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tropes-and-tales · 6 months

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🤮 FINALLY

Day 9: Exhibitionism (Frankie "Catfish" Morales x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!)

CW: Light angst, kinda; idiots in love; enemies to lovers but not really; smut (fingering; exhibitionism; PiV, unprotected); 18+ only.

Word Count: 5553

AN: This was requested by @elegantmusicdragon!

The cabin is small: it only has two bedrooms. The Miller brothers claim the loft bedroom on the second floor, the steep eaves of the roof leaving barely enough room for Will and Ben. Pope, as the group’s resident planner, helps himself to the slightly larger bedroom on the first floor.

It leaves you and Frankie in the living room. There’s a lumpy couch; there’s a thin, rolled-up mattress for the floor.

There’s also a fair amount of antagonism between the two of you. It’s not complete hatred: it’s love-hate, maybe. Begrudging respect. Admiration, but only if someone put a gun to your head and made you admit it.

You just irritate each other. Too similar in some ways, too different in others. Polar opposites in some aspects, the same person in others. It’s been the same as long as you’ve known each other: there’s a low-simmering annoyance with each other that eventually blows up in a fight, then cools off in a period of niceness until it cedes back to annoyance. It’s been that way for as long as you’ve known each other—for years.

The hooking up is new.

The hooking up is so new the guys don’t know about it. You haven’t been hooking up long enough to get caught. Hell, it’s so new that even the two of you can barely fathom it. Each time a dalliance ends, you both have the same stunned, sheepish expression, like neither of you can believe it happened.

But it keeps happening: Frankie shows up at your door in the middle of the night. You turn up on his porch on a Sunday afternoon. You call each other; the other comes over eagerly enough. The two of you sneak off at a group hang-out, and you reappear long moments later to the larger group one at a time, flustered or overcompensating by being too casual.

“We can’t keep doing this,” you told him the last time you hooked up.

“Obviously not,” he agreed. “This is insane.”

Neither of you really meant it.

-----

The cabin is a thing Pope is trying to do. It’s a tradition he wants to start in the wake of Tom’s death. A way to keep everyone together, even if just for a long weekend every fall: the gang may drift apart, but they can reassemble once a year at least, for good food and drink and sitting around the campfire.

Thursday, and everyone rolls into the rental property where the cabin is perched along the shore of a lake. The Miller brothers turn up together; Frankie comes alone. You catch a ride with Pope since he flew into your hometown.

Thursday, and it’s just take-out pizza and beer from the nearby village. It’s stocking the cabin with provisions, unpacking, settling in, claiming where you’ll each sleep for the weekend. Pope builds a fire in the massive fire pit outside just as the sun is setting, and Frankie feels a calm settle over his nerves. He’s been clean now for over a year, but the cravings come and go. He glances across from him and studies where you sit between Will and Pope: the firelight casts you in an orange light, throws your features in sharp relief where shadows fall. You’re quiet tonight—maybe your nerves are bad too. Frankie knows you have your own anxieties.

Thursday, and when it’s time to turn in, you don’t even bother to fight Frankie for the mattress on the floor. You take the lumpy couch, and you fall off to sleep within minutes, leaving Frankie to lie awake with his own thoughts for a long while.

-----

Friday, and everyone is back in their groove with each other. There’s the usual laughter, the usual ribbing. Pope knocks Frankie’s hat off his head. Ben feigns a series of punches at Pope. Will wraps his arm around your waist and spins you until you slap at his arm and shriek for him to release you. It’s easy and familiar, like slipping into a faded old t-shirt washed to velvety softness.

Pope organizes a hike to the summit of a nearby mountain. The weather is so crisp and the air so clean it hurts Frankie’s sinuses to breathe. At the summit, the views are spectacular, stretching for miles in all directions, the hills and dales and low-slung mountains of this patch of Appalachia. Frankie is reminded that not everything is so complicated: there are swaths of wilderness where life is simple, where his problems seem small and inconsequential.

You all settle on a flat stretch of rock and eat lunch, sandwiches and apples from a farmstand in town that you packed in for the hike. Frankie watches you peel out of your boots and socks and stretch your bare feet against the sun-warmed rock. The conversation flows naturally; everyone shares their latest life updates, their hopes for the near-future.

If Tom is with you, his ghost rests lightly between the five of you.

On the hike back, there’s a tricky stretch of the trail, a switchback that was easier to climb up than it is to climb down. Frankie is behind you, taking up the rear, and he loses the rhythm of his hiking cadence when you suddenly balk. He pulls up just in time to not run into you.

“C’mon,” he grumbles, exasperated. With Pope at the head of the group, Frankie has just been on auto-pilot, his feet leading him forward, but now he’s been yanked out of his reverie by your sudden stopping.

“Ground’s covered in scree,” you reply. Frankie watches as you take a tentative step forward, reach out a steadying hand along the outcropping of rock. You do this sometimes, he knows—you have sudden moments of freezing up, afraid to fall, afraid to stumble and jam up a wrist or twist an ankle. Frankie watches in exasperation as you suddenly transform from an assured hiker to a bumbling newborn foal, all shaky legged and trembling hands.

“C’mon,” he repeats. “Move.”

“Don’t rush me.” The words come out tense, pushed out between clenched teeth. You hate being weak, sure, but you hate being weak in front of others—especially Frankie.

“Don’t be a baby.”

“I’m not.” You take another careful step forward, your toe knocking some of the scree loose.

“It’s not even that steep here.”

“I’m going as fast as I feel comfortable.” You turn your head, glance at him, and Frankie sees the animal panic in your wide, unblinking eyes, your nostrils flaring as you take shallow breaths. “Go around if you have to.”

He doesn’t have to go around you but he does. He heaves a sigh, edges around you on the trail, and he doesn’t miss the quiet little whimper of fear as you press yourself against the face of the mountain to make room for him. He doesn’t glance back to see that you’re fully frozen now, not moving at all—until Ben notices and reverses back to rescue you.

“Overthinking it?” he asks. Frankie can’t make out your reply, but it makes Ben chuckle, then add, “well, let’s get you off this part then, yeah?”

Friday, and Frankie learns that there’s an ugly streak of jealousy in him. Ben manages to peel you off of the mountain face with gentle teasing and good humor, and Ben is the one to wipe away the couple of shaky tears that squeezed out during your crisis of courage. The group rearranges itself: Pope then Will, then Frankie, and you and Ben at the rear, and Frankie seethes the rest of the hike back to hear the two of you joking and teasing.

Friday, and Frankie learns that he can be jealous over you. He’s quiet over dinner as he turns over this new intel about himself.

Friday, and when it’s time to turn in, you take the couch again. Frankie lies awake and watches you in the faint silvery moonlight streaming in through the curtains, and he berates himself for letting Ben step in where he could have intervened. Frankie could have been kinder, could have helped you. You’ve never been cruel to him about his own struggles. A little episode of panic on a low-stakes hike would have cost him nothing in terms of kindness.

Frankie does something he’s never done before with you.

“Hey,” he whispers. “You awake?”

You huff out heavy breath, a low groan. “I am now.”

A long stretch of silence passes. Frankie can’t quite get the words out; his tongue feels like it’s glued to the roof of his mouth. Enough time passes that you sigh again, roll over on the squeaky couch.

“Sorry,” he manages to mutter. It comes out gruffer than he’d like, more mean-sounding.

“What?”

“I said I’m sorry.” Now he sounds defensive, a bit petulant.

“Oh.” A beat, then, “for what?”

He rolls over on the mattress and faces where you lie feet apart from him, slightly higher than him on the couch. “For being a dick on the hike.”

“Ah.”

There’s another long beat of silence, and then the room lights up as you turn your phone on. He hears you tapping on it, and he asks what you’re doing.

“Just marking the date and time. Latitude and longitude.” In the white light cast across your face, Frankie can see your smirk. “Need to know where to put the memorial plaque when the time comes.”

“Huh?”

“You know.” You lock your phone and toss it aside, and Frankie hears you roll over to face him. In the scant light from the moon, he can just make out your face, still smirking. “The commemorative plaque. On this place and on such-and-such date, Francisco Morales offered the first apology in his life.”

Frankie bristles. “Funny, but I’ve apologized lots of times before.” He thinks of his ex-wife, his mother, Tom’s wife. He’s apologized plenty: for his bad behavior, for his poor choices, for all the ways he’s lacked as a son or a husband or a teammate.

“Not to me you haven’t.”

“Bullshit.” He rolls onto his back and stares up at the rough-hewn boards of the cabin’s ceiling. “I probably have.”

“Bullshit,” you retort. “You haven’t.”

“Well now I have, and I damned well regret it.”

You laugh softly, but it doesn’t have its usual bitter edge to it. You don’t add anything for so long that Frankie’s eyelids start to get heavy, but just as sleep starts to lap around his ankles, he hears you say, far softer than before, “I appreciate it, Fish.”

Friday, then: Frankie learns he has a jealous streak for you, and he learns that he can feel ashamed of how he sometimes treats you. Both revelations pale in comparison to how he feels to own up to his less-than-stellar behavior…and how he feels when you accept his apology rather than retaliate with your own less-than-stellar behavior.

-----

Saturday, and the day starts promising: sun in the blue sky, bird song, the wind rustling through the leaves. Storm clouds gather after noon, low and fast-moving, blotting out the sky, and the evening turns into a torrential storm.

You and Pope go into town to pick up more beer, a bottle of wine for dinner. Frankie and the Miller boys stay behind. Ben gets a headache and goes to nap it off, which leaves Frankie and Will alone on the cabin’s porch, watching the rain disturb the mirror surface of the lake as they nurse a couple of longnecks.

“Good to have everyone here,” Will offers after a while.

Frankie grunts in agreement. He doesn’t mention Tom, and neither does Will.

Will handles the bulk of the conversation, which is really just gossip about you and Pope and Ben since you’re all absent. It doesn’t come across as especially catty, though, since Will spins everything in his motivational lingo.

Then Will touches on you and Frankie’s rocky relationship. He takes a sip from his bottle and gives Frankie a sidelong glance, says, “heard the two of you talking last night. Surprised it didn’t end in yelling.”

Frankie snorts and takes a drink of his own beer. “First time for everything.” He shakes his head, rueful, and adds, “we’ve just never got along. You know that.”

Will nods in that irritatingly sage way he has now. “Well, you’re both crabs.”

“She makes me crabby. I’m usually fine otherwise.”

The man chuckles and shake his head. “Nah, I mean you’re both crabs. You’ve both got tough shells. Even if you could get out of your own shell, you’d have to get past hers and vice versa. Double walls up, whatever you want to call it. Makes it tough to connect.”

Frankie bites back the obvious response: that you and he connect plenty, in a carnal way, and that Will’s dumb analogy would crumble the moment Frankie mentions that the two of you fuck often, and that you don’t have a tough shell when he’s balls deep in you. Instead, he snorts again and says, “okay,” heavy on the sarcasm.

“The problem with a crab’s shell though,” Will adds in that faux-wise tone of his, “is that if you don’t shed them once in a while you can never grow.”

Frankie almost wishes you were here to hear this bullshit too. You’re irritating, but as a fellow crab, you’d tell Will to fuck off, to go play shrink with someone else.

-----

You and Pope return, and the two of you handle dinner together. Pope sears the steaks on the grill outside; you make fresh pasta and sauté late-season vegetables. Ben is pulled from the loft bedroom by the scent of the food, headache gone, and everyone circles up around the table to eat and drink.

The fire snaps in the fireplace and the rain drums against the roof, and Frankie hasn’t felt so relaxed since South America and the scramble over the Andes that ultimately claimed Tom’s life. He glances around the table, and it occurs to him that aside from his parents, the people he loves best in the world are all right here with him. Even you, he supposes.

He lets the good food and drink and warmth of the fire work against his anxiety. He feels the snarls and tangles of his tight muscles—those perpetually tense shoulders hiked up near his ears—unlock. He feels all those bad feelings, the constant self-doubt and low-level depression ebb into the distance. He is lulled into a drowsy state as he eats, as he sips at his wine, and he rejoins the conversation in process and finds himself jolted by its subject.

It's Pope needling you, and the man is clearly picking up a thread from earlier between the two of you. He’s asking you about some guy, some guy named Paolo, and Frankie feels an uncomfortable prickle along the back of his neck.

“Just call him sometime,” Pope tells you. “Grab a coffee or something.”

“Nah, Santi.” You push a bite of steak around your plate and don’t look up. “I don’t think so.”

“I think the two of you would get along.”

