#trying to figure out if I can wear my new collar casually and the answer is yes because I’m cute

[yaknowlikenyah]

I’ve gotten to the point in my gay existence where kink gear is a fun and sexy way to accessorize my outfits. Regardless of the vibe of the function.

[simpforboys]

daddy’s money

rafe cameron x fem!pogue!reader

summary: rafe overhears someone being rude to you at your job. it doesn’t end well for either of you, but rafe tries to make up for it.

warnings: arguing, violence (a punch is thrown), protective!rafe, sugar daddy!rafe (?!??), fluff, reader can speak spanish (but race or anything isn't described), not proof read

these are based on my personal experiences (love working retail), just minus the punching

the ring of the bell made your ears perk up as you folded clothes.

you began working at amor, a popular clothing shop for kooks of all ages about a year ago. why they hired you, a pogue, was beyond you, but nonetheless you appreciated it.

especially since your manager, kat, loved you, as she came from rags and rising to riches.

you loved your job, being able to wear casual dresses and clothes, as half the store was beachy clothes and the other half was fancier.

“is that y/n l/n?”

you turned your head to see rafe cameron, kook prince. you hadn’t seen him in awhile, his hair now buzzed as he walked with the same prideful look.

you grinned, putting the shirt you were folding onto the table before hugging the tall man.

you and rafe had a thing, as one day he came into the shop you two immediately hit it off.

“did you find everything okay?” you asked, trying not to stare at the attractive man in front of you.

you scanned the shorts and polo shirts he was buying, noticing him smiling down at you. his hair was pushed back with a baseball cap on his head.

“i did now,” he said slyly.

“oh yeah?” you grinned, taking the security tags off the clothes. a heat rose to your cheeks as you bagged his items.

“didn’t realize they had pretty girls working here, y/n.” the man read your name tag.

“i wouldn't say that..." you trailed off, not knowing the man's name.

"rafe, rafe cameron." a cameron, huh? it had shocked you, really. the camerons were all over the news and basically ran figure eight.

"your total is going to be $259.73." you couldn't help but peek as he pulled out his wallet, his gold card practically dissing you as he put it in the pinpad.

you handed him his receipt, feeling electricity as you two accidentally brushed hands. he smiled down at you, grabbing his bag.

"i'll see you around, y/n."

"have a good day, rafe."

you watched as he exited the building, but quickly turned around after he paused. you furrowed your brows as he walked back up to the register.

"can i take you out?"

the rest of the story turned around, but you still kept in touch with rafe until he was on the ship with his father. he never texted or called you back after that.

"thanks for answering me." you said sarcastically, trying to hide your beaming smile. even though you hadn't heard from him, you still missed talking and being around him.

"sorry, mama. things got tough."

rafe's eyes wandered your body. from the way your hair was styled, your shorts that displayed your pretty legs, cropped tank top that showed some cleavage with a hawaiian shirt over it to make it seem a bit more modest, although failing to do so.

"i bet, being a cameron isn't so easy, huh?" you teased, continuing to fold the shirts you had previously ditched.

rafe didn't get to respond before kat came over, cutting off your conversation. "y/n, hay un cliente (there is a customer)."

kat was a very strong person. her family had come from mexico in search of a new life, and kat had quickly picked up the pace as she was able to open up amor. the store allowed her family to move from the cut to figure eight. she was around 5'6, brown hair that looked black in some lighting, with a mole next to her top lip that just added to herself, in a weird way.

"lo veo (i see him)." working at amor, you quickly picked up on spanish (unless you already speak it). kat eyed rafe, before nodding at him and heading back to the fitting room.

"did you find everything okay?" you questioned the man. he was around 40, dressed in a collared shirt with jeans to match. he had a rolex on his wrist, displaying his wealth.

rafe had moved to look at some of the mannequins, staying close by.

the man didn't respond, scrolling on his phone. you pursed your lips together, biting back your tongue as you continued to scan his items. his body language seemed defensive as he stood away from you.

"i like your-"

unfortunately, working customer service you had some rude customers from time to time, especially being a pogue in kook territory.

"just zip it pogue and bag my clothes. and don't try anything suspicious, either."

you were taken aback by his comment.

"don't talk to her like that." rafe had appeared next to the register, his nostrils flaring as his normal blue eyes turned dark. his pupils were blown wide as he stared at the man like he was going to kill him.

"and who are you?" the man scoffed.

"she's just doing her job, dickhead."

"if she was just doing her job, she wouldn't be tryna talk to me. now, who are you? do you even work here?" the man eyed rafe angrily, trying to appear more dominate but ultimately failed. rafe was taller and seemed to be much stronger.

"rafe-" you tried.

"rafe cameron, is that right?" the man suddenly smirked, sizing rafe up.

"i should've known. all camerons are dicks, especially your father."

you saw how rafe clenched his fist, the veins in his hand looking like they were on the verge of exploding.

"but i never expected a cameron to be protecting a pogue, or less a whore."

you gasped as rafe's knuckles made contact with the man's cheek, a cracking sound that could be heard around the store.

"rafe!" you shouted as he shook his hand, trying to not beat the man to unconsciousness.

rafe saw red as he grabbed the man by his collar, dragging him out of the store. "never fucking come back, got that?"

the man, now with a bruised cheek that appeared to have a broken bone, quickly walked off. rafe spit on the floor, walking back into the store.

kat had come running over, the noise causing her to be alerted.

"y/n, what the hell was that?" she asked, her voice thick with an accent as she was fuming.

"he was being-"

"we have a no violence policy. i told you to stay away from that cabrón (asshole)." kat swore.

"kat-" the woman wasn't letting you finish.

"you know i love you, kid. but that was unacceptable."

your lip trembled as your heart sank. you knew what her next words were going to be.

"you're fired, and i want rafe out of the store permanently."

rafe watched the scene, opening his mouth to speak but quickly stopped himself. a tear ran down your cheek as you wiped it away.

"who needs this stupid job away," you mumbled. you grabbed rafe's bicep, guiding him out of the store.

once outside, you let go of him and slightly pushed him backwards. rafe stared at you in shock, his knuckles throbbing in pain.

"what was that for?"

"you got me fired, asshole!"

"you just let dickheads speak to you like that?" rafe asked, an appalled tone in his voice as his mouth slightly hung open.

"yes! i need money, i don't care what gross rich men say."

the north carolina heat radiated off of you two, seagulls squawking as they flew above.

"y/n-" he went to grab your hands but you pulled away.

"i don't have daddy's money to support me, rafe. you just cost me my entire income and home."

your words were harsh as you stared directly into his eyes, a flame ignited in you that he lit.

"listen, okay. i can take care of you."

rafe was trying to remain calm, not wanting to scare you away from him if he raised his voice too much.

"oh, yeah? how?"

"c'mon." rafe took you down to where barry was sitting in rafe's car. the man got out as he saw you and rafe approach, the tension thick.

"long time, y/n." barry nodded his head at you, which you pursed your lips in response and watched as rafe popped the trunk.

inside were cases as rafe opened one, shiny gold beaming off the sun to peek at you. your stomach dropped, looking between rafe and barry who had huge smirks on their faces.

"how did you-"

rafe carefully handed you a piece of gold, watching as you inspected it.

"each one is worth at least 20 grand. we're set for life with these, baby."

you let out a surprised laugh, any feel of anger going away from the sight of all the cases filled with your new riches.

"no bullshit, right?"

"100 percent real, honey. rafe melted it down himself."

rafe gave barry a death glare from the nickname he called you.

"how- where- you know what, never mind. i don't care. you guys are fucking loaded."

"we're loaded, y/n." rafe put his arm around you, bringing you into a side hug as you smelt his dior sauvage cologne.

you grinned, feeling rafe press a kiss to your temple as you hugged him tightly. you ran your hand up and down his muscular back as his hand went down to your lower back.

"so.... are you my sugar daddies?" you joked. barry laughed as rafe rolled his eyes.

"c'mon, country club. we got clients to see."

[skelswritingcorner]

Heartslabyul + Autistic!MC

This was originally posted on my Wattpad in October 2020 (link here!), but I vowed to repost my Autistic!MC UA when I got around to making this blog. This series was written to imagine what the story would generally be like with an autistic & AFAB MC and their interactions with the cast in the main story would be like.

Please note that the fic uses femminine pronouns as I was writing it with the MC being female in mind, as I am a woman myself and find it easier to write female MCs/reader inserts (I’m posting it here as it’s written on Wattpad). However, feel free to interpret this MC as any gender you may please since this doesn’t involve things like menstruation (the next two parts do involve stuff AFAB and/or trans women have). Other than that, please enjoy this fic! Under the cut due to length.

Riddle Rosehearts At first Riddle just thought she was a shy person. He had a feeling that it wasn't the case, but couldn't be bothered to ask her. Prior to his overblot, he hardly spoke to her since she was in Ramshackle dorm. However, he noticed that she regularly avoided eye contact with everybody around her. He just found MC awfully passive.

The first time he saw her at one of the Unbirthday Parties, he noticed she often spun around or paced back and forth, occasionally fidgeting with her sleeves. After the party, he entertained the idea of asking her himself about her behavior, but decided to ask Trey if he had any idea after dealing with some rule breakers. Trey couldn't exactly pinpoint anything in particular, he knew she mentioned in passing that she finds certain textures weird or wanders into a quiet location because she says 'I'm a little overwhelmed.'

After his overblot, Cater mentioned in passing how MC had no sense of danger around him, and literally approached him like normal. Everyone, even Crowley, was baffled to her behavior. "She even squished your cheeks and giggled because your skin is soft?" Riddle vaguely remembered her doing that, and the absolute confusion running through his head at her lack of fear.

When he finally asked her about it, MC replied with, "Oh, I'm on the autism spectrum. Some of my behavior might be weird, and I don't know if there's any documentation of autism in this world." After she said that, all of her behavior made sense to Riddle. He even began documenting her behaviors when he could, actions she does to calm down (aka stims), and things like her special interests. He wants to make sure he can understand her, and maybe help her advocate for herself.

Trey Clover This man's pretty chill. He notices her behavior pretty quickly. He has a little sister, and he knows certain behaviors aren't normal. However, because his sister likely isn't as old as MC, he has to talk with Cater to see if any of her behavior could be considered "normal". When Cater confirms that he never seen similar behavior in his own sisters ("Then again," Cater chuckles, "not all women are the same.").

When he asked Ace, Deuce, Grim and MC to collect chestnuts to make mont blanc he noticed how she didn't really care, but she said she kind of wanted to stretch her legs anyways.

When the five made the mont blanc, Trey noticed that MC didn't eat much of it since she said she wasn't a big fan of the texture and wasn't really hungry, and gave the rest to Grim. He kept note of it, but didn't think of asking her.

Later, when the five of them and Crowley were in the library after the events of the Unbirthday Party the day before, Trey noticed she went missing and started to panic. A little while later MC came back with a book that caught her eye. He and Crowley had a word with her to tell them next time when she's going somewhere so they don't panic again.

Out of the five dudes of Heartslabyul, he was the last to find out that MC was on the spectrum when the six of them ate Riddle's tart. She said something along the lines of, "Oyster sauce can't change the texture, but it'll make it too salty for me. Sensory inputs, y'know?" Poor dude was so confused when Cater broke the news to him, but Trey is understanding since Cater himself doesn't like certain kinds of flavors.

He might even ask MC what her favorite desserts are and try to make them for her when he has the chance.

Cater Diamond This dude's pretty easygoing, so he might be the most understanding out of everyone in Heartslabyul. When he first met MC he noticed how she paced around behind Ace and Deuce. When he asked them, Ace replied with, "Oh, she does that a lot. Says she has too much energy and has to use it somehow." He suggested that the three help him paint the roses red. They agreed to do so before class began (since Ace was wearing the collar and MC doesn't have magic, they had to use a paintbrush).

After Cater demonstrated how to paint the roses, he noticed that MC mimicked his actions exactly, down to the smallest movement. He found this interesting, even told a few of his classmates and Trey. Cater wanted to get to know her more, so he decided to talk with MC during lunch.

When he approached her, he noticed that she was somewhat shy and hardly talked much. Then again, she was eating so she likely didn't want to talk while eating food. After asking Deuce, he found out she's not exactly a talkative person.

Sometimes he noticed that she'd go into the light music room when nobody was there to study or read in peace. Part of him wanted to say hello, but he decided to respect the fact that she likely wanted some time alone and left.

When Cater came by after Trey, Ace, Deuce, Grim and MC finished making mont blanc he noticed that she didn't eat any (or had a tiny bit before giving it to Grim) because she didn't exactly like the texture. This made something click that something might be a little different with her. He decided to do some research, but couldn't find anything concrete.

During Riddle's overblot, he was shocked at MC's lack of a sense of danger and how she casually approached him and squished his cheeks and giggled uncontrollably. After the fight, she had Riddle's head resting in her lap when he asked MC about herself.

"Oh, I'm on the autism spectrum. I don't know if there's much documentation of it in this world, I hope my answer helps explain some of my behavior." this clicked with Cater, causing everything he noticed that was unique about her to finally make sense. When he finds out her special interest (let's just say it's drawing since it's one of mine), he might ask to take pictures of her with her art and post it on his Magicam account.

Deuce Spade (I basically gave up here) This confused baby...he's trying his best. He was confused when MC would randomly start crying at first, he'll try to comfort her. Sometimes he sees her spinning around or walking in circles during PE, but doesn't think of asking her about it.

When Deuce and MC went to Sam's Shop to get ingredients for Trey, he noticed how she would often glance at random objects for a moment and then focus on another. Confused him, but didn't think of asking about it.

When he had the impromptu sleepover with Ace, Grim and MC he noticed how she could ramble on and on about drawing. When he asked how she could go on about that topic and seemingly not stop Ace broke the news to him.

Now he just has more understanding of her behavior, he didn't really change much when he found out MC was autistic (other than wondering why she wanted to draw his magical wheel).

Ace Trappola This dude was pretty much the first to figure it out. When he and Grim had a quarrel on Main Street she was getting tears in her eyes randomly trying to stop everything from escalating.

Another time was when she randomly started crying in flying class, when he and Deuce asked her what was wrong she said between sniffles that sometimes she gets this urge to cry for no reason whatsoever, sometimes the same happens but she gets laughing fits.

He was the first one to find out MC is autistic when he goes to Ramshackle Dorm after he got his head 'cut off' by Riddle when she said she admired how he found advocating for himself so easily. When he asked her why, she replied with, "As someone on the autism spectrum I struggle with social skills, one of them being self advocacy."

After that, Ace tries his best to help her speak up for herself and comfort her if she randomly starts crying during class.

[heli0s-writes]

Clumsy

Summary: Serendipity, it’s the only way Steve can describe it. His ma was right: he’d always been slow.

