook's hands kept fidgeting.

And that's the thing — Jimin suddenly felt that he might be uncertain. That maybe he said those words sincerely, but why was he still being unsure? Like damn it, it's not like he was never afraid every time he made himself look like a fool whenever Jungkook kept dismissing him or denying his affection.

It drove him a little crazy.

But still, even now as he's walking outside and ignoring his phone — it's been vibrating ever since he left the studio, and truthfully, his legs feel a little numb already, but he left that place with his head held high, so if anyone's going to do the chasing, it won't be him, not again — Jungkook's words were a chorus he can't help himself from repeating over and over again.

It's just that I've never felt this much for anyone before.

I don't know how to take it. One day, you were there, and I felt like nothing made sense until I met you. I love you, I love you, I love you, and I didn't want to be forgiven. That's the hardest part. I looked at you, and I didn't want to be forgiven. Because loving you is not a sin. Why does it have to be, just because people are uncomfortable? Why does it have to be, just because you're a man and I'm a man? Why does it have to be, just because I got afraid? I just kept overthinking everything, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I hurt you.

But I've been in love with you. Still do.

Fuck. I just said it all. But that's it. I love you, Jimin.

In spite of everything.

And then he just had to look afraid. It's not as if he's the only one.

He sighed, closing his eyes only to blink them open when a drop of rain fell on his cheeks.

His lips curled bitterly. He didn't need to cry at all.

The skies will do it for him.

How lucky.

Jungkook stands in the middle of the practice room, all alone with only cold silence surrounding him. There are silent tears falling from his eyes and gliding down his blushing cheeks. Where did everything go wrong? He was sure he saw the signs right. Sure, he had pushed Jimin away when he was just trying to show his affection, but what else was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to do when they had thousands of eyes on them, just waiting for one of them to make a mistake? It could have cost them their career. No matter how much he loves Jimin, he can’t won’t ruin the rest of the group’s careers.

He can’t help but feel embarrassed and hurt. How was he ever going to face Jimin after this? Would his Hyung make fun of him? Would he hate him? Avoid him? Jungkook really put his heart out there, did the one thing that has terrified him for years and he’s...shut down? Rejected? Was he wrong to assume Jimin had feelings for him too? Is this what heartbreak feels like? Like his heart was ripped out of his chest and stomped on a hundred times? Like someone tore it into a million pieces all the while laughing at him for being so idiotic? How long will he have to deal with this aching, sharp pain in his chest? Until he can get over Jimin? Will he ever get over him?

His head snaps to the opening door so fast there’s a loud pop throughout the room. Wincing, Jungkook rubs the back of his neck, praying that behind it is Jimin coming back to clear things up, to confess it was all just some sick joke he was playing on him. But it’s not him, and Jungkook doesn’t know how he should feel when he comes face to face with the confused one of Taehyung. He probably looks like a right mess with tears leaving a wet trail on his blotchy cheeks and falling off his chin, eyes bloodshot from how hard he’s crying.

“Jungkook-ah?” Taehyung hesitantly asked, slowly making his way towards the maknae, “Are you okay? What happened?” He places a comforting hand on Jungkook’s shoulder, the warm and kind gesture causing him to break even more.

Jungkook gasps for air. He can’t breathe and everything fucking hurts. What does he do? Should he call Jimin? Make sure he got home safe, or should he give him some space? The sound of thunder shakes him from his panicking, and he walks to the window to see dark clouds rolling in. Fuck. It’s about to rain and Jimin is walking back to the dorm. He’s going to get soaking wet and then he’s going to get sick. Jungkook is sure he’ll hate him even more if he does end up ill.

With his mind made up, he frantically grabs his phone. Opening up Jimin’s contact, he hits the call button, silently begging the other to answer. When he’s met with Jimin’s voicemail, he leaves a desperate message, telling him to call him back. He does this multiple times, each time feeling more and more hopeless.

Please pick up, Hyung.

Everywhere was grey.

The sky, previously golden touched with lilac at dawn, is ashen. The streets, once dazzling silver pavements in the moonlight, have returned to its original shape, a dull concrete in the day unlike the vision in his daydreams — mocking his stony reflection in the muddy puddles that have formed beneath his shoes as rain continued to fall quickly, wetting his cheeks. Jimin wanted to laugh, but the sound is trapped in his throat as his phone kept ringing in the background. It was supposed to be quiet. Yet even in this grey afternoon, his fingers couldn't help inching towards the source of the sound — a half-hearted wish to silence the chaos that was his heart.

Jimin took a deep breath, trying to gather himself. Well, more of trying to remember why he exploded in disbelief despite knowing the truth in Jungkook's words. It's just that after he made the decision to not be as affectionate to the maknae, that's when he suddenly tried to get close to him. It's like someone dropped a bucket of cold water on him, paralysing him. It made him feel like an afterthought — Jungkook's warmth towards him had come too late, the abrupt 180 of his efforts giving him a whiplash that when Jungkook finally said those words, he just saw red.

He ran a hand through his hair. He had overreacted.

Jimin is usually able to separate his emotions from his thoughts easily, enabling him to focus and see things clearly for what they were. It just so happened that everything about Jungkook affected him greatly, his control slipping every time their eyes met. Almost every time, that is. The thing is, Jimin had always prided himself with his willpower and resolve, but in that argument... he didn't care. He just lost it.

It's just that... when he saw Jungkook hesitate, he also got uncertain. Afraid. And Jimin hated being unsure, hated losing control, hated the bitter after-taste of regret.

And yet, leaving Jungkook in the studio, it was all he felt.

Regret.

He bit his lip, no longer stopping the tears from falling.

I was wrong, he thought, averting his gaze from the puddle beneath his shoes once he realised he had halted on his way to the apartment — the pause feeling like a thread was trying to pull him back, stopping him.

I was wrong, he repeated, breaking down as he took the phone from his pocket, the ringing never stopping.

Never hesitating.

Never afraid.

Not anymore.

Jimin wiped his cheeks, resting a hand on his face as he answered the call with a quiver in his voice.

"What is it?" he asked, trying to sound firm, but all he heard was the way he sounded so broken.

And all it took to keep him afloat was Jungkook's voice.

Jungkook is still muttering helplessly to himself, feet pounding against the wet pavement as he tries to find Jimin. He doesn’t know where the other is and there’s panic clutching at his heart and everything is just a gigantic mess. Did Jimin head towards the dorm? Or did he decide to go on a walk somewhere else? Somewhere Jungkook wouldn’t know about? Turning towards the opposite direction of their dorm, Jungkook sets a brisk pace, phone still to his ear as he waits for Jimin to answer his phone.

The rain is pouring now and Jungkook can hardly see what’s in front of him. There’s hardly anyone out, so no one can see the way he’s breaking down in the middle of the sidewalk. So caught up in his thoughts, he doesn’t notice that the constant ringing has stopped. Only when he hears Jimin’s broken voice coming through the phone does he react.

“Jimin, I am so sorry,” Jungkook sobs, feet frozen as he tries to stay standing. He refuses to break down even more when he's out in public.

All he wants to do is fall, fall into the older’s arms. To feel his comforting arms wrapped around him in a warm embrace. But would Jimin still want to hug him after this? Did he freak his Hyung out too much by confessing? Hurt him too much? Did he push him away for good? Jimin’s voice breaks his disheartening thoughts.

His throat tightened.

Jungkook was crying. Because of him. Fuck. Jimin's tears suddenly halted, his frustration towards himself rising — not realising that he was squeezing the phone unconsciously until his nails dug red half moons on his skin. He took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair as he listened to the maknae's shaky breaths through the phone.

“I told you not to call me,” Jimin still tried to resist, his control slipping away yet again. Except… except he’s starting not to mind it once again.

Only for Jungkook. Only him.

Because loving you is not a sin, Jungkook's words filled his thoughts once again, breaking through every wall, every monument of fear he thought he built perfectly in spite of his trembling hands — afraid of anyone discovering his deepest fears, afraid of letting anyone in, afraid of no one trying at all.

I love you, Jimin. In spite of everything.

He raised his eyes to the sky.

The rain ceased, and once again, the horizon burst with colours.

His lips trembled.

"W-where...," Jimin spoke more softly this time, hoping it would soothe Jungkook a little, hoping he'd understand, hoping he'd keep trying, "where are you?"

I want to see you.

“I told you not to call me.”

Jungkook feels as if the breath was stolen right from his lungs. He thought the older wouldn’t want him to call, but he was hoping he was wrong. He has no clue how he should respond to that. I’m so sorry, Hyung. Please, just tell me where you are. I promise to leave you alone, just let me know you’re safe.

“Hyung…” Jungkook whispers and he’s not sure whether or not Jimin can hear him. He’s afraid to speak up. He’s afraid his voice will crack and that he’ll appear even more pathetic than he already does.

He wants to give up.

If Jimin’s made it clear that he doesn’t feel the same, then why should he continue fighting for it? Why fight for something that isn't even there?

Jungkook glances up when he doesn’t feel the harsh, cold rain pelting on his skin anymore. It’s stopped raining and the clouds are slowly dispersing, leaving behind a blue sky with a vibrant rainbow. The sun is shining down on him, warming his shaking body, and his body releases its tension.

"Where are you?”

Where is he?

Jungkook looks around at the scenery surrounding him. He’s… where is he? He can feel the panic returning, tightening his chest and lungs until it feels like someone is stomping on his chest. His eyes are frantically moving around, trying to find something familiar, something that will tell him where he is. Where is he?

“I don’t know where I am!” Jungkook sobs, fingers shaking as he clutches his phone to his ear. Jimin’s voice slowly calming him down, grounding him to reality once again.

"Jungkook-ssi," he murmurs over and over again, hearing the panic in the maknae's voice. He almost burst into laughter, the shock of Jungkook's bewildered reply making his heart flutter despite his concern. But that would just set Jungkook off to even more panic, so he swallowed it, willing his mien to follow so that he wouldn’t laugh.

Fuck, he loves this boy so much.

"Jungkook-ssi, take a deep breath," Jimin said more firmly, trying to capture Jungkook's attention. He needed to focus, and as much as Jimin wanted to see him, they won't be able to do that if Jungkook can't calm down.

He looked around him — he's just a few blocks away from the dorm now, and it should be easy to pinpoint his location, but given the maknae's tendency to lose himself in the height of panic, he might as well be the one to go to where he was.

"Just — don't move. Stay where you are. I'll come get you," Jimin offered, trying to get a hold on the situation. When someone is panicking, you can't ground them with softness. You need to be assertive — turn off their impulsive urge to jump off the cliff with cool, solid, and sound facts.

Basically, logic the fear away.

It's just that Jungkook disagreed, his voice breaking, trying to fight against himself, anyway. A taxi, he said, tumbling over his words, the desperation making Jimin curl his lips in fondness, I'll take a taxi. Or I don't know. Run. I'll run to you. But no, a taxi. A taxi would be best, I guess, I really don't know where I am.

At last, Jimin lets out a chuckle.

"Jungkook," he whispers, his tone the softest it’s ever been, dropping the honorific, knowing that the maknae will realise what he meant.

He heard the shudder in Jungkook’s voice, the sound of his name from his lips stilling the maknae.

“Jungkook,” he repeated, his tone firmer, but nonetheless just as soft as he uttered it a few moments ago, “I’ll stay.”

He looked at the sky again, lips curling at the rainbow.

“I’ll wait for you,” he says, voice low and husky — a sound he only uses for Jungkook.

I miss you.

“I’ll wait for you.”

Jungkook’s mind is reeling.

Jimin will wait for him?

Does that mean….

He doesn’t waste any time trying to figure out what that means. He needs to get to Jimin as soon as possible.

As much as he wants to run to Jimin, run to him until he’s in his arms, he decides to take a taxi. If he ran then it would take him at most 20, maybe 30 minutes depending on if he got lost again. A taxi would get him to Jimin in around ten minutes. But would it be more meaningful if he ran to him? After all, who doesn’t want someone to run after them? Show them how much you’re willing to do for them?

“Don’t hang up,” Jungkook whispers, “Please don’t hang up, Jimin-Hyung.”

He wants Jimin to stay on the phone with him. Stay on the line and just talk to him, help him not have a panic attack again. He just wants to hear the voice of the man he’s in love with. Always wants to hear his sweet, warm voice. With Jimin’s reassurance, Jungkook’s shoulders slump and he waves a taxi down. Throughout the drive Jungkook holds his cell phone tightly, breathing gently as Jimin’s voice echoes through the speaker. The ride goes by quickly and before he knows it he’s rushing out of the taxi, throwing some money to the driver, and finally running towards Jimin.

He stops just a few feet away from Jimin, admiring the way the sun shines on him, casting a soft glow and making him look like a beautiful angel. Jungkook wants Jimin to be his angel.

His voice is timid, quiet among the growing crowd of people, “Hyung… ”

"Hyung...," Jungkook breathed, his lips trembling before him as they stared at each other across the street.

Jimin could only eye him with his heart in his throat, his cheeks flaming, his mind pensive and out of control all at once. He curled his fingers, restraining himself from simply bolting towards Jungkook — much like what the maknae was doing when he halted — their dark gazes holding onto each other's — everything missing from their previous conversation spilling in the silent moment between them, the truth untold about to break free.