“I’m not really interested.”

“Why not?” Will interjects, catching up faster than Frankie. Then to Pope, “you trying to set her up?”

Pope nods at Will’s question as you shrug and mumble something about being out of the dating game for too long, and Frankie stares at you, wills you to look up at him, but you don’t.

“Which is why this is perfect,” Pope replies. “Paolo is coming out of a long-term thing. He needs a gentle reintroduction to dating too. C’mon…what would lunch hurt? Or dinner?”

“You should think about it,” Will adds. He glances over at Frankie, catches his eye. “Might help for you to get out of your shell.”

You laugh at that. “I think I’m good, William, but thanks.”

Then Ben gets in on it, Ben and Will and Pope cajoling you into dating this Paolo guy. The Millers point out your paltry dating history, your lack of serious relationships—you’ve never even lived with a guy, let alone edged up against an engagement or marriage. Pope tells you about Paolo, some coworker in his contracting work with a failed marriage, something about cheating, the man is hurting, blah blah. Frankie is shocked to find that his jealous streak isn’t just wide but deep—it feels like a bone-deep ache, a cold searing in his gut as the guys egg you on, try to convince you to just meet the dude.

“What do you say, Fish?” Pope asks, and Frankie glances up and finds your eyes settled on him. There’s a question there, but Frankie can’t see beyond his own tough exterior to know what it is.

“Sure,” he replies with a shrug he hopes looks nonchalant. “I’m sure this Paolo guy would love to be disappointed by you.”

Which earns him a punch in the shoulder from Ben, who’s sitting beside him, and rolled eyes from Pope, and a disappointed tsk-ing from Will.

Frankie doesn’t see how his barb lands with you, though. As soon as he launches it, he looks away, looks down at his plate, so he can’t see if you are hurt or not by him.

But he hears your reply to Pope. He hears you say, “you know what? Sure. Give him my number. I don’t have any better prospects.”

-----

The rest of the evening is a blur. There’s a robust game of poker, low stakes, and the beer flows steady as the conversation.

Frankie goes mute, only mumbles out monosyllabic answers when the conversation turns to him. His thoughts turn maudlin.

He always felt a step ahead of the guys. More mature. More of a man. Him and Tom, both: making the adult choice to marry instead of drifting around in the chaos of the post-army bachelor life. Where Pope and the Millers lived in bland beige apartment complexes, strung together short-term relationships and hook-ups, Frankie had a house with a wife. He felt a smug satisfaction when he’d meet up with the guys back then, like he and Tom were the sage elder statemen of the group.

You had been there too, of course, but it was different with you. Back then, Frankie used to compare you against his wife—you were the other woman in his life, so you were a handy comparison to his wife, Sophia. You were prickly where Soph was sweet. Opinionated where Soph wasn’t. When Frankie held the two of you up, it made Sophie shine brighter.

But now hindsight is twenty-twenty. Because Frankie always compared the two of you, he can’t help but craft an alternate universe where a marriage to you had faltered and then fell apart. With Soph, it had been ugly: she never spoke up, never held him to account for his increasingly bad behavior as his addiction took hold. She merely left one day—Frankie came home to an empty house and instructions to not reach out to her, that her lawyer would be in touch.

You’re the one who had confronted Frankie. You’re the one who arranged for the intervention, who chased him when he stormed out, who grabbed him by the arm and shook him, told him he had to get his shit together and get help. You’re the one who handled everything: packing his bag, getting him on the plane to the rehab. You found him a place for when he got out, you and Pope salvaging as much as you could from his marital home before it was sold as part of the divorce.

And now he’s back to square one, but even more so. He’s divorced. He’s a recovering addict. He’s got a bad back and a suspended pilot’s license. He’s nobody’s bargain, as the song goes, but he wonders how much his low mood right now is linked to you. Pope and the Millers talk you up, gas you up for this date with Pope’s buddy, and Frankie feels worse and worse the more he realizes you may slip away from him.

It's a startling revelation that he even cares. If asked, he’d lie and say he doesn’t, that you can date whoever you want, move away to wherever. That if he never sees you again, he’ll be perfectly okay, because the two of you have never gotten along and the hooking up has just been two bored, lonely people mutually using each other.

But he remembers a million little moments of you being…not kind, maybe. You’re prickly with your kindness, you sigh and roll your eyes when you do nice things for him, but you’re the one who started him on the path of recovery. You’re the one who stood in front of him at Tom’s wake and told him in a low voice that it wasn’t his fault, it was no one’s fault but Tom’s own greed.

Hell, he bets you’ve even taken the couch this whole time in the cabin because of his bad back.

Frankie feels like he’s close to some world-altering revelation, but it’s just beyond his grasp. Instead, he just stews: his memories circle around his failed marriage, how he was never further ahead than the guys after all. His memories shift to you then, circle around you: the most irritating person he’s ever known, yet the one who probably saved his life. The frustrating woman who has had his back for years, who squabbles with him and argues with him and (lately) has been fucking him with equal aplomb.

-----

When everyone turns in for the night, Frankie waits a long while before he hisses out your name. You don’t sigh or groan like he’s woken you up; you answer him by saying his name back with a questioning lilt.

“You can take the mattress if you want,” he whispers. “If the couch is uncomfortable.”

“It is, but I’m fine.” A beat, and you confirm his suspicion by adding, “your back.”

“Mattress is wide enough for both of us.”

He hears your quiet snort of laughter. “Nice try, Fish.”

“What?”

“You know what. If I lie down with you, you’ll get all handsy.”

Frankie smiles in the darkness. “You don’t mind my hands usually.”

Some spring deep in the couch squeals as you roll over. “We said we weren’t doing that anymore.”

“We say that every time,” Frankie points out. “And then you call me at two in the morning because you need it so bad.”

You snort. “I never need it.” You’re silent for a long moment, then add, “and anyway, I’m actually looking forward to meeting Pope’s friend.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m serious.” Your voice does lose its snarky, insouciant tone—you sound uncharacteristically somber. “I need to get my shit together. I’m tired of being alone all the time.”

That stings Frankie a little, like all those moments with him don’t count, even though he knows they don’t. You’re talking about being alone, all those times you need someone to talk to or cuddle up with or just be with. Frankie and your hooking up isn’t any of that; it’s a lone moment of physicality without any of the intimacy.

“And you think Paolo is the one then?” he asks, and the name Paolo drips with disdain that he doesn’t bother to hide. You hear it, too.

“You sound jealous, Fish.”

“’m not.”

“Because I thought I was just gonna disappoint him anyway, so why would you be jealous?”

“Said I’m not.” He’s not jealous. He isn’t. The bloom of hot acid in his gut is something else entirely. Maybe Pope didn’t cook the steaks thoroughly enough. Maybe it was too much red wine.

Now your voice turns faux-casual, conversational, like you’re just gabbing with a girlfriend. “Do you think Paolo is hot?” you ask.

“Probably looks like a troll doll.”

“I bet he’s big. Huge.”

“Gross.”

“Bet he’s slinging a real hog around.”

Frankie scoffs. “Pope said he’s divorced because his wife cheated on him. He’s probably tiny.”

“Ooooh, you’re definitely jealous.” Another rustling of your blankets, and then Frankie feels it—your bare foot reaching down and out to where he lays, your cold toes kicking him lightly in the side. He swats at you, but you pull your foot back at the last minute with a laugh.

“Fuck off,” he grits out. “I’m not.”

Another playful kick that clips him in the shoulder. “Aw, Fish, did you fall for me? Are you in love? Are you—”

He’s quicker this time, and he catches your foot, catches his hand around your ankle and tugs you towards him. You squeal; he gets you halfway off the couch but not entirely and there’s a moment of tug-of-war. Frankie doesn’t release your ankle, and you try to break his hold, but Frankie (who knows how strong you are, how good you are at self-defense) doesn’t think you really fight him that hard.

Instead, you let him pull you the rest of the way onto the floor. You let him tug you across the short span between the couch and the mattress, and he’d smirk and gloat at how willingly you come to him, but within a second you are beside him. You smell smoky, like the snapping wood fire of the evening has burrowed into your hair, and you smell like the wet, washed-clean earth and loam, and you smell like the slightly-metallic water of the lake, and Frankie’s mouth finds yours, seals over yours, steals away any other teasing or arguing you may do.

Part of him hates how well the two of you fit together. For as much as you squabble and irritate each other, in these moments, you are perfectly in line with each other. On the same wavelength. Frankie kisses you deeply, tastes you beyond the mint of your toothpaste, and he still—even after all these moments, all these stolen interludes—gets a fluttery swoop in his gut when you slide your tongue against his.

He maneuvers you underneath him and you go willingly. Eagerly. He wishes sometimes he could read your mind. He wonders what you’re thinking in these moments. Have you been lying beside him the past few nights, wanting this to happen? Or are you only riled up and slick to his searching fingers because of the idea of this Paolo, a man who could theoretically assuage your loneliness?

The thought makes that deep streak of jealousy pulse inside him, so he breaks the kiss as his fingers slide into you. He feels how wet you are, always wet and hot for him, and he hisses into your ear, “this for me?”

“Fuck off, Fish.” You whisper it back, and in the wan moonlight, Frankie can see you glaring up at him.

He pulls his finger out, adds a second, pushes both into you. He catches how your eyelids flutter, how your lips part at the stretch of his digits. He studies your face as he pulls out, pushes back in a handful of times.

“Tell me,” he demands. He keeps his voice low, aware that the Millers are asleep in the loft above you and Pope is asleep in the bedroom just beyond the small galley kitchen.

“I said fuck off.” You enunciate the fuck clearly, catch your lower lip between your teeth as you hiss out the eff. As guilty as Frankie feels to compare you to his ex-wife, the differences are never more stark than here: Sophie had been completely soft, completely submissive in the bedroom, never quite willing to do more than a handful of positions or situations. Fucking you is like wrestling a wild cat sometimes, and you make him work for it, and Frankie kinda loves it.

He clucks his tongue in mock sympathy. He pushes his two fingers into you as deep as he can, then crooks them inside you, strokes your inner wall until you gasp underneath him.

“There it is,” he croons. He dips his head, drags the slick muscle of his tongue along your pulse point where your heartbeat jumps and thunders away. “Knew I’d find it.”

“Fish—”

“Always find it.” He moves his thumb, presses it lightly against your swollen clit. “Pope’s dumb fucking buddy could never.”

You laugh but it’s breathless as he works his hand against you. You tangle a hand in his hair and tug against him, steer his head back to you.

“Knew you were jealous, you asshole,” you whisper. You surge forward and nip at the side of his neck, and he bites back his own groan, hushes you, reminds you that the guys are nearby and you have to be quiet.

Frankie reaches down and shoves his sweatpants down enough to free his aching cock, and he doesn’t even bother to get you out of your sleep shorts. He only shoves them to the side and then removes his hand, guides his cock to replace his fingers. He hears the low groan you give at the contact, so he reaches up a hand and covers your mouth and pushes into you in one firm, deep thrust. His hand absorbs your moan as he mounts you, but he looses his own groan to be back inside your clenching heat. You both freeze for a long moment—his cock twitching inside you, your cunt bearing down on him—but none of the guys make a noise, so you proceed as quietly as you can.

You’re not nearly quiet enough.

*****

Pope is woken by the sound of a thump, like a body hitting the floor.

That’s exactly what it is: Frankie yanking you off of the couch, and just as Pope starts to wake up, starts to swing around and put his feet on the floor, he hears a moan.

Ben sleeps like the dead and hears nothing: not you and Frankie squabbling in whispers, not you and Frankie fucking, and not the furious clicking of Will in the other bed, texting back and forth with Pope. He’s only woken up later.

Will hears everything. He never fell asleep at all, only drowsed a bit, so he heard you and Frankie talking down below.

Then he hears the same thump as Pope, then the same moan.

His first thought is that Frankie has made you cry, that Frankie has said something mean enough to break that tough dam that holds back your emotions. But then he hears a gasp (yours), a low chuckle (Frankie’s) and he realizes what he’s hearing.

“Holy shit,” he breathes out. “No way.”

His cell phone, silenced, lights up with a message. Will unlocks it and sees that it is Pope.

Please tell me I’m not hearing what I think I’m hearing, the text reads.

Will responds. Not sure, he types.

Pope: You got eyes on them???

Will: No way

Pope: Sounds like she’s crying. Need confirmation.

Will: NO

Pope: Ur in the loft. Confirm.

Will sighs, mutters “fuck.” It does sound like you’re crying and trying to hide it, breathy, bitten-back moans that could be crying or could be…you and Frankie fucking.