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Reader

A/N: Fluff with a tiny sprinkle of Steve angst because I love one sad boi. Written for @wkemeup​​‘s 4K Challenge like an entire year ago!! I’m so sorry, Kas!! The prompt was Bright Eyes’ “First Day of My Life”. 2.8k words.

It was supposed to rain.

Thunderclaps rolled in the distance all morning. Moisture hung heavy in the air and the earth smelled like wet already--- salty, thick, sweet. The app on his phone blinked gray clouds straight across the screen. Seventy-three degrees and a nine-five percent chance of precipitation. Winds NE 20 miles per hour.

But at 2:30 in the afternoon when Steve slides into the car, it’s clear and blue.

So he figures it’s coincidence and poor meteorology when the engine quietly rumbles to life. He fixes the collar of his shirt, checks for hotels around the midway point, and sends an uneasy look to the empty passenger seat.

Then, he makes his way to where you are.

-

The two-lane country road stretches on. Winding and curving, pitch-black and howling with wind and wildlife. Bugs splatter on the windshield and he mechanically sprays a bit of fluid, wiping them off, the squeaks giving his radio a bit of rhythm in all this late-night talk. It’ll be another half hour before he gets to the hotel and he’s still wrestling with himself if he should even break.

No reason to now. He can drive all night. No reason to other than his pride.

“So what is it?”

There’s an imprint in the seat. An outline of a warm body folding soft creases in the leather. Late night talk radio fizzles out, and he’s tired, so he can’t get too upset at his brain for seeing the shape even though it’s been months since anyone’s sat there.

He chances a look over, then quickly back ahead because sure—the sedan is small, but this tiny strip of pavement feels even smaller. Too right and he’ll careen into the woods, too left and if another car’s coming around the bend Steve would roll out alive, but he’d be the only one.

He looks again.

Legs folded. Bare feet. Ankles crossed on the dash. Casually sitting with one hand on your phone and the other one behind your head, face lit incandescent by the screen. It was the first time he’d been alone with you after New York; he remembers this.

You hadn’t even given a glance sideways at him, still fixed on the screen, thumb sliding up and focused on mission details in a perfect picture of indifference.

“Your whole thing. Mister Red-White-and-Broody, most eligible bachelor in all of America—which, by the way, is so far up your ass all fifty states might as well be coming out of your mouth—”

“Stop it.”

“Okay, Rogers.” A smirk. His last name slipping between your lips like military title. “Fine, you’re all gilded in the front, suffering in the back. So—” You turned finally, pulled your feet back and tucked them under your body, “What is it?”

Steve pretended to think, left hand clenching a fraction tighter on the wheel, feeling its strength beneath his grip. His face remained impassive and dedicated forward, turning the seconds in his head, counting down the appropriate time for his reply.

It was a game, certainly. Your assertion, your poise, hand propping up your head—all of it. Your entire being was a foil to one Steven Grant Rogers and he was strapped with you for half a week. Already the car ride was beginning to foreshadow what was quickly seeming to be a long assignment.

“It’s my job—”

“So weak.”

“I’m busy—”

“Are you even trying to lie?”

You were known to do this: lay out a path of questions that only gave your company the pretense of a genuine conversation. You’d lead them like a wrangler leading horses to water, knowing they wouldn’t drink, but giving them just enough time to stare at their own reflection in the pool before you’d yank the harness elsewhere.

It was always a short path, but what you lacked in subtlety you made up for with honesty.

Agitated, Steve snapped before he could rein himself back in.

“What are you, my psychologist?” Horse.

“You don’t have one. You are the only Avengers Tower resident who has run off every psychologist on Stark’s payroll. So--” a twist of your torso, your back pressed up against the door handle as you stared at the outline of his side profile. Wrangler.

The question dangled in front of his gritted teeth. The answer he’d known long ago was behind two perfect calcium rows, pressed up, trying to find its way through the cracks.

What’s your thing? We fought together. We live together. We suffered a cataclysmic event in the form of aliens together---so why doesn’t anybody know you?

You leaned forward, body tilting until it almost touched your former footrest. Your head sloped to find his face and when he flicked his eyes sharply to yours, Steve knew it wasn’t sharp enough.

“You don’t want to be vulnerable.”

You’d led him through the brief route of your inquisition and had seen all you cared to see. Your voice bounced off the window when you closed your eyes and turned away.

“Steve,” you sighed, mouth going to the side in a smile. “Vulnerability is clumsy, but it’s the only thing worth anything.”

He had thought: No, it isn’t. He’d spent too long being vulnerable already, and he couldn’t afford it again. Twenty years of a miserable half-life and seventy years of sleep and suddenly the world was new and different and strange. Coming back into his body was new and different and strange but it was the body that afforded him invulnerability.

Mostly, anyway.

Steve decided, then, at least he could make up for that lump of mortality—that lump of weakness—with performance.

So, he became the blacksmith to his feeble Brooklyn boy heart. Forged carbon steel, gold-plated, immaculately polished like his own shield at press conferences. Smoothed himself into a monumental display of impeccable posturing and hid the boy away where no one could reach him. Let him go back to sleep, too. Frozen in a time long passed, long forgotten.

He wasn’t Steve Rogers anymore because no one knew Steve Rogers anymore; it was the only way he could carry on. Didn’t you know?

No, he supposed, you didn’t.

On the ride back you surrendered yourself to the backseat, laying down in the most comfortable position the sedan would allow, and chatted his ear off the entire ride home. Called him Steve and looked at him through the rearview mirror. Eyes met eyes, and yours crinkled at the edges with some secret knowledge.

By the end of it, all he could think about was how he didn’t mind the conversation and that his first name even sounded a little nice coming out of your mouth.

You shimmer in the passenger side until your hair hangs a little longer. His brown leather jacket is around your shoulders. A stretch of your arms. A stretch of your lips. Months passed and Rogers befell the man you knew during the Manhattan Crisis while he became Steve.

Steve on missions and in the field—On your six, Steve! Keep up, old boy. Steve at the tower and Steve in the gym— don’t touch my weights, Steve, you’ll throw your back out.

Steve getting the door and pouring the whiskey and letting you wear his jacket when you were cold. Finding you across rooms at parties because there was an easiness to your presence that calmed the crowd. Shooting pool and watching movies. Up late and out late and laughing until the early hours.

He was Steve, your friend, because he finally allowed himself to have a friend.

You change. Shimmer again until your hair is pulled back from your swollen face. A hospital gown crinkled around your shoulders. Asleep, cold. Too close to death, too close to him. He couldn’t even sit by your bedside, only standing by the door, shuffling from one wall to the other and watched the monitors with a too-loud and static-filled brain.

He was hesitantly Steve when you stepped too close to him on the balcony nights later, hand precariously hovering over that fragile boy heart, finally pressing down on it, feeling his delicate pulse thawing and crawling towards you. Tipsy smile and you tasted like whiskey and easy joy.

The kiss was clumsy, like you’d said. Vulnerability threw him back to the 40’s, all gangly limbed and ill, his lungs malfunctioning, his breath smothered in his mouth. He stumbled, but the banister held him up.

You didn’t mind that his knees felt boneless. You chalked it up to too much drink, but the touch of your still-bruised cheek abruptly burned down his throat—warm and smooth and cataclysmic until he caught sight of the way you winced as his hand cupped your tender face. Steve stepped back, then, and apologized for what he said should have never happened.

There was a small quiver from your shoulder before you quietly went back inside.

He cursed himself on the balcony. Cursed letting it all happen in the first place. Captain Rogers watched your retreating steps, burying the spark and the fire. And the boy must have cried in his ice-block coffin when he buried him again, too.

“Don’t look at me like that.” God, he’s going crazy. Poor night-vision and an addled brain causing him to scold an empty seat. “You stopped talking to me.”

His grip on the steering wheel tightens the way it does when you’re too deep in his head and he can’t get you out. Days without hearing from you smeared together in careful steps of a cagey dance. Comments always presented as half-truths—riddles he struggled to deconstruct. Breadcrumbs never leaving enough of a trail to lead him anywhere. He wants the harness back. Wants back your confident hand.

“You could have said something.” Steve scoffs, because you always had something to say. “Anything. You could have said anything. We were—friends.”

And hell, doesn’t that sound stupid out loud? Maybe it’s best that he’s got nothing but infinity beyond the sedan’s glaring brights and a million thoughts of unsaid words. It’s all useless, anyway. Best that he can get it all out now, talking to your ghost. It keeps all his thoughts in his head and keeps him from yelling every time he sees you not-looking, not-smiling, not-talking to him.

Steve flicks the wipers on again. Shuts off the radio. Shuts off the navigation. Takes the car off cruise-control to give himself something to do. He’ll stop overnight, after all.

Suddenly then, in the distance, two glowing eyes greet him steadily. Measured paces, in a firm and crisp trajectory, growing closer and closer. Glaring and vivid, beating the monotonous grind of nighttime out of him. His pinky moves, and his high beams flip to low beams, white giving way to yellow and the glistening road signs and tree-shadows in the distance slowly diminish.

Bleached spectral glaring of leaves and road signs soften ochre and brown, indigo dark. For a fleeting moment, even Steve’s enhanced eyes feel half-blind again as he readjusts to the pitch-black night barely lit. The car coming toward him does the same, highs blinking low and they pass each other in quiet understanding. In blind trust on the dark road, dependent on each other’s good faith to see it through.

He thinks of Sarah Rogers in a tiny Brooklyn kitchen, floral wallpaper yellowed and peeling behind her. One hand on an apron-clad hip, cooking interrupted by her son stumbling in dripping blood down his shirt, her other hand clenched around a wet kitchen rag.

“Steven Grant Rogers! Oh—wretched! What else can I say,” she’d sigh as she pressed it to his nose, “You do whatever you please, anyhow. You just put this on your face—and don’t think it’ll get you out of doing the dishes, either.”

“But—” he’d attempt.

She’d put up her hand, “Lord have mercy on any young woman that’ll have you. May she have your poor mother’s patient heart.”

His ma always called him slow. A dolt through and through. Quick to temper, but laborious to do much else. Common sense always took its sweet time-- took the long path home to get to Steve Rogers. In seventy-odd years, he hasn’t changed.

Better than coincidence and better than poor meteorology. Serendipity. It’s the only way he can describe it.

Like finding a crumpled up twenty in his pocket—or in his case, a five—enough then for a week’s worth of meals. Like having that nightmare— the one right before the plane crashes and instead of going down with it, he wakes up. Like expecting to drive five hours through a storm and stopping overnight, but instead it’s clear and blue as far as he can see.

The rush, the relief, the deafening joy that shuts everything else up and out.

Sarah Rogers was right: he’d always been slow.

So he careens back onto the highway from the service road, steadying his foot on the pedal and flies about fifteen miles faster than the speed limit says he should. The car is vibrating to a thrilled beat inside his chest. Steve can’t help smiling.

-

It was supposed to rain. All the way to the next mid-morning but the sky parts a brilliant orange sunrise and he nearly sprints to the door. He doesn’t wait for it to open all the way before he barrels in. A sliver of parting wood is enough, and Steve throws it wide with his enormous shoulders, kicking it shut firmly with his boot.

The imprint of your body on the couch is still warm—you, halfway across the room in alarm—real and even warmer when Steve gathers you into his arms. He’s been awake for over 24 hours, talking to himself, talking to your hallucination, so he apologizes when his teeth click against yours in a frantic kiss.

“Rogers--!”

You pull away, dazed, a little bit pissed off, but you cow the swirl of emotions into professionalism. “What are you—you’re not supposed to be here until late—did you drive through--”

“Steve,” he interrupts, “Steve.”

He’s so tired of the long road. Can’t stand another second of maneuvering in the dark down winding paths or broken streetlight avenues you’re not at the end of so he keeps his next phrase short: “I really like you.”

You raise your brow and brush the back of your knuckles over your lips, the light from the balcony streaming over your face. His hand tenderly brushes your cheek, the same one he touched all those months ago and you blink in surprise. Quick, calculating movements even as you lean gently into his touch.

“Steve…” you say slowly before your mouth pinches together in a poor attempt to hide the smirk threatening to surface. “You drove all night to… ask me to call you Steve.”

“Well,” he shrugs, “And the mission.”

“Right, the mission. The debrief didn’t mention that it required a lot of… kissing.”

“It came up recently; I haven’t adjusted the file yet.” He grins at your rolling eyes, your swollen lips peeling back to reveal a joyful display of teeth at his stubborn defiance.

“Took you long enough,” you mumble.

You place your hand over his chest, over his heart.

You kiss him and Steve hears himself sighing into your mouth. His cheeks flush with embarrassment, but you’re not letting go, and he presses his lips to yours a little slower, a little firmer, learning the ways you like to feel him there.

“Steve,” you breathe, and it paints him in the most galvanized care. “Steve,” you say again, and his eyes slip shut, like he’s being laid to rest. And maybe he is. Finally weary of lugging around all his armor, all his pretense.  

The boy emerges, thawing toward his name held sweetly in your mouth.

He fumbles with his awkward limbs—a newly birthed foal trying to find its footing—but you’re patient and enduring. He takes in his trembling body—knobby knees and gangly elbows. Inept gait still learning how to be. He takes the sights—white casting over the balcony. You, even brighter.

It was supposed to rain, but you link your fingers through his, leading him toward the open doors, smiling against a backdrop of sherbet swirls. He stumbles, but you’ve got him. A few short steps, just a few more, and Steve kisses you again in the sunbathed daybreak, resurrected and anew.

[softspideys]

The Perfect Date

summary: tom makes it his mission to take you on the perfect first date. the only problem is, you have no idea. 

warnings: none

word count: 3.6k

pairings: tom holland x reader

a/n: this was supposed to be a valentine’s day fic but then I forgot about it. oops. plz enjoy anyway

Tom had just started the last lap of Wario’s Gold Mine when he heard Zendaya ask, “Got any plans for Valentine’s Day?”

He tried not to pay attention to your answer, focusing on keeping his lead, but he couldn’t help it. His eyes flickered over to where you were sitting at the kitchen table, absently circling your finger around the rim of your wine glass.

You straightened up at her question, scoffing. “Are you kidding? When’s the last time you saw me date anybody, Z?”

“Hey,” she said, pointing at you accusingly. “Don’t even start with me. I set you up with people all the time, it’s not my fault you’re so picky.”

“It’s called having standards,” you fired back. “Sorry I’m not interested in pretentious jerks who insist on mansplaining Tarantino films to me over their venti-soy-no-foam latte with a triple shot of espresso.”

Zendaya cackled, and though he couldn’t see your face, Tom could tell you were smiling too; your words had no real bite to them.