He shivered — not in a bad way, but an uncomfortable sort of shiver tinged with the pleasure and bashfulness that emanated from having your feelings reciprocated way — at the twinkle in Jungkook's eyes, shining with the hint of previous tears. Jimin mentally cursed at himself for making Jungkook cry earlier, but he pushed it down for the meantime because his heart won't stop pounding as the maknae's lips started to curl the longer they stared at each other.

Ah, Jimin is so far gone in the world of Jungkook land, and he doesn't even feel one whit of guilt, just plain pleasure — pure, unadulterated happiness filling his every being, making him feel like he's floating as he returned the maknae's tender smile.

Slowly, Jimin pressed forward, step by step — feeling calmer as the thunder of his heart calmed down each step he got nearer to Jungkook. And once they were face to face, almost a breath away from each other, Jimin couldn't help it anymore. He just broke down, tears falling from his cheeks — he rubbed them away with the pads of his hands, shaking his head at Jungkook who tried to do it himself, but he can't let him do that — Jimin had to do it for himself so that Jungkook would know that he wasn't alone and that he wasn't the only one who cried.

Once he calmed down, he eyed Jungkook once more, just taking in the way his dark eyes softened towards him.

That's it, Jimin thought, biting his lips in total surrender — he engulfed the maknae in his arms tightly, like a slam dunk hug, the kind that he wanted to shout at the rooftops, screaming, this is the man I'm in love with, and he loves me, oh my god, he loves me back!

Jimin sniffed as Jungkook's hands encircled his waist, so he leaned back just in time to catch the wide, bright, completely enamoured grin that the maknae was giving him. It was enough to weaken Jimin's legs a little, but thankfully, the maknae was holding him tightly. He took a deep breath, resting his forehead on Jungkook's before holding his face in his hands. He brushed his thumbs over Jungkook's cheeks, feeling the slight wetness from his previous tears.

Oh, my love, Jimin could only think, caressing Jungkook's face slowly, just feeling him and soothing him. Then he wrapped his arms around Jungkook's neck, pressing himself closer as much as possible — a silent way of asking forgiveness for how much he hurt Jungkook earlier.

He took a deep breath, resting his chin on top of Jungkook's shoulder before he lowered his head to the maknae's ear. Jimin bit his lower lip to stop himself from crying all over again just before he murmured, "Just... just let me love you, Jungkook."

And when Jungkook nodded against him, he hid his face in the crook of Jungkook's neck, letting the tears fall anyway.

After a while, Jimin let go of Jungkook, wiping his face as he gripped the bottom of the maknae's shirt.

"Let's go home, then?" Jimin asked, hiding his face for the meantime, willing his mien to cool while he searched for a taxi. They need to be alone now, but given how a crowd was forming around them, here isn't the best place to be — no matter how much they wore black hoodies to help hide their identities — two men hugging each other while crying is still an oddity in South Korea, no matter how much the country claimed they were progressive.

Jungkook understood quickly, though, only humming in agreement as his eyes scanned the streets before ducking his face a little when he saw some girls staring too intently.

"Let's go," Jimin repeated with a slight grin, and when Jungkook's hands travelled to his wrist so that they don't get separated in the street, his lips curled even more.

Once they get home, he's so going to kiss Jungkook until he's breathless.

Until Jungkook can only utter and remember one thing: him.

Jungkook’s grip on Jimin’s wrist is tight, his other hand clutching at the back of Jimin’s shirt, trying not to lose him in the crowd surrounding them. He can feel the eyes of many people on him, probably wondering why he’s so close to another man. But, he doesn’t care. All he cares about is getting back to their dorm so he can cuddle with Jimin. He just wants to be held by the older man, feel his arms embracing him. He’s always said that Jimin was the best person in BTS to give hugs (he promises he’s not being biased).

Once they’re in the taxi, Jungkook glances at the driver, making sure he’s not looking before he grabs Jimin’s hand, intertwining their fingers and giving a gentle squeeze. He’s staring out the window, trying and failing to hide the grin spreading across his face. His heart pounds frantically in his chest as Jimin squeezes his hand back. That has to be a good sign. There’s a rosy blush going from his cheeks down to his neck. God, he’s so in love with Jimin it hurts.

Does this mean Jimin loves him as well?

Jungkook hopes and wishes on every shooting star out there that he returns his feelings.

Why else would he tell you he’d wait for you?

Maybe because he’s your Hyung and would be responsible if something happened to you.

The maknae shakes his head, getting rid of those self-deprecating thoughts. He wouldn’t think like that. Refused to.

He’s just about to fall asleep, exhausted from the events that happened earlier. His head is resting against the window, but Jimin’s soft voice fills his ears, causing him to sluggishly lift it. With tired, half-lidded eyes, Jungkook watches Jimin pay the taxi driver. Before he knows it, his Hyung is gently helping him out of the car and leading him into the building. Inside the elevator, safe from any prying stares, Jungkook leans on Jimin and wraps his arms around his smaller body.

“Hyungie, I love you,” he mutters, half-awake and unaware of the words he’s uttering, or the reactions from the older. He’s still filled with so much guilt for hurting the man he’s in love with, “‘m so sorry for making you uncomfortable. I didn’ mean to.”

The rest of the ride up to their dorm is full of Jungkook spewing apology after apology with a few “I love you’s” added into the mix.

Warm.

Jungkook was so warm.

Jimin was trying to control himself, ignoring how his reflection on the elevator betrayed him with his flushed cheeks when the maknae's hands wrapped around his waist. If that wasn't enough, Jungkook just had to rest his cheek on top of his shoulder, basically embracing Jimin everywhere, though he guessed that the maknae was clueless over how much it greatly affected him.

If only that was all.

If only.

But no, Jungkook had to murmur "I'm sorry's" and "I love you's" near his ear. His ear. Was it possible to be this jealous of an organ that was attached to his body? Seriously, Jungkook's lips kept brushing against it every time he whispered, voice a little shaky from tears, but hot damn was it so low enough to make Park Jimin's eyes flutter close and moan a little.

He bit his lip, cursing how slow this damn elevator was, delaying his chance to thoroughly kiss Jeon Jungkook he'd stop crying — so he pressed on the number of their floor with an impatient grunt while his other hand traced comforting half-moons on Jungkook's arms. He wasn't about to be cock-blocked by a fucking levitating metal box, thank you.

Finally, they reached their floor with a ping that Jimin felt was mocking, but that was just his anxiety talking because he really, really wants to hold the maknae in his arms — surrounded by fluffy padding and soft blankets to park their bums to. Like, c'mon, they deserve it after that gruelling dance rehearsal for No More Dream, all right?

Once the doors opened, he ruffled Jungkook’s hair to wake him, but the maknae groaned his disagreement, so Jimin laughed before kissing his cheek.

That snapped Jungkook to attention, his form straightening against Jimin’s back before allowing himself to be pulled towards their apartment. Jimin bit his lip again — Jungkook’s response to him amused and turned him on at the same time, BUT they needed to sort things out in a safe space, so he casually scanned the apartment for any open cameras. Unfortunately, there were a lot, so Jimin kept walking towards their room, gripping the bottom of Jungkook’s shirt so he wouldn’t lose him.

He mentally sighed in relief when he found that the staff were merciful enough to leave the cameras in the bedroom off for the meantime. They must have turned it off since the rest of the members were out, but that was damn more than enough. Shit was exhausting.

Once he locked the door, he pivoted to check on the maknae, who already plopped himself on the bed with pillows while waiting for him. The sight made his lips curl fondly — Jungkook’s wavy hair was all messy from the practice and hysteria earlier, so it made the weary gaze he gave Jimin looked cuter.

He bit his lip again, his cheeks heating for the nth time when his eyes met Jungkook’s — a silent plea he interpreted as please, come be warm with me again.

Ah hell, he’s gone off to Jungkook land once again when there’s a whole Jungkook that was begging to be kissed in front of him.

He shook his head, willing himself away from the trance as he laid down beside Jungkook on the bed and laid his forehead on top of the maknae’s before closing his eyes for a bit — just taking him in, feeling the tenderness seep in between them.

When it felt right — Jimin didn't know how he knew, but he just knew when Jungkook reached out for his hand and laced their fingers between them — fine, he bloody knew because he was waiting for a sign that it was okay from the maknae, okay? — Jimin opened his eyes and held Jungkook’s gaze in place, eyes never straying anywhere else when he pressed his lips on top of Jungkook’s fingers.

The gesture drew a shaky breath from the maknae, and it curled his lips. If this was how Jungkook reacted with a simple peck on his hands, what more glorious sounds would he hear when he kisses him on the mouth?

Jimin drew closer to the maknae, rubbing his nose on Jungkook’s cheeks affectionately before lowering his voice when his lips were just a brush away from Jungkook’s lips.

“May I kiss you?” he whispered even when there was no one else in the room besides them.

The question made the maknae’s brows furrow, as if to say, Why do you still need to ask, Hyungie?

Jimin smirked, cupping Jungkook’s face in his hands. “If we’re gonna do this,” he explained, caressing the maknae’s brow, “I want to know you’re okay with it. I don’t want it to be like before when it wasn’t clear, so I’m asking.”

When Jungkook nodded and looked at him expectantly, Jimin laughed a little, shaking his head. “No, I’m not asking just to kiss you. I’m asking because in case you didn’t hear what I said earlier properly, what I’m asking your permission for is…”

Jimin took a deep breath, playing with the ends of Jungkook’s dark hair on his forehead. He looked down for a bit, gathering the courage to repeat what he said earlier. Ah, why was something so precious and previously hidden in his heart that he managed to blurt out earlier so hard to say again? Was it because he felt braver in front of other people? That’s not fair to the both of them — not when it mattered more to let the truth be heard when it was just the two of them.

He almost couldn’t say it again, but Jungkook breathed his name without honorifics, and that was it. That was it. Jimin raised his eyes and held onto Jungkook’s warm gaze.

“Just let me…,” Jimin said shakily, tearing up a little, the words making him feel like he’s handing his heart to Jungkook — which he was, okay, it’s just. Ugh. Feelings. He took another deep breath. “Let me love you, Jungkook. I love you.”

“I love you,” he repeated, posing his mouth over Jungkook’s.

“In spite of everything,” he repeated the maknae’s words, lips crashing over Jungkook’s as his eyes closed with a flutter, his heart singing, the truth finally free.

He heard Jungkook gasp against his mouth when he deepened the kiss, his fingers carding through the waves of his dark hair.

Oh, my love, Jimin can only think again, breathing Jungkook in, lips yearning and burning, their hands slowly, tenderly reaching to pull each other close because space didn’t belong in the dictionary if it meant that all the years of pining wasn’t all for nothing.

Because right here, right now, with Jungkook’s lips tenderly caressing his in return, Jimin is finally free.

Jungkook’s breathing is shaky with each loving action Jimin performs. His fingers tingle where plump lips brush, and his cheeks heat up as Jimin’s button nose lightly rubs against it. He listens intently, wanting to hear everything the other has to say. He had the chance to pour out his heart earlier and now it’s Jimin’s turn. There’s a slight pang in his chest, his heart hurting at the insecure expression on the older man’s face. He knows it’s not easy to discuss feelings, god, does he know. So, he’s going to give his Hyung all the time he needs. This time, he’ll be patient, he’ll bite his tongue and refrain from interrupting.

His eyes flutter as Jimin’s fingers run through his hair. It’s calming and he can feel his tense muscles relaxing with each passing second. He wishes he could pause time. All he wants is to stay here in Jimin’s arms, being held in such a comforting way, away from the public eye, and away from everyone that will try and keep them apart. Opening his eyes, he notices his frustrated expression. Lifting a hand, he caresses Jimin’s cheek, thumb rubbing against the soft flesh.

“Jimin.”

It’s all Jungkook can whisper before Jimin’s lips are being planted on his own and his eyes are slipping shut. He shakily gasps into the kiss, lips moving rhythmically against the older’s.

It’s soft. So soft.

It has Jungkook feeling dizzy.

Has him feeling light. Like he’s floating on cloud nine.

It’s all he’s wanted, more than anything he’s wanted in his life, but he still wants more. He wants to feel Jimin’s body flush against his. He has the strong desire to tangle his fingers in Jimin’s hair. Tangle his legs with his best friend’s. So he does just that. He slides closer, one hand coming to rest on the back of Jimin’s neck, the other carding through his hair, fingers gently grabbing a fistful of locks. He angles his head to the right, following Jimin’s lead. His heart is beating so fast he’s afraid it’s going to jump right out of his chest, and when Jimin curls his hand against his chest, he hopes he can’t feel the fast pace. Hopes he can’t hear how hard it’s pounding.

Jungkook sighs, leaning forward to press Jimin against the bed, arms caging him in, both hands now running through his tresses. He rests between his best friend’s open legs, unconsciously grinding down when his thighs wrap around his waist and moaning at the sweet, delicious friction. Jungkook teasingly bites at Jimin’s bottom lip, tongue slipping inside when Jimin gasps. Breaking the kiss, Jungkook’s gaze zeros in on the thin string of spit connecting their kiss-swollen lips. His eyes trail all over the older man’s flushed face before gazing into Jimin’s eyes.