The former seems unlikely. Will’s never seen you cry, and he thinks he’s only heard you once—a similar gasping sound, through a flimsy motel room wall in Central America as you made your way back to the States with Tom’s body.

The latter—the thought of you and Frankie fucking—seems even more unlikely. Yet when he freezes, when he holds his own breath so long he hears his heart beating in his ears, Will swears he can hear the quiet rustling of fabric, heavy breathing that sounds more like Frankie.

He moves as slow as if he were on a mission. He turns around on the trundle bed and crawls to the edge of it, a millimeter at a time. He reaches the open doorway of the loft; there is no door, and it looks down at the first floor, and when he peers over the railing, he sees the two of you awash in silvery moonlight.

Frankie, on top of you. Your knees on either side of Frankie’s hips, one hand gripping his curls at the nape of his neck, the other hand reaching down and grasping his ass, guiding him where he fucks into you in slow, deep strokes.

Will doesn’t know why he never saw it before. This can’t be the first time between you—you move too well together. The two of you have always grated against each other, but no one ever really thought it was hatred. You and Frankie love each other in your own way, Will guesses, and maybe this is just a facet of that.

You helping Frankie get clean: another facet of that love.

Frankie going silent at the thought of you dating Pope’s work buddy: another facet of that love, perhaps?

Will retreats just as slowly. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment, though he thinks he’ll need therapy to erase the vision of the two of you fucking from his mind. He climbs back into bed carefully, then texts Pope.

She’s not crying, he types out.

She’s not??? Pope replies.

Yeah, dude, Will types. She and Fish are fucking.

Pope responds with a puking emoji first, but then he adds, FINALLY.

#frankie morales #frankie morales imagine #frankie morales x reader #catfish morales #catfish morales imagine #catfish morales x reader #triple frontier #kinktober 2023 #tropes and tales

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gingerlurk · 22 days

Text

Honey

Din Djarin x f!Reader

A Lovers' Crest one-shot (Here's its Masterlist)

Summary: You and the Mandalorian hatch a plan to trap an elusive bounty. And Din Djarin absolutely hates it. Until he doesn't.

[Or, the characters from Lovers' Crest have a little post-story adventure! Can be read standalone.]

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, pwp, unprotected piv (be safe), creampie, semi-public sex, (there's an unconscious guy in the room), established relationship, Din lifts you but damn he is a strong strong man, Reader described: wearing a dress, heels, having longish hair, does a lil pole dance. I know this isn't how a 'honey pot' situation works but oh well it's just a bit of fun.

A/N: What's this? It's the first fic I ever wrote. Posted to AO3 in June last year. No idea if it's anything anymore, but it dragged me out of a desperate writing slump - and led me to write the longer fic - so I will always feel affection for it.

‘No.’

‘Oh, come on!’

‘I said no!’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t like it. It’s not a good idea.’

‘It’s a great idea. And… all we’ve got.’

So, Din Djarin sits in an upscale-style club sharing a table with Mythrol mobster Earl Gorstrik.

The crime boss has been an elusive target for months, and a royal headache for Greef Karga. Taking out shipments of essentials, extorting construction projects and all manner of agency rackets, Gorstrik’s activities had pushed poor old Greef into upping the reward to nearly double.

‘Just get this fucker out of my business, please,’ Greef had begged him last time they’d dropped into town.

Then you had proposed an idea that had set his blood to boil, a constant roll that continued to this very moment. He’d remained unconvinced by the whole plan, but especially by your assertion that you would be sure to ‘really make it worth his while’. Din is dubious.

He doesn’t even get to have Grogu for company. This is not a child-friendly mission.

Gorstrik is yammering in his ear.

‘Seriously, Mando,’ he slurs. ‘I’m so glad a man of your calibre recognises the value of partnering with my… endeavours…’

Din is barely taking it in. Why are these types always so verbose? He mutters something about ‘needing to expand prospects’ and that sets the mob boss off to wax lyrical about property scams.

Din swears he’s going to ditch this whole, terrible attempt, when the music pounding in every corner of the place transitions to one of heavy bass and soaring synths.

Earl Gorstrik slaps at Din’s shoulder. ‘Oh excellent! It’s starting. Ever been to one of these Mando? No, bet not. Haha! Sit back and enjoy!’

Lights dance on the raised catwalk that dominates the middle of the room. Long, shiny polls descend from above, dropping within arm’s reach of the stage. A tall, lovely twi’lek female struts into view. Skin-tight body suit and stratospheric pumps. She reaches up to a poll and spins, smiling at the whooping and hollering rising from the patronage.

A short, sultry routine ends as the poll she holds rises back toward the ceiling. Din follows it, and her, up to spy the lofted gang plank that vanishes into an upper area.

Gorstrik leans into Din’s space.

‘You like that?’ he breathes. ‘Best part? If you spot someone you really like, you can arrange your own little meeting. Heh, up there,’ he points to the disappearing legs of the performer. ‘Just wave down a tender.’

Two human males saunter to neighbouring polls. They look to be twins. A stunning display of athleticism and strength concludes as they too rise upwards. Din spots several hands frantically waving at the establishment’s staff.

Fed up, Din is about to take his leave – to go find you – when a vision walks onto the stage and sucks all the air from his lungs. He’s locked rigid in his seat and his cock swells so fast it’s almost painful.

An adept lighting droid starts with revealing a pair of black, luxurious stilettos that step with languid grace down the catwalk. Silhouetted legs are shown to be bare as they curve up, all the way up – impossibly far – to the hem of a scant black dress. Deliciously tight and hugging every single curve.

Reaching the pole at the very end of the stage, the vision twists to face away from the crowd and is lit up all at once. The Mandalorian’s eyes are wide and his mouth has fallen open behind his helmet, made utterly transfixed by what he’s seeing onstage.

Glossy hair cascades over bare shoulders, swishing gently as you turn back to the crowd with a flourish. Your glittering eyes lock onto Din’s visor for a split second and he fair nearly blows his load then and there.

You take hold of the pole and give a single lazy spin, letting Din’s eyes roam every inch of you. Then you slide down the pole some and spin again, extending your legs so the sides of your knees and shins skim the flooring.

A few of these rotations before you tuck your long legs under you to stand for a moment. You make one swaying motion to put momentum into the pole and swing yourself up, using a turn away from the audience to open your legs, kick up and cross them to lock over the pole.

With your lush thighs riding the cool metal, you lean back and extend an arm out to the audience, gazing upside down into the pulsing darkness.

You let the pole drift back to stillness, allowing every set of eyes in the place drink in your figure, bust heaving, hair falling below you and swaying. Then you swing your upper body upwards, grasp the pole and drop your hips so your legs release out into open air and propel it all into a renewed twist.

After a moment, you plant your heels and the pole lowers with you as you sink into a narrow squat, facing away from the audience, which is by this time splitting the air with pitched screams and shouts.

You look over your shoulder with mischief in your eyes and the whole place goes ballistic.

The pole begins to rise and you move with it to stand. You let it slip along your figure, waiting until it is moving past your head to slide your arms around it and lift from the floor. It is given to look as if you’re floating on air, still twirling and giving an exquisite 360 view of your legs.

As you vanish into the loft, Din’s reverie is interrupted by a waving hand next to him.

He turns, Gorstrik is beside himself. A frenzy of other hands bat at the air, but Din’s table companion always gets first flush.

‘God damn,’ he exerts. ‘What a show. You do not get enough of that type of cream around here anymore.’

Din fights to quell the incredible urge to rip this pig’s head clean off his shoulders. He channels it all into issuing the slightest shrug he can manage. Gorstrik scoffs.

‘Suit yourself, man,’ he stands. ‘I’m getting my ass a front row seat to the encore. M’sorry, Mando you understand. Particulars can be worked out with my second here.’ He gives a vague wave to the pinch-faced twit next to him and scurries toward the elevator.

Din seethes.

Your voice crackles in his helmet, whisper quiet.

‘Staff access is on the residential side, basic hatch code to get in. Stairs, then make a left. My booth is second along.’

He makes a grouchy show of ‘only doing business with the actual boss’ before leaving the irate lieutenant at the table.

He stalks onto the street and rounds the building to the alleyway that connects the red-light district to the high-density worker housing. Spotting the door you described, he makes short work and slips inside. Climbing the stairs two at a time, he’s trying to concentrate and stop his mind wandering to all the ways this could go wrong.

Could be going wrong.

Why has he let you be alone with this scumbag. That was incredible. What if you’re not quick enough. Hells, fuck! Where had you learned that? What if… So fucking sexy. Why didn’t he just… Maker but that was incredible. He follows your directions and slaps the booth’s open panel.

The door slides across to reveal the scene. A small, velvet-lined room. One long bench against the far wall with a floor to ceiling one-way window looking out over the club floor. Your back is to the door and you’re settled in that narrow squat again, heels spiked into the floor, nimbly cuffing the unconscious Gorstrik, who is sprawled out by a drinks stand.

‘Just in time,’ you say. You peak over your shoulder at Din and slowly, agonisingly, start to rise up. Knees straighten first, keeping yourself bent at the waist. Ass on full display, the hem of your dress has ridden up to show just a hint of cheek. Finally, you lift your torso and turn toward him, something droll to say on the tip of your tongue.

You don’t get the chance. Din has kicked the door hatch closed and barrelled into you. Hands grip your waist first, pushing you back into the wall, then reach down to lift your knees to lock them at his sides. Holding you up, he paws at your ass.

‘Where’d you get this dress,’ he growls into your ear, letting you loop your arms across his shoulders and use the purchase to grind yourself against his erection.

‘Boutique in the main square,’ you mutter, eyes already closed and focused on lust. ‘Only used some of the advance.’

‘It’s obscene.’

‘Mmm, I don’t have to keep it.’ You rub the front of the dress against his chest plate, pushing your breasts into the firm pressure. ‘Could turn it to scrap for engine cleaning,’ you tease.

‘Absolutely not,’ he grinds out. He rubs at your thighs until the dress inches up, exposing your soaking panties. ‘This dress,’ he grunts. ‘This dress is for me now. You’ll wear it for me.’

‘Fuh—Fuck,’ you huff. ‘Thought you’d like it.’

‘Mmm, so fucking divine,’ he keens. He leans back a little. ‘Help me out here, love. Get this cock out for me.’

You reach a hand down and fumble with buckles and garment until you can push his pants low enough for his screaming hard on to bounce free. You immediately move your hand and tug the edge of your underwear aside.

‘Now Din,’ you moan, looking down. ‘Fuck me n— ah!’ He sheaths himself home in one go, piercing you to the wall.

Hips sitting flush, Din trembles at your tight walls stretching and fluttering around him. He lets you adjust. ‘Oh fuck, so ready for me. That performance of yours get you just as worked up as me, did it?’

Humming an affirmative, you reach up to brace your elbows on top of each pauldron, locking your hands together behind his helmet and nuzzling your face into his neck. Like this, you can tilt your hips back and forth to grind into where you two are connected, his pelvis making a perfect surface to work at your aching clit.

It’s so goddamn sensual when you use him like this.

He holds onto your ass and helps you along by lifting you up with each one of your thrusts, creating a harsher connection each time. You writhe and work yourself against him, legs shaking with effort.

‘Din, Din,’ you lift your head with a gasp. He watches your eyes screw shut and your mouth fall open to release harsh, pained puffs of air. You’re so close, he can see it. You press your face into the sharp curve of his helmet and whisper, ‘Din, tell me t--’

‘Come for me, mesh’la,’ he snarls into your ear. ‘Do it, come now.’

You cry out and smack your head back against the wall. Din loses himself in your blissed out features. In the feel of your legs spasming around him, tightening muscles drawing aching throbs out of his cock. You push your hips in tiny little circles to suck down every drop of your climax. ‘That’s it, beautiful. That’s perfect,’ he murmurs to you. ‘You’re perfect.’

Huffing harsh breaths, you open your eyes and smile at him.

He pulls out of you and takes your quivering legs from around his middle, dropping them to plant your heels on the floor. Then he pushes off the wall, spinning you to face the bench and bending you over. A heavy boot nudges at your ankles to spread them apart. He’s back inside you in one intense thrust of his cock.

This position affords you the view through the one-way window, so you’re both looking down at the bustling bar floor.

Din begins to move, barely letting any room between your bodies as he grinds hard and deep. You shuffle your feet wider to give him even more. He chokes out a groan.