“Seriously though,” you continued with a sigh. “I think I might just give up dating for a while. Lately it feels like my only options are either crappy blind dates or going through a sleazy hookup app for some mediocre sex. I can’t remember the last time I got properly asked out and went on, like, a nice date.”

As soon as you said that, the gears started turning in Tom’s head. And then he got an idea so good he almost forgot about the race entirely, until Harrison hit him with a red shell and passed him, sailing over the finish line in first place.

“Yes!” Harrison cheered, causing you and Zendaya to look over, startled. “Finally, I won!”

“Wow,” Zendaya said, amused. “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever lost in Mario Kart, Holland.”

“Yeah, what’s gotten into you?” you asked teasingly as Harrison got up and did a victory dance.

Tom normally hated losing, but he was too preoccupied at the moment to care. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just . . . a little rusty, I guess.”

You raised your eyebrows, but then Zendaya challenged Harrison to a rematch, and the two of them immediately started a new grand prix while you called dibs on the winner. With the distraction in place, Tom had plenty of time to come up with a plan.

The four of you had been friends for years, but he’d always harbored something of a crush on you. He’d never tried to push the boundaries or pursue you because he liked your relationship as it was already, and didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. But this would be different. This was harmless. He was simply going to show you how you deserved to be treated, give you a good date to remember among the bad ones.

Nothing else. Right?

* * *

You eyed the huge bouquet of roses your coworker had on her desk and tried not to feel too envious. She’d made a big show of bringing them in this morning and inviting everyone who walked by to smell them, going on and on about how her girlfriend had surprised her for Valentine’s Day yesterday.

So what, you thought to yourself. I can get myself flowers whenever I want; I don’t need a holiday to have an excuse to do it. It really didn’t make you feel better though.

“Hey,” a familiar voice said, making you jump a mile. You looked up. Tom was peering over the wall of your cubicle, which was . . . unexpected. He hardly ever visited you at work.

“Oh, hi,” you said. “I didn’t even see you come in.”

“Yeah, you were totally zoned out,” Tom said. “Good thing I brought caffeine.” He placed a to-go cup from your favorite coffee shop on your desk. You saw the order written on the side; he’d gotten it exactly right.

“Wow,” you said, surprised but grateful. “Thanks.” You’d already had coffee this morning, but clearly it was shaping up to be a two-cup type of day. You took a careful sip and felt better already.

“No problem.” Tom followed your line of vision to your coworker’s desk. “Pretty flowers.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, a little quietly. You cleared your throat. “So, what’s up? Did we have plans today or something?”

“Oh, no,” he said, shifting from foot to foot, “but that’s actually kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.” He seemed nervous, which in turn made you nervous.

“Okay,” you said, giving him your full attention.  

“So . . . are you doing anything this Friday night?”

It was only Monday. You thought for a second before shaking your head. “I don’t think so.”

“Would you like to have dinner? With me?”

You furrowed your eyebrows. That was it? “Oh. Sure.”

You could’ve sworn you saw his eyes widen the slightest bit. “Really? I mean, great. Cool.” He scratched his nose. “So, Friday at six o’clock, then? I’ll text you the name of the place?”

“Sounds good,” you said. He seemed excited, though you couldn’t figure out why. You got dinner with him, Harrison, and Zendaya at least once a week.

“Alrighty,” Tom said, swinging his arms a little and nodding. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work. See you Friday.”

“See you,” you said. Did he really come all the way to your office to ask you this in person instead of just texting you like he normally would? Maybe he’d been nearby or something. You watched him leave, mostly confused but also kind of endeared.

“Was that your boyfriend?” your coworker asked, subtly adjusting her flowers again.

You quickly shook your head, turning back to your computer and taking another sip of your coffee. “Oh, no. Just a friend.”

As Tom left your office, he allowed himself to do a small fist-pump. Getting you to agree was the hardest part. Now came the slightly-easier-but-still-hard part: making sure he gave you the best first date ever.

* * *

Something strange was going on with Tom. You first realized it when you brought up the dinner on Friday to Zendaya and she had no clue what you were talking about.

“Tom didn’t invite you?”

“Nope.” She popped the “p.”

“Huh.” You chewed your lip. “That’s . . . weird. Maybe he figured I’d just tell you about it. And I guess you don’t really need an invitation anyway . . . do you think he invited Harrison?”

“I don’t know.” You were on the phone, so you couldn’t see Zendaya’s face, but it kind of sounded like she was trying not to laugh. “Maybe he wants it to be just the two of you.”

“Maybe.” It was rare, but it wasn’t like you never spent time with just Tom or Harrison.  You couldn’t remember the last time you had dinner with either of them one-on-one, though. This seemed . . . different. “But I’m sure he won’t mind if you guys show up,” you said with a shrug.

Now Zendaya did laugh. “No, no, it’s fine,” she said. “I think I’m supposed to babysit my niece and nephew anyway. You guys have fun.”

Then there was Tom himself. You hadn’t seen him in person since Monday, but he’d been texting you random questions all week:

Do you prefer a casual or an elegant ambiance?

How many candles on a table is too many? Or do you think overhead lamps are better?

Oyster bars . . . yes/no?

You answered all of them with increasing bemusement, but any time you asked why he would mysteriously change the subject. You couldn’t help but feel like there was something you were missing here.

Finally, he sent you the name of the restaurant on Friday morning: Soul & Persona.

You’d never heard of it, so you decided to look it up. One glance at their website told you this place wasn’t like the casual restaurant-and-bars you and your friends usually frequented. This was fancy. Clicking over to the menu, you inhaled sharply at the prices written next to the items. Luckily, today was payday.

You arrived at the restaurant shortly before six. Another person was already standing outside, and as you got closer you realized it was Tom. Two things about that were already weird: one, he was normally notoriously late to everything; and two, he was holding a bouquet of roses in one hand that were so big they nearly obstructed his face.

He didn’t notice you approaching, busy frowning at something on his phone. “Hey,” you said at last, making him jump.  

“Oh! Hey!” He cleared his throat, shoving his phone in his pocket. “I mean—good evening.” He did a strange little bow before thrusting the flowers at you. “These are for you.”

“Wow,” you said, taking them carefully. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You look really nice.”

You were glad you researched the restaurant in advance, because the jeans and t-shirt combo you’d originally planned on wearing would definitely not have been appropriate here.

“So do you,” you said. He did: he was wearing slacks and a nice dress shirt under a jacket, his hair neatly combed.

“Thanks. Should we go in?” he asked. You nodded, and he hurried to open the door, ushering you inside. It was crowded, which made you a little worried. How long would the wait time be?

But Tom went right up to the hostess stand. “Hi,” he said, “we have a reservation for two at six; the name is Tom?”

She looked at her book and nodded. “You can follow me right this way.” She led you to a quiet corner of the restaurant and seated you at a table by the window. “Enjoy your meal.”

“Here,” Tom said, pulling your chair out before you could sit down. Again, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

“This place is crazy nice,” you said, looking around as the hostess placed a wine list on the table.

“Yeah,” Tom agreed, a little distractedly. “Um. So. Do you prefer to work in a team or alone?”

You blinked. “What? Where’d that come from?”

He shrugged, fidgeting with his collar like he was nervous. “I—I dunno. Just making conversation.”

“Oo-kay,” you said with a laugh. “Well, I haven’t seen you since you blessed my office with your presence on Monday. How was your week? Didn’t you have to give a presentation yesterday?”

“Yes, and one of the board members literally fell asleep during it,” Tom said, wrinkling his nose.

He seemed to loosen up after that, and the conversation flowed naturally from then on as you talked about your plans for the weekend, your friends, your families, and any other random thoughts that occurred to you.

For dinner you tried a pasta dish while Tom got steak, and you each had the soup of the day for an appetizer. Your knowledge of wine was limited to whatever was cheapest when you went to the liquor store, but Tom had apparently become an expert overnight: he asked the waiter all kinds of questions about their reds vs. their whites before finally ordering a bottle for the two of you to share.

All in all, it was an enjoyable dinner. You always had fun with Tom, of course, but you rarely got to spend time with just him. And though you normally stayed away from expensive places like this one, you had to admit the food was delicious and the ambiance made you feel very sophisticated.

“Can I get either of you some coffee or dessert?” the waiter asked as he cleared your plates. You’d never been one to say no to that, but Tom jumped in before you could open your mouth.

“No thank you,” he said quickly. “Just the check please.” Then he looked at you. “I thought maybe we could walk to that bookstore you like? The one with the bakery in it? We could—we could get dessert there and browse.”

“Oh,” you said, surprised. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

“Cool.” He sounded relieved.

The waiter brought out the bill and Tom grabbed it as soon as he set it on the table. “What are you doing?” you protested. There was normally an agreement among your friends that everyone paid for their own meals when you went out to dinner.

“I’m paying,” he insisted, waving you off as you fruitlessly tried to put your own debit card down.

“At least let me Venmo you for my half.”

“Nope.”

“Tom!”

“Seriously, it’s fine.” He wouldn’t even let you see how much the meal cost.  

You could tell he wasn’t going to budge for whatever reason, so you had no choice but to relent. “If you’re sure,” you said, watching him smugly sign the receipt. You made sure to grab your flowers before you got up and followed him out of the restaurant.

The bookstore you liked was a few blocks away, but you didn’t mind the walk. The air was warm but balmy, refreshing on your face. “That was amazing,” Tom said.

“It was,” you agreed. “I’m convinced they put actual crack in that pasta sauce. It was otherworldly.”

He laughed before he asked, a little hesitantly, “So are you . . . having a nice time?”

You looked over at him questioningly. “Of course I am. But I always have a nice time with you.”

“Good,” he said quietly, nodding. “Good.”

“Are you?”

“Yes,” Tom said immediately. “I just wanted to make sure. So, what are some of your pet peeves?”

“What is it with you and these questions?” Thankfully, you arrived at the bookstore and were spared from answering.

One of your favorite things about hanging out with Tom was that you didn’t necessarily need to be attached at the hip or in constant conversation in order to have fun. As soon as you entered he made a beeline for the True Crime section while you went to look at the new releases.

It was nice to just browse on your own for a while, and you ended up buying a book you’d been wanting to read ever since it came out. Tom was still perusing the shelves after you checked out, so you sneakily went up to the bakery counter and bought some dessert.

He found you sitting at a table in the cafe, reading your new book. “What’s this?” He gestured to the two pieces of cake and cups of decaf coffee on the table in front of you. “You should’ve let me pay!”

You’d been anticipating this, so you merely rolled your eyes. “Cry about it. You paid for dinner; it was the least I could do.”

“That’s not how this works,” Tom objected, but he reluctantly sat down and pulled his cake towards him anyway. The two of you discussed your books while you ate, and you tried not to act like you were eyeing his slice the entire time.

He noticed, of course. “You wanna try?”

You nodded sheepishly. You expected him to push the plate towards you, but instead he scooped a piece up onto his fork and held it out. “Here.” A little surprised, you opened your mouth and allowed him to feed it to you. For some reason it felt oddly intimate.

He was watching you expectantly as you chewed. “Good?”

“Yeah,” you managed to say, swallowing. “Really good.”

It was getting late and the store was closing soon, so you left after finishing your coffees. Usually this was when you’d call it a night and go home, but this time you felt no strong desire to. So when Tom started walking along the river instead of heading back towards the restaurant, you didn’t mind at all, falling into step beside him.

The night sky was clear, giving you a breathtaking view of dozens of stars. Hardly anyone else was around, and the river below was quiet and calm. It was like you were suspended in time. You couldn’t remember ever feeling so peaceful.

Tom’s hand bumped yours as you walked. You didn’t think anything of it at first, but then it happened again, and this time he laced his fingers through yours.

For some reason that was what made everything suddenly fall into place, for you to finally put two and two together and realize what was going on.

Oh my God.

“Tom,” you said hesitantly, shattering the comfortable silence between you.

“Yeah?”

“Is this . . . a date?”

He stopped walking, forcing you to do the same. Under the soft glow of the streetlights you could see he was staring at you. “Wait,” he said slowly. “This whole time . . . you didn’t know?”

Now that he’d basically just confirmed it, everything started to make sense: coming all the way to your office just to ask you to dinner, bringing you coffee, making reservations at a fancy restaurant, paying for the meal—

You were on a date and you hadn’t even realized.

“Oh, God,” was all you could say. You almost wanted to laugh, though nothing about this was even remotely funny. It was like you’d been hit over the head with a brick.

How could you not have known? It should’ve been obvious when he paid for the meal; no, when you realized you’d be eating at such a fancy place; no, when he showed up randomly on Monday, brought you coffee, and fucking asked you to dinner.

You both seemed to realize at the same time that you were still holding hands, and he quickly dropped it and stepped back. For the first time since you’d met, the air between the two of you was awkward. “I—I’m so sorry. I thought you knew.”

“I should’ve known,” you said, shaking your head. “I’m so stupid, I just didn’t think—” You didn’t finish your sentence. You honestly couldn’t figure out why you didn’t realize it sooner.

Because he’s your friend, a voice in the back of your head reminded you. He’s your friend and he’s never expressed any interest in you before, not like this.

That was true. You’d always thought Tom was handsome, and maybe early on in your friendship you’d fantasized about him once or twice. But he always treated you normally, never outwardly showing any sign of wanting more.  

“You’re not stupid,” he said immediately. “I should’ve made it more clear.”

“I’m just confused, I guess,” you said carefully. “I mean . . . why now? And why . . . me?”

He exhaled. “I overheard you the other day when you and Z were talking, and you were saying something like . . . you hadn’t been properly asked out and taken on a nice date in a while. So I guess I just wanted to do that for you. Make you happy.”

Your brain felt like it was short-circuiting. You didn’t know what to say to that, but he seemed to take your silence as a cue to keep going.

“That’s why I came to your office, to ask you in person instead of doing it over text or whatever. And I saw you looking at those flowers your coworker had, so I bought you some. And I picked this restaurant because it was nice but also because it was near the bookstore. And I memorized some first-date questions in case our conversation got boring, but I think that probably wasn’t necessary.” He sucked in a deep breath. “And now that I’m saying all of this I realize how weird it sounds. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“Oh,” you said dumbly. His previous words were still echoing in your head. I guess I just wanted to do that for you. Make you happy.

He’d taken the time to think about all the things you liked and used that knowledge to plan the Perfect Date. You couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done something so kind, so thoughtful, so . . . romantic. Did this mean what you thought it meant?

Of course, the only way you were able to translate all of this was with, “Wow.”

But then he added, “And—and I didn’t do all of this because I thought it would lead to a second date or anything like that. I only—”

“Wait,” you interrupted, your stomach plummeting. This conversation was giving you whiplash. “So you . . . don’t like me?”

“Huh?”