“I love you so much, Jimin.”

"I love you so much, Jimin," Jungkook's voice was full of tenderness that it made him choke up again, tearing up a little.

Such a sweet sound from an angel.

Ah..., he fell in love all over again. He doesn't even need to worry whether Jungkook will misinterpret his silence since he knew for sure that the way he was staring at the maknae was enough — he couldn't even look at anything else except him.

Jimin took a deep breath, appreciating the way Jungkook's lips were parted a little, his lower lip shining from the kiss they just shared. He could feel his cheeks heating up again, especially when Jungkook pressed himself between his legs, his weight sending a delicious shiver throughout his body. He bit his lip, raising his hips a little, just to see how the maknae would react.

A loud moan fell from Jungkook's lips, and it made him feel emboldened, tugging at the maknae's hair near his nape before he pressed an open-mouthed kiss on Jungkook's. The maknae shuddered, his fingers curling on the bottom of Jimin's shirt. Jimin bit on the maknae's bottom lip, making Jungkook roll his hips against him again.

The gesture made Jimin smirk, a mischievous plan forming in his mind when he saw how much Jungkook's eyes kept saying, I want more, Hyungie.

Jimin flipped them over, not losing one moment to sit just before the tip of Jungkook's bulge.

Slowly, he unzipped Jungkook's hoodie with his teeth, making sure to maintain eye contact until he reached the bottom with a loud smack of his lips. The gesture made Jungkook gasp audibly, the tent of his arousal swelling further as Jimin lifted the bottom of his shirt and caressed his abdominal muscles, dragging his nails a little before drawing little half-moons all over the maknae's stomach. Jimin smirked every time Jungkook could only utter his name with soft and frustrated sighs, his desire all too apparent for Jimin to see that he can't help leaving open-mouthed kisses too.

When he reached Jungkook's neck, he made sure to press his full lips on the spot — the soft pressure causing the maknae to cant below him with an alluring shiver, another moan falling from his lips as he stared at Jimin with half-lidded eyes, the swirls of his pupils growing darker when their eyes met.

"I love you, Jungkook," Jimin said softly, pressing a chaste kiss on the maknae's lips before dragging his lips on the younger's collar bones — punctuating every kiss with a small bite, another silent way he hoped Jungkook would understand to be —

I want to be with you for a long time, if you'll let me, so please, please, please be with me. Be with me, my angel, and I will give you all the best of me. I love you so much my heart glows when I'm with you, so please, let me love you.

Fuck, he's tearing up again, so he blinked the tears away, caressing Jungkook's face once he finished worshipping the maknae's sculpted body just so he remembers that heaven is not a place, that home is not place, that love is not a place — that nothing matters, that everything is useless, that life is pointless if he can't be with him.

So please, let this be right.

Let him make things right.

Just for once.

Just for him.

"I love you," he swears it's the only refrain he can utter with his heart feeling like it'll unfurl wings anytime it's directed towards Jungkook. So he repeats it again, kissing Jungkook deeply once more, feeling their hearts pound at the same time as he laid on top of the maknae.

He could keep kissing Jungkook's soft lips forever, but he needs to breathe too, plus there was the really pressing situation down there — their arousal swelling against each other's, so he tugged at the maknae's waves when they paused their kisses, not yet opening his eyes as he rested his forehead on Jungkook's.

He just. Fuck.

It's, like, his mind has gone off to Jungkook land and wants to stay there forever with him because he kept falling in love with the maknae the more they kissed and pressed their bodies against each other. Just... just how much would he fall even more once their bodies united in one sweet rhapsody?

He took a deep breath.

Slowly, Jimin opened his eyes, gazing directly at Jungkook. He rubbed his nose against the maknae's cheeks again as he lowered his voice with a request.

"May I touch you now?" he murmured, his hands poised over the buckle of Jungkook's belt.

I really want to hold you.

Jungkook can’t stop gazing at Jimin with wide eyes as he pulls the zipper down with just his teeth. It was one of the hottest things he’s ever seen and he knows it’s going to be ingrained in the back of his mind forever. A gasp slips past his trembling lips, feeling his dick twitch as Jimin’s warm palms slide against his taut stomach. Nails dig into his tan skin and he hopes, god, he hopes they leave marks for him to stare at later when he’s all alone. So he can gently trace over them and feel the slight sting reminding him of who left them there.

“Hyungie,” Jungkook moans, eyes growing dark as Jimin places a soft, open-mouthed kiss on his neck. He wants him to leave pretty, red marks. He wants to have Jimin’s claim all over him. He needs everyone to know that they’re in love and don’t care about the opinions of others.

His heart skips a beat at Jimin’s words. I love you, Jungkook. This doesn’t feel real. How is it that there is a literal angel above him, peppering fond pecks on every visible inch of his skin? How is it that this man, this wonderful man, loves him? It all feels like a dream to him. A dream he never wants to wake up from. He wants to live in this moment for all of eternity.

”May I touch you now?”

Well, if Jungkook wasn’t fucked before, then he definitely is now. Who knew Jimin asking for his consent would be this sexy? He can feel his cock throbbing at the idea of finally being touched by Jimin. He’s dreamed of this ever since he discovered he was in love with the man and finally being able to experience it has him feeling so many emotions. Love. Excitement. Arousal. This was really happening, he was really going to be able to show Jimin how much he’s wanted this.

Licking his lips, he whispers against Jimin’s lips, “Please. Please touch me, Hyung.”

"Oh, is that so?" Jimin can't help tease, fiddling with the buckle of Jungkook's belt, flicking it open and close, casually dragging his nails over the bulge of the maknae's arousal, his smirk widening when Jungkook bit his lips in frustration — his pretty cheeks visibly flushed from all the foreplay.

He draws closer to the maknae, leaving soft pecks over Jungkook's cheeks until his lips met the maknae's ear. Breath hot and swirling with desire, Jimin licked his ear and bit it gently. "Tell me, then, my love," he murmured against Jungkook's lips, biting the maknae's lower lip when he said my love. "Tell me. I need words."

Jungkook let out a cry, suddenly placing his hands on Jimin's hips, grinding against him. Jimin chuckled a little before swatting it away, taking Jungkook's hands gently and holding it on top of the maknae's head. Jimin clucked his tongue, shaking his head at the maknae playfully. "You have to listen to your hyung, Jungkookie."

The maknae grunted, grinding against him again, but when Jimin didn't budge, Jungkook tried to caress Jimin's hands on top of him, thinking maybe being gentle was the way to go about it, but no, no, no. The moment Jungkook pressed himself between Jimin's legs, gentle was for kisses and their belated love confessions, not making love.

Tender was it.

Tender can be the red and the blue blossoms that mark their bodies when their nails and their teeth roughly drag over each other's skin, when their bodies cant towards each other's as they scream their names to oblivion, when their bodies shiver in the aftermath of the previously undelivered truth finally kissing the sun.

At least, this is what Jimin thinks, tracing Jungkook's lips with a finger, whispering, "Your mouth, my love, open it for me, please."

Jungkook's lips fell apart, eliciting a low growl from within Jimin's abdomen, the maknae's compliance turning him on so fucking much. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Jungkook's dark eyes were so, so dark that Jimin can't help biting his lower lip again.

Takes two to tango, after all, he thinks with a smirk, sinking a finger into Jungkook's open mouth, pressing the pad of his finger on the maknae's tongue before inserting another and pumping it rhythmically — his mind so gone that only the sensation of Jungkook receiving his fingers into his mouth without question kept him moving — that it was his idea to do this, that it was the taste of Jungkook's spit wrapping around his fingers, that it was all real, not a daydream he concocted each time he and Jungkook danced way too close for comfort on stage because every moment with Jungkook was just that electric.

Fuck, he thinks again, taking a deep breath as Jungkook stared at him like he wanted to eat him.

Jimin shivered as he drew his fingers away from the maknae's mouth — the moment all too real and too hot to the touch.

Fuck, he thinks again, his hold on Jungkook's hands above his head loosening, his pulse rising, his mind falling into another dimension of oblivion as the maknae growled and flipped their positions again, leaving Jimin to fall on the bed with a soft plop as Jungkook aggressively kissed him over and over again as they rolled their hips against each other in unison.

He bit Jungkook's lower lip, tugging the maknae's zipper open and dragging the maknae's cock out, pumping it quickly between them as their lips crashed on each other's, never letting go. When Jungkook gasped against his mouth, Jimin squeezed his cock again, enjoying it swell in his hands as they kissed each other again and again — the concept of time and space confining and expanding to several infinities with every caress.

Oh my love, Jimin could only think, tearing up again, even as he can't help smiling against Jungkook's lips when he laced their free hands together.

The universe has moved for us, and I'm so happy that you love me too.

My love.

The pet name has Jungkook tearing up. That’s the only thing he wants in this cruel, twisted world. To be Jimin’s love. The thought of being the only one for Jimin makes him want to cry, to sob out how much he loves him and how much he would do for him. How he would go to the ends of the Earth for him. How he would run a thousand miles just to reach his hyung whenever he needed him. He doesn’t want to cry because of this. Only when Jimin finally breaks him down in the most pleasurable ways does he want to cry. So instead he grips his hyung’s hips and grinds up against him, his dick getting the much needed friction he’s been craving. He can’t stop the gasp that falls from his trembling lips. Who knew he would have a hyung kink?

Jungkook whines, lips parting and tongue sticking out. The need to please his hyung makes the action come easily to him. He needs to be a good boy for his Jimin-Hyung. The strong desire to make Jimin proud builds inside him. He doesn’t want to make him regret this. Jungkook gazes into Jimin’s eyes, his eyes pleading with him, pleading him to do something.

Hyungie.

The moment Jimin adds another finger and thrusts them in and out of his mouth he’s a goner. His lips wrap around the digits, tongue licking in between them, and his eyes flutter shut as he suckles on them. There’s drool leaking from the corners of his mouth and Jungkook’s body is feeling hot, hot, hot. Everything about this moment was perfect to him. The way Jimin held his wrists in a bruising grip to prevent him from breaking free. The way Jimin felt on top of him, controlling the situation and playing Jungkook like a puppet. Jungkook opens his eyes, staring at Jimin with half-lidded eyes when the fingers are removed. He focuses on the string of saliva connecting his kiss-swollen lips and Jimin’s wet digits. Everything was perfect.

Jungkook notices Jimin’s hold on his wrists slowly loosening and starts to count, eyes still locked with Jimin’s, unadulterated lust in his gaze.

One…

Two…

Three…!

Once he hits three, Jungkook is flipping them over with a low growl. His lips smash against Jimin’s, passionately placing kiss after kiss on his mouth, hips grinding down to give them both friction. Jungkook breathlessly gasps, cock throbbing in Jimin’s hand. He cants his hips up, moaning as his cock slides in and out of Jimin’s grasp. Eyes shut, mouth parting, he frantically reaches for Jimin’s unoccupied hand and locks their fingers together.

Don’t let go, hyung, please don’t let go. Just hold me.

Love me.

Oh my love, I am made anew with you.

This is what Jimin thinks, removing Jungkook's clothes with trembling fingers as the maknae pressed his naked arousal against the tent in his pants. Fuck, he's just so damn good, he shivers with so much want and need, and everything else could just fade away, he is utterly, completely, irrevocably a goner for one Jeon Jungkook.

He holds onto Jungkook's shoulder before reversing their positions once again, his every being filled with just one intent — loving every inch of Jeon Jungkook for all the universe.

And so he does, taking his top off, reveling in the way Jungkook seemingly marked his skin like a painting, his dark gaze tracing through every inch of his body as he wet his lips like he desperately wanted to dazzle his abdomen and his chest with every languid roll of his tongue.

Just like that, Jimin feels every dream of his come true.

His mind is gone, gone, gone, it's all just Jungkook — his euphoria.

"My love," he breathes again, eyeing the maknae through the curl of his lashes as they slowly removed each other's pants, their fingers caressing each other's all throughout, never wanting to be apart even for a second, never wanting to be uncertain once again, never wanting to lose each other again.

Once they were fully bare in front of each other, Jimin took a deep breath, taking in the sight of Jungkook laid out before him.

Could he still sleep again? Could he still dream again? Could he still close his eyes again?

Would all that still matter when right here, right now were beyond his wildest dreams?

He's tearing up again, his heart so full yet so light with the way Jungkook stared at him with so much love.

"I love you so much," Jimin falls, resting his forehead on Jungkook's, before kissing the maknae's brows. "So much," he kissed Jungkook's eyelids when it closed, "my heart glows," another kiss on his nose before caressing the maknae's face just so he could kiss him fully and deeply on the mouth, "when I'm with you."

His tears fell freely when Jungkook's hands found its way on his back, tracing comforting swirls, every shape a reciprocation of Jimin's love for him. So he kisses the maknae's tears away when he tasted the salt of his tears afterwards. And just. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The stars are in the sky, and they are flying, their hearts soaring to the vibrant horizon.