‘When you were on that stage,’ he hisses from behind, hands in a bruising grip on your hips. ‘Fuck, when you were up there, everyone down there wanted you.’ He sees your head turn to roam over the crowd, you look over your shoulder again at him, eyes unfocused and lustful.

‘Oh yeah?’ you say, hands sliding a little on the bench with your movements. ‘All of them?’

‘Every. Single. One.’ He punctuates each strangled word with a harsh, deep thrust. ‘Wishing they were here now. Wishing they could have you like this, know the feel of your clenching pussy. Sucking me in so hard, can- can barely pull myself- out…’

He grips a fistful of your dress and uses the leverage to drag himself back before pistoning into you again. The obscene sounds of your slick flesh pumping against each other fill the air.

He’s so deep he can feel the pressure building within you again right as you slam your fingers hard against your clit, letting the friction of his furious thrusts carry you over the edge into another orgasm.

‘Fuuuuck,’ you both groan in unison. He loops an arm across your front and slings you up, back flush to his chest as he drives up into you. His rhythm is starting to falter, the haze of pleasure reaching toward unbearable. You know what he needs and how to bring him over the edge with you. He trusts.

‘But none of them can have me,’ you gasp. ‘Only you. Only you- know- this- pussy, Din.’ The final words are accompanied by the last few slams of his hips as he spills inside you with another strangled moan. He feels, as always, like his soul is being sucked from him and drained into you. It goes on for an age, wave on wave as you squeeze and clench around him. He finally slows.

His hand moves from your chest up to cup your face, fingers sifting through the hair at your shoulder.

As he huffs deep breaths into his helmet, you squeeze again and he gasps in near pain.

‘N-n, please mesh’la, you’re gonna kill me.’

‘Mm, sorry, thought you liked “the feel of my clenching pussy”.’

‘Oh I do, I do. Hope you let me feel it again when we’ve actually finished this job.’

‘Admit it was a great idea,’ you clench one last time and at that he withdraws from you. Groaning a raspy sigh. He turns to your captured prize.

‘Honey pot,’ he mutters. ‘Ridiculous.’

Din tucks himself away and bends to hoist the limp quarry over a shoulder, readying to exit.

You adjust your dress, feeling delicious as Din’s seed slides past the hem. A job well executed and a fucking great time had by all. You grin to yourself. You’re going to walk down the street with this man’s spend slicking your thighs together. It’s filthy and you love it.

Thanks for reading! Have a great day and drink some water x

#din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin/reader #din djarin/you #the mandaloria/reader #din djarin x f!reader #the mandalorian x f!reader

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rosewaterandivy · 8 months

Text

10. a kiss is not enough

Summary: Rumor has it, that hometown hero-turned-teacher Steve Harrington is hot for teacher. The English teacher next door to him at Hawkins High, who also happens to be his childhood friend, that is.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x chaotic!dumbass reader

W.C.: 4.5K

Warnings: No use of y/n - reader goes by the nickname Trouble instead, cursing, sexual situations - SMUT & idolatry (my usual bullshit), real-talk with Nancy Wheeler, idiots still being idiots, Modern!Teacher AU, English teacher reader, History teacher Steve, slow burn, friends to lovers, romance.

A/N: Holy shit, I can't believe we've come to the end (or is it 👀) of this series! When I started this, I had no clue how many people would respond to Trouble and Steve's idiots-to-lovers story - but I'm so glad that they did! This series will always be near and dear to my heart, for a variety of reasons, but primarily for the people it brought into my life (here's lookin' at you, babe!). This isn't a goodbye from Trouble and Steve so much as a see you later - don't hate me too much! Poetry excerpt from John Keats. 18+ mature content (minors dni). Reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated, please let me know what you thought; enjoy & thanks for reading! 💜

series masterlist | playlist - newly updated!

Trouble’s playlist from Steve: trouble will find me

Steve's playlist from Trouble: rebel without a clue

previous || epilogue

Now, May, Finals Week

“Just think about it, kid,” Hopper says on his way out your classroom door. He’d requested a meeting during your conference block, when normally he’d amble in under some pretense just to shoot the shit.

You nod, at a loss for words. It’s not like you needed yet another thing on your plate— waiting to hear back from admissions and not spilling to Steve or the gang was bad enough.

Yeah, you’d applied for grad school (even though grad students were the worst) and Hop had been contacted as a reference, which prompted his little visit today. Apparently, the district had approved a stipend and sabbatical for faculty furthering their education in graduate school.

“I’d like to recommend you,” Hop said matter of factly, sitting in a desk across from yours. “Maybe not for the sabbatical until you’re further along in the program, writing your thesis and whatnot.”

“I, uh–” you stumbled to find the words. “Cart, horse. I haven’t been accepted yet.”

He leveled you with a look, “Are you shittin’ me? Of course you’re getting in.”

You swallowed audibly and busied yourself emptying your desk for the summer, “Well, time will tell I suppose.”

“This isn’t—” Hopper paused in thought. “This isn’t about Harrington, is it?”

“Huh,” you nearly yelled, clutching the cardboard box for dear life. You had been so careful too.

He cracks a smile, “I saw the pair of you at graduation, you think you’re so slick.”

That brings a smile to your face, good ol’ Hop sussing out the goings on like he’d never left the force.

“It’s nothing.” You assure him, “We haven’t— We’re professionals, okay?”

“I know,” he nods, voice lowering as if he could spook you. “I’m happy for you, really.”

A small smile breaks across your face, “Yeah, uh, thanks.”

Finals done and grades posted, you’d never been so happy to get home. Had plans to pour yourself onto the couch and not move for 72 hours.

But life (and Steve) had other plans.

He was sorting through the mail, chucking envelopes into various piles on the countertop. The loft was quiet that afternoon— Eddie had a gig in Indy that evening and Robin was crashing at Vickie’s for the night. Steve hummed a tune to himself, the occasional slap of paper hitting the granite punctuating it.

“Oh hey,” Steve turns with a large envelope in hand, “This looks important.” Tosses it with freakish accuracy, the white paper landing with a thwack where your shorts had ridden up against your thigh.

Distracted by whatever drama was unfolding on TV— something about a crew working on chartered private boats— you mindlessly slip your thumb beneath the lip of the envelope and tear it open.

It’s only once you’ve pulled the papers from it that you glance to see what’s what. The university’s crest shines like a beacon, your thumb worrying over the topmost letter. Steve, the bastard, has stopped his mail sorting and turned toward you.

He leans lazily against the counter, a knowing smirk fixed on his lips. You scramble up from the couch with the papers, too nervous to see for yourself. “Here,” you say, thrusting the envelope and documents to his chest. “Can you—”

Pulling you to his chest with an arm, he brushes his lips against the crown of your head. “Sure, honey.” You wrap your arms around him, burying your face into his chest— warm and familiar.

“You know,” he drawls, “The big envelope generally means something good, right?”

“I know,” muffled against his shirt.

He chuckles, hand coming up to cradle your head. Steve clears his throat, reads the opening of the letter in his best announcer voice. “Congratulations! It is with great pleasure that…”

The rest is drowned out by the rushing of blood in your ears, the tears pooling in your eyes breaking free to cascade down your cheeks. He squeezes you tight abandoning the acceptance letter and letting it flutter to the floor in favor of drawing you closer. Steve kisses you, licking your own tears into your mouth, your taste onto your tongue. And it’s so weirdly hot that your heart starts fluttering again, like you’re seeing him for the first time.

Because of course, just as things were going right something had to come and throw a wrench into things.

Plans for lazing in the early summer forgotten, the next few days saw you coming and going from the university campus for orientation, meetings with faculty, so on and so forth. As you were leaving the grad student mixer, a professor peeled off from a group of faculty to flag you down with a call of your name.

You turn, not recognizing them from the English department. She’s an older woman, has maybe a few years on your mother, and is swathed in a lovely linen dress— the cool elegance of minimalist style.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Holland,” she says shaking your hand. “I’m on the admissions committee and was very impressed with your work on Dante Alighieri.”

“Oh, thanks!”

“And you studied Italian as an undergrad?”

“Certo.”

That brings a smile to her face. “Perfetto,” she says with a perfect Italian accent and waves over another faculty member. “I only ask because there’s a summer intensive in Italy beginning next week that I think you’d be perfect for.”

Your mind reels. The new professor introduces himself and echoes Dr. Holland’s sentiments— a summer session of classes in Italy, in partnership with Università di Bologna, the oldest university in operation in the world. Scholarships that would cover the cost of tuition, travel, and accommodations for you to peruse.

What the fuck.

Vision swimming, you somehow come back to the conversation at hand. Dr. Holland presses a folder to your hand, “I know you were planning on taking the introductory grad school courses over the summer, but I hope you’ll consider joining us in Italy instead.”

You nod, gobsmacked and make your way to the car. Settling into the sweltering seat, you start the car and call Nancy. If anyone would know what to say in this situation, it would be her.

“That’s the thing,” you sigh, wine glass in hand as you slump on Nancy’s couch. “We’re not anything, haven’t discussed it. I mean, sure, we fuck like rabbits, but aside from that?”

She blows a raspberry and sips from her glass. “He’s in love with you, get over it.”

You jerk up, “Okay, maybe,” you allow. “But he hasn’t said anything.”

“And you won’t pony up to do it yourself?”

A scoff as you drain your glass. “I’m sorry, have you met me?”

Nancy laughs at that, loud and bright. “Unfortunately, yes!” She refills your glass before continuing, “Let’s be honest, you’re both hopeless when it comes to eachother.” She raises her brow before you can balk, “Full offense intended.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

She hums at that, head cocked to the side in thought. Her nail taps against the glass with a soft clink. A bite to her lips before she heaves a sigh, “Sometimes he just needs a push.”

You narrow your eyes at her. “I am absolutely not telling him he’s bullshit, if that’s what you’re after.”

Nancy, to her credit, winces uncomfortably at the memory. “No, no,” a shake of her head. “Absolutely not, you would never.” She sets her glass down carefully, giving you her full attention. “What I’m getting at is this: do you want to be something with Steve?”

She lets the question hang in the air between you.

“Because if you don’t know Trouble, you should back away now.” A low warning tone. “You’re it for him, have been since he laid eyes on you, but you’re both too scared to do anything about it.”

You drain your glass to the dregs and hastily take your leave. At the sound of the door closing, Nancy grabs her phone and brings it to her ear, “Hey Harrington, I need a favor…”

Returning from a less than helpful hang session at Nancy’s, you find a post-it note left on your bedroom, door that reads ‘meet me at our spot on lover’s lake. - s.’

Prizing it from the wood grain, you make your way back to the kitchen to scavenge for something to eat, in an effort to soak up the remnants of wine in your system. Opening the fridge you spy another post-it stuck to the topmost shelf: ‘get your ass down here, i’ll feed you soon enough. - s.’

With a laugh, you let the fridge door fall shut and grab your keys.

He can see you now, just barley, even in the indigo dark. Wonders to himself, how are you even real? How is it that you’re mine? An explanation that won’t ever come.

You slip into the cool water of Lover’s Lake like a dream, with nary a sound. Steve stumbles after you on the piles of clothing you’d left behind—bunched up denim shorts here, a threadbare tank-top over there, the silk of your thong musky and damp.

Fisting his shirt to pull it up and over his head, it falls to the forest floor behind him, jeans shucked off and tossed elsewhere, boxers joining your lingerie by the shore. His patience is wearing thin as you wade further and further from him out into the lake.

Little minx, he smiles and takes a breath before diving beneath the waves. Arms cutting through the placid water at a quick pace until he’s occupying the space between your bare legs, and coming up for air.

One arm drags you near, lazily pressing you close, tight around the small of your back as the tide breaks around your waist, minute movements almost imperceptible— the slow roll of your hips against his.

Water shallow enough to tread and keep you buoyant. Steve kisses you slow and sweet, pulling you flush against his chest while you writhe under the water’s surface. Body slick and wanton and arching into his own.

His dick jumps when you lift yourself to drape your arms around his shoulders. A sharp breath replaced with a shaky exhale as he brings his forehead to rest on yours, dark eyes taking in the exhilarated flush of your body.

And Steve knows, under his skin and tucked into the cage of his ribs, near the beating of his anguished heart, that you’re the only thing left in this world worth worshipping. To keep you, and render you a flightless bird, to clip your wings, would be all for naught.

He has to let you go again, and so soon after you found him. From perihelion to aphelion before the moon’s full turning. The soft curve of your throat drawn taut as you glance upward, marvelling at the stars and planets in the northern sky.