“You did all of this . . . just because? You don’t actually want to go on a date with me?” Now you were more confused than ever, and a little hurt beneath that.

Tom’s eyes widened. “No! Well yes, but . . . no. Wait.” He took a deep breath. Now or never, right? “I do like you, but this was separate from all that. I only meant that I wasn’t expecting anything from this. I just wanted you to have a good time.”

You nodded slowly, exhaling. “Okay. So . . . what if I told you that I did have a good time, that I like you too, and I want go out with you again?”

Tom blinked at you owlishly for a second before his face split into a huge grin, one you were sure your own was mirroring. “Then . . . I’d say . . . same. To all of it.”

“Good,” you said, stepping closer. “In fact, I think this has almost been the perfect first date.”

He paused. “Wait, almost? What would make it perfect?” He furrowed his eyebrows, looking a little panicked. You laughed, reaching up and cupping his jaw.

“It has to end with a good-night kiss, doesn’t it?”

Tom relaxed, his hands finding their way to your waist. “Oh. Yes, you’re absolutely right.”

The two of you were still smiling as you kissed, and Tom lifted one of his hands to do a silent, sneaky fist-pump. 

Mission: success.

[peachsayshi]

Chapter 2 - Bare

Gojo Satoru x Female Reader

Tags: Friends with Benefits, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Nipple Play, Naked Female/Clothed Male, Foreplay on Kitchen Counter, Dirty Talk

Summary: Gojo is aware that you still aren't comfortable with the boundaries of your new arrangement but when you show up at his apartment wearing a skirt that he absolutely adores on you, the sorcerer finds it hard to resist his urges and does his best to persuade you into using him as much as he enjoys using you.

A/N: ~ in which Gojo is just a plain, old tease ~

- - - 

How can such a flimsy piece of fabric incapacitate the great sorcerer?

You showed up tonight wearing a black skirt that Gojo secretly adored on you. He loved the way it cinched around your waist and flared out delicately, cutting off just a few inches above your mid-thigh. He could not understand what it was about the skirt that turned him on so much but every time he saw you in this particular piece of clothing, the man found himself unable to stop his imagination from going. He had a hard time resisting his urges and usually would take care of himself on his own after seeing you. He would picture you on your knees, your skirt bunched up at the waist as he would thrust from behind…

Pay attention, he grumbled to himself.

He didn’t mean to ignore you but you’ve been a complete distraction since you walked through his door. He was trying his best to listen to you talk about your day as you sauntered around his kitchen but was busy staring at your hips swaying from side to side. Thankfully he was wearing his shades so you couldn’t tell that his mind was wandering.

Two weeks had passed since you came over to his place with your proposition but nothing went beyond heated make out sessions. Gojo knew you still weren’t quite used to this little arrangement. Which is why despite the two of you planning on seeing each other to "grab drinks", he would usually let you ramble about whatever was on your mind for thirty minutes before the two of you actually got down to any of the fun stuff.

“ Gojo , are  you listening to me? ”

Your question snapped him out of it. He angled his head down towards you, noticing that you were standing right in front of him.

“Of course I was listening!” he replied defensively.

You raised your brows, your face unamused by his response.

“Oh, really? Then what did I just ask you?”

He froze, realizing you caught him in his lie. Raising his arms up in defeat he scoffed before admitting, “okay, I wasn’t listening but it’s not my fault you talk so much.”

“ You are saying that I talk a lot? You ?”

“Yes I am”

“Well, I guess your bad habits are just rubbing off on me.”

“My bad habits?!”

“Seriously, that mouth of yours never stops running. You’re like a broken radio. The volume doesn’t work and no matter how hard you try, you can't switch over to another station to listen to something better,” you teased with a smile.

“Is that right?”

Gojo halted your little bantering session by abruptly reaching for your waist to pull you close to him. He spun you around so your back was pressed against his kitchen island before leaning down and bringing his lips to your ear.

“Is my voice really that annoying?” he whispered. “Because you didn’t seem to think so the other night when I was doing this…”

He sensed the shift in your body language, your heart skipping a beat at his question and the way you tensed up against his frame. He had to admit, he thoroughly enjoyed teasing you, this was different from the casual flirting he was used to because nothing is holding him back from having his way with you now.

He laughed against your ear, “not so chatty now are we?”

Picking you up by your legs, Gojo lifted you onto the countertop with ease.

“No blindfold today?” you asked, finally finding your words as your pretty eyes stared directly into his own while you both faced one another.

“These count,” he replied, referring to his sunglasses.

Gojo’s eyes trailed from your neck to naval until it reached the band of your skirt. His hands were gripping onto your waist, that hungry blue gaze filled with nothing but need. He noticed your stare fixated on his lips but he wasn’t going to give in by kissing you just yet, he wanted to continue figuring you out, surveying all the different places he could touch you just to hear you call out his name.

“Can I take this off?” he asked, his index finger tapping against your top.

You nodded your head politely and he smiled.

This side of you amused him. Despite your reservations, you’ve been quite bold about your needs and he couldn’t help but admire this newfound confidence you had, totally flattered that you were willing to show it off for him.

He tossed your top over his shoulder, his fingers trailing up your spine until it reached for the band of your bra.

“How about this?”

You bit your bottom lip, your hands dancing up his chest until it reached for the collar of his black tee.

“Maybe if you actually paid attention to what I was saying, I might be more willing…” You pushed him away, clearly having fun with him but inhaled when you felt his other hand move up across your stomach to cup your left breast.

“I didn’t invite you over to talk,” he answered calmly. “If that’s the case then we can reschedule this for another time...”

You pursed your lips, tempting him even further for a kiss but he saw that expression on your face that indicated you had no interest in stopping. You tugged at the clasp in front of your chest before telling him, “this is where the hook is.”

The smirk on his face spread into a wolfish grin as he eagerly unfastened your bra. He hummed with pleasure, dropping your undergarments to the side, tilting his head to get proper look at you and noticing the way he tightened against his pants soaking in the image before him.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” he complimented. “Lay down for me...”

You lowered yourself on your forearms against the marble counter watching as Gojo adjusted his stance before hovering his long torso above yours.

“Get comfortable, I don’t plan on rushing anything.”

Your face was a little flushed and you hesitated underneath him, fully aware of him absorbing your half naked state. You allowed yourself to lay flat on your back against the countertop, lifting slightly when the cold surface touched your skin. Gojo planted a kiss on your neck, nipping at it before brushing down your collarbone. You shivered feeling his breath against you, his hands kneading your breasts as he placed another kiss between them. The pads of his thumbs began to rub your nipples, causing them to perk up at his touch. Your mouth parted with a sigh and you closed your eyes, finally allowing your body to relax. He lips replaced his thumb as he enclosed his mouth over your hardened nipple and he flicked his tongue earning a satisfied exhale in response.

Gojo’s senses worked differently as everything for him was heightened on another scale.The scent of your perfume intoxicated him, the sound of your heartbeat racing like music to his ears, the vibrations that ran up his arm every time he touched you was like a trigger to his system and you tasted so sweet . He truly appreciated his power for granting him the ability to experience the moment playing out before him.

“ Satoru…” you moaned, your back arching off the counter as you felt him gently bite your sensitive nub. Your hand reached for his hair, your fingers tangling themselves between his white locks.

He bit down a little harder a second time, alternating between his tongue and teeth and causing you to pant before finally releasing you from his mouth.

“Yes?” he purred, noticing the way your legs spread underneath him.

He guided himself to your mouth, finally satisfying your craving by kissing you softly.

Freeing his hair from your grasp, you trailed your fingers along his jaw as you parted your lips, allowing his tongue to slide into your mouth. Gojo continued roaming his hands along your body, gliding down your side before reaching for your leg. He stroked your inner thigh, caressing your soft skin before making his way up to your core, feeling the heat radiate off of you. He groaned into your mouth while palming your underwear with his hand, suddenly very conscious of just how wet you were for him.

Gojo broke free from your kiss, allowing you both to catch your breath for a second as he pressed his forehead against yours.

“Whatever time you wasted on small talk, I’m going to compensate for by getting you off so many times you’ll have no idea what to do with yourself when I’m through with you...”

You parted your lips to protest but whimpered instead as his fingers began working your wet cunt over the fabric of your underwear. He moved in slow circular motions, a light pressure at first but increasing with intensity as he gradually picked up the pace.

“ Fuck ,” you whined, catching your bottom lip between your teeth.

You were wriggling underneath him, your body rising and falling with every move he made. He returned to playfully suck on your nipples, pleasuring you with ease.

“ Touch me …” you begged, “ Please… ”

Your words were enough to convince him. The man tugged at the cotton fabric you were wearing before motioning his finger over your swollen clit. You were driving his patience with how wet you were getting but he was forcing himself to control his urges.

He dragged his middle finger along your slit before inserting it inside you. Naturally, your hips rolled with his movement and he slowly pulled out before pushing back in again with a little more force.

“ Ohhh , that feels good...”

Gojo couldn’t hide his own enjoyment. This was better than anything he had ever imagined about you. He was about to release years of pent up frustration on you. All those times you two spent alone together where he would draw his attention on your lips or think about what you were wearing underneath your clothes  and wonder how well you would take his dick if given the opportunity....

He had a revelation of how much he actually wanted you. His fantasies solely focused around you and regardless of who he was with, you were still the object of his desires.

The one person he was desperate to fuck.

Gojo pushed his finger all the way in, his thumb pressing down on your clit as he rubbed with speed. Your body shivered again, your moans growing louder as you clung onto his sleeve for support, feeling yourself coming undone beneath him. He felt you tense around him, your body contracting before finally releasing as the first wave of pleasure traveled through you.

He pulled his finger out, keeping your legs spread for him as he stood upright and watching you with approval. Your first orgasm illuminated your gorgeous face but he had no intention of giving you a break just yet. He proceeded to hook his fingers around your underwear, prompting you to lift your hips up as he stripped you of the fabric.

“That’s one…” he stated, ensuring you knew he was keeping his word.

He noticed you reach for the zipper of your skirt, ready to strip off the last article of clothing you had on.

He grabbed your wrists, pinning both your hands down by your sides before reaching for his glasses and dragging it down slightly along his nose so you only caught a glimpse of those blue eyes looking at you.

" The skirt stays on, ” he demanded before pushing back his frames and releasing you from his grip.

"As you wish...”

“Now then,” he continued, returning his attention onto your legs. He lifted your skirt higher until he granted himself a full view of your bare pussy. Licking his lips with anticipation, he lowered himself down before looking up at you with a teasing smile. “Let me show you exactly what this mouth of mine can do...”

- CHAPTER 3: CALL - 

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

Stalker X Stalker, Part 7

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Perma tag: @nathleigh @peachmuses

Stalker x Stalker taglist: @aespades @jayjayspixiepop @blueslushgueen @fan-written @seraphichana @nerd-nowandforever

No I didn't get carried away with writing domestic fluff and forget to do the one thing I was supposed to with this chapter I'm a professional and would never do that

It took a long time for Tim and Cass to convince Marinette that, no, it wasn’t a trap, it was just a normal Halloween Party. It took even longer to explain what a Halloween Party really was, because apparently it wasn’t a huge deal in France.

But, eventually, she got it:

“Okay, so every Rogue and vigilante has to go to his Halloween Party in stupid costumes… or else?”

Tim nodded. “Rogues have to go because he’ll be insufferable, we have to go because otherwise we’re leaving a bunch of Rogues alone together without supervision.”

“And it really is just a Halloween Party?”

Cass flashed two thumbs up.

Marinette still looked a little confused. “And we… we want to babysit the Rogues?”

“They mostly behave themselves. Again, Crane can be insufferable when he wants to be and they have to spend a lot of time with him in Arkham.”

“I guess that’s cool then…” Then, a thought seemed to occur to her because she brightened up. “Is Nightwing coming?”

Tim nodded, suddenly a lot more wary. “Yeah, both he and Flamebird drop by for most holidays, anyway, so they might as well… why?”

She blushed a little. “I kind of wanted to see if I could get him to train me. I think his fighting style is pretty cool.”

Tim was not jealous or annoyed that Marinette might like two of his brothers more than him. He was fine if she liked Cass more, because Cass was, well, Cass. But Dick? Damian? Come on!

At least he had a month before the party to prepare himself.

For now, he glared at Cass, because she was laughing at him behind her hand.

Then he remembered that Marinette was still there and was watching the two of them interact with a vaguely confused expression and he pulled himself together: “I don’t know if he can teach you much since he’s usually in Bludhaven, but I used to be obsessed with the guy and I know all his moves by heart.”

She tipped her head to the side, considering, then smiled at him. “Sure. Thanks, Red, I owe you one.”

He tried to hide his relief behind a smile. She smiled and blushed, so he was pretty sure it worked.

~

Marinette smiled as she scrolled through the Batinternet on her phone (they’d finally given her the password! She no longer had to waste data!). The batkids were all working on the computer, trying to hack into their father’s files to see their Christmas presents.

She didn’t get why they were doing it then, it wasn’t even Halloween yet. Still, they insisted that Batman was always prepared well before the holidays hit. She was curious about what they’d find, if anything, so she waited as Red Robin hacked their dad’s files.

Loud cheers erupted from the others, which meant they must have found something.

“... right, Ladybug, yours is easiest to get into… he probably didn’t expect you to try… he’s getting you an Xbox and a bunch of games to go with it.”

Her gaze shot up and she surged to the front of the group to see. “Really?”

Red Robin pointed at the screen and she blinked a few times. Yep, that was a customized Xbox. Wild.

Then her shoulders slumped. “Damn, I was only kidding. If I knew he was actually going to get it I would’ve asked for a Playstation.”

She continued looking at all the ‘random’ games Batman had bought her (he was suspiciously good at guessing what she liked), completely oblivious to the fact that she had accidentally started World War III right behind herself at the casual mention of a thing she wanted.

She glanced back at them once during their fight and they straightened instantly, innocent smiles in place. The hand Red Robin had in Robin’s hair turned into a hair ruffle. Black Bat had turned the way she gripped the collar of Spoiler’s shirt into pulling her down for a hug. Signal’s eyes stopped glowing under his domino. She smiled a little and turned back to the screen to look at the rest of the games. Fighting resumed.

Or, at least, it did until Marinette saw the file name.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

“I knew you fuckers took my blood,” she hissed irritably.

She wasn’t exactly scared, the bats seemed generally well-intentioned, just paranoid, but that didn’t mean she liked it. They stole her blood to figure out her identity without asking.

They all tensed up behind her and looked at each other awkwardly.

Robin was first to snap out of it. He swatted Red Robin over the back of the head. “Look what you’ve done, Drake.”

Marinette blinked and then pulled her gaze back to Red Robin. “Drake?”