This isn't a dream, Jimin breathes, kissing the maknae's taut stomach until he reaches Jungkook's cock. So he grinds his bare arousal against it, the delicious shiver in their bodies just syncing as they both moaned aloud. Jungkook reaches for his hands, lacing their fingers together, not wanting to let go.

Jimin drew another shaky breath before sliding down a little, only a little at least just before the swell of Jungkook's dick, so that he could prepare to take all of it in his aching mouth. He wants it all — the bad and the good, the worst and the best, everything that is just Jungkook.

Just him. That would be enough.

And so he takes Jungkook's cock in his mouth, running his tongue along the length inside his mouth just to hear the maknae growl in pent up desire — let it all out, my love, Jimin thinks, eyes closing as he savours the feeling of Jungkook's alluring shivers with his ministrations. He dragged his teeth a little, testing to see whether Jungkook liked it or not, and was rewarded with a chorus of fuck, I'm so in love with you's, so he smirked and bobbed his head on his cock again and again until Jungkook tugged at his hair in frustration just to say I want you, Jimin, I want you, I want you, I want you.

His eyes darkened with pleasure when he opened his eyes and met Jungkook's gaze, the desire so fucking contagious he could just swim in the depths of those eyes forever, no kidding. So when Jungkook rolled his hips, grinding against his mouth, Jimin let him fuck his throat raw to oblivion.

Jimin let out a loud gasp once Jungkook came in his mouth, swallowing all his cum before fingering and licking all the salty remnants on his full lips. Jungkook was still trembling beneath him, so Jimin caressed his face and his hair, soothing him as much as he could.

"We did the annual physical just last month," Jimin muttered, languidly caressing Jungkook's parted legs before him, "and we're both clean, right?"

Jungkook could only nod, his eyes still closed from the aftermath. Unconsciously, he opened his legs more when Jimin's hands drew nearer his cock again. Jimin bit his lips when he saw how Jungkook's cock swelled up again, his arousal just so big and so full and begging to be loved again.

"Perfect," Jimin murmurs with a low growl, posturing his fingers right before the entrance of Jungkook's perfect ass. He took a deep breath, and eyed Jungkook so he'd do the same before he slid one finger in to let the maknae get used to his touch. When a moan fell from Jungkook's lips, he slid his finger further before inserting another, widening the opening a little more and pumping it, trying to loosen the tightness in Jungkook's ass.

When he slid the third finger in, Jungkook grabbed his shoulder, his voice shaky as he drew a breath and bit his lips. Jimin, Jimin, Jimin, was all the maknae could utter so Jimin pumped all three fingers further, settling within the maknae's ass deliciously.

"I want to hold you now," Jimin whispers, his forehead resting on Jungkook's as he posed his own cock in front of the maknae's ass. "So just... just let me love you, Jungkook."

And when Jungkook replied with, Love me, Jimin, love me. Because I love you, too —

Jimin forgot to breathe.

He slid his cock slowly, deeply within Jungkook's ass, his mind empty, his heart full.

The world is so different from yesterday, and now we're becoming a we.

Jimin tears up again, their bodies colliding in that sweet, sweet rhapsody.

We love each other, oh my god, we love each other.

I'm so happy.

Jungkook's hips jump, his dick twitching. Fuck. The feeling of Jimin's teeth lightly scraping his cock followed by his hot tongue has him wanting more, more, more. He wants Jimin to hurt him in just the right way until he's begging him to stop. He throws his head back against the pillow, hands reaching down to pull Jimin's hair, mouthing falling open only to repeat a mantra of Jimin's name over and over.

The maknae lets out a cry, grinding into Jimin's mouth as his best friend swallows around his thick length. His hands are tugging and tugging at Jimin's hair, tears blurring his vision before slowly cascading down his flushed cheeks. He fucks Jimin's face in deep, steady thrusts, and when he glances down, he can see Jimin's throat bulge where his cock is repeatedly sliding in and out. It pushes him over the edge fast. His back arches and he screams as his orgasm hits him hard. Jimin, Jimin, hyungie.

Jungkook's mind goes blank and he's letting out a loud moan at the feeling of Jimin pushing one finger inside of him. It feels amazing. It feels so much better than when he does it. Especially when he adds two more fingers inside him, scissoring them to prepare him for Jimin's cock. It's such an addicting feeling that he never wants this to end.

Before he knows it, Jimin is leaning over him, sweaty forehead against sweaty forehead.

So just... just let me love you, Jungkook.

Jungkook frantically nods, hands wrapping around the older's neck, holding onto him tightly, “Love me, Jimin, love me. Because I love you, too—”

He cuts himself off with a loud, breathless gasp because Jimin is finally, finally, pushing into him. He's connecting them in the most intimate way and it has him tearing up because goddamnit he's so in love and they're finally one. He lays there with his eyes closed and sighs over and over, just taking in the sensation of Jimin making him feel so full.

"Okay," Jungkook whispers as he opens his eyes to gaze lovingly at the other, "I'm ready. You can move."

Jimin could scarcely breathe when Jungkook gazed at him with those dark, dark eyes, the swirls of it clouded with pleasure and love — his eyes seemingly repeating his earlier words, ...I looked at you, and I didn't want to be forgiven. Because loving you is not a sin... I love you, Jimin. I love you, in spite of everything.

Angel eyes.

Eyes I'd fall in love with over and over again , Jimin catches himself thinking as his lips fell apart with emotions he can't even — didn't even — need to have words anymore, the assurance from Jungkook's words — Love me, Jimin, love me. Because I love you too — breaking him apart and making him feel whole at the same time.

You can move, the words fell so softly from the maknae's lips that Jimin almost came from just that, but he controlled himself, willing his mien to cool and adjusting his cock deep within Jungkook before pressing a kiss on his forehead.

Their hands intertwined, Jimin began to move, thrusting and pumping as deeply as he could, letting Jungkook feel every inch of his love within him. A shaky moan fell from his lips when Jungkook panted against him, pressing a kiss on his throat as they held onto each other's hands tightly — a gesture he felt was one of Jungkook's ways of assuring him that it was all right, that they wanted it both, that they don't have to be alone ever again.

He didn't even realise that his eyes have closed as they thrusted against each other, their bodies uniting so sweetly, so feverishly, so lovingly that Jimin could only see an explosion of colours when his lids fell and Jungkook cried against him. The sound made Jimin blink his eyes open, worry suddenly filling his heart when he saw that tears were falling from the maknae's eyes.

Jimin paused, caressing Jungkook's face, pressing his full lips everywhere — his eyelids, his brows, his cheeks — to take the maknae's tears away. "Don't cry, Jungkook," he murmured against the maknae's lips, "don't cry, my love."

When Jungkook only cupped his face in return, Jimin couldn't help crying too — the maknae pressed his lips against his, wiping all his fears away. The gesture caught him off guard, making him laugh as their tears mingled with each other's when they bumped on each other's noses afterwards.

Oh, my love, Jimin can't help thinking again when Jungkook laughed with him — the sound of it making him laugh and cry harder just like the maknae as they moved again within each other's depths, making love in the darkness of the room.

Ah, even the darkness was so beautiful — the shadows of their bodies moving and pressing against each other in a united rhythm, spreading their warmth all over the bed beneath the glow of dusk falling, sun and moon filling the skies in a chiaroscuro of colours — their love for each other silent, but loud, loud, loud in spite of everything.

"Hey, stay by my side and laugh," Jimin murmurs once they came together, his voice hoarse as they moaned and screamed together, the high from the unity of their fall filling them both with warmth.

"Live happily with me," he continues, kissing Jungkook's eyelids, not yet parting from the maknae's depths. "We'll make it work."

He just doesn't want to let go anymore.

"So stay with me," he whispers, kissing Jungkook's forehead. "I'll be with you, every step of the way."

Because a future without you is a world without colour.

"So will you still be with me, my love?"

Tears gather in his eyes as they tangle their fingers together. As one. His head is thrown back, messy hair fanned out on the pillow. Dreamy sighs slipping past his kiss-bitten lips at the feeling of Jimin’s mouth barely grazing his neck. He tightens his hold on Jimin’s hands, praying he understands what holding onto each other means. I’m never leaving you, hyung. Not again. Never. You’re mine and I’m yours. Only yours. Forever.

Jungkook gazes at Jimin through blurry vision, taking in how beautiful and angelic he is in their moment of love. His eyes are closed, mouth parted with small sighs and moans being released in the air, cheeks flushed with the exertion of their activities. Of them making love. A lone tear trickles down his cheek at the thought of them making love. It’s what they’re doing, and Jungkook still can’t fathom how lucky he is to be able to love and be loved by Jimin.

Love. It’s such a crazy thing, but he’s so grateful he has the chance to experience it. With his best friend at that. What more could he ask for? It’s such an overwhelming thought, and he’s hit with so many feelings that he can’t help but to finally let the tears fall from his eyes and make their way down his cheeks.

He opens his eyes, gaze connecting with Jimin’s, and he leans into the comforting touch as he repeatedly whispers I’m okay. Jungkook just cries harder at the soft gesture and the feeling of pecks being lightly placed all over his face. God, he’s so, so, so in love and he doesn’t know how to handle it. So he returns the gesture and swipes his thumb under Jimin’s eyes, wiping away the droplets of liquid before placing a chaste kiss on his chin, giggling when their noses bump against each other.

And he’s so happy, so happy, that they can still find humor and laugh in this moment. With each pump of Jimin’s hips, Jungkook could feel himself climb higher and higher to his orgasm. With each thrust, he could feel his head getting fuzzy and his body rising in temperature. With each laugh and kiss they shared, he could feel himself falling even more in love with his hyung.

Jungkook’s release hits him hard, and he clutches onto Jimin, pulling him even closer as he cries out Jimin’s name over and over again, their hearts beating in sync. His breathing slows down, but he keeps his eyes closed. He’s so tired and all he wants now is to sleep in Jimin’s arms. It’s one of the only places where he feels completely safe and protected. He sighs once again when Jimin kisses his eyelids. He feels so tranquil lying here in his lover’s embrace and hearing his sweet, sweet promises.

So will you still be with me, my love?

The maknae slowly opens his eyes to stare at Jimin with unadulterated love and adoration, tenderly kissing him and whispering against his lips, “Always.”

Always, Jungkook breathed against his lips —

And oh, oh, Jimin was crying again — how wonderful was it to love and be loved in return. His Jungkook, his sweet, sweet Jungkook. He... he really said that — the one answer he previously never thought of having when he earlier thought —

Always — it is now the only refrain that exists in his heart.

Always — it is now the only word that his soul wants to know, wants to share with Jungkook.

Always — it is now the only light he seeks in this previously monochrome world.

A word filled with so much radiance, so much promise, so much euphoria.

"Ah, my love," Jimin murmurs against the maknae's lips, cupping his face, kissing him over and over again.

"You are me," his breath staggers as Jungkook kisses him back and whispers, his voice in the same quiet and tender tone, "I am you."

Park Jimin doesn't trust words.

But when it came to him, Jungkook never lied.

His eyes, his voice, his touch.

And if it's with him — if it's with him — Jimin will never fear anything ever again.

Because that's what they'll be. That's what they'll do. And that's who they’ve always been.

Never hesitating.

Never stopping.

Never afraid.

No longer.

Because one way or another, their lives were always meant to be intertwined.

Fate. Destiny. Serendipity.

Always.

22 notes · View notes

olliedollie1204 · 4 years

Text

love is blind (everything fits oneshot)

Logan has a test for Janus.

Pairings: Romantic Loceit

Words: 2,839 words

honestly the entire reason i decided to start publishing this WIP was because I was sitting on this prequel oneshot that i desperately wanted to publish ajhdhsj. AU is Everything Fits, which you should most definitely read bc it is My Baby.

(Read it on AO3!)

“This is a very difficult decision, indeed,” Logan muttered. His eyes were narrowed, his brow was furrowed, and his lips were downturned. All signs that he was in serious deep thought.

Cautiously, he reached out his hands to grab the two items he had been looking at, weighing them in his hands and inspecting them more closely.

“What do you think?” he asked over his shoulder, turning around and holding the two objects out in front of him.

“Regular Cheerios or Honey Nut Cheerios?”

Roman and Remus looked at him from their position in the shopping cart. Roman babbled gibberish and waved his arms around, while Remus sucked on his fingers and kicked his legs out.

Logan hummed thoughtfully. “That is a good point, Roman,” he replied. “Although Honey Nut Cheerios are the less healthy option, the likelihood of the two of you actually eating your food as opposed to throwing it on the floor will increase exponentially if the food in question is yummy. And I think we can all agree, Honey Nut Cheerios are yummier than regular Cheerios.”

Remus interjected with a series of wordless squeals, pulling his hand out of his mouth and waving the spit-covered fist in the air.

Logan raised an eyebrow. “You’re suggesting that we could pair the regular Cheerios with a healthier yummy food option, like bananas?”

Remus made a loud noise that sounded like an affirmation.

“A very good compromise, Remus,” Logan stated, dropping the regular Cheerios in the cart and kissing his sons on their heads. “Thank you both for your input.”