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” Your voice is a husk, low and hoarse, in the dark. “Its loveliness increases, it will never pass into nothingness.” Your eyes, once fixed on the sea of stars above, shift to him once more.

Closer to the shoreline now, and unbeknownst to you, Steve had gently waded you both inshore, until he could draw you toward the dock.

You let him walk you back until you’re flush against a mooring pole, wood rough against your moon-bathed skin. Body yielding to him as both his hands slide beneath your bottom, squeezing the soft flesh of your ass before he pulls you forward by the hips.

“S’okay, honey,” He mutters—right into your panting mouth with a sultry pull of his lips. “I’ve got you.”

“Steve,” You gasp, “This is unfair.” Your body jerks with every teasing kiss from his lips that he laves and sucks to the column of your throat.

He ignores you, crawling his hands onto your hips to keep you from squirming. Works his thigh in between your legs for good measure. Once you’re settled, he moves one hand to your center a finger trailing up and down your slippery folds. His mouth latches onto the spot that makes you keen, just behind your ear. You fist his hair in both hands at the same time he slips a digit inside.

But Steve doesn’t move. Other than his tongue’s soft licks on your neck and into your kiss-bitten mouth, he doesn’t move at all. He happily lets his finger rest inside of you, gathering your juices all over his hand.

You whimper, trying to shimmy against them, anything to create more contact. Its intrusion lights a terrible match inside of your body, and goddamn it, you want to a forest fire.

Calming breaths in and out. Steady head, steady heart. When you’re able to meet his gaze again, you take a moment to see him as he truly is: dappled in moonlight, forelock hanging in front of his eyes, his entire focus trained on you.

It feels like an eternity passes before he finally lets you have another—adding one more thick finger inside, stretching you as he moves them both around, curling them, scissoring them, pumping them in and out.

Steve sucks enthusiastically on your sensitive skin and lips, fucks you with two fingers almost wildly, and your body responds with fervor. You gasp and moan, arching back into his hand, goosebumps blooming all over your shoulders and down your arms and legs.

You shake like a leaf in his arms, not knowing if it’s from the cool night air or due to the man before you.

Instead of increasing his pace, Steve continues to stroke you with his fingers, slowly prodding at your entrance with a third. Your eyes roll back and get lost in your head as you lean back with a whimper.

“Just trying to get you ready.” He murmurs, so soft and low that your heart stills.

Your legs wrap around his back loosely as he holds you still, his previous two fingers pushing inside gently. The third finger meets resistance as you tense up. “S-sorry,” You whisper, “I’m…”

Your head knocks back against the wooden pier. But you move his hand back and try again. He’s so tender and sweet with you as he turns his head to place kisses on your cheek and ear.

You blink owlishly, trying desperately to weave your threads of thought together. A shake of your head to rattle them loose. A sweet smile up to Steve, a barely there kiss to his lips.

Your eyelids are heavy, breaths heaving from your chest. Steve commits to memory the way your lids flutter when he touches you.

You gasp and moan, arching your chest into his and pulled as taut as a bow sting—back forming a crescent-shaped arc, a sliver of the moon radiant in the inky blue reflection of the water.

“C’mon, that’s it, honey. You’re so close. Almost there… Good girl… Good girl.”

With a cry, you come undone, rolling your hips every which way as you reach orgasm on Steve’s hand. His voice continues to praise you, lips kissing your sweat-slicked collar, bristles on his cheek and jaw tickling your sensitive skin.

Coming back to yourself, you shiver bodily. And Steve looks at you as if you hold infinities in the palms your hands.

You reach for him reverently, desperate for his shape of beauty and noble nature. A dream realized, a wish granted, gentle and true. You feel brave enough to shift and stroke him with determination.

You whisper, "Missed you," eliciting a shudder from him as your palm grips him tenderly.

Relishing in the temperature of his body, you sigh. Spreading the beaded precome at the tip of his cock up and down his shaft. Steve groans, head falling to yours.

“Missed you more,” He hums, eyes heavy-lidded and lustful.

Gasping as Steve guides your hips with one hand, and grips himself with the other. Slowly and without haste, he fills you inch by inch until he’s so deep inside you think he could burst from your throat.

You whimper. There aren’t enough words to describe it— the gratifying sting, an all-encompassing and chilling burn, a mystifying and utter fullness that nearly brings tears to your eyes. You’re fearful to move, to lose this sensation, and afraid to feel what comes next. But you know that you want it.

Steve kisses your lips tenderly, babbling praise, whispering affirmations, soothing the shock that surges up your spine with his warm palm. Slowly, he rocks you back, as water lapping against your thighs, holds onto your body with one hand, smoothing the hair that falls over your face with the other.

You’re gripping him so tightly it takes some effort to slide even an inch of him out— and there’s many inches of him. Sweat collects on your brow as you grind, dragging against his length, forcing shudders to course all over both your bodies. “Is this okay?” you cry, delirious, “Steve? You feel so good.”

He moves in you, like a prayer.

A groan escapes him as his hand squeezes your back just a little too hard. He’s holding back, trying to prolong your pleasure, but his own is chasing him down, only a few steps away from pouncing.

You coax it towards him with faster snapping of your hips against his, clawing at his back, nibbling on his ear. “Come on, lover… just a little more.”

With a grunt and a shudder, and a hard kiss to your lips that makes your teeth clack against each other, Steve thrusts one last time as deeply as possible, riding out his orgasm as he pulls your hips against his.

The two of you feel rooted together, sticky with sweat and so tightly flushed that you’re not sure where he ends and you begin. Your body slumps as you drape your arms over his neck. Steve turns his head to kiss your shoulder before making the effort to pull away, your shaky legs held in his secure grasp.

The black slik of night gives way to the earth’s rotation, stars and moon bending to the will of gravity. Splashes in its silent, dark depths as you broach the shore. A little shaky on your feet, but he’s close behind, sultry and brilliant like the summer morning quickly approaching.

Whispers and murmurs tucked between fervent kisses as you dress. Fabric sticking to damp skin as his hands roam. Frenetic movements as he backs you up against the car, the coolness of it causing you to shiver.

“You should do it,” he rasps against your lips. “The Italy thing, you always loved it there.”

“How did you–” you sputter.

You can’t see him roll his eyes, but you just know. “Nance, who else?”

The warmth of Steve’s body burns against you, a hand threading through your hair half-convinced the moon is hiding there, hanging like a jewel in the night. And you’re a mess when you kiss him. Your breath is warm and so sweet, and the center of his chest squirms like something alive.

In that moment, you love him but can’t tell him, not yet. You decide the sun that will kiss freckles to his face will do it for you.

The song of summer sings out as you load your suitcase into Nancy’s car a few days later. The trunk slams closed and your back is pressed against his chest, his arm hanging casually around your collar. It is the end of May, the first bloom of summer balmy on your skin.

Steve had not taken the news of Nancy driving you to the airport well.

At all.

A sponged necklace of kisses to your throat as the light creeps in. Sheets kicked to the edge of the bed so you’re tangled up in him. Skin already glinting gold in the summer sun. Twisting in his hold, desperate to glance at the time. “Steve,” muffled against the heft of his shoulder, “I gotta go, Nance will be here soon.”

The turn of his weight bearing down, trapping your body under his. A cruel circle of his hips has you shuddering. His breath ghosts along your skin, “Baby, baby please.” Nose trailing down from your sternum to the swell of your stomach. Pausing there for lips to lave kisses on the curves that trailed to your hips.

Eyes dark and heady with promise, “Just a taste.” Lips and mouth delving lower now, fingers parting the cleave of your cunt with a squelch. He hooks them back into his mouth with a groan. “Mmm,” he slurs, drunk off your arousal. “You taste good, sweetheart,” His nose bumps against your clit, “Like honey.”

Breath stuttering in the cage of your ribs, you fist his hair in one hand and tug. Steve moans overtly, pupils blown wide while he’s face deep in pussy. “Steve,” Your voice trembles. He glances up, smoldering and glorious, drinking you up. “Ah—fuck,” before you’re overtaken again.

You’re desperate, and he can hear it in your voice. A quiver in your throat, you swallow thickly mouth falling open in a pant. His fingers work into you easily, dragging exquisitely along your channel—warm and wet, only growing more so with every thrust of his hand. You mewl, hips bucking up as he sucks your swollen clit.

Legs thrown over his shoulders, as he cants your pelvis forward, arm heavy against your stomach to bully you in place. “Sweet girl,” He coos, lips ruddy and wet with your slick. “Doin’ so well for me.” You shiver in his hold, sunbeams hazy with orange glow, the refracting light makes a halo to crown him and for a second you feel blind.

Then you feel something pulled taut in your belly. A chord stretching like a rubber band before it snaps. The wind up is excruciating, Steve’s litany of devotions falling in hushed murmurs from his lips. His fingers plunging up into the chasm between your legs, pulling away wetter each time.

He bends back down, tongue circling your clit at a dizzying pace. A third finger slides in impossibly, a keen igniting from your throat—high and whimpering. God, you’re so close. You babble, hands scrambling purchase against his dewy skin.

“Come,” he commands, “Come for me right now and I’ll fuck you through it, how you like. Then I’ll make you come again and we can go.”

“Oh my god,” you thrash on the bed, hair sticking to the sheen of your face, hanging on by a thread as his fingers drive into you, on a mission to break either the bed frame or your brain, both were fine. In a rush. Can’t quit now. A little bit more. Your entire body is folded against him, insides fluttering desperately, maddeningly.

“Everyone’s gonna know,” Steve promises, “You stumbling in there.”

The image flashes through your lust-addled brain, the telltale sign of him screwing you stupid— lips swollen, legs wobbly, outfit crumpled up, smelling like him and sex in front of all your friends.

“You want it, don’t you, want them to know you’re all mine?” He smears your wet around the sides of your cunt— spit, slick— up to your clit. And then he pushes you like a button, flicking the pad of his thumb upwards and grins at the way you jerk in time.

“Stevie,” you mewl, “Steve.” The syllable breaks, your panting comes out in choked babbling.

You drily sob out something broken, a tiny echo of affirmation as he keeps fucking into you like he could break through. He’s really abused your pussy this morning, maybe gone too far, but every time you come like this, it’s like he’s seeing something holy.

“Oh my god…!” It’s a small shout as you shatter, and it makes Steve’s spine light up as you rub your face further into the pillow.

“Praying to me, sweetheart?” but doesn’t stop those tiny, hard circles, doesn’t stop melting into your body, his dick pulsing as he ruts against the sheets. “You can keep doing that,” he urges, “I like that.”

So, you’re not surprised when the two of you stumble into a nearly finished breakfast, as predicted, in a terrible disarray, and Robin crosses herself before promising, “I’m getting you two a goddamn chastity belt.”

On the couch, Eddie clicks the remote to a new channel, snapping his ring-clad fingers with an offhanded, “A-fucking-men.”

As much as you tried to tell yourself that this wasn’t goodbye but instead see you soon, it didn’t stick. But the ache in your gut did—low and menacing, growling like an animal.

Eddie and Robin were easy, promises to stay in touch and bring back the best candy. Your parents were less so, tight hugs and dried tears on cheeks.

Steve, however, you needed to brace yourself for. Short of chaining yourself to Nancy’s car, you weren’t sure how you’d escape with your dignity intact. He was already kissing on you, soft and sweet, as Nancy slid into the driver’s seat while Eddie and Robin waved goodbye walking back inside.

You slip from his grasp in a flash, pulling him by the belt loops to knock hips. “Stevie, lover mine,” you sing, his palms cupping your ass as his hands slide into your back pockets.

Lover.

What a word.

You think about it every waking second—the way he stretches in the morning, how he sings in the shower, dances in the kitchen, smiles and beams at anyone who passes by—how good he is.

How you love him.

“Mm—” raspy, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Feet walking you closer and closer and you’re pressed against him. Nosing along the column of his neck, nipping at the delicate skin there, watching as his throat bobs when he swallows.

Hands free themselves from denim confines, a thumb caresses the small of your back. Steve pries your hand from his chest, and brings it to his mouth, placing a tender kiss against your palm.

You hum as his lips brush your skin, observing as he meanders to the thin flesh of your wrist. Hazel eyes near golden in the morning sun as Steve looks to you, face open and fond. Lips featherlight when they kiss your thundering pulse.

Only then do you start to break.

You thought you were prepared. But it steals the breath from your lungs, levelling you to ruin, a creeping sense of hopelessness in its wake.