The batkids looked at each other awkwardly. Except for Red Robin, who was glaring at his youngest brother.

Spoiler was the first one to come up with an excuse: “It’s an older codename. We told him to come up with something original since everything else he’s used has belonged to someone else first… and that’s what he came up with.”

She considered whether Drake really confirmed that Red Robin was Tim Drake-Wayne. On one hand, yeah… but, on the other hand, was he really that stupid? Would he really use his own last name for a codename?

She supposed that, in all her time knowing Tim and Red Robin, he had never shown himself to be original. Smart, sure, but a little unoriginal.

So, yeah, Tim was almost definitely Red Robin.

But she was prepared to ignore it for now. Every bat seemed tense at the idea of her learning their identities, so she played dumb:

“It’s not that bad of a codename. Dragons are pretty cool.”

She could feel Black Bat still staring at her, but everyone else relaxed almost imperceptibly.

“He didn’t base himself off of dragons, he chose male ducks,” Robin informed her.

She blinked. “Why the hell would he choose ducks?”

Signal snapped his fingers and started pulling out his phone. “Oh, Mari -- can I call you Mari? -- you should see his outfit.”

Red Robin realized he was about to get murdered for his younger self’s outfit choices and tried to snatch the phone away.

Unfortunately for him, while he was concentrating on Signal, Black Bat had sidled over to Marinette. She tugged her arm to pull her attention from the two fighting boys and then showed her the picture.

Marinette stared at the ugly cockroach outfit for a long time before taking a deep breath: “Alright, first of all...”

~

Tim… he was fine.

Okay, no, he wasn’t.

The tracker was better, he would admit. She had even started wearing more red and black so she could wear the necklace more (something that made him feel all fuzzy inside), but she wasn’t wearing it every day and he couldn’t exactly tell if the necklace was there because she was home or if it was there because she’d worn a different outfit.

So, he only had one solution: randomly dropping by to do chores with her.

It started off with the ‘might as well’ principle. They were already out for photography and getting ideas for outfits, why not pick up some groceries while they were on their way back? She could even carry more since there were two of them.

He quickly dropped pretenses, though. The one time every few days that they hung out wasn’t enough to keep her in the house, and even if it was she clearly wasn’t fond of staying inside for long periods of time. He started dropping by every day to just go out with her.

He could tell his family was getting a little suspicious about what he was doing, Steph and Cass both narrowed their eyes at him whenever they saw him leaving the office at a normal time and once he had caught Duke following him to see where he was going… but it was fine. They weren’t going to complain about him actually getting some sort of down time.

And, he had to admit, it was nice. Not only did resting his brain for an hour or two a day do wonders for his mental health, he just… enjoyed doing chores with her? He didn’t think he would. He’d expected to like it the first few times, the novelty of going on his first grocery shopping trip or figuring out how a laundromat was always going to make it interesting and new for a bit, but it didn’t seem to be wearing off.

He was pretty sure that was because of the person he was doing it with, though.

He smiled as he watched Marinette half-climb the supermarket shelves for a bag of Takis.

“Need help?” He called.

“Nope!”

He watched her jump a few times on the lowest shelf before, eventually, climbing up another shelf.

Tim winced and surged forward to support her weight a little.

She huffed and grabbed the Takis. He set her down.

She crossed her arms. “I said I could get it.”

“I trust you. The shelves? Not so much. Do you want to die crushed under a bunch of chips?”

Her halfhearted glare morphed into a grin. “If I die any other way you have to promise to resurrect me so I can do it again.”

He rolled his eyes. “How about I resurrect you and you try not to die again for a while?”

“Hm… I guess that’d be alright.”

Then, at the laundromat, Tim saw a bunch of Two Face’s henchmen. How did he know that they were henchmen? The black and white suits kind of gave them away.

He was just wondering whether it was worth it to try and call Duke over so they didn’t risk something happening when he realized that Marinette had slipped over to them.

But she wasn’t concerned as she offered some of her detergent. “Hey, if you need to wash lights and darks together like that… you’re going to need a different detergent. I know those are cheap but there’s a reason for that.”

“Isn’t that just an old detergent problem?”

“No, separating every single color into a different load is. But, if you want to do pure black and white like that… you don’t want to risk it.”

Then she turned and glared at another goon, who was pulling their luckily still okay clothes out of the washer.

“You’d better not be putting that in the dryer.”

The sheepish look on the henchman’s face was answer enough.

She huffed. “That is airdry only why would you do that --?!”

And that’s how they ended up friends with -- and possibly under the protection of? -- a bunch of henchmen. Tim had to admit, they were really nice when he and Marinette weren’t trying to get them thrown in jail. He almost found himself slipping and hoping that Frank managed to achieve his mob boss dreams. He actually did offer to babysit Sam’s kids while she had a shift because she seemed very stressed.

“Tim, darling, do you even know how to take care of kids?”

Tim didn’t know whether to blush because she had called him darling oh my god or due to embarrassment at that massive oversight.

“Uh… would you be willing to help?”

Marinette gave him an exhausted look. “I’ve only ever babysat one kid at a time without their older sibling being there to help.”

He quickly changed the offer to paying for a babysitter. Sam was thankful regardless.

When everyone had finished laundering their clothes to Marinette’s satisfaction, the two of them headed back towards her apartment.

Tim changed the position of the laundry basket on his hip so it didn’t dig into him as much. “You know, you didn’t have to help them.”

She snickered. “First of all, you’re absolutely wrong. I couldn’t just sit by and watch them ruin their clothes right in front of me!”

He rolled his eyes, trying to hide the fond smile on his face. “And second of all?”

“Secondly…” She let him into the house and closed the door behind him. A cheeky smile formed on her face. “Well, they’re henchmen. Don’t you think it would be a good idea to have them on our side in case things go wrong rather than indifferent to what happens to us?”

It was here, with her smiling in front of him, intelligence sparkling in her eyes and the necklace he gave her hanging from her neck, that he realized that he was going to fall in love. He might not be there yet but, if they continued doing things like this, he was sure he would.

He wouldn’t mind that, he thought, as she leaned forward to take the basket from him, pressing a kiss to his cheek on the way over. He watched her disappear to her room, no doubt to fix whatever damage he had done while carrying it that would be invisible to anyone but her. He shoved his hands in his pockets and went to start up the coffee machine.

~

There are no botanical gardens more beautiful than the ones in Gotham. Whether that was because Poison Ivy herself tended to them or because they were kept in tip-top shape to appease her, Marinette didn’t know. Whatever the reason, it was gorgeous and Marinette had gotten quite a few different ideas. She pretty much had an entire spring collection planned out…

It was unfortunate that she’d gotten ideas for a spring collection in the middle of autumn, but she was ignoring that.

Now, they were sitting on her couch. They needed to relax after all that walking around on top of a rather exhausting night the night before (Scarecrow had broken out of Arkham to start preparing for his Halloween Party). She was completely in his space in an attempt to mess with him. It, unfortunately, didn’t seem to annoy him as he lazily rested his head on top of hers.

She huffed a little but allowed it.

He fiddled with the settings on his camera, biting his lip.

She looked down at the camera and asked: “How’d you get into photography?”

“... it’s a kind of personal story,” he said carefully. “A little sad, too, I guess.”

She tried to pull back, an apology on her lips, but he just rested an arm around her shoulders and held her close.

“It’s fine.”

She nodded as much as she could with the head resting on top of hers.

They were silent for a long time. She tried to relax herself. There were no akumas in Gotham, it was okay to accidentally upset someone and it was okay to ask them if they wanted to elaborate. They were people, people are supposed to feel sad sometimes. It’s healthy.

She took a deep breath before curling more into his side. “Would you like to talk about it?”

The arm around her tightened almost imperceptibly. “I… I guess I can, sure.”

“You don’t have to,” she said quickly. In fact, she might be a little more comfortable with that. Emotional conversations weren’t a Parisian’s forte.

But he sighed and shook his head. “It’s fine. Our relationship can’t progress all that healthily if we never tell each other anything.”

Yikes. Way to accidentally call her out on the fact that she hadn’t formed a healthy relationship in years, Tim.

“Not that I’m all that great at healthy relationships,” he said after a minute.

At least she wasn’t alone, she supposed.

“No easy way to say this, I guess… my parents weren’t the best. They’d go on trips -- they were archaeologists -- and I’d be left home alone, usually for months at a time.”

She cringed internally and took his hand in hers, rubbing comforting circles into his palm.

He sighed lightly. “So… I was lonely, obviously. I started by taking pictures of my parents. Sometimes it was all I’d have of them for months. They could leave, but the pictures weren’t able to.”

She felt him bury his face in her hair.

“I started following the bats after a while. I don’t know if it was because I wasn’t sated by pictures of just the two of them and decided to expand, if it was because they had a happy family despite a distant father and I wanted that for myself, or if it was because I wanted my parents to find out and be worried about me, or a mix of all of that… but…”

She slowly moved the camera off of his lap and pulled him into a hug. “But?”

He was silent for a bit, thinking over his answer. He shrugged and wrapped his arms around her. “It was an old coping mechanism. A way of feeling connected to people when I couldn’t actually be.”

“‘Was?’ What changed?”

He laid back on the couch and she allowed him to pull her down beside him. “People around me… started ‘leaving permanently’.”

She winced. Oh.

“It hurt a lot more to look at the pictures after that. It just felt like a reminder that I was alone.”

She frowned. “But… you’re taking pictures of me, now.” Her eyes widened. “Shit, did I accidentally trigger --.”

He shook his head quickly. “No, no. Well, kind of, but it’s okay! Every time they’ve died, it was because of some sort of shortcoming on my part. I think I’ve learned from all my mistakes. You… I won’t let you get hurt, okay?”

Marinette didn’t know how to respond. On one hand, she was pretty sure that she should be assuring him that, even if she did end up dying, that he shouldn’t blame himself… on the other hand, she had no intentions of dying and she was pretty sure it was nearly impossible for her, so maybe it was a good thing that he had chosen to protect her of all people? Maybe the problem would solve itself?

She didn’t know.

She carefully took his face in her hands, pulling him to look her in the eyes. “I’m not going anywhere, okay, darling?”

He gave her a tentative smile. “I sure hope you’re right.”

~

He had been asked to stay the night. Her excuse was that she was almost done with an outfit for him and she wanted to give it to him the second it was done and, by the time it would be, it would be too dark to go out safely.

Tim kind of felt bad that he had worried her but he wasn’t going to turn down the offer of staying over and watching her finish the outfit.

But, first, food. They dropped a million takeout menus on the desk. A long silence stretched between them as they looked at all the options.

“... what do you want?” Asked Marinette.

“I’m not in the mood for anything in particular, you?”

She sighed. “I don’t know, do you want anything?”

“I don’t want anything, what about you --?”

This continued on for about three minutes before Tim got a brilliant idea. He dialled Damian’s number and put it on speaker.

“Drake. Why are you calling? Have you been hurt?”

“No, Dami, I’m getting takeout and I was just wondering if you had any ideas.”

Marinette gave him an affronted look, but he clapped his hand over her mouth before she could warn Damian that, no, he wasn’t buying food for him he was just going to be an asshole.

“... I suppose I wouldn’t be averse to Chinese.”

“Thanks, Dami! Hope you can get Alfie to make that for you.”

“What do -- ?”

Tim hung up on his very confused younger brother.

Marinette frowned as he removed his hand from her mouth. “That wasn’t nice of you, that’s a kid.”

Tim was not about to get beaten by his brother in both identities, thank you very much.

“Alfred can cook better than anyone in the world, he’s not going to suffer.”

She snorted. “I doubt he can make food better than…” She picked through the takeout papers for a few moments before holding up a menu. “... this place!”

He squinted at the menu. “... I really hope you can speak Mandarin.”

“You’d be hard pressed to find a language I can’t speak, Timmy,” she said, absently dialling the number.

Well, he supposed that explained how a person from France knew ASL and could speak English like a native. Damn. Now he kinda wanted magical god-earrings so he could speak every language in existence.

She spoke cheerfully to the person on the other side of the line for a moment before turning to Tim. “What do you want?”

“Uh… shrimp fried rice?”

She rolled her eyes and flicked his nose. “Alright, fine, white boy.”

“It’s a safe option okay --!”

She wasn’t listening to him explain why fried rice was the best choice for him because she was relaying the order to the person on the other side of the line. She hung up with a smile.

“Food will be here in about three minutes. Do you rich people have small bills or do you just use them for tissues or something?”

He raised his eyebrows. “They go down to a hundred, right?”

She pressed her lips together thinly, clearly unsure whether or not he was joking.

He snickered and shook his head. “Nah, I think I have twenties and fifties…”

“Yeah, that won’t do. We’re going to get robbed,” she said, reaching into her purse.

“We? Didn’t know I lived here, too,” he joked.

She barely even glanced up from where she was counting money. “Honestly, with how often you’re here, you might as well move in.”

He choked. He wanted to say something smart or funny or smooth, instead all that came out was: “You --? I --? Uh --!”

She snickered behind her hand. “Love, relax, I’m just kidding. You don’t have to leave your fancy mansion with all your siblings --.”

“Wait, don’t make living here sound even better. I will do it purely to get away from them, don’t test me.”

She rolled her eyes with a grin. “Maybe that's the plan, you’ll never know.”

Tim had exactly zero idea whether they were joking or not anymore. The tone and reactions made him pretty sure they were kidding, but… what if they weren’t?

He was just gathering the courage to ask when the doorbell rang, pulling their attention to the food. She continued counting for a second before running to the door and swinging it open.

He walked up beside her awkwardly as she chatted politely to the guy to take the food inside. He knew, logically, that Marinette was actually way stronger than he was… but his stupid brain saw a thin, short woman in need of someone to help her carry things. So, he took it from the guy with a smile.

The delivery guy glanced Tim up and down before asking Marinette something. She laughed and gave a shrug. Tim did not know what was going on but he felt vaguely insulted.

He was definitely learning Mandarin after this.

The moment the door closed he whined about being insulted. She looked amused.

“You know what he said?”

“... no,” he admitted.

Her lips twitched.

“... you’re not going to tell me, are you?”

She snickered and leaned over the two bags of food in his hands. “So, you got the fried rice, right?”

“Mariiiiiiii.”

“Your food is going to get cold.”

“Beeeaaaan,” he complained.

She raised an eyebrow at him, a blush spreading across her face. “Bean?”

He grinned, feeling heat creep to his own cheeks. “I don’t know, I couldn’t think of anything for a nickname. First thing I thought of was coffee beans, so: Bean.”

“Wow, you’re such an addict,” she teased.

He continued pouting at her until she gave in.

She leaned forward to press a kiss to his nose. “He asked if you could use chopsticks or not so he could get you a fork if you couldn’t.”