The twins smiled up at their Daddy, Roman leaning backwards in an attempt to place a sloppy kiss on Logan’s chin. Logan melted.

“Thank you, Rollypolly,” he cooed, his usually intelligent demeanor quickly losing the battle with his desire to babytalk his sons, and with that, he pushed the cart out of the grocery section of the Walmart.

“Before we go, I would like to browse through the infant section, in order to find the two of you some suitable outfits for the upcoming warmer weather,” Logan informed the twins, eyeing down at them as he walked through the aisles. They took one look at his face and broke into laughter for no reason Logan could think of. Nevertheless, Logan couldn’t keep up the stern facade; baby laughter was the most contagious sound in the world.

Despite Logan and Janus knowing from the start that they wanted twins (that was not the sort of thing that was left up to chance when going through a surrogate), there were minor complications to the parenting process that the two new fathers had to learn through trial and error.

For example: they had to dress the boys in different outfits.

It was simply a strategic move: even for twins, the physical similarities between Roman and Remus were striking. Same dark brown eyes, same curly auburn hair, same breathtaking smiles that took up their entire faces— and now Logan had to physically drag his focus away from his boys before he knocked over a display rack of sunglasses in his distracted stupor. The point is, they had to forgo dressing the boys in identical outfits, or else there would be no telling who was who.

Still, Logan thought as he maneuvered the cart into the infant section, part of the fun with babies was dressing them in the cutest clothes ever made, and the Croft-Sanders twins had many corresponding outfits that were sufficiently distinct while still being adorable. They often wore clothes that bore phrases like “Thing One” and “Thing Two”, “Prepare For Trouble” and “And Make It Double”, or “I’m With Stupid” and “I’m Stupid” (Janus thought those two were particularly hilarious, despite Logan’s amused disapproval.)

He browsed idly, flipping between pairs of overalls before his eyes fell onto a rack of simpler onesies. They were plain, each one a different solid color in a variety of hues. He normally would pass them by for something with a bit more flair, but the two hanging next to each other right in the front caught his eye… for a specific reason.

Logan looked at them for a second, the gears turning in his head, before he grinned, pulling the two onesies in question off the rack and placing them in the cart. The twins gurgled as he leaned over them, and he pulled back to give each of them another kiss on the head.

“Pay attention to Papa’s reaction when he sees your new clothes,” he confided in them. “I suspect it will be very funny.”

Later that evening, Logan was standing in the kitchen preparing dinner when he heard the door slam, two arms wrapping around his waist before he could react.

“Hey, handsome,” a voice purred in his ear, and Logan rolled his eyes, whacking one of the arms with a dish towel.

“Please release me so I don’t burn our house down,” he replied, straightening his smile into something neutral as he turned around to face his husband.

Janus grinned. “If you did, we could collect on the insurance and move somewhere nicer.”

Logan rolled his eyes again. “Yes, along with the myriad of backup funds we currently possess, I do think that uprooting our impressionable young children and separating them from all they are familiar with is a fantastic idea—”

His retort was interrupted with Janus pressing their lips together, which Logan was happy to reciprocate.

“Speaking of our children,” Janus said as they pulled away, and Logan still got a certain thrill in his chest when Janus said our children, “where are the little gremlins?”

“In the playpen,” Logan replied, biting the inside of his cheek. “Will you check Remus’ diaper? I changed Roman’s earlier but Remus didn’t need it, and I suspect he will by now.”

Janus sighed. “I’ve been home for five minutes and you’ve already got me doing the dirty work.”

“Thank you, Sanders,” Logan sang, ignoring Janus’ complaint in favor of moving away to turn off the stovetop.

He continued to bustle around the kitchen, but his attention was on Janus, who entered the living room where the boys’ playpen was set up.

“Alright, Reemypop,” Logan heard him say. “Time to face the music—”

He stopped suddenly. Logan waited in anticipation.

“Croft,” Janus said in a voice devoid of emotion.

Logan hurried into the living room, where Janus was looking down into the playpen. The two locked eyes.

“You must think you are very funny,” Janus remarked dryly. Logan couldn’t stop the smile from forming on his face.

“Remus is wearing the green onesie,” he responded oh-so-helpfully, once again ignoring Janus’ statement.

“And I assume,” Janus deadpanned, “Roman is wearing a red one.”

Logan hummed. “Excellent deductive reasoning.”

Janus leveled his husband with an unimpressed look.

“I never expected to be mocked for my colorblindness by my own husband,” he finally said.

Logan flashed him a grin. “Come on, Sanders. Surely you’re able to tell the difference between your own sons.”

With that, Logan settled into the rocking chair, folding his arms and looking at his husband with amusement.

Janus looked from him, to the twins, to him again. He sighed, but Logan recognized that look in his eyes: he was ready to play.

“If you insist,” Janus drawled, before leaning forward and picking up the boys in one swoop. They made happy noises at being lifted in the air, and even more so when Janus pressed a kiss onto each of their heads.

He expertly turned them around so they were facing Logan, their backs tucked into Janus’ arms.

“Wave goodbye to Daddy, because I’m going to kill him,” he told the boys cheerfully. They each waved a hand in Logan’s general direction.

“No, don’t—” Logan protested, trying to quell his laughter. “They’ll remember that years down the line, you know.”

“Good. At least their therapists will find them interesting.”

He looked down at the two babies in his arms. He lifted each of them up and down, as if weighing them. They paid absolutely no attention to him: the one on his left continued to wave at Logan, while the other attempted to squirm out of Janus’ hold altogether.

“Remus,” Janus cooed. Both boys turned their heads in his direction.

Janus tsked, and waited for their attention to drift before he tried again. “Roman?”

Again both boys turned back to look at their Papa. Logan snickered softly.

“Darn,” Janus muttered. “I definitely thought that would work.”

He paused in thought, before sighing. “Well, Daddy said Remus probably needs a diaper change. So…”

He leaned forward to give each of his sons a preliminary sniff. Logan wrinkled his nose at the unpleasant, but usually necessary, task.

Janus leaned back. “No dice.”

“That’s good, at least,” Logan offered.

“That’s good, at least,” Janus mimicked, making a face at his husband. He looked down at his sons again, eyes narrowed.

“Okay, Sanders,” he muttered, making Logan snort. “Figure it out.”

He gently maneuvered the three of them to the floor, laying the twins side by side on their backs and sitting criss-cross applesauce in front of them.

He studied them closely. Left Baby reached out to him and made grabby hands, while Right Baby was focused on trying to insert his entire foot into his mouth, both of them babbling adorably.

“Now, Remus is more likely to ask to be picked up than Roman is,” Janus reasoned, pointing a finger at Left Baby; his finger slid over to Right Baby as he continued, “But Roman never tries to chew on his feet like Remus does, so the data is inconclusive.”

Janus tapped his chin, apparently deep in thought. He reached into the playpen, scrabbling around for what he needed for his next test.

“Aha!” he exclaimed, emerging from the playpen and placing the item in between the boys.

“Who wants the Dragon Witch?” he cooed. The twins whipped their heads in unison, eyes wide as they both caught sight of their favorite toy: a green stuffed dragon with a witch hat on its head.

Logan hummed deeply. “I must admit, that’s a good strategy.”

Janus shushed him without looking, his eyes on the boys as they both reached out their hands.

Left Baby reached the toy first, grabbing the tail in one pudgy fist and yanking it towards him. It tottered over, falling on its side just out of reach of Right Baby.

Deceit smiled. Now all he had to do was wait for Right Baby’s reaction. If Roman took a toy, Remus wouldn’t care in the slightest; if Remus took a toy, however, Roman would cry and scream like there was no tomorrow.

Sure enough, Right Baby began making a series of noises that were not quite cries, but were well on their way there.

“Yes!” Janus hissed, pumping his fist slightly. “That one’s Roman, and this one is—”

He cut himself off as Left Baby made a loud, short noise at seeing his brother start to cry. Still gripping the Dragon Witch by its tail, he swung his arm out as much as he could, and the toy flopped into Right Baby’s space, without Left Baby having to let it go.

Immediately Right Baby stopped crying, and he strained for a few seconds before managing to grab the Dragon Witch by its puffy nose. The two brothers stayed like that, holding the Dragon Witch between them, as they turned to face their Papa again.

Janus was gawking at the display. “Of all the times you two could’ve learned how to share, it had to be now?”

Logan hummed in response, preoccupied with taking several photos of the adorable scene. He watched with amusement as Janus’ brow furrowed in concentration, before he gave a triumphant laugh as he got a new idea.

Janus slowly raised his two index fingers, swirling them in the air above each of his sons.

“Here comes the tickle monster!” he growled playfully. The twins were both ticklish, but Remus specifically would squirm and flail and shriek whenever Papa would pretend to be the tickle monster with them.

Apparently Roman had caught onto that mindset, because both boys let out an identical series of squeals at the sight of the fingers hovering over their bellies.

Janus smiled, unable to stop himself from giving the boys a few seconds of tummy tickles, Logan snapping pictures all the while.

“Smile for the camera, boys,” Janus cooed, “because in about ten years we’re gonna use these pictures to embarrass the crap out of you.”

Logan snorted. “Please stop saying things that will scar them in the future.”

Janus only grinned, eventually pulling back his hands and peering down at his children.

“Maybe I could just leave them like this,” he pondered aloud. “I love them equally. I don’t need to know which one is which.”

“Are you admitting defeat?” Logan asked.

Janus scowled. “Never.”

“Then answer the question!”

“Fine!”

The two men glowered at each other.

Finally Janus broke eye contact, and, taking a deep breath, pointed his finger yet again.

“Eeny, meeny, miny, mo—”

Logan burst out laughing.

“No, no, no, no, no! I refuse to let you use Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Mo to determine which of our children is which!” His voice rose in pitch as he laughed incredulously at his husband.

Janus ignored him, continuing his game as Logan fell into hysterics behind him.

“My mother told me to pick the very best one and you. Are. It!”

His finger landed on Left Baby.

“That one’s Remus,” Janus declared.

Logan slowly stopped laughing and peered over Janus’ shoulder, eyes following his finger.

“Janus Sanders…”

A pause.

“That is Roman.”

Janus groaned, slamming his fist on the carpet. “No! Fu— falsehood!”

Logan sidestepped, reaching around to pick up Left Baby— Roman. He held the child up to Janus’ face.

“Roman is wearing red,” he said slowly, as if he were teaching his sons about colors as opposed to his husband. “Can you say ‘red’, Janus?”

Janus scoffed, leaning forward to pick up Right Baby, otherwise known as Remus.

“And Remus is wearing green,” he confirmed, rocking the baby into his chest. His son sighed adorably, and Janus pressed another kiss onto his head. He looked up at Logan, who was pressing his lips against Roman’s head simultaneously.

“You are a bastard, Logan Croft.”

“Takes one to know one, Janus Sanders.”

Janus stuck his tongue out at Logan. Remus mimicked him, causing both men to drop the act as they cooed over their son.

Until they wrinkled their noses in sync.

Janus’ eyes shot up to Logan’s. “Do you want me to—”

“Yes, please,” Logan finished with gratitude. Janus sighed, carefully standing up without jostling Remus too badly.

“How long until potty training?” he asked over his shoulder, exiting the living room and heading in the direction of the nursery.

“The answer will only disappoint you,” Logan replied, settling back into the rocking chair with Roman in his arms.

He smiled down at his son, placing yet another kiss on his forehead. He caressed Roman’s head as the baby babbled into his chest.

“Good job, Rollypolly,” he murmured, and as he slowly rocked the chair back and forth, his fingers traced the crown of Roman’s head to find the hidden birthmark that Logan used to tell the twins apart.

His fingers found nothing.

Logan paused in his rocking, and looked down into his son’s face. He gently brushed back his auburn curls, eyes searching for the distinguishable mark that lay beneath his hair.

Nothing.

Logan blinked. That was impossible. Roman definitely had a birthmark— small and temporary, certainly, but he had one. So why…

Logan’s gaze dropped back to examine the baby in his arms. “Roman?”

The baby stared back at him with wide eyes, scrunching the fabric of his bright red onesie in his tiny fist.

“... Remus?”

There was silence for half a second before Roman— before Remus— broke into loud peals of adorable giggles, his tiny smile growing wide as he laughed in Logan’s face.

Logan couldn’t help it. He started laughing, too, slightly sleep deprived laughter that made his chest heave, jostling Remus and causing him to laugh harder, which caused Logan to laugh even harder, on and on and on.

Several minutes went by before Logan was able to stop, and even then he had needed to close his eyes in order to avoid falling back into laughter at seeing his son’s happy face. He almost lost it again when he felt Remus batting at his face with uncoordinated hands, but he managed to calm the two of them enough to stand up from the rocking chair.

“You are a troublemaker,” he murmured against his baby’s head. Remus made little noises that sounded like agreement. Logan gave a contented sigh, a sheepish grin growing on his face as he realized what he had to do next.