He’s quick to notice, crushing you to his chest and hand cradling your head. Soothing murmurs of “S’okay honey, we’ll be alright,” and the rasp of your name. Fingers brushing hair from your face with a soft smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

And it is hard to leave him, but you can do difficult things.

Forehead bent to yours, back warm in the sun’s decorous rays, a searing tear-laden kiss and you’re off. Turned back in your seat to see him recede in the distance until he’s a mere speck on the horizon as Nancy tugs you forward.

All the goodbyes had all been said, save one thing lodged in the depths of your throat.

I love you.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington smut #stranger things fanfiction #the kids aren't alright rosewaterandivy #modern!steve harrington #teacher!steve

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hunterscabin · 1 year

Text

Birthday Pie

Request: Can you write a fic where she falls down the stairs please? Like really clumsy, can hunt like a badass but still falls over her own two feet? - Anonymous

Pairings: Dean x Reader; Sam x Reader

Warnings: Small injury; angsty Dean; fluffy Dean; fluffy Sam; the gang’s all here!

Word Count: 1.2k

Author’s Note: Thank you for the request, Nonnie! I had a hard time wrapping this one up, so my apologies for the disgustingly saccharine, after school special ending.

The drive back to the bunker was spent in silence, save for the frustrated grunts and sighs Dean let out every few minutes. It had been a long day. Breaking up the vamp nest hadn’t gone as planned with the leader fleeing before you were able to get the answers you needed. Dean was always agitated after an unsuccessful hunt, but he was never this theatrical with his disappointment. You had a feeling it had something to do with the fact that it was also his birthday.

“At least this hunt was close to home,” you said, trying to infuse some positivity, “We’ll be back at the bunker in no time!”

Dean scoffed at your platitude.

“We’ll be able to track them down again,” you assured, “and we know they won’t be feeding for a while.”

You could almost feel Dean gritting his teeth.

“We killed over half the nest!”

“You killed over half the nest,” Sam corrected, “you were great today, Y/N.”

He turned to face you, but his smile quickly faded when he saw your somber expression. You were clearly trying to lift Dean’s spirits, and he wouldn’t even acknowledge you. Sam turned to his brother and cleared his throat, hoping to send the message that Dean needed to cool it. Dean ignored Sam and kept his angry gaze fixed on the road.

“I made pie.” you whispered earnestly.

Your last attempt at finding a silver lining struck a chord, and you saw a smile tug at Dean’s lips. His face hardened when your eyes met in the rear view mirror, but the second he thought you weren’t looking anymore, he allowed the smirk to slide back on his face.

Dean’s birthday pie balanced precariously in the palm of your right hand, the scent of sweet crust and tart cherries wafting over you as you made your way downstairs. You had baked the pie before leaving that morning, hiding it in the sitting area near the front door to ensure that Dean wouldn’t eat the entire thing before dinner. His gift was tucked under your left arm, making the descent more difficult than it needed to be. You could have taken two trips, but the boys were eager to eat.

Lost in thought over where the fugitive vamp leader could have retreated, your foot missed a step and sent you tumbling. When you moved your left hand to steady the wobbling dessert, Dean’s gift fell out from under your arm; a small sacrifice to save Dean’s precious pie. You were able to regain your balance by supporting your elbow on the railing. Satisfied that you had sufficiently steadied yourself, you let out a sigh of relief and continued making your way to the kitchen. The instant you lifted your foot and felt resistance, you knew you were doomed. In your initial stumble, the sock of one foot became caught under the other, and you were now stuck beneath yourself.

Your entire body toppled forward. Unless you let go of the pie to free your hands, you were going to fall flat on your face. In a last ditch effort to save the dessert, you lofted it over the railing to the floor below. For a moment, it looked as though you may have made the right decision, but at the last second, the pie flopped forward and landed upside down on the cold tile. You reached the bottom of the stairs with a loud thud.

Hearing the commotion, Sam and Dean came running from the kitchen. While the sight of your twisted limbs would have sent anyone else rushing to your aid, the boys had seen you like this enough times before to know that you were fine. You were an extremely skilled and agile hunter, but navigating your own two feet had always proven difficult. In day-to-day life, you were an absolute klutz.

Sam let out a soft chuckle as he stepped forward. “You okay, Y/N?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You mumbled, your ego hurting more than anything else.

As Sam moved to help you up, everyone’s eyes fell on the upside down dessert.

“It was an accident, Dean, I swear.” You scrambled to stand, not realizing you had injured your ankle in the fall. As soon as you were upright, the pain hit you and you winced, teetering forward.

“Y/N!” Sam caught you before you fell on top of the pie. He helped you sit back down and propped you up against the wall.

Dean still hadn’t said a word, and was looking at you, expressionless, from the other side of the hallway.

“I’m sorry I ruined your birthday,” you apologized, your eyes casting down to the floor.

Dean let out a loud sigh before turning around and walking toward the kitchen.

“Do you think he’s mad?“

"It’s just a pie, Y/N. He’ll get over it.” Sam sat down and leaned up against the wall next to you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, almost inaudibly.

“Y/N/N, look at me.” You lifted your eyes to meet your Sma’s. They were filled with sympathy and kindness.

“It’s been a long day. You know how cranky he gets after a bad hunt. If he’s mad, it’s not because of you.” Sam wrapped an arm around your shoulder. You knew he was right, but you couldn’t help the tears forming in your eyes.

To your surprise, Dean returned with a towel of ice. He sat next to you on the bottom step and placed the ice on your already swollen ankle. One of the tears you’d been holding back escaped and rolled down your cheek.

“Does it hurt that bad?” Dean questioned, knowing your usually high tolerance for pain.

“No,” you said to the floor, unable to look at him, “I thought you were mad at me."

"I’m not mad at you, sweetheart,” Dean confirmed, cracking his first real smile of the day, “You made me pie!"

When you still didn’t look at him, Dean sat down next to you.

"Look, I know I’ve been a crab ass all day.” You and Sam stared at Dean, both of you surprised by his admission. “We don’t get to celebrate things like a normal family. I knew I wasn’t gonna get a party or balloons, but I hoped I’d at least get vengeance for the people those vamps have been killing."

"I’m sorry today wasn’t what you wanted it to be."

"You don’t need to apologize, Y/N/N.” Dean pressed a kiss to your temple before leaning forward. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out three forks. He handed one to you and one to Sam.

“What are these for?” Sam inquired.

“Pie.” Dean stated as if Sam’s was the dumbest question he’d ever heard.

“You’re going to eat the pie off the floor?” You looked up at Dean in disbelief.

Dean crouched down next to his dilapidated dessert. He lifted the baking tin and drove his fork right into the center of the bottom of the pie. A look of ecstasy washed over his face as he shoved the piece into his mouth.

You and Sam flashed each other a look of “Why not” and crawled toward the pie. Careful to avoid the parts that had touched the floor, you took a big scoop.

“This is really good, Y/N,” Dean praised, wiping away the cherry syrup at the corners of his mouth.

The three of you sat on the floor, picking at the pie until you were too full to continue.

Dean leaned against the staircase banister and let out a satisfied chuckle.

“Turned out to be a pretty good birthday after all."

Masterlist

#Dean Winchester x Reader #Dean x Reader #Dean Winchester Angst #Dean Winchester Fluff #Sam Winchester x Reader #Sam Winchester Fluff #Supernatural Fanfiction #SPN Fanfic

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onetimetwotimesthreetimess · 6 months

Note

For the prompts Malec as Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce 🫢

Magnus as the one of the most successful and famous pop star ever and Alec as a famous football player who won 2 Super Bowl

As much as Alec loves football, he hates interviews and having to talk to the public. He knows he is lucky enough to live this dream, but he’s not really made for paparazzi and red carpets. He’s meant to stay inside his home and gang up with Jace on Izzy’s cooking.

But alas, life doesn’t always work the way you want and Alec is forced to appear on this interview by PulseCapture Insider. Alec thinks it’s the stupidest name for a channel but so are most of them.

He’s not really here for himself. He’s here for something else—he’s here to set the record straight. Not that he needs to, but because he wants to.

It’s the least he could do.

He’s barely seven minutes into the interview when he’s hit with the question. He’s not surpised because they’ve gone through all variations of the ‘how great was that touchdown’ question.

“So, now that you’re here. We believe it’s a great opportunity to ask you the million dollar question?”

Alec rolls his eyes, internally as he replies. “And what’s that?”

“About your new whirlwind romance with none other than Magnus Bane,” the interviewer comments.

There’s something about the way the interviewer says Magnus’s name that irks Alec. He’s not sure why.

“We’re dating, yeah.”

The interviewer, Sebastian looks a bit surpised, as if he didn’t expect Alec to answer so easily.

Media is so fucking weird. They’ll hound you until you’re forced to tell your truth but they’ll also hound you if you tell your truth easily. It’s insane on every single level and while Alec’s famous, he’s not familiar with the level of scrutiny that actors and singers have to deal with. He’s a sportsperson. There’s limit to that. But celebrities, their lives are on constant watch and Alec hates that.

He’s not sure how Magnus ever deals with it.

“That’s great,” Sebastian breathes.

“Yeah. Magnus is great.”

There’s a moment of silence and Alec guesses that all of Sebastian’s questions revolves around proding Alec. Now he needs a new line of questioning.

He passes a few comments about their relationship before he asks. “So, a lot of people are saying that Magnus Bane is with you for the money. Care to comment on that?”

Out of all the ludicrous things anyone can ask him, Alec believes this one takes the cake. He’s baffled by the judgement in people’s minds.

“If anyone were to be in this for the money, it would be me,” Alec smirks.

Sebastian frowns. “What?”

“I make 18 million dollars a year. Magnus makes around 150. His hair costs more than my entire house,” Alec points out.

“Oh.”

“Anyone with a single brain cell and a working laptop would be able to find out this. I’m guessing you only have one of the two things,” Alec smirks.

The interview ends shortly after that. Alec has a flight to catch after that so the next few hours pass easily. He’s exhausted by the time he reaches his destination.

He enters the building and the watchmen lets him in as Alec is on the list now.

Three minutes later, Alec is inside the loft and he searches for the other man. Alec’s not surprised when he finds Magnus in the balcony.

Magnus knows he’s coming, Alec had informed him earlier.

“Hey.”

His boyfriend turns and even though he knew, even know they’ve been texting the entire time, there’s a beaming smile on his face as he sees Alec.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

Alec smiles as he steps forward. Magnus makes space for him on the couch and Alec sits there carefully. This- this, between them is still relatively new so Alec is careful sometimes. Even though whenever he’s with Magnus, he never wants to think again. He never plans or prepares. He just does.

“Hi, baby,” he breathes as he finally connects their lips. Magnus’s smile grows against his face and Alec can feel the heat grow in between them.

“I missed you,” Magnus says quietly, as he brings their forehead together.

“Me too,” Alec replies and pulls Magnus in for another kiss. They take it slow this time, their bodies shifting closer to each other.

“I saw your interview,” Magnus says after a while as he lays against Alec’s chest, playing with his fingers.

Alec hopes he’s not said more than Magnus wanted them to. But they’ve talked about this. There would be no rules. They could both say whatever the fuck they wanted.

“And?”

Magnus turns and there’s a mischievous grin on his face as he replies, “I didn’t realise you’re in it for money, Alexander. I am hurt.”

A loud chuckle escape his lips at the words. “I hate to break it to you but it’s true, baby.”

#Alec sugar baby rights>>#malec #magnus bane #alec lightwood

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tickle-bugs · 2 months

Text

Stupid in Love

Summary: Nick Miller is completely, 100% normal about all things Jessica Day. Including her smile, her laugh--ah, fuck. He's doomed. NickJess ft. pining!Nick

Anon: I just saw you write for New Girl! I am in my yearly rewatch of the show so I am so happy you write for it! Maybe the loft gang and CeCe can be playing a game of true American and somehow during the game it comes out that Jess is incredibly ticklish. Everyone is too focused on the game to use it to their advantage at the moment, but nick remembers and maybe later when him and Jess are together, he decided to test his new found knowledge and see just how ticklish Jess really is.

While this isn’t set during a particular episode, I was thinking HEAVILY about s2 ep15, Cooler. One of the greatest episodes of the whole show, hands down. I just wanted to write pining Nick tbh.

True American is the best goddamn game ever invented. It defines a man at his core level. Everything that’s ever mattered to Nick is on the line in this game. His dignity, his pride, his dignity…

He honestly can’t remember what they’re playing for. Something involving the sink. Or a drink? Unclear, but irrelevant. Nick is the king of an aluminum can palace and his citizens will thrive under his leadership. This is his birthright.