He felt the blush on his face deepen. “Oh… I can’t.”

“That’s fine.” She grabbed a tote bag from the floor of her pantry and pulled out a set of plasticware.

He blinked. “... you keep plastic forks?”

She shrugged and tossed the bag back in her pantry. “Plastic forks, grocery bags, napkins, a few sets of chopsticks…”

“... why?”

“Some of us are minorities, darling.”

“What --?”

~

She hummed tunelessly as she worked.

Tim had fallen asleep on her shoulder. Had most of this been an elaborate plot to make him finally get some sleep? Possibly.

She didn’t feel all that bad, though. With how much he overworked himself both as Red Robin and as Tim Drake-Wayne… honestly, she was beginning to doubt that he slept at all. And, really, if a vigilante coffee addict with a magically enhanced physique is worried about your sleep schedule, you’ve got problems. Intervention was needed.

Don’t get her wrong, though, she was going to make up for lying to him. She’d move him to her bed and leave a cup of coffee for him on the bedside table. Maybe she’d even make him breakfast, it depended on how tired she was in the morning.

But that was for when she was done. For now, she was working on the last part of the outfit: she needed to lace up the corset. His posture needed a little work and she didn’t have the heart to tell him that to his face.

… besides, corset vests are cute. She wished more guys would wear them.

She smiled to herself as she pulled the last bit of lace through and tied a loose knot. Done.

She looked down at Tim. Loose strands fell in his face as he slept. The tiny wrinkles in his forehead disappeared, making him look much younger. His lips curled into a slight smile at whatever he was dreaming about.

He looked so genuinely at peace. She hated that that was abnormal for him.

She couldn’t help but worry a little about what he’d said earlier. He’d claimed that the reason he had gone up to the top of that building the day they’d met (as Tim and Marinette) was to scout out a location for photography, but now that was seeming like a lie because he apparently preferred taking pictures of people over locations… so, why was he up so high? He’d known it was illegal to be there, so she doubted he thought anyone else would be…

She swallowed thickly.

She didn’t think his mental state was that bad… but, just in case it was, she waved Tikki over for a bug and sewed it into one of his sleeves.

Tikki was looking at her disapprovingly. Marinette ignored her.

It was Ladybug’s job to make sure everyone was doing okay mentally, and she wasn’t going to fail a person she cared about of all people.

His head slipped from her shoulder onto her stomach and she sighed, trying to lightly push him off without disturbing his sleep. It didn’t work. He made a quiet sound in the back of his throat and buried his face in her stomach, his arms wrapping around her tightly.

Well, this is her life now.

… she supposed it wasn’t so bad, though.

[letapollojusticesayfuck]

"the way you flirt is shameful." Klavier (klapollo) and ema ?

"short fics," I said, like a liar.

anyway please enjoy almost 2k of Klapollo Nonsense.

Send me a random line of dialogue and some characters, and I'll write a short fic!

---

Another grey morning, another lukewarm cup of coffee. Apollo pulls his coat a little tighter around him, scowling at nothing in particular. It’s just his luck, isn’t it, that this week’s defendant is a fisherman, accused of murdering their boat’s captain out on the docks.

It’s also just his luck that it’s March, and he hadn’t even thought anyone would be out on the water this early in the year. Shows how much he knows about the fishing industry.

He jumps when an arm lands around his shoulders, and has to fight to keep his awful beverage from sloshing entirely out of its styrofoam cup. With an irritated huff, Apollo turns to reprimand his unexpected company, but the words die in his throat when he looks over to see Klavier Gavin—and, more specifically, the woolly hat perched on his head. It appears to be lovingly hand-knitted, in a shade of purple he’d swear he’d seen in scraps of wool lying around the office in previous weeks. It also happens to be emblazoned with Gavin’s ridiculous logo, the angular G as distinctive as ever.

“Uh…” he says instead, eyebrow raised in what he hopes is a skeptical, yet bewildered expression. He’s not sure he succeeds with that, though, considering the way Gavin’s casual smile crooks up at the edges into a more genuine grin.

“Ja, Herr Forehead? How goes the investigation?” Lazy curls of steam rise from the stainless steel travel mug clasped in his hand, dissipating into the pervasive fog that’s blanketing the docks. Typical. Apollo considers asking him if he’d like to swap drinks.

“Cold. Damp. And is this a good time to mention that I’m allergic to shellfish? I think that’s probably an important detail, considering….this.” he replies, poking an errant mussel with the point of his dress shoe. His dress shoe that he’s for some reason wearing to a crime scene out by the harbour, because Apollo has misplaced ideas of professionalism, apparently.

“Ach, it’s not that bad! For one, you have my company to brighten up your day! And for another thing...I have news for you about the case.”

“Really. And it’s not just going to be something that you’ll immediately rescind in court tomorrow?”

“HerrForehead, what kind of prosecutor do you take me for? We’re on the same side, you know—both seeking the truth.”

“That’s cheesy as anything.”

“But correct! Anyway. FräuleinSkye has just uncovered something tangled around one of the fishing lines on the boat, and she’s attempting to piece it back together. If you hurry, you might get a glimpse before it goes straight into the evidence dossier.”

Apollo hmms, considering. He’s not sure he wants to just take Klavier’s tip-off; it could be seen as collusion under some circumstances. But he’s really not accomplishing anything on his own, and any new evidence could help him prove Annette Sloop’s innocence.

He also realizes, belatedly, that Klavier still has his arm around his shoulders, and that he’s been unconsciously leaning into the warmth of the taller man’s down jacket.

“Okay, sure—it’s gotta be better than anything I can find here,” Apollo decides, and tries to subtly extricate himself from Klavier’s grasp without drawing attention to the fact that he’s actually found some kind of comfort in their proximity, that he’s really not particularly enthusiastic about losing his human space-heater.

Luckily, Klavier realizes that he’ll have to grant Apollo his freedom if he wants the shorter man to be able to take advantage of his newly-gained intel, and drops his arm back to his own side. Apollo stifles a shiver as the cool, damp air rushes back against him, clinging to his skin with a pervasive chill.

He’d assumed that Klavier had business to take care of on the dock, so the fact that the prosecutor follows him as he boards the fishing boat takes him by surprise. What also takes him by surprise is the intensity of the fishy aroma around the vessel, something that Apollo really should have considered as a factor beforehand. He wrinkles his nose and tries to breathe shallowly—and when that doesn’t work out, he buries his nose in the collar of his jacket.

And that brings with it its own set of problems, because somehow the short amount of time his jacket was in contact with Klavier’s own was enough to allow the other man’s sandalwood cologne to seep into the thin fabric. Apollo wishes this wasn’t his life. Isn’t this the kind of stuff teenagers write about?

Luckily, his panicking is cut short by Ema Skye clearing her throat from the other end of the deck, midway through spreading fabric scraps onto a plastic folding table. She appears decidedly unimpressed, but waves them over.

“Justice. I take it you were informed of the recent developments by the fop here?” she remarks, as disinterestedly as possible for someone who’s practically vibrating with the excitement of being able to do something actually forensically significant.

“Er...yeah, Klavier told me that you’d found something?” Apollo replies, trying to look as though he understands more of the situation than he actually does. He thinks he pulls it off. If not, Ema doesn’t comment on it.

Klavier, however, smiles impossibly wide at Apollo’s words, and it takes him a moment to realize that it’s because he’d called the man by his first name, as opposed to his more professional title. A slip of the tongue, nothing more! And yet…

If it’d get a reaction like that, Apollo might start using Klavier’s first name significantly more often.

“Oh, come on, do neither of you actually care about this T-shirt I found? This apparently-bloodstainedT-shirt?” Ema taps her foot against the plank wood of the ship’s deck. Apollo breaks out of his thoughts with just about enough time to look marginally interested in the new evidence—which he hopes is convincing.

And it’s not that he doesn’t want to solve the murder! It’s really just that—well, Klavier is just there, being distracting, like he always is—except it’s worse, recently, somehow. Apollo swears he used to be able to spend time focusing on other things, that he wasn’t always this preoccupied with what the prosecutor was doing, where he was standing, if he was looking at--

“Oh, for God’s sake. The way you flirt is shameful,” Ema says, entirely exasperated. She also seems to be looking at Apollo, for some reason.

“Are you talking to me?” he asks, confused. The detective rolls her eyes and sighs dramatically, visibly resisting the urge to throw up her hands.

“You, him, both of you! This used to be almost funny, you know, watching Gavin be all glimmerous in your direction and seeing you shut him down. But recently you’ve been playing into it and—you know what? I’m done! You don’t get to listen to my stunning forensic breakthroughs until you’ve sorted your shit out, because I just can’t be doing with this. It’s ridiculous. Why can’t you just act like adults?”

The outburst is followed by Ema Skye whirling around, the sensible shoes she’s wearing clacking against the ship’s deck. Halfway to the door to the crew’s quarters, she remembers that she’s left all her forensic materials spread out next to where Klavier and Apollo are standing, and backtracks with increasingly evident frustration.

“You know what? I’m not leaving! You two—off my ship!Go figure yourselves out, and I won’t tell you about this case-changing evidence until you’ve stopped acting like this.”

Apollo’s a little taken-aback—not the least because he doesn’t think that he’s been doing any flirting, especially not with Klavier. He’s been hiding his feelings far too well for that—right?

Klavier looks at him and shrugs, motioning with his head that they should retreat the way they’d arrived. It’s not necessarily the most dignified thing, climbing off a boat in shame after being reprimanded by the detective on the case.

Once they’re back on “solid” ground (as solid as one can call a fishing boat’s dock, anyway), Apollo turns to Klavier.

“So, what was that about? I’ve never seen her that angry.”

Interestingly enough, color rises to Klavier’s cheeks. “Well...I think that, perhaps, she’s...misinterpreting the situation?”

And if Klavier’s strange statement hadn’t been enough to tip Apollo off that maybe something strange is going on here, there’s the familiar pinch of warm metal against his left wrist, his bracelet constricting at the taller man’s fib.

And—they know each other well enough, by this point, that all Apollo has to do is level an unimpressed stare in the prosecutor’s direction, and deadpan “Klavier” with all the air of a man who is taking no bullshit for an answer, for him to deflate and give up, shoving a hand in his back pocket awkwardly.

“Ugh. Okay. Erm. So, HerrForehead, this wasn’t...exactly...unprovoked. It’s possible that FräuleinSkye has been on the receiving end of many conversations about how I would like to….uh…”

It’s quite something, seeing Klavier at a loss for words. Apollo hadn’t thought that the former rockstar could look as awkward as he does now, the hand not trapped in his pocket fiddling with a loose strand of his hair.

He really, really tries not to think about how endearing it is.

Klavier seems to have reached a point, however, where he’s just decided to say things and worry about the consequences later. So Apollo’s contemplations are brought to a screeching halt when the man sighs, flips his hair, and stares at him straight-on, enunciating with perfect clarity:

“Apollo Justice, would you like to go out with me? On a date? Because I must say, I’ve been trying to find the best way to ask you for a while now, but unfortunately all I’ve succeeded in doing is, apparently, annoying the FräuleinDetective until not even Snackoos are a valid enough weapon.”

And—this isn’t the setting Apollo had pictured, in his often-hastily-repressed daydreams about Klavier asking him out. For one, he’d not quite imagined the quantity of fish, or the less-than-steady footing. But Klavier looks so earnest about his request, and Apollo can’t deny the way his heart’s skipped a beat, the way he’s almost petrified to say anything just in case this isn’t real—and so, he takes a deep breath, steps forward, and twines his fingers with Klavier’s.

“You know what? I’d love to. I’ll go anywhere you’d like—with the exception of a sushi restaurant” Apollo smiles, hesitantly at first, and then more genuinely as he sees the softly disbelieving expression on Klavier’s face.

“Really?” the prosecutor asks, and isn’t that incredible—that Klavier Gavin had been worried about being turned down. Apollo can’t quite believe it himself, yet.

“Yeah, really,” he says, smiling up at Klavier, who beams down at him in return. He feels the other man squeeze his hand briefly, and can’t quite contain the impulse to lean in closer to him, consciously this time, sharing both warmth and physical contact in a meaningful way.

When they return to the fishing vessel, Ema takes one look at the two of them and narrows her eyes, proceeding to mime nausea at the way they’re still holding hands.

However, she does follow through on her promise—and by the time they’re ready to leave the crime scene, both Klavier and Apollo are fairly certain of the next day’s trial’s outcome—as well as of the location of their post-trial dinner date.

[wondernimbus]

c’est magnifique — oliver wood

pairing: oliver wood x female!reader

prompt: when reader doesn’t get into the slytherin quidditch team because of one marcus flint, her boyfriend decides to take matters into his own hands.

a/n: online classes r finally OVER!! i'll be able to work on you guys’ reqs now hehe

Marcus Flint—Slytherin's Quidditch team captain—is, for lack of a better word, an absolute prick, and [Y/N] is having absolutely none of it.

"That's rubbish!" she says incredulously, her hands throwing themselves in the air out of pure frustration. "You know as well as I do that I played better than Malfoy, and now you're telling me that he got on the team and I barely did? As a reserve?"

Flint rolls his eyes. "But you didn't give the team brand new brooms—Malfoy did." His sneer contorts into a sympathetic simper as he claps her on the shoulder; [Y/N] recoils, glaring daggers at him. "Try out again next time when you actually have something to offer. Until then.. you'd be better off watching in the stands."

"Something to offer?" she repeats, mouth actually falling open in blatant disbelief. "I've got more to 'offer' than Malfoy ever will! Actual Quidditch skills, for one, and Malfoy can barely even stay on his bloody broomstick!"

"Which, mind you, is an expensive broomstick—the same one the rest of the team has, all because of good old Lucius." Flint nods ostentatiously, like he thinks leeching off of the Malfoys' money is something to be proud of. [Y/N]'s brows are knitted together in pure incredulity as she stares up at him, shaking her head in disbelief. "So cry me a river and be on your merry way. I've got class to go to."

[Y/N] seethes through her teeth and wonders what the consequences of punching someone in a middle of a busy hallway would be. Detention, that was for sure, but what kind?

Staring up at Flint, [Y/N] realizes that she hardly cares what kind of detention she'll be receiving as long as she can put him in his place.

"I could hit you right now."

"Oh, yeah?"

She takes a step closer to him, egged on by the white-hot anger clouding her better judgment. "You don't think I can?"

"Please. You can barely even reach me without tip-toeing." Flint lets out a deprecating laugh and reaches out to shove her by the shoulder—

Whack!

There's a sickening crunch as the sound of a fist colliding with someone's jaw cuts through the air. Flint falls to the ground, groaning in pain.