“Sanders,” he called down the hallway, carrying Remus to join his Papa and brother, “I have to confess something…”

#sanders sides #sanders sides fic #loceit #logan sanders #janus sanders #remus sanders #roman sanders #my writing #my posts #everything fits

41 notes · View notes

moskaisley · 4 years

Text

migraine pt. 5 | relief

gif cred: @coredrive

rating: mature

word count: 4k platinum hi def TV

warnings: angst but also some comfort bc everyone is in their feelings, violence, descriptions of fighting and blood, mentions of death

a/n:

me: yea i’ll post by 8pm!!! also me @ midnight:

i got slammed with some work from my job last minute so thats why she’s a couple hours late!! such is the life of a freelancer but thank u all for being patient anyway hehe. anyways!! i’ve had a LOT of ideas for side stories lately and i’m thinking of posting them in between the main parts of migraine so maybe look out for that???

and thank u all for your kind words on part 4!!! ily all and i hope u enjoy this one. alexa play in my feelings by drake 🥺🥺🥺

summary:

“Did you love him?”

You freeze, heart pounding loudly in your chest at the thought. You know the answer, but you’re terrified to speak it aloud, as if Mando could hear you utter it into the universe.

Where you find the strength to feel it all at once.

parts 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6

ao3 link / masterlist

“I’m going on ahead.”

“Well, I’m not coming with you.”

He scrunches his nose, nostrils flaring. You refuse to look him in the eye.

“Seriously?”

You pick at the threads in the thin blanket on your legs with your nails. He’s fully dressed, standing in the doorway of your tiny dwelling. You’re still in your cot, your last chance to flee with him slipping away with every string you pull. But fear claws at your insides, paralyzing you in your spot. You hear him shuffle, kneeling beside the bed and forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Please, help me stop them,” he pleads.

Your lip quivers, tears threatening to spill over. He’s such a beautiful boy. You loved and loathed his courage; Luca was always braver than you were, fighting off bullies in the schoolyard and sneaking out after dark. He was the first one to defy the Moff when he showed up at your doorstep, and he was the quickest to arm when they came blasters ablazing. But while Luca had moved forward ready to enact his revenge, you were still stuck in front of your burning home, heat blistering against your skin and pathetic tears streaming down your face. You’re still frozen at the other end of a blaster, cowering on your knees before a man clad in black. You’re still being ushered away down the country road with your brother, two very distinct shots ringing through your ears.

But Luca doesn’t understand.

“We’ll die, just like them.”

“Don’t you want to die fighting?”

You tear a hole in your blanket.

“I don’t want to die at all, Luca.”

You haven’t spoken to him in days.

It was quite impressive, really.

Ever since your breakdown, you denied yourself any sort of contact with the Mandalorian, bitterness and hurt still raw every time you looked at him. At first, he tried to get you to respond to him, prodding with simple questions and painfully awkward small talk. But when his one-sided conversations were only met with more eerie silence, Mando took the hint and stopped trying altogether. You didn’t spend too long in the same space with him either; you made sure to work on opposite sides of the ship. Shifts were still maintained at night to watch over your camp while the other slept; but when it was his turn to take over, you only woke him with a wordless shove and quickly slipped into your bunk to get your share of rest.

Sleep never came.

Instead, you aimlessly tossed on the mattress for hours and hours on end, mind torn over the man standing outside your door. You loathed him, you were sure of it. He hurt you, more than anyone ever had. Took everything and crushed it beneath his boots. Then had the audacity to come back and ask for a favor. It was time to just let it all go; to push it far behind you and go on forward with your heart guarded and barred from the rest of the universe. To live and die alone.

So why was the thought of never seeing him again making your chest tighten with agony?

You dug your face into your pillow a few times, letting out guttural, violent screams of frustration until your voice nearly gave out.

You should be angry with him. He left, he left, he left.

Just like Luca.

In those solitary hours, you thought a lot about your brother, and how painfully similar this all felt: The resentment that festered in your bones clashing with the deep love and care that resided in your heart. You didn’t want to forgive, but living with these thorns in your side was so fucking exhausting. You wondered if the universe doomed you from birth, never destined for a moment of peace. The warring feelings within you made it impossible to sleep easy, and soon enough, the sun would come up. Mando would be outside rapping on your door and you’d start the day over again. Rinse and repeat.

By the fourth day, the lack of sleep had caught up to you.

Precariously perched on top of a ladder, you took the day to work on the repulsor grilles. Your mind was in a daze. You struggled to figure out which parts go where, and your hands were so clumsy you kept losing your tools to the small slot you’d been tinkering with. After dropping your screwdriver for what seemed to be the seventh time today, you were so fed up that any caution was thrown into the wind. Hot metal and active wires were the least of your worries as you carelessly shoved your hand down the slot for your lost tool. Your fingers grazed the handle, but as you shifted to get a better angle, you felt a burning shock shoot through your arm. You all but ripped your hand from the slot, wincing as you feel something tear at your palm. Your sudden movement was enough to drive the ladder toppling over. Squeezing your eyes shut, you braced for impact. You hear a low grunt as your body collides into Mando’s, strong arms quickly wrapping around your waist to steady you. Your cheeks grow hot at the feeling of him, and for a moment, your body pleads to stay in his arms just a little longer.

“Are you okay?” the low timbre of his voice brings you back from your panic.

You quickly push off of him but hiss at the searing pain radiating from your hand. Turning over your palm, you grimace at the big nasty gash that gushes down your forearm with blood. Mando grips your shoulder and spins you around, trying to take your injured hand.

“Let me see.”

“I’m fine.”

You recoil, holding your palm close to your chest and bleeding all over your shirt. Impatient, he goes in to grasp your wrist and wrestles with you again.

“Will you quit being difficult and hold still?” he growls, voice devoid of any softness. The edge in his voice makes you freeze. It’s the first time on this journey that he spoke so firmly with you. Too tired to fight, you let him take your hand into his and study your injury.

“Sit,” He lets go of your hand and gestures to the ground. “You’re going to need stitches. And then you’re going to rest. I know you haven’t been sleeping.”

“I’m fine,” you grit.

“It wasn’t a suggestion,” he chided harshly, as if lecturing a child, “I don’t need someone wrecking my ship more than it already has. You can work when you’re capable.”

He briskly storms back into the ship to grab the medpack, effectively ending your spat. Collapsing to the ground, you curse under your breath in irritation as you stare at your stinging cut. A piercing ache begins to radiate in your temples and weariness starts to settle into your bones. You’re so tired. The emotional turmoil of the past week had sucked every drop of energy you had left, and you were left feeling like you’d been hit with a landspeeder.

A worried coo draws you from your thoughts, and the child looks up at you expectantly.

“Hey, little guy,” you said, patting his head lightly with your free hand. He gingerly toddles to your thigh and tilts his head at your bloody palm. The kid begins to fuss, gurgling as he claws at the side of your leg. You scoop him up into your lap, and he settles down, satisfied.

“What’s going on, kiddo?”

Then, he closes his eyes and holds his hand out, hovering over yours. You feel the flesh on your wound begin to move. Your gash is closing before your eyes and the skin is completely healed, as if it was never there at all. You pressed your fingers into your palm; the burning pain had subsided and the skin beneath it was completely smooth. Brows furrowed, your eyes dart from your hand to the child, his eyes slowly drooping closed. Your mind is racing. You hear Mando shuffle back out from the Crest, quickly dropping beside you and checking your hand.

You’re both stunned to silence as the child in your lap falls fast asleep.

Early mornings in the forest were cold.

You’d been shivering in front of the fire for a few hours now, wrapped in a threadbare blanket you’d taken from your bed. You stared pensively at your palm, gently tracing your fingers over where a cut should’ve been. With a sigh, you hug your legs to your chest, and rest your forehead on your knees. After the child healed your injury, you thought your shock would’ve kept you from getting rest, but you slipped into sleep the second your head hit your pillow. You woke up later in the middle of the night, insisting to trade shifts with Mando.

“I doubt you want a repeat of yesterday,” you told him, “Go to bed.”

In all honesty, you needed the early hours of dawn to collect yourself as your mind was all over the place. Between the mysterious child, your clashing feelings for your partner and your impulsive career change, your life had seemed to unravel in the span of a week. You thought of the way he spoke to you the day before; he was quick to care for you, but his voice was emotionless and cold. It sounded very similar when he left all those years ago. You know he only means to keep distance between you and respect your wishes. After all, you were the one who wanted to separate for good after this mission, but the ache in your heart told you otherwise.

Pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes, you could only come to a single conclusion: the Mandalorian had successfully derailed your life yet again.

The cry of an animal pulls you from your brooding and you’re swift on your feet with a vibroblade in hand. Stalking around the trees, you keep low in the foliage and slowly move towards the source of the noise. You see a fathier standing on the main trail hooked to a lopsided wooden wagon. Fruit and vegetables were spread all around the road along with a broken wheel. An old man rounded the corner, looking tiredly around him and began picking up the mess. The grip on your blade relaxes. Standing to your full height, you walk forward to meet him on the main path.

“Excuse me, sir,” you call to him, “Do you need help?”

He gawks at you, obviously not expecting anyone to be in the forest. He gives you a smile.

“That is very kind of you. Thank you, child.”

You learn that his name is Amir. He’s a farmer with fields down the road, and for the past 50 years, he’d make the trip every weekend into town to sell his harvest on the same wagon. He tells you how the fathier lost control, pulling the old carriage and damaging the wheel.

“I suppose I must invest in those blasted speeder-whatevers,” he sighs.

You chuckle lightly. He sounds like your father.

“Please, let me fix it for you.”

Amir sits on a rock to the side of the trail, and you try your best to repair the wagon. Making light conversation with him as you work, you spoke of your own family’s orchard and recounted the times you spent on the farm. His company relaxes you and for a moment, you’re able to forget the chaos that consumed your thoughts earlier.

“It’s hard work, this life,” he says, “but it is fruitful all the same.”

You laugh earnestly at his joke. He smiles at you warmly, patting his hands on his knees.

“Where is your family now?”

“They were lost to the Empire. Our farm was burned down.”

He sighs sadly, “War seems to take from us both. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Please, don’t be. It happened a long time ago,” you say quickly.

A beat of awkward silence passes. Amir changes the subject.

“So what are you doing here? In these woods. You look less like a farm girl and more like a mercenary.”

“Close. I’m a bounty hunter. Our ship crashed just past those trees.”

“You’re with someone else?”

“Yes. A Mandalorian. He’s–” you pause, thinking carefully over your words, “He’s just an old colleague of mine.”

But Amir is a very observant man, and he notices your hesitation.

“Tell me more about this Mandalorian of yours. I’ve never met one before.”

“It’s kind of a long story,” you say sheepishly, “I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

“A long story?” He questions, mischief flashing in his eyes, “I thought he was just a colleague.”

Warmth travels to your cheeks as he looks at you expectantly.

Cheeky old bastard.

But you indulge him, giving him a watered-down version of your history with Mando; how you met, how you worked together for many years before you parted ways, and how he came back asking you to help with his weird magical son. Amir listened intently, and when you finished, his face was pulled in thought.

“It’s a bit odd for a bounty hunter to have a child, isn’t it?” He wonders aloud, “I take it isn’t the safest profession in the world. I could see how he could need the help.”

You chew on your bottom lip, attention focused on twisting a screw.

“We... didn’t split on the best terms. It wouldn’t be good for the baby.”

“I see.”

Amir notes your sudden change in demeanour, observing the way you tensed at the subject.

“Did you love him?”

You freeze, heart pounding loudly in your chest at the thought. You know the answer, but you’re terrified to speak it aloud, as if Mando could hear you utter it into the universe.

So you answered him honestly.

“I’m angry with him.”

He lets out a hearty laugh.

“My dear, you can be angry with someone and still love them.”

What a nosy man.

You shrug laughing lightly with him as you go back to work. As you mull over his words, you find them resonating deep within you. Had it been anyone else, you probably would’ve ignored or straight-up denied the question, but connecting with Amir had made you feel comfortable to speak freely. It felt cathartic to put your feelings into words.

“You know, Imperial soldiers occupied the town for many, many years. My daughter decided to join the rebellion after she joined the local militia. We got into a terrible argument, begged her not to fight, to stay home but–” Amir struggles to finish. You’d stopped your tinkering with the wheel, instead listening carefully to his story. Your heart twisted, as the grief he felt was very familiar. You reached out to hold his wrinkled hand, giving him a sad smile.

Amir takes a breath, looking wistfully towards the treetops as he continues,

“Sometimes, when people hurt us, we think we want nothing more to do with them. But when they’re gone, we only regret the love we never spoke out loud.”

Din thought he was dreaming when he woke up to the smell of cooking food.

When he left the Razor Crest, you were feeding the child a small bowl of sautéed vegetables and rice. To the side of the camp, he spotted bags of fresh produce and grain. You greet him with a relaxed grin.

“You know, some of the things you’ve kept in there haven’t been touched since we split. It was kind of disgusting.”

He’s so confused.

“Where did you get all of this?” He asks.

“There was a man who broke down on the side of the road. I helped fix his wagon and he gave us food in return.”

You pat the child’s head as he finishes up his meal and take him into one arm. Din only stares, bewildered, as you pick up a dish that was sitting by the fire pit and hold it out to him.

“Eat. And when you’re done, come find me,” you say, “We need to talk.”

“We need to talk.”

Words stronger than any weapon.