They’re playing True American: Catan Edition tonight. Each player defends their own small nations and attempts to crush the others, throwing their leaders to the molten lava below. It’s the smartest thing Winston’s ever come up with.

“Duel for my amusement,” Nick slurs, waving his paper towel roll scepter around. The cardboard crown on his head slips down over his eyes. Cece blows a raspberry at him. He lobs a balled-up piece of paper at her.

Jess plays a fanfare into her backup kazoo—Schmidt threw away her main one—and draws angry eyebrows onto the smiley face of her country’s flag. A declaration of war.

Sober Jess is all for political progress and human rights, but Drunk Jess? Maniacal, power-hungry, and so very hot.

Focus, Miller.

“Two, four, six, eight! Who do we appreciate?” Jess climbs onto one of the kitchen chairs and puts a colander on her head. A warrior’s helm. Nick smiles at her.

In their corner of the living room, Winston and Schmidt whisper furiously. At some point in the last hour, Winston had ascended to Grand Advisor of Schmidt’s Creek. Schmidt had lost the ability to speak after can number two, when Cece had flirted him out of all of his natural resources and a third of his land. Nick had been trying to think of how to poach Winston to Nicklandia, but he couldn’t think of a plan that didn’t involve saying ‘please’ until he passed out.

“Schmidt’s Creek will not challenge today!” Winston crushes his beer can against Schmidt’s forehead. Schmidt doesn’t even blink.

“Ruth Gader Binsburg! I challenge your weird little colony, Jess,” Cece shouts, messily hopping onto the chair next to Jess. They start some combination of swatting at each other and clutching on for dear life. Schmidt looks up at Cece like a drunk, lovesick puppy. Nick rolls his eyes.

Thank god he doesn’t look like that.

Does he look like that?

Shit. He’s missing the game.

“Yeah? Guess what—” Jess knocks her knuckles against the colander helmet, winces, and then points at Cece— “I’m the Queen of England, bitch.”

Nick’s not sure what’s elapsed in the apparently three years since he was last paying attention, but he knows by the way that Cece gasps that someone’s dying on the living room and/or kitchen floor tonight. Jess cackles and puts her hands on her hips. They start yelling, but even if they’re saying real human words, which he’s pretty sure they’re not, he’s not processing it. Jess looks so stupid in that little holey hat—someone should invent a word for that thing—and she’s adorable.

Nick leans his cheek on his palm and smiles wider. Does she know her nose scrunches when she’s annoyed?

Nick leans a little too far and loses his balance. Half of his aluminum fortress tumbles down. When he looks back up, Jess and Cece haven’t budged. Or blinked. Cece squints at Jess and it’s clear the conversation has ascended to psychic levels that even Drunk Nick can’t access. He tries though. Mostly gives himself a headache.

Something in their eye conversation must shift, because Cece gets this look on her face. Like pure, concentrated mischief. The aura off of her is so powerful that everyone scoots back a bit. Cece starts stretching and cracking her knuckles.

“Waitwaitwait, Cece, you don’t have to do this.” Jess holds her hands up in immediate surrender, but she’s smiling hard enough to brighten the room. A little nervous giggle picks up in the back of her throat and she starts to turn pinker than the boxed rosé that forms her section of the living room.

“Oh, but I do. Surrender. Now.” Cece points to the floor. Which is lava. Cruel way to go.

Jess looks at her best friend with the kind of profound resignation only possible when piss drunk. She sighs deeply, staring at the floor…

And then launches herself at Cece with a war cry.

Cece doesn’t even flinch. She catches Jess, smirks, and starts tickling her sides with vicious precision. Jess lets out a giggly shriek and crumples, sinking right down into the lava. The colander tumbles off of her head and rolls into Nick’s fortress.

The sound worms itself into Nick’s brain, taking up residence alongside all the other little Jess things that drive him nuts. It distracts him hard enough that by the time Winston arises as Supreme Leader of the Loft, Nick can’t even trace the path of his defeat.

………

Even when sobriety beats them over the head the next morning, Nick can remember nothing but the sweet music of Jess’s laugh. And the shape of her smile.

God he’s hopeless.

The slow march of the week brings some relief in the sense that a) Nick remembers that he really doesn’t do the whole ‘feelings’ thing and b) alcohol makes anyone look like an angel walking the earth. He is a grown ass man and Jess is an annoying little craft goblin. He can be normal. She’s normal. No need to get worked up over her.

“You look like Mr. Rogers’s grumpy cousin.” Jess snickers, fiddling with the sleeve of Nick’s hideous cardigan.

“You done? You finished?” He pulls his sleeve away from her. It’s really Schmidt’s, which she very well knows. Nick’s only wearing it because Schmidt’s being weird about Cece again, and the only way to survive that is to bend to his will. Schmidt’s already dehydrated himself twice this week trying to show off his muscles more, Nick doesn’t want to add to that by making the guy cry. He’d never stop.

Jess, however, doesn’t seem to understand the magnitude of this manly sacrifice. She’s too busy laughing at him.

“Mmmm, no, I don’t think I am. You look like a Muppet.” She pinches his cheek. He rolls his eyes.

“Well, that’s just a compliment.”

“No, no. You look like the bird. The bird with the eyebrows—“ Jess pauses as her giggles overtake her— “You look like Sam the Eagle.”

Jess folds over into his shoulder with laughter and smacks his chest. The warmth of it almost distracts him from the comment.

Almost.

“Yeah, laugh it up, Jess. C’mere—“ He drags her across the couch by the ankle and latches onto her sides. She makes that adorable sound again, that giggly shriek, and flails like a worm on a hook. She tries to push his face away. He swats her hands aside like it’s nothing. When reaches for him again—futile, really—he snatches her wrists in one hand, pins them down, and tickles with the other.

Her whole face burns. He chooses to ignore it for both of their sakes.

“Let me know when you’re ready to apologize. Take your time.” He does a little pinchy thing with his fingers and Jess lets out a high-pitched mess of syllables. She throws her head back and cackles, arching up into him.

“Hmm, yeah, see none of that sounded like ‘You’re the best, Nick Miller’. Try again.” He pokes all over her torso, fast and wild. He lets go of her and adds his other hand into the mix. Every time she tries to talk, he speeds up, making her laugh at his silliness along with his hands. She kicks her legs and lets out a little giggly growl. Nick smiles so wide his cheeks hurt.

“Nick!” She grabs his wrists but doesn’t stop him. His stomach flips. She’s so overwhelming.

“That’s my name.” He skitters his fingers up her ribs to distract himself from the lump in his throat.

Jess flails and nearly takes them both off the couch and into the next life. Nick catches himself before he collapses on top of her, but it puts their faces mere inches apart. The space of a breath. He can see the faint freckles across her nose, all brought forth by the pink flush down her cheeks and neck. As she catches her breath, lips parted, her laughter simmers low in her chest. He brushes her hair out of her face. His hand lingers on her cheek.

Her eyes crinkle when she smiles. Does she know that?

Nick gets the deep, burning urge to kiss her senseless. To download all these embarrassing, vulnerable thoughts from his brain to hers. To show her how deep this goes. To drink of her like the wine at restaurants he can never afford.

No. Not like this. She deserves better than this.

Than him.

He starts to pull away, awkwardly clearing his throat. Jess surges forward and Nick’s stupid little monkey brain gleefully claps its hands together, shouting this is it! It’s happening! Nick’s brain activity screeches to a halt. He stares at her mouth and freezes.

Jess flips them over and starts tickling his ears like some kind of insane supervillain.

“No! Jessica!” He turtles and attempts to fling himself to safety. All he accomplishes is hanging off the back of the couch, leaving his knees in reach of Jess’s evil nails—

One day he will be smart about Jessica Day, but he concedes that it won’t be today. But as she destroys him and Schmidt’s stupid, hopefully inexpensive cardigan, he secretly hopes the day never arrives.

#my fics #new girl #nickjess #ticklish!jess day #jess day #nick miller #not v proud of this one but it was fun attempting nick's inner voice #hope u enjoy new girl anon! thank u for ur patience <3

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anxious-art-block · 7 months

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LU Headcanons Part 5: THE TWIDDIES ARE BACK

Warriors’s Hylian is based on Icelandic

Four’s Hylian is based on Russian

Rich City Boy Wars ✨

“Boys have attitude, men have class.” “Many have an idea of me, but few seldom get the picture.” “Elegance is a beauty that never fades~!" “Oh? Why for?” “Hmph, cheeky!” “If you’re going to talk nonsense, I have better things to do.” “So he slipped the hook?” “What a ghastly prospect!” “Such good luck!”

Wheelchair user Four!

I know it’s like magic and all, but I refuse to believe that given the amount of stretching and compressing he did in Minish Cap, there’s no permanent effect on his muscular or nervous system

Like c’mon! He was literally squishing and stretching out his spinal cord basically on the regular

That’s gotta have SOME side effects

So I like to imagine that it led to nerve damage in his spinal cord! He can stand and walk a little bit (ex: standing to grab something off a shelf), but can often only do so for short periods of time and it can leave him really out of breath or overheated with his lower back and neck hurting afterward. On good days, however, when he feels he doesn’t need the wheelchair, he has a pair of wooden forearm crutches or a wooden cane he can use

All of these are painted and designed with rainbows in mind for the colors

And all of which he designed himself!

He will in fact spin around and gut-punch someone who moves his chair or pushes him without permission

Good for him

Given and Family names in their Hylians!! PLEASE CORRECT ME IF ANY MEANINGS OR SPELLINGS BEHIND THE NAMES ARE INCORRECT!! GOOGLE IS ONLY SO HELPFUL

Sky: Do Joo-Won (Meaning ‘Path’ and ‘First’ or ‘Origin’) Four: Nikolai Mikhailovich Belyayev (Meaning ‘People of Victory’ and ‘White’ or ‘Blond’) Time: Link Ó Cearbhaill (Meaning ‘Valorous in Battle’) Twilight: Xǔ lián jié (Meaning ‘Brilliant, Rising Sun’ and ‘To Link or Bind) Legend: Link O'Tuathaigh (Meaning ‘Descendant of the Chief) Hyrule: Boriboon “Link” [No family name given] (Meaning ‘Complete’ or ‘Whole’) Wind: Olioli (Meaning ‘Joyful’) Warriors: Link Björnsson (Meaning ‘Son of Bear’) Wild: Moriyama Yua (Meaning 'Forest Mountain' or 'Protecting Mountain' and ‘To Connect or Tie’)

I tried to find names that directly translate to 'Link' in English, but Twi was really the only one I could find, so I went with names in relation to their character or the games! (ex: Hyrule's means whole for the fact that he has the whole triforce)

Skinship and physical affection are very common amongst the Chain, it may not be common with the Links in their own Hyrule’s, but there’s a very special type of bond amongst these nine, and it feels almost natural for them to express that in physical touch. There will be a lot of arm-around-shoulder, sometimes hand-holding, leaning on someone, general cuddling, and when needed can go as far as forehead, temple, or cheek kisses and hugs are a big thing <3

When they get to Skyloft for the first time, it's revealed that Sky has been planning on proposing to Sun for months now, but never got to finish planning as that's when the journey with the chain started. When the gang finds out they endlessly tease him about it and how he has no idea how he's going to until at one point he runs towards them, hair a mess and breathing like he ran a mile, with nothing but a desperate look on his face and a "Help me!"

Warriors, ever the romantic, jumps at the chance to help and thinks up millions of ways to propose

He, Sky, Legend, and Time spent probably about 2 days planning different ways to propose to Sun ranging from a picnic, to doing it in writing, to in front of the goddess statue, etc. and they eventually came up with the plan that Sky was going to take her on a long ride on his loft wing, then bring her to the Isle of Song and propose

Well

It would’ve gone as planned if Sky had actually gone through with it

On the ride around Skyloft, just as sunset was hitting, he turned around to look at her and was in awe at how she looked

Her golden hair nearly glowing when the orange and pink hues of the sky hit the crown of her head, a bright toothy smile on her face while the wind blew towards her, her hands tightening around his waist just a bit. He stars for a moment, then blurts out

“Marry Me.”

He turns her around and stalls his loftwing, and just holds her hands and tells her how much he loves her and eventually pulls out the ring he asked Four to make, and then they smooch <3

They get back to Skyloft and they both go running to the Chain and the other Knights while squealing (With some knights handing money to each other)

That’s all I got lol so moving on!