But [Y/N] hasn't even as much as raised her arm. Her eyes are wide as she watches Oliver Wood—the perpetrator—pull Flint to his feet, wrenching him up by the collar and almost tearing it off his robes. She gapes as he pushes Flint up to the wall and, with the angriest glare [Y/N] has ever seen him wear, Oliver hisses through his teeth, "Stay away from her, you foul git."

Flint's eyes are wide with fear, but then his eyes dart around the hallway to see the countless students who have stopped in their tracks to witness the scene unfold. Hogwarts students, it seems, won't pass up a chance for some good gossip—which is exactly what this is: Oliver Wood defending his girlfriend against the pompous Marcus Flint.

Flint hangs onto what little pride he has left and fixes his face into a sneer, smacking Wood's hand away. "Whatever," he grumbles, shoving past him to stalk off down the hallway.

[Y/N] is still very much riled up, but her concern wins over her anger and she rushes to Oliver, quickly grabbing the hand he'd used to punch Flint and skimming her thumb over his knuckles. "Oliver," she sighs, frowning, her tone almost reprimanding. A bruise is already forming on his hand; he winces when she accidentally presses down on it. "You didn't have to do that," she mutters, glancing up at him, and despite her words, she can't help the rush of gratitude surging through her.

Oliver is glaring after Flint's retreating figure, jaw set and his gaze angry. But at [Y/N]'s words, his eyes soften and he looks down at her, pulling his hand away. "Bloody arsehole deserved it," he glowers, and then his voice goes gentle as he grips her shoulders and asks, "Are you alright? He didn't hit you, did he?"

[Y/N]  shakes her head. Most of her initial anger is already fading away—an effect that Oliver always has on her—and, her tone slightly playful, she says pointedly, "I was about to hit him, though, until you stepped in."

Oliver sighs, an exasperated smile resting on his lips as he pulls her into him and presses a kiss to her forehead.

—

"You want us to what?"

Oliver stares at the Weasley twins resolutely over the Gryffindor table. "Put sleeping draught in his drink or something, I don't know. You lot know a great deal more about the—er—methods.. than I do. Just make sure Malfoy won't be able to play in the match next week."

Fred and George share a meaningful look. A moment later, the pair of them are breaking out into identical mischievous grins. "We thought you'd never ask!" beams Fred, eyes gleaming in a way that suggests he's been waiting for this moment his entire life.

"Those Slytherbins have been playing far too dirty for too long—it's time we retaliate," says George through a bite of toast, nodding earnestly. Leaning forward, he asks, “Mind telling us why, though?”

“Yeah, we’d like to know why exactly we’re doing your dirty work.”

“And why you’ve turned to evil ways instead of fair play.”

Oliver shrugs casually, taking a swig of pumpkin juice. It’s at that moment that he catches eye of a certain someone entering the Great Hall. It’s [Y/N], and her gaze meets his immediately; her lips break out into a grin and she strides towards where he’s sitting on the Gryffindor table with the twins.

”Good morning, girlfriend,” Oliver grins, standing up to greet her with a chaste kiss.

“Morning, love."

“Ah, young love,” gushes Fred, propping his chin on his palm.

“C’est magnifique,” says George. “Hey, [Y/N], did you get into the Slytherin team?”

”Yeah, what position did you try out for again?”

[Y/N] unwinds her arms from Oliver’s middle to turn to the twins. “Seeker,” she answers, swiftly grabbing a piece of buttered toast from the table. “And I got in the team—“

”You did?“ George cuts her off, puzzled. “But I thought Malfoy—“

“As a reserve,” continues [Y/N], visibly deflating, the expression on her face souring as she takes a bite of toast. "But it's alright. I got in the team nonetheless. Let's just hope Malfoy gravely injures himself and won't be able to play—kidding, of course," she adds smoothly, but the angry way she's chewing her toast suggests that maybe she isn't entirely joking.

Fred and George, meanwhile, have caught on. They glance at Oliver, who quirks his eyebrows up at them as though to say so you get it now?

And yes, they bloody well do.

—

On the day of the Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin, Draco Malfoy is sent to the hospital wing. No one knows for sure why, but word has leaked of boils having mysteriously erupted somewhere in his nether regions that have rendered him unable to walk, much less fly around on a broomstick.

Surprised and elated beyond belief, [Y/N] dashes into the Great Hall that morning and practically throws herself at Oliver, squealing in joy as she slings her arms around his neck and starts breathlessly gushing on and on about "Quidditch—I'm going to play today—I'm going to be on the pitch!"

Oliver, grinning wildly, grasps onto her waist and twirls her around with little to no effort. [Y/N] can't stop the breathless laughs that tumble out from her mouth; the thought of actually being able to play in a real Quidditch game with hundreds of people watching has her almost dizzy with excitement. "I'm going to play," she says, out of breath as Oliver sets her down, hands still on her waist. Her eyes are wide and there is a smile on her face that doesn't seem like it will go away anytime soon.

"Against me," Oliver reminds her teasingly, and everything about him from the look in his eyes to the tiny smile on his lips is bursting with fondness. "I do hope you won't try to knock me off of my broom. I've fallen for you already—no need to have me do it again."

Grinning, [Y/N] rolls her eyes and pulls a face at him. "Oh, ha-ha." She feigns a feisty look, nose scrunching in a poor attempt at intimidation; "I am going to kick your arse, Oliver Wood. Mark my words."

Oliver laughs. "Alright, sweetheart. Consider them marked."

—

"BOTH SEEKERS HAVE SPOTTED THE SNITCH! And they're zooming off—Potter and [Y/L/N] are neck and neck—everyone is on their feet—Potter seems to be lagging behind—[Y/L/N] is four feet ahead—SHE'S GOT THE SNITCH! SLYTHERIN'S ONLY DECENT PLAYER HAS DONE IT!"

"Jordan!"

"Sorry, professor. [Y/L/N]—I mean, Slytherin wins!"

Oliver Wood practically hurtles towards the ground, tripping over his feet as he kicks his broom away in a mad dash to the other side of the pitch, where the Slytherins are. But contrary to many people's expectations, the look on the Gryffindor team captain's face isn't disappointed or angry at their loss—no, surprisingly, Oliver seems happier than anyone else on the field.  

He spots her from a few feet away standing amidst a throng of Slytherins, all of whom look pleasantly thrilled save for a certain Marcus Flint. She meets his gaze and the grin on her face, if possible, widens; dropping her broom on the grass, she runs toward Oliver, and much like she'd done earlier that morning, throws her arms around his neck, squealing.

"I did it!" [Y/N] says breathlessly, eyes wide. "I caught the snitch!"

Oliver has never felt more proud in his life. His chest swelling with so much joy and fondness it feels as though his heart is about to burst, he grins right back at her and places his hand on the back of her head, pressing their foreheads together, noses brushing as they smile excitedly at each other and everything else in the Quidditch pitch seems to fade into a blur. "You did it," says Oliver, and then he's leaning forward and pressing his lips to hers, smiling into her mouth.

When they pull away, everyone is hooting and cheering. A certain pair of redheaded twins are standing off a few feet away, sighing.

"Ah, young love," says Fred.

"C'est magnifique," says George.

[some-kindofgnome]

Kinktober #2: One Heck of a Twist: Mirio Togata

In which Mirio experiences two new things in the same night. 

Characters: Mirio Togata x f!Reader

Warnings: smut (18+ please!), aged up characters, oral sex (f-receiving), strong language, mirio being an absolute ray of sunshine, spoilers for The Empire Strikes Back

Notes: Congratulations! You survived day one! Welcome to day two of Kinktober 2020. Allow me to introduce you to my absolute favourite character to write. Seriously. Count how many times his name appears on my Kinktober masterlist. It’s a problem. Both characters are adults, even if they’re schmucks. 

Today’s prompt is ‘Eating Out.’ Bon appetit!

“I can’t believe you never knew that Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker’s father!”

Your exclamation is almost loud enough to draw looks from the rest of the crowd as you filter out of the movie theatre into the damp evening. The city’s glazed by a sheen of rainfall, but it’s as fine as mist and the chill is welcome against your theatre-warmed cheeks.

After finding out that Mirio had never seen Star Wars, you took it upon yourself to show him the original. And when he liked it, you found an independent theatre downtown showing a rerun of The Empire Strikes Back and made a date of it.

“How could I have?” He defends, grabbing your hand so you know he’s keeping it playful. “I’ve never seen it before.”

His hand is as warm and strong as ever, and you feel as safe holding onto it as you might if you were wrapped in his arms.

“Even so,” you continue, “that’s, like… the most common piece of movie trivia knowledge on the planet. How long have you been on this Earth for? And how long has Star Wars been on this Earth for?”

“Well, I know now,” he chuckles, tugging you a little closer by the hand as your shoulders bump. “And it was one heck of a twist.”

This whole holding-hands-in-public thing is kind of new to you, and you’re not quite past the butterflies stage. Then again, you’re pretty sure you’re never going to get past the butterflies stage with Mirio. He’s warm and masculine, funny and charming, but so kind it hurts sometimes. You’ve already been dating a couple of months and he still manages to surprise you all the time.

Take tonight, for instance.

“You must be the king of avoiding spoilers,” you tease, nudging his shoulder with yours again and feeling warm and fulfilled when your bodies connect.

You chat quietly the rest of the way home, walking close to ward off frost in the early fall darkness. For a romance that blossomed in the heat of midsummer, the two of you are weathering the changing seasons smoothly. Then again, you’re pretty sure nothing could ruin him for you at this point.

Silence settles coyly between you as the door of your apartment building draws closer. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d spent the night, but it was the first time you’d actually planned it in advance. The rush of nerves you first got when he showed up with an overnight bag is as fresh as ever, and by the time you get your keys out there’s heat creeping down your neck.

He stops you on the landing with a hand on your arm.

“Hey,” he rumbles, and when you turn back to him he’s standing a couple of steps down from you. He tugs you gently toward the edge of the landing and kisses you so soft it makes your toes curl. These days, every kiss feels like the first one all over again and you let your palms rest against his chest, falling into him.

“Let’s go inside,” you whisper once you’ve pulled away, pushing your forehead forward against his. You can feel the way his chest rumbles with his chuckle and you grin, push off his chest and grab his arm. You make it up the second flight of stairs in record time and he slips his arms around you from behind as you fish for the right key.

He changes gears seamlessly- shifting from sparkling eyes and sunny chuckles to pushing you inside and easily against the nearest wall, kicking the door shut and towering over you.

You ask yourself who the hell you were in your past life to earn this.

“I wanna try something with you,” he mumbles as he draws his nose tenderly up the side of your neck- just a little chilled against your warm skin. You shiver, hard, and you’re pretty sure you would agree to anything right about now.

“Okay,” you answer dumbly.

He responds in kind, slipping his hands under your denim-clad thighs and picking you up effortlessly- so fucking strong. You reward him by cupping his cheeks and kissing him silly while he feels his way into your bedroom, toppling forward onto the bed with you and caging you in until you force your mouth from his, breathless and gasping.

“First things first,” he says, drawing back. He unlaces your boots and lovingly pulls them off, taking your socks with him. He toes out of his own shoes and then he’s on top of you again. His weight and warmth is a world of its own, all-encompassing and complete.

His shadow passes over you, but instead of your lips he goes for your neck, sliding one knee between your thighs as he lets his mouth wander.

He’s already pushing you out of your jacket and nudging the neckline of your sweater down with his chin to nibble at your collar bone. You whimper, shoving your hands into the folds of his coat and wedging it off his shoulders, and he rears back in kind to shrug it off.

Mirio slips his hand up the side of your thigh, fingers just brushing your waistband. He hesitates for a minute, then pulls away again with a bashful expression in the dim light.

“My hands are pretty cold,” he admits. He blows sheepishly into his palms and rubs them back and forth a few times, then presses one to the crook of his neck. He bites his lip, thinking, then he’s on you again.

“Much better,” he purrs, and this time he’s not shy about sliding his fingers under your sweater, dancing them up your ribcage and selfishly thumbing the side of your bra. He uses his elbow to push the hem of your sweater up a little and his face finds home in your neck again.

“Can I?” He mumbles and you melt all over again.

“Go ahead.”

Your sweater comes off in a swath of cotton-blend, and he’s still wearing a t-shirt but you can feel the warmth of his body as he gathers you back into his arms. You’re so in love. So in love. So in love. It’s becoming a real problem.

“You’re so pretty,” he groans, and you giggle, slotting your hips as casually as you can against his. His body stutters against yours and his next breath comes out shaky.

Incredible.

“You said you wanted to try something,” you mumble. He’s holding you so close that your lips brush his hair as you speak, and you nuzzle a little deeper into the blonde mess. Happy to muss its perfect style.

“Right.” He jumps and pulls back, bracing himself on one arm to look down at you with the moon in his eyes. He grins, wolfishly, and suddenly your nerves are spiking again.

“Lemme go down on you.”

Your chest lurches. Hard. For a solid few seconds you don’t say anything, circulating the words inside your head to make sure they mean what you think they mean.

You hear the quiet echo of your name fall from his lips, and when your gaze re-focuses he’s peering down at you with such concern that you wonder if you’ve done something wrong.

“I… uh. Really?”

He laughs. Your cheeks go hot.

“Yeah, really.” He peeks up at you through heavy lids and if you weren’t already horizontal you might have swooned. “Been thinking about it a lot.”

“Okay.” You’ve gone dumb with shock, but he’s picking up the slack, kissing across your cheekbone and digging his thumb into the waistband of your jeans. He flicks the button open smoothly and drags down the fly. You plant your feet and he wiggles them off, grabbing the strap of your black underwear and tugging that down, too.

“Oh-kay,” you sigh again, fumbling with the clasp of your bra as he gets on his belly and slides his hands under your thighs. You push that last garment away and then you’re bare and his breath is there and it sends goosebumps racing straight up your arms and spine.

“God, you’re even prettier down here.” There’s no scrap of innocent charm left in his voice anymore. It’s all raspy baritones and husked little quips from here on out. He hooks one thigh over an elbow, dragging his fingertips over your hip before circling a thumb against your clit. It’s not much, but you’re drowning in him. You were ready to go by the time he got your jacket off.

“F-uck,” you stutter and your upper body gives out, your shoulders and head diving into the pillows behind you. He lowers his head and noses playfully at your thigh. You feel him smiling against you. Then he turns his gaze and just looks at you.

“Lemme taste you, princess.”

Then he licks.

“God,” you sigh, and where he was smiling against your thigh before, you feel him smile against your slit. He does it again, only this time he groans into you- letting the sound vibrate through his chest and all the way down to the tips of your toes. Your back arches clean off the bed and your thighs twitch. He digs his fingers into them, keeping you still.