Anxiety churned in his stomach, nearly rendering him incapable of keeping any food down. But your cooking was leagues better than any ration pack that he’d had in weeks; Din wasn’t about to (literally) throw the opportunity away, especially if this was some of the last moments he’d ever have with you. He ate slowly, savoring every bite, heart warming at the way you made it especially spicy for him. From the window of the cockpit, Din watched you leisurely skip rocks across the water while the child excitedly wandered along the shore. It was almost unsettling how quickly your energy had changed within a day; it reminded him of the days before he left. The days where there wasn’t a giant rift between you.

When he finished his meal, Din rounded the corner of the ship expecting to see you at the shore, but you were nowhere to be found. He approached the edge of the water and stared at the abandoned pile of smooth stones. The next thing he knew, he was being roughly tugged by his arm and thrown flat on his back, knocking the wind out of him. He gasped, chest heaving for air and adrenaline coursing through his veins. As he struggled to prop himself up on his elbows, you meandered into his view. He expected to see your face contorted with rage once again, but to his surprise, your expression was cool and collected as you pulled at the wraps around your hands.

“We’re gonna spar,” you say, tone suspiciously even, “And you’re gonna tell me everything about the kid.”

Din stares, bewildered as you tower over him.

“Why?”

You still don’t look at him directly, instead tugging tightly at the cloth against your wrist and checking if you’re satisfied with your work.

“If memory serves me correctly, we’re still evenly matched. 350 to 350,” you say, not even bothering to address the second part of your demands.

But Din will take whatever you give him at this point, so he complies and swipes at your ankles with his legs, knocking you down. Taking the opportunity to get back onto his feet, he squares himself into position. You propel yourself back to your feet with much more grace, brushing yourself off and bringing up your fists. Din swears he can see faint lines of a smile on your lips and a glint of excitement in your eyes.

“Don’t hold back. Even if I’m mad at you.”

He smirks.

“Never.”

You were always better at close combat than he was; the nature of your preferred weapon required so. But what Din lacked in skill, he made up for in stamina, and that’s why he was able to keep your little competition even for such a long time. Your fight had been going for nearly an hour, and at this point, you’d normally tire out and start getting sloppy from exhaustion. But your residual feelings of frustration and dream of kicking his ass for the past three years kept you fierce on your toes. It also helped that he had a story to tell.

You listened attentively as Mando told you of the Mudhorn in between your relentless assault of jabs and kicks, how the child used his strange powers to lift a giant beast and how it was unlike anything he’d ever seen before. He also told you how he actually delivered the kid to the client, but turned back to rescue him before the Imperials had a chance to do any harm. (You noted how his voice dipped slightly in shame admitting this to you.) He told you of Sorgan, Tatooine and his reunion with Ran, and how no matter what system he seemed to end up in, the child was always in danger. As you processed this information, your attention seemed to slip, and Mando was able to throw a punch straight into your nose.

You stumble backwards, cursing at the pain and feeling warm liquid pooling on your upper lip. He relents for a moment, pacing towards you in worry.

“Shit, I’m sorry–”

You cut him off by gripping his arm, using his momentum to drive him over your shoulder and throw him on his stomach. Pressing your boot into his back and pinning him firmly against the ground, you tease.

“Not the first time I had you like this, Mando.”

You keep your foot firm against him as he struggles to push himself up against you, heavy breaths crackling through the vocoder of his helmet. Eventually, he relents and holds up his hands in surrender.

Pride blooms warmly in your chest, and you collapse on the ground next to him.

I nearly broke one of his ribs this time. You’re dizzy as you come down from the high of adrenaline coursing through you, exhaustion settling into your sore body.

“If I sustain another injury on this stupid mission, I’m taking all the credits for myself,” you say, wiping the blood gushing from your nose.

You hear him chuckle lightly beside you.

“You deserve it. I’ve been a total ass.”

“That, you have.”

Catching your breath, you focus on the sounds of birds in the trees, and the feeling of wind cooling and relaxing your body. It was so tempting to just give into him, but you remembered what you called him here for– why you initiated a duel in the first place. The talk with Amir this morning helped clear your head, but it still terrified you to address it all.

You take a deep breath, basking a little longer in this moment of peace.

“Thanks for not holding back,” you said earnestly, pointing to your nose.

Standing up and brushing the dirt from your clothes, you turn to him and hold out a hand.

“Are we good?” he asks, hope slipping through his voice.

“No. Not even close,” your lips curl into a sad smile, “But it’s a start.”

You pull him up to his feet, and your grasp on one another lingers for a fleeting moment. You’re the first to let go, brushing your sweaty palms against your pants. Walking to the shore of the lake, you take a few rocks in your hands and continue skipping them across the still surface of the water. Your heart is racing; you feel his gaze on you, expectant for … something, anything.

“When my brother left to become a rebel,” you began, voice taught with anxiety, “I was only 18 years old. For a long time, I was so angry with him. Who leaves their only family behind? Alone? To fend for themselves? I was–I was convinced I didn’t care what happened to him after that. That I hated him. ”

Something painful catches in your throat. You skip another rock.

“We were so young. He wanted to take me with him, y’know? Find the Moff that killed our family and get revenge. Destroy the Empire and end their reign of terror. I was too afraid; all I could think about living to see another day. But after a while, I missed him so much–I just wanted my family again. I started to regret not going with him, but then I met you.”

Mando didn’t respond, listening carefully and hanging on your every word.

“And when you came along, it felt... nice to let someone in again. Not just as a coworker but as a friend. To not be alone. To have someone in my life. To– ”

To fall deeply, wholly, and beautifully in love.

Frustrated, you grip the smooth stone in your hand tightly. You feel like you’re rambling; there’s just so much.

Mando finally speaks, “Y/N, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I’m still hurt and angry,” your voice was beginning to tremble, “That being abandoned for a second time was the worst feeling in the galaxy. I need you to know that.”

You hear him walk towards you, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Mesh’la, please look at me,” he pleads.

“But I also need you to know that and I left things like this, I’d never find peace.”

You turn around to face him, tears in your eyes and heart leaping in your throat.

“Because there was a time where I thought I’d know you forever. And I don’t want to let it go.”

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@bella-ciaao @tiffdawg @peggers-n-beggers @sinnamon-bunn @adlerorzel-blog @theocatkov @paryl @fruitsaladtree @allisondavis236

thx loves 💘

#migraine #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian/reader #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin/reader #baby yoda #IVE BEEN WORKING ON THIS SINCE LIKE 7AM DJSKLA;FDSFJK #LEO POST ON TIME CHALLENGE

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thompsborn · 4 years

Note

fic where harley is a doctor that works w helen cho that sees peter often because of how much he gets hurt from being spider-man? and they fall in love bc they r already smitten for each other bc why wouldn't they be

i didn’t know how much i needed an au like this until you sent it omg

[read on ao3]

—

He’s in the middle of taking a sip of coffee when the alarm goes off.

“Mister Keener,” Friday says, as he’s cursing over the hot coffee that’s soaking into the front of his shirt. Thankfully, it’s not hot enough to actually burn him, but that doesn’t make it any less unpleasant. “Your assistance is needed in the Medical Wing.”

Harley frowns. “What time is it?”

“Four fifty eight in the morning, Mister Keener.”

“Jesus, really?” Harley sets his mug down and turns his arm over to look at his watch. His brows shoot up towards his hairline, surprised. “Wow. Okay. Didn’t realize it was... Jesus. Alright.”

Friday sounds almost amused when she tells him, “Doctor Cho is insisting you hurry.”

Harley sighs. “Yeah, okay. On my way.”

At this time of the night, the only medical staff on hand are the ones who live close by—like Helen, who has an apartment less than a two minute walk away—and those who live on site, like Harley, who’s had his own floor in the tower since he was fifteen and told Tony over a phone call that he was thinking about coming to New York once he was done with high school. Because of this, Harley isn’t all that surprised to find that it’s only him and Helen that show up in the MedBay—if anything, it’s what he expected.

And he should have expected who, exactly, they’re treating in the middle of the night, but he still finds himself mildly surprised when he comes face to face with Peter’s sheepish grin.

“Of course it’s you,” Harley says, standing at the foot of the hospital bed with his arms crossed over his chest. “Who else would be waking me up like this?”

“Don’t lie to me,” Peter says, sheepish grin turning a bit snarky. “You weren’t asleep.”

Harley purses his lips. “I could’ve been.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but doesn’t get the chance to respond before Helen is hovering by his side, snapping her gloves into place and instructing, “Friday, give me the run down.“

“Mister Parker has several second degree burns along his left leg and left arm,” Friday responds. “His right wrist is broken, and there appears to be a laceration along his abdomen.”

Harley winces in sympathy. “Rough night?”

Peter tries to shrug, but the movement makes his features twist up in a flash of pain. His voice comes out a bit strained when he says, “You could say that. There was—house fire. Not fun.”

“Get everyone out?” Harley asks, if only to provide a slight distraction as Helen assesses the broken wrist, likely checking to see if it needs to be reset or if it’ll be able to heal properly as it is. Peter tries for a grin.

“All of ‘em. Even the kids pet turtle.”

Harley pats Peter’s right knee, careful to remember that it’s his left leg with the burns. “Job well done, Spider-Man.”

“Harley,” Helen says, grabbing his attention. She’s apparently deemed Peter’s wrist not a main concern and is already peeling Peter’s suit off of him. Harley snaps into focus instantly, listening intently as Helen tells him, “I need you to take care of the laceration while I get started on the burns. When that’s done, we need to get that wrist in a cast until it heals.”

Peter pouts. “A cast? Really?”

Helen looks at him sharply. “Last time we didn’t put you in a cast, you managed to re-break your arm before it could heal. Twice.”

Peter’s pout vanishes with a meek chuckle. “It was an accident?” he offers.

“You, Peter Parker,” Helen says, averting her attention back to his burns as she speaks, “are somehow my best and my worst patient of all time. And I’m Tony Stark’s doctor, too, so that says a whole lot about you.”

“Hey—” Peter cuts off with a hiss as Harley starts to disinfect the large cut on his side. Harley offers an apologetic half smile that Peter waves away with another wince and a wobbly sort of grin. “I’m not worse than Mr. Stark.”

Helen hums, high pitched and teasing.

“I’m not,” Peter insists. “I’m not!”

“Believe what you want,” Helen tells him.

Peter huffs. “Why are you being mean to me? Aren’t doctors supposed to be nice to their patients? Isn’t that, like, a thing?”

Harley snorts when Helen says, “Next time, don’t wake me up at four in the morning with second degree burns and a broken wrist, and maybe then I’ll be nicer to you, hm?”

—

The thing is, Harley didn’t plan on this.

As in, growing up, he was sure that what he wanted was to be a mechanic. He loved to build, take apart, recreate, understand. It’s all he ever did. Hell, when Tony Frickin’ Stark broke into his garage, the guy ended up making Harley his own mechanic heaven to say thanks for helping him out.

And Harley still loves all of that, to be fair—he spends a lot of his free time tinkering in Tony’s lab now, helping him out with whatever the man’s working on and often working on his own fun little projects on the side—but it’s not his main drive. It’s not the center of his world.

He thinks it started when he saved Tony.

In a way, anyway—he had only been twelve at the time, and it’s not like twelve year olds are exactly apt on having life changing realizations that change the course of their future. Still, he was a twelve year old that saved Tony Stark’s life, and there was some kind of thrill, almost. It was hard to explain then, and Harley isn’t sure if he could put it into words now, but the feeling had made his fingers feel all tingly and his heart thud heavily in his chest. It was similar to when he built his first successful bot and it came whirring to life, only the feeling was intensified.

He felt like he was doing what he was supposed to be doing. He knew he wanted to save lives.

“You’re getting better,” Helen tells him, after Harley’s helped the medical team with bandaging up the members of the Avengers that just returned from a mission. None of the wounds had been major, mostly just scrapes and bruises, but it’s the most amount of people Harley has helped treat at once, which is a big step.

Harley shrugs, drying off his hands, having just finished washing them. “You’re a good teacher.”

Helen chuckles at that. “How are your classes?”

“Good,” Harley answers, nodding his head. “Kinda boring. I know most of it already, thanks to all the training you’ve given me, but that‘s not really new. I knew everything they taught me in high school, too.”

“You sound like Peter when you say that,” Helen muses, an amused quirk to her brow.

Harley rolls his eyes. “Y’know, people keep saying that, but I only see him when he’s bleeding out and that doesn’t make it feel like we’re all that similar.”

“Oh, you’re similar, alright,” Helen says, laughing a bit. “You’re both genius kids who bust your asses off to save people’s lives.”

Wrinkling his nose, Harley says, “But I don’t do it in spandex. Key difference there, doc.”

Helen holds her hands up in some kind of surrender. “Just saying, you two are alike.”

“I’ll make sure to tell him you said that next time he breaks his leg,” Harley quips.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Friday interjects, “but Spider-Man is reportedly injured and heading to the tower now. ETA of six and a half minutes.”

Harley rolls his eyes up to the ceiling with an exasperated sigh. Helen can only laugh.

—

“Ow. Ow, ow—oh, Jesus, that’s—ow—!”