Legend considers himself a bit of a linguist, he speaks a total of 5 languages (Labrynnan, Holoese, Subrosian, Lolian, and a professional level of Ancient Hylian) after he got the Book of Mudora he took an interest in studying linguistics for not only the places he’s been but then also just other countries and areas he’s never been too or have heard stories of

Most of the Chain speak a bit of other languages (Twilight speaking some Twili, Four with Minish, etc.) he simply holds a record for the amount of languages spoken and the knowledge he holds on foreign languages altogether

He uses the Hytopian spelling for a lot of Hylian words (ala British English to American English)

He speaks a lot of Lolian with Ravio since that’s his mother tongue and while he’s fluent in Hylian, Legend knows he prefers speaking in Lolian and they use that at home more than anything

Oh yeah

Lolian is based on French

Until we meet again *goblin noises*

#linked universe #lu #linked universe headcanons #lu wild #lu warriors #lu time #lu twilight #lu legend #lu hyrule #lu sky #lu wind #lu four #lu incorrect quotes

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crimsononiarataki · 14 days

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@lord-kamisato asked:

Ayato's footsteps echoed softly against the wooden docks, his thoughts drifting lazily. The journey to Ritou had been productive yet tiring, and the cool sea breeze offered a welcome respite from the diplomatic affairs he had been preoccupied with.

As he neared the familiar sights of the docks, something caught Ayato's attention—a towering figure, unmistakably an Oni, standing amidst the bustling activity. With a faint smile playing on his lips, Ayato diverted his path towards the Oni, his guards trailing behind him like silent shadows. He decided to deviate from his usual choice of dango milk, opting instead for two fruit-based boba tea from a nearby vendor.

Approaching Itto with measured steps, Ayato halted a respectful distance away, his posture relaxed yet poised. He held out one of the boba teas towards the Oni, the vibrant colors of the drink contrasting against the muted tones of the docks.

"Itto," Ayato greeted warmly, his voice carrying over the sounds of the bustling harbor. "How have you been? And how's everything going here?" He inclined his head slightly.

The Oni would roll his shoulders after placing a few crates of cargo down near the vendor who had ordered it, a grin playing at his lips. He'd be blissfully unaware of Ayato's elegant, yet quick footsteps growing ever closer to his towering form. While he was aware of just who Ayato was, he'd never been corrected on how he referred to the other male, but should Lord Kamisato ever ask it of him, he'd treat him as a man of his station was commonly treated.

The sound of footsteps growing closer would draw his attention away from the water he'd been gazing at for a few moments, a brow lofting upward upon sunset hues taking in the sight of the boba held in an elegantly gloved hand. He took note of the colors within the cup before striding forward the grin upon his visage widening slightly before he opted to speak.

"Ayato, bro! What brings ya to Ritou?"

He'd take the offered drink without worry, boba could be made in many flavors, he knew this, but he was likely able to discern the fruity flavor that the cup held within going by the outer packaging. He knew how to open the beverage, despite not partaking of it himself that often, not due to not liking it, but because he never thought about it. He might genuinely need to change that at some point in the future. Once the offered drink was within one of his large, clawed hands, he'd take the straw and puncture the top properly.

"I've been doin' prett-y good. Things around here are pickin' up, I do more deliveries for the vendors here than the main city now."

The Oni always stuck out like a fairly sore thumb but the people of Ritou never had a negative thing to say about him anymore. Not with how helpful he'd been. He helped unload cargo ships that came into port and he took the time to deliver the good to each vendor they belonged to. Sometimes the boys from his Gang were with him helping out to the best of the capabilities, though human as they were, they couldn't lift nearly as much as he could.

#lordkamisato #The One and Oni (primary)

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gothamrumours · 25 days

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Metropolis knows no pain

To the people of Gotham, as every single Gothamite and their mother knows Metropolis citizens are nothing but weak complainers who know 0 and I mean ZERO pain like "You have people poisonings the water supply that's so scary!??" Like of course we do its how we build an immune system or "Batman? Sounds like a villain to me!??" Like doesn't your richest man in you city feel to blow it up every time your literal God of FriEnDshiP ruins his boring day? Don't come for our hero.

Also on the note of your God why is he so destructive? Huh? Most our knight broke is a few windows and fans hearts cause he doesn't except fan art. Also our Richman is a lovable himbo who helps the city by making repairs to places damaged by crime and our knight. "Well our hero doesn't use child labor!?" Have you never heard of employment plus they get lots of benefits I believe since they have amazing tech and also everyone knows The Dark Knight's demon spawn children are happy to fight and rid the city of crime like once Spoiler smiled and said hi to the paparazzi.

"Gotham is full of criminal though" ya but most of those criminals have a PhD and are also doctors, what do you have aliens we have the best education 👏, also my rent is $250 a month and I have a loft studio, rent in Metropolis is like $3,800 for a small one bedroom apartment so what you if there's a bit of crime. Also the crime in Gotham is pretty easy to avoid like duh just don't do stupid or things that damage other people or plant's lives simple. Most of Gotham crime is either revenge, to help someone, gang related, or done by the joker.

Also Gotham has the least amount of crime related to race, sex or disorder. So next time you Metropolis snowflakes want to come complain about my city remember yours is worst by a long shot we just don't hide our issues.

Your Loyal Journalist,

Gotham Rumors

#dc comics #gotham rumors #gotham #dc fandome #fannon #dc universe #brucie wayne #batman #gotham city #superman #lex luthor #kal el #clark kent #Metropolis city #gothamite #only in gotham #gotham rp

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miscfandomgifimagines · 1 year

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Random Lyle HCs

These are purely selfish sfw headcanons of my favorite blue boy. I’m not personally really familiar with the Avatar lore so I’m just going off my own imagination on some stuff. Also not sure how I want to go about my smut hc/fic for him so I’m stalling by writing this lol. I’m hoping to have some free time later this week to sit down and write some more, but I can’t make any promises. I’m really torn because all of my writing so far is done with my human oc as the base of my headcanons and I’m not sure if people would read my stuff if I used my oc and not reader inserts. Let me know if you have a preference one way or the other, maybe it’ll help me figure out what to do.

* Lyle is the type of person who would carry around a picture of someone close to him wherever he goes. The specific picture of you that he carries around? It’s a mirror selfie where you and Lyle are standing in front of the mirror flexing your biceps with a huge grin on both of your faces. Every time he looks at the picture he feels comforted. I don’t feel like the other recoms would make fun of pictures like this because everyone has someone special in their life that they would want by their side during rough moments.

* I feel like Lyle would be the type of person who wouldn’t mind reading, maybe not college textbooks or romance novels. But magazines about cars, fitness, guns, or anything similar? Loves them and reading them is one of his favorite low-energy hobbies.

* Lyle actually thinks most of Pandora’s wildlife is pretty cool. Back on Earth a lot of animals had died out so there really wasn’t anything aside from the occasional house pets. (*Not super familiar with the lore of Avatar’s Earth so idk if this is even accurate but just roll with it*) Obviously has a very healthy fear of most of the things crawling around in the jungle but every time he sees a cool lizard or even those monkeys he always stares for a bit. His favorite animal on Pandora? Ikran, his specifically. He thinks they are dope as hell and loves how vibrant the patterns are. Flying is just an added bonus.

* Still dedicated to his mission but finds his mind wandering about other possibilities such as what would happen if they fail again. He’s weirded out by being in an Avatar body the way it is now and the idea that all his memories are on a data stick in someone’s lab somewhere makes him uneasy. He doesn’t want to die but has the sinking feeling that the RDA would keep bringing everyone back as many times as it would take to finish business so to speak.

* Not one to believe in happy endings, especially after everything he’s been through but that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be a nice change. Your presence through the readjustment period was a godsend and he’s crossing his fingers that you’ll get to keep in touch even as the mission progresses. Sometimes in the morning, he’ll just stare at you in the kitchen while you make yourself breakfast almost like if he moved his eyes from your frame you would disappear. When you catch him staring you make fun of him a little bit. “I’m not going to share if you keep staring like that.” Or “Why don’t you make yourself useful and start washing some of the dishes if you’re just going to sit there ogling.”

* Doesn’t like sharing even with the other recoms, but he makes an exception for Z-Dog simply because she’s the only one he trusts not to break his stuff. Quaritch is usually a no too surprisingly unless it’s necessary for the mission or to maintain a decent relationship. Gets kind of possessive over his stuff just because he hates when people take his stuff and don’t put it back.

* Lyle likes to listen to music when he’s at home base during his downtime. Whether that’s just by himself in his room, out in the common quarters with the gang, or in the science loft with you while you play your own music. I feel like he’d be the type to like mainly rock music personally, but he doesn’t make too much of a fuss about what other people are playing as long as it’s disrupting the quiet. I could totally see him branching out to metal music when he’s in the gym cuz it hypes him up.

* He’s surprisingly decent at braiding his own hair but insists that you do it when he gets out of the shower. He’ll sit on the floor crisscrossed in front of the couch and nestles between your legs, enjoying the warmth that comes from your skin. Sometimes after a stressful day, you spend a little bit of time massaging the back of his neck and the area around his queue gently and he just about melts every time. Also loves it when you sing to him while you comb and braid his hair.

* Sometimes if he doesn’t want your bonding session to end he’ll purposely make it harder for you by moving or swiveling his head around (to your annoyance). “Seriously, sit still! You are such a toddler. You want your shit fixed or what?” You smack him on the side of his head and he lets out a snort. “I thought we agreed to no hitting outside of the bedroom?” You let out a huff and tug his queue a bit. “I never agreed to that, especially not with how annoying you can be.”

* Hates going up into the science loft since the ceilings are shorter than the main level and he smacks his head into the lights and stuff but does it anyway to spend time with you. He’s a pretty selfish person and prefers to have his time with you be just the two of you. He’ll sit on the floor next to your desk and make small talk with you while you work on your projects. When he thinks you’ve been sitting for too long he makes you get up and go down to the kitchen where he’ll make you a snack and have you do some stretching.

* After a long day of you at your desk he loves to go into your room and stretch out (as best he can) on your bed. You like to complain that he messes up your pillows but you really don’t mind it. Lyle likes to pull you onto the bed with him and squishes you against his chest. When it’s just the two of you he doesn’t bother holding back his purrs because he knows you like them, but in front of the group he does his best to quiet it. You’ll usually stay cuddled up together until it’s dinner time or someone calls for him.

* I also think Avatars have scent glands just like normal kitties so when he rubs up against your belongings like your bed or your clothes he’s literally marking you as yours. As a “scientist,” you already knew about this, but you were a bit surprised to catch Lyle marking up the stuff in your room. He was a bit embarrassed when you caught him the first time, but continues to do it to the annoyance of the other recoms.

* I feel like Lyle wouldn’t mind cooking because it’s a necessary life skill to have and he’s pretty good at it. Hunting on Pandora would be a breeze for him. The fresh meat coupled with the veggies growing from your aquaponics would make a damn good meal. I feel like there are also a lot of weird recipes he follows, kinda like what broke college kids/ prison inmates would do (Ramen noodle burritos anybody?). Loves being able to “provide” for you which sounds silly but is always happy to cook for you, especially when you’re busy doing other things.

* Keeps his belongings and room pretty tidy. He’s not one to leave his stuff lying out which makes rooming with him preferable to the others, as you tend to trip on their stuff when they drop it all over the shack. Lyle catches wind of your annoyance and starts shoving stuff into the recom’s rooms so you have a clean living space to walk through.

* Likes helping you out in the gardens, whether it’s the native Pandoran patch outside the shack or the Earth one inside the outbuilding. You and your friend grow a variety of food found on Earth since you were still learning how to adapt to the foods on this planet. You head out each afternoon to check the crops and scribble notes down about the progress and Lyle likes to sneak strawberries when he thinks you aren’t looking.

* Lyle likes to make himself useful however he can whether that’s doing the heavy lifting, reaching for high objects, or fixing stuff around the shack. Does chores without being told to which was a pleasant surprise when you caught him outside fixing the rainwater basin. Loves helping out even more when you reward him with kisses and praise afterward even if he gets teased for kissing ass from the others.

* Hates when he has to leave for extended periods of time as he’s always worried about your safety out in the wilds. He knows he can’t get out of it so he does what he can to prepare you. “Okay so don’t go outside after dark, if you have to you both leave. One of you needs a gun and keep your-“ “Head on a swivel for any hostiles.” You give a small smile and grab his hand. “I know you’re worried, but we’re gonna be okay. You on the other hand need to promise me you’re going to come back. In one piece.” He squeezes your small hand and does his best to look sincere. “I’m always going to come back to you, no matter what happens.”

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