“Sorry,” Harley says, only averting his eyes for a second to flash Peter an apologetic look before focusing back on the stitches he’s giving him.

Peter curses, slamming his left fist into his own thigh as Harley pushes the needle through. “This sucks,” he complains, clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth. “This is—why is this worse than getting stabbed? Why do I prefer getting stabbed over this? This blows.”

“You need to stop moving,” Harley tells him.

Making an indignant sort of noise, Peter asks, “How the hell am I—I can’t stop moving! This hurts, man, like—like, really fuckin’ hurts!”

“Moving makes it worse, dipshit,” Harley retorts, fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

“You know what else makes it worse?” Peter glares at the wall. “Not having pain killers.”

Harley does roll his eyes now. “Not my job. I just give you the drugs, I don’t make them.”

“I know, but Mr. Stark isn’t here for me to bitch at, so I’m complaining to you about it instead.”

Harley can’t help the way that he snorts at that, finishing off the last of the stitches as he does so. “I usually don’t like to listen to someone complain while I’m working.”

“Sucks to suck,” Peter replies. “Are you done?”

“Yep.” Harley leans back, taking off his gloves and tossing them into the trash. “Any other injuries? Stab wounds? Broken bones?”

Peter hums, tilting his head from side to side. “I don’t think so. Friday?”

“All clear, Mr. Parker.”

Harley frowns. “The fact that you had to ask worries me.”

Peter shrugs. “I get hurt a lot. Kinda used to it.”

“Still,” Harley says. “That’s concerning. Like, you still feel pain, right? You would know if you were hurt somewhere else, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, trust me, I feel pain,” Peter snorts. “But some things just... don’t matter? Like... I dunno, but if it’s not serious, it’s like my brain filters it out on it’s own to focus on other things. Which, probably, y’know, not good, but, like, oh well.”

“Definitely not good,” Harley murmurs, frowning to himself as he squints around the room for a moment. “Well, if you have nothing else, then you’re good to go. And, honestly, thank god that’s all you have, ‘cause this is the first time I’ve done anything without Helen around and anything more than stitches would’ve had me flipping shit and fucking it all up.”

Peter lets out a light laugh, pulling his shirt down, over the gash that Harley just finished stitching. “You wouldn’t fuck it up,” he says, sounding light and humorous yet entirely serious, too. “You’re, like, really good at your job, Harley.”

Harley scrunches his nose up on his face. “Ew. Don’t be nice to me. It’s gross.”

Peter laughs again, a little bit louder, though the way it makes his stomach jump has him wincing when it pulls at his stitches. “I’m serious!” he insists. “Like, I know you’re still a med student and stuff, but Helen is probably the best person to be training you, so you’re, like, more qualified than most normal doctors. You have the experience that most people still in med school don’t have. I mean, you patch up the freakin’ Avengers, Harley! You gotta be good at this to do that!”

“I help patch up the Avengers,” Harley corrects. “The only person I’ve ever fixed up by myself is you, thanks to your insane ability to always get hurt.”

“It’s a talent,” Peter shrugs. “And hey, I bet it keeps you entertained.”

Harley snorts. “Entertained is not the right word for it, Spidey. Impressed, maybe, by just how much trouble you’re capable of getting yourself into.”

Peter grins. “Gotta impress people somehow, right?”

—

Harley wouldn’t call it bonding.

Because it’s not. It’s not bonding. It’s small talk, and pleasant conversations, while Harley sets a broken bone or treats another burn. It’s filling the silence because, apparently, Helen trusts Harley to handle Peter on his own, unless it’s a major injury that requires more than one person on hand, and Harley isn’t sure why he’s being trusted with this, but he’s pretty intent on not fucking it up.

But it isn’t bonding. They’re just... acquaintances. Who talk. Like, a lot, because Peter comes in at least four times a week needing treatment for something, and that gives them a lot of time to talk. Maybe Harley learns a lot about Peter during this time, like his favorite song, and what his comfort hoodie is, and why he became Spider-Man in the first place. Maybe Peter learns where Harley is from, how he met Tony, and what made him decide to be a doctor over a mechanic.

Maybe, after a few weeks, they start having inside jokes, built not only from the time they spend alone together, but also from the months upon months that Harley was helping Helen treat Peter, too. Sometimes, Peter snorts so hard that he reopens his stitches and Harley has to fix it. Sometimes, Harley can’t stop laughing when he needs to have steady hands and he ends up hunching over on himself and wheezing because of whatever it is that Peter said. One day, Peter comes in when he isn’t injured, dressed in casual clothes with a few textbooks from his ESU courses in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. “I’m headed up to see Mr. Stark,” he tells Harley, “but I thought I’d give you this,” and he holds out the cup of coffee with a big, cheesy sort of grin.

“Why?” Harley asks, though he accepts the cup gratefully.

Peter shrugs. “I’d probably have bled out ten times over if it weren’t for you, and you looked, like, really tired yesterday, so I thought you might need it.”

He is tired—exhausted, really, because his classes may not be hard but there are some big tests coming up that he needs to study for and it’s hard to find the time to study in between training with Helen and doing all the millions of other assignments that are being tossed his way. He takes a sip of the coffee, hums in satisfaction at the way it warms him up, and says, “Thanks.”

“Least I could do,” Peter tells him.

So, maybe they’re friends. Maybe—maybe—Harley is starting to look forward to seeing him and keeps trying to think of a casual way to offer they hang out sometime, outside of the med bay. Maybe Peter starts bringing Harley a cup of coffee every time he goes to visit Tony, and maybe Harley starts to feel a little thrill whenever he hands the coffee over and their fingers briefly brush.

Maybe it is bonding, but it’s not a crush. It’s not.

(”You’re adorable when you’re in denial,” Helen tells him.

Harley sinks in his seat and tries to disappear. “Shut up.”)

—

The letters of his textbook are blurring in front of his eyes when the alarm rings.

He jumps at the sound, looks up at the ceiling with slightly squinted eyes and furrowed brows, expecting Friday to calmly inform him that his assistance is needed in the med bay, like usual. Instead of that, though, the alarm continues to blare, and all Friday says is, “Urgent. Urgent. Urgent.”

Which is code for: someone’s about to die if he doesn’t hurry.

Instantly, he jumps to his feet, feeling wide awake despite being on the brink of dozing off just a few short moments ago. “Okay,” he tells himself, rushing out of his room and sprinting towards the elevator, which is already open and waiting for him. He only just barely thinks to swipe his tablet along the way, clutches it in his hands while he says, “Okay, okay, okay—who, uh—Friday? Who is it?”

“Iron Man and Spider-Man are both heavily injured and require immediate assistance,” Friday informs him gravely. “Doctor Cho is already treating Mr.Stark and has told me to inform you that you will be in charge of Mr. Parker.”

“Oh, god,” Harley breathes, pinching the bridge of his nose and giving himself a second to take a deep breath while the elevator takes him down to the proper floor. “Jesus. Okay. I need, uh—give me a list of Peter’s injuries, Fri.”

“Of course, Mr. Keener.”

The list is sent to his tablet immediately, and it’s—extensive. Third degree burns and multiple shattered ribs and various bullet wounds, only some of which are clean through, meaning that there’s various bullets that they need to remove before Peter starts to heal around them. The more he reads, the faster his heart thunders in his chest while his mind automatically sorts through it to think of what needs to be prioritized, what to treat first, and how to keep Peter alive.

By the time he reaches Peter’s room, he has a game plan figured out, and he only falters for a short moment when he sees Peter on the hospital bed, writhing around and sobbing in pain. The rest of the medical staff in the room freeze, likely already aware that Helen put him in charge, and wait with bated breath.

“Alright,” Harley says, mostly to himself. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

—

Maybe it is a crush.

Harley is finding it hard to deny it now, as he sits beside Peter’s hospital bed, his hands feeling a little bit shaky where they’re clasped together and hanging between his knees. They had to undergo emergency surgery, and Peter’s heart had stopped four times throughout the procedure. Bringing him back had been the most panic inducing thing Harley has ever experienced in his life, and he couldn’t even show it because he was the one that was put in charge.

But they did, all four times —they got his heart going again and they got out all the bullets and treated all the burns and did everything they could to stabilized the broken bones. They gave him multiple IV’s, all of which he’s still attached to, and he hasn’t woken up since he passed out from the pain shortly after Harley’s arrival—and he passed out looking at Harley, too, with wide, pleading eyes that seemed to be begging for mercy, filled with agony and despair.

Harley would do anything to never have to see that look again.

“How’s he doing?” Helen asks, stepping into the room. She looks tired, undoubtedly exhausted from doing whatever she could to stabilize Tony just a few rooms down. Harley feels that exhaustion in his very bones.

“He’s gonna be fine,” Harley tells her. “Lost him a few times, though.”

Helen hums sympathetically. “But you got him back.”

Harley hesitates, then nods. “Yeah, we did.”

“Good,” Helen says, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You did good.” She stays like that for a moment, doesn’t move, and Harley appreciates the gesture but kind of wants to be alone. Maybe she senses that, because a moment later, she’s pulling her hand back and asking, “Are you staying here?”

“‘Til he wakes up,” Harley tells her.

Helen smiles at him warmly. “Make sure you get some rest, too, okay?”

Harley doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep until he sees Peter awake and talking again, but he still nods at her and says, “Yeah, alright.”

After Helen leaves the room, after it’s just Harley and Peter again, he finds himself reaching forward and taking Peter’s hand in his, and, other than the innocent brush of fingers when passing a coffee cup, this is the first time they’ve touched outside of Harley treating Peter’s wounds. It’s a bit of a startling realization, but Harley finds comfort in the contact, listens to the steady beeping of the heart monitor and starts to relax with the reassurance that he really did good, that Peter is going to be okay and Harley is the one that saved him.

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but with that relief flooding his veins and Peter’s hand in his, he finds himself dozing off and doesn’t bother forcing himself awake.

—

At first, he doesn’t realize he’s waking up, his senses still muddled with sleep. It feels almost as if he’s floating in unconsciousness, warm and comfortable and—

“Harley?”

And he wakes with a jolt, eyes snapping open and instantly searching, only coming to a stop when they land on wide brown eyes looking right back at him. “Oh,” he breathes, blinking once and sitting up straight despite the way it makes his back complain. “Oh, my god. You’re awake.”

Peter tilts his head, just a little bit, and looks down at their intertwined fingers.

“Right. That.” Harley clears his throat and scrubs his free hand over his features, trying to wake himself up with a sheepish little smile. “It’s, um—not important, actually. How do you feel? Any pain, discomfort, anything like that?”

For a moment, Peter doesn’t respond, just keeps looking at their hands before rasping out a hoarse little, “’m kinda—kinda thirsty. M’throat hurts.”

Instantly, Harley gets to his feet and pulls open the mini fridge in the room to grab a bottle of water. He takes it back to Peter, hands it over, and feels somewhere stuck between doctor mode and something else, the worry and the uncertainty and the fear from hearing the flat line all mixing together until he feels nauseous with it. Peter accepts the water bottle gratefully, takes tentative sips from it and only winces slightly when he swallows it. “Better?” Harley asks.

Peter smiles, a bit small and tired, but just as genuine as always. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Harley murmurs, hovering by the chair he had been sitting in before. “Is there anything else? Just, like—anything at all? How do you feel?”

“Tired,” Peter tells him. “Like, um... groggy, y’know? And... out of it.”

Harley nods, a bit relieved that the dose of pain killers he chose was the right amount. “That’s to be expected. You were really roughed up, Pete.”

Peter frowns down at his water, brows knitting together. “What happened?”

“There was an ambush,” Harley tells him. “I guess Doc Ock was out and about, so you went to confront him and he got enough hits in to alert Tony, so he went to help you out, but Ock apparently teamed up with Rhino and they were able to catch you guys off guard and get the upper hand. Rhodey and a few others went to help out, but they didn’t get there in time to stop you guys from nearly getting killed, so, when you came in, it was... not pretty. But, you’re both gonna be fine.”

He wants to say that it’s not a crush. It can’t be a crush, isn’t supposed to be one, even if seeing the way Peter lets out a puff of air and relaxes back into his pillows is kind of a... not so bad sight. He looks tired and a bit beat up and a little too pale, but he’s good. He’s alive. Being alive looks good on him.

Maybe, Harley admits. Maybe it is a crush.

“Thank you,” Peter murmurs, head lulling back into the pillows. He holds out a hand and Harley isn’t sure what the action is for, but he doesn’t think before reaching forward and tangling their fingers together.

Harley clears his throat. “What for?”

“Not letting me die,” Peter says.

The mere idea of letting Peter die makes Harley’s heart stutter in his chest. “Of course,” he mumbles, a bit stricken. “I’ll always save you. It’s my job.”

Peter squeezes Harley’s hand, falls asleep with a sigh and a smile on his face.

Harley still doesn’t leave.

(It’s definitely, one hundred percent, a huge, gigantic crush, and maybe... maybe he’s okay with that. Maybe liking Peter Parker isn’t all that bad.)

#parkner #my writing #mild descriptions of injuries #non graphic near death experience

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