“Keep going,” you urge, just in case he wasn’t abundantly sure that you were enjoying this, and he takes the note in stride. He settles into an eager rhythm, drawing his tongue up your slit a few more times before his tongue settles over your clit. If it was tender before it’s electric now, the easy flicks and swipes making you dig your feet into the mattress and slide your fingers into his hair.

Both hands comb through the gelled strands as you bite your lip hard and try to figure out what you’re going to do with all this pleasure. Your hips buck smoothly into his face as he keeps a steady pace, and your eyes are screwed shut but you know he’s watching.

His tongue swipes the right spot at the right time and your breathy little sighs shift from heady and high to guttural and clear, and there’s no way you’re holding back when it turns out he’s pretty fucking good at this.

“O-ohgod – there!”

You feel him pause for a heartbeat, but he’s quickly refocusing, repositioning to take the same angle as before. And where he swiped once he’s suddenly laving again and again, and his arms tighten around your thighs and it’s going to be tight but you’re getting there.

“More,” you plead. “Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna cum. Right there. There, there, there, y-“

You babble, but as soon as it hits you the sound dies in your throat. Your climax tips over like spilled wine and everything goes white while waves of pleasure wash over you. You’re pretty sure you’re grabbing his hair and pulling hard, but he doesn’t seem to mind, gathering you in his arms and holding you tight, licking you over and over until you’re squirming underneath him, pushing his head away with a whimper.

Your eyes shift open. The clouds part. He sits up slowly, licking his lips as he eases into your field of view. There are waves of absolute bliss lapping at your extremities and you do not miss the way he swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, sending a fresh throb of arousal straight through your spent body.

“So?”

He breaks the silence as he settles onto his side beside you, resting a hand on the column of your belly.

“So?” You laugh loosely. “When were you gonna tell me that your mouth’s good for more than just talking?”

He’s laughing again and nuzzling you, so loving and tender you might almost forget how thoroughly he just rocked your world.

“I thought it’d be better to show you.”

You turn your head and kiss him. He groans- you’re not shy about tasting yourself- and you roll over, dragging your palm down the front of his shirt. He’s a confident shit when you’re putty in his hands, but irresistibly adorable as soon as the ball’s in your court. You can’t wait.

“In that case,” you growl between kisses, “I think it’s my turn to show you something.”

[the-starryknight]

Someone to Notice Percy Weasley/Oliver Wood | Rated: T | Length: 1.4k

A fluffy little birthday gift for the phenomenal @skeptiquewrites, who's an incredible author and a stalwart cheerleader for rarepairs. Two of my favorites of Tee's fics are She Was Pretty (Lav/Pav), which is one of my all-time favorite non-Drarry fics and a gorgeous read of Lavender Brown post-war, and Nothing Left to Burn, Tee's brand new Wireless fic, fresh and full of Montreal life. She's also absolutely brilliant at microfics, so dig into her tag here too!

It shouldn't be such a big deal, introducing Oliver to Percy's family. Only it is a big deal, because Oliver matters a lot and Percy wants it to go well.

Percy Weasley’s tiny first-floor bedroom was precisely as it had been when he left it behind at seventeen, or so Percy claimed. Oliver had never seen it before.

Oliver lounged on the small single bed, on top of the knit blanket and the thin, well-used pillows. He’d changed into striped socks and pajama bottoms and a too-small jumper, pilfered from the perfectly organized drawers.

But Oliver couldn’t take his eyes off Percy even if he wanted to be nosy about the room.

Percy was pacing back and forth, wearing pressed trousers and a buttoned shirt, hair still shiny with product. Oliver wanted to sink his hands into it and muss it up, but that wouldn’t end well for either of them if he did it yet. So he waited. It’d take at least three more room lengths before Percy started talking again.

He was near the desk in the corner at the end of his second circuit when he turned around suddenly. “It went well,” Percy said, as though it were the most ludicrous conclusion.

“Reckon it did, yeah,” answered Oliver, running his fingers over a pull in the blanket.

“I wasn’t prepared for that possibility.”

Oliver laughed brightly, and pushed himself up to sit on the end of the bed. “I know.”

Percy hesitated, as straight-backed as the dozen sharpened quills waiting at attention in the cupholder on the desk. “You’re laughing at me. You think I’m ridiculous for being worried.”

“Never,” Oliver gulped, though he couldn’t contain the smile.

“You think I got myself so worked up over this dinner, and of course it went well, and I’m—”

“You were nervous.” Oliver pushed off the bed, crowding carefully into his space. There was enough room between them still that if Percy needed to pick up his pacing again, Oliver wouldn’t be in the way. But if — if — he wanted, he could step closer and fold himself into Oliver’s arms. “I was nervous too, when you met my da wasn’t I? And that was just one parent at a time.”

“It’s not that I thought they’d be weird about the gay thing,” Percy huffed, fixing his glasses with one hand and fidgeting with the other. He always did that when he was nervous or trying to sort something out, like seeing better would help him understand. “Charlie’s, well, that’s always been obvious, and even if Mum had a hard go with Harry’s reveal, it was never about him being queer.”

“Did you think they’d be weird about me?” teased Oliver, reaching with one cautious hand. Percy didn’t shy away, so he brushed his fingertips over the back of Percy’s hand. “You are sleeping with the enemy, after all. I beat your sister fair and square on the pitch, and I’m not going to start going easy on the Harpies just for you, family or no.”

Percy smiled at that, in the corners of his eyes and the twitch of his mouth. “Can’t exactly throw the games for you or for her, can I?”

“You could.” Oliver pressed closer, daring his luck. “Oh, Minister for Magical Games and Sports Regulation, won’t you engage in a little quid pro quo?”

“For Gin, I might,” he said, but took Oliver’s hand anyway. He teased, “Don’t know if I could swing it for you.”

Oliver gasped. “You’ll put me through dinner with every single Weasley and still not break the rules for Puddlemere?”

“As if you’d let me break the rules for you,” Percy said. He stepped forward into Oliver’s arms, and let Oliver hug him.

Percy was a little taller, and a little more lithe, but his body fit against Oliver’s perfectly, Oliver’s nose in his shoulder and his hands along his back, pulling him close. He smelled like Molly’s cooking, like onions and spices and another, older sort of home. His apartment always smelled clean, like fresh-folded laundry and a new bottle of ink.

“I wouldn’t, yeah,” Oliver answered, muffled in Percy’s starched shirt. “If we can’t win on our skill—”

“You shouldn’t win at all,” finished Percy.

Oliver flushed, glad they were standing too close for Percy to catch his embarrassment. Had he said the little phrase so often? Or was Percy paying attention too?

Percy pressed a kiss to Oliver’s forehead and stepped back to lounge against the desk. “You think it went well?” he asked, too casual, though Oliver knew the nerves underneath.

“Definitely,” he said. “They loved me, but are you surprised?”

“I mean it.”

“It went really well.”

Percy met his eyes.

At dinner, Percy had sat between George and Ginny, picking at his potatoes and adjusting his glasses, toes tapping Oliver’s under the table. His worry was subtle; no one at the table had noticed, pouring Oliver more wine and laughing at a joke Arthur had told. This dinner was a big deal for Percy, and yet not one of them seemed aware, teasing Oliver like he was already a member of the family. There was no grand reveal, no he’s Percy’s, don’t you see?, no coming out, or proclamations of welcome. It was as though Oliver’s sudden presence at Percy’s side was no more unusual than the gnomes in the garden.

It wasn't insensitivity, Oliver thought. Each of them had decided Percy was fine. Percy had it together, and Percy didn’t need reassurance. It was all true: Percy was confident and together, wise beyond his years and too competent for his own good. It was easy to stop there, and his siblings never learned to notice when Percy’s words got a bit faster — not because he was excited, but because he was afraid of being cut off — or how he paced when he was trying to work through something difficult.

Oliver grabbed him, hands on Percy’s chest, against the ridiculous collared shirt, and brought him close, nose knocking against Percy’s glasses. He kissed Percy like he noticed him: every bit all at once.

“Oh,” Percy said, breathless when Oliver let him go.

“You were very brave,” said Oliver, kissing him one more time.

“You don’t think I’m ridiculous?”

“Completely batshit. But not about dinner.”

Percy frowned at him.

“Turn around,” he said, pushing Percy’s elbow, and Percy went. “Do you see that?” Oliver pointed to the bookshelf beside the desk. “You made a call number system for your personal library. Bet you’ve even got it all written down and everything. You’re completely ridiculous.”

“I don’t have it written down,” murmured Percy.

“No?”

“...It’s an automatic charm, it records when a book’s gone out. No parchment needed.”

Oliver started to laugh, joy bubbling from his chest, smiling so hard his teeth hurt. Percy started laughing too, and then they were holding hands and laughing at the bookshelf, and standing in the tiny bedroom with only one window. They laughed until they couldn’t breathe, and then they breathed and Oliver held his hand and figured that they were probably going to be alright.

“They’ll hear,” Percy gasped, rubbing his eyes, biting his lip to stop from laughing.

“Not a thing,” Oliver grinned. “George-proof silencing charm. Cast it somewhere around your fourth lap around the room.”

“Just when did you research a George-proof silencing charm?” Percy put a hand on his shoulder, subtle confidence returning to his gaze. Oliver shivered, leaning into the touch.

“I’d like to say it was for something hot,” Oliver said. Percy stepped closer to him, his other hand drifting down the front of Oliver’s too-hot, too-thick jumper.

“But?”

“I thought you might worry about,” Oliver hesitated as Percy leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek, to just below his ear. “Er— worry about dinner,” he finished quickly.

“I was worried,” Percy said. He stepped forward, pushing Oliver back towards the bed. It was so tiny, but they could both fit if they lay close. “But it went well.”

“Right.” Oliver sat down hard on the bottom of the bed. Percy tugged off his jumper, and ran possessive fingers down his shoulders, down his back. “I know how important your family is to you.”

“You’re important to me too.” Percy bent down to kiss him. “I’m glad I’ve got you.”

So Oliver, of course, pulled him down onto the bed with him and unbuttoned his stupid starched shirt and lay as close as he could. Percy took off his glasses, slipping them up onto the nightstand. He kissed Oliver again, and again, till they were both pink-cheeked and Oliver was smiling so hard it hurt. It was silly, kissing like this, in the tiny bedroom with all Percy’s family sleeping nearby, but maybe that was how it was supposed to be: ridiculous. Easy.

Later, Oliver said it again, in case he’d forgotten: “It went well,” like that, quiet and whispered across the threadbare pillow with only the moon outside the window watching.

[fullmoonremus]

Whisky and Cheap Wine | Edmund Pevensie x Reader Smut

Warnings: Smut, Oral, Losing Virginity, Mentions of Drinking, Curse words? 

Time/Era: Modern AU, Both characters are of age

Word Count: 2.5k

Summary: Y/N and Edmund were high school sweethearts that broke up before going to university. When they run into each other at a mutual friends’ New Year’s Eve party, unfinished business and old feelings are brought to life.

Request: Please do a first-time fluffy smut where he’s super nervous but also very reassuring and sweet. Edmund would try to be so confident and snarky while secretly being a nervous mess.

A/N: Happy New Years! Ending the year with some smut hehe. Enjoy!

masterlist | read on ao3 | edmund playlist | narnia playlist

“So, erm, university going well?” Edmund spoke into his glass of whisky, scanning the room to avoid eye contact. His long, slender fingers grasped the fake crystal in such a way that it made the glass appear tiny. 

“Great,” Y/N responded, painfully aware of how her short skirt was hugging her ass. Edmund’s eyes followed the curve of her breasts down the slope of her hips against his better judgment. “Finished the semester with high marks. You?” 

Edmund choked, “Yeah, same. Just in visiting family for the holidays. You know how they are.” He peeled his eyes from the shortly hemmed material in favor of Y/N’s eyes. 

“How’s Lucy? I miss her a lot. Sometimes I felt like I had a closer relationship with her than I did you.” 

The pair shared a laugh. 

“She’s great. Torn that you didn’t come to Christmas this year.” 

Y/N took a sip of the cheap wine in her glass. “I’ll have to text her I suppose.” 

A tension-filled silence overtook the pair as they gaped at each other. Edmund had matured in the short months he was away; his jaw sharpened, his hair now fell in loose curls across his forehead and his muscles had tightened. Even the way he dressed changed. Where a beat up, old flannel once laid held a dark brown leather jacket that hit right above his hips. His beat up converse were exchanged for a pair of lace-up dress boots and his jeans no longer hanging off his body in favor of black skinny jeans. But, the smirk that plastered over Edmund’s features was the same sexy smile Y/N remembered. His eyes had the same mischievous glint to them, too. Oh, the hours she imagined looking down in between her legs and seeing those eyes looking at her. 

“Have you found anyone else?” Edmund casually asked, his hand now resting in his pocket. Y/N couldn’t help but notice how strong they looked. He brought his glass to his puffy pink lips and drank, caramel-colored liquid flowing down his chin. Edmund’s hand broke free from his pocket and ran his palm across his lips, a chunky ring brushing his soft skin. “Is that a weird thing to ask?” 

“No, it’s not.” Y/N tore her gaze from Edmund’s lips and cleared her throat. “I kissed a boy named Alex at a party, but other than that, not really. He was nice and cute and all, but he didn’t exactly do anything for me.” 

“No?” Edmund’s tone rose from casual conversation to somewhere between surprised and cocky. “Alex couldn’t compare?” 

“I guess you could say that. What about you?” 

“Not much time, pre-law is a bit harder than I anticipated.” He twisted the ring with his thumb and brought his glass back to his lips. “Couldn’t get my mind off of a certain girl back home, I suppose.” 

“I miss talking to you. The number of times I had to stop myself from clicking your contact-” 

“- I would have answered, Y/N.” 

“Yeah?” 

Edmund smiled, “Yeah.” His eyes scanned the room before grabbing Y/N’s elbow lightly. “It’s a bit loud in here, let’s go somewhere quieter to talk.” 

Edmund’s rough hand guided her across the busy living room and towards the stairs that led to the bedrooms. 

“Here we are,” Edmund turned on the light of one of the bedrooms. “Caspian won’t mind us high jacking his room for a while.” 

Y/N took a gentle seat on the bed and looked around the room. It was simple and clean; much like how Caspian appeared in most situations. 

“Let’s hope not,” Y/N watched Edmund nervously wipe his sweaty hands on the front of his jeans. 

She paused for a moment, placing her wineglass on Caspian’s bedside table. Edmund threw his jacket onto the desk chair. “You look good, Ed. Never thought I’d see you in anything but straight leg.” Y/N gestured lazily to Edmund’s jeans. They hugged his toned legs perfectly and left very little to the imagination. 

“Eh, yeah, I figured it was time for a change. New school, new me?” Edmund’s pearly teeth shined bright as they came forward to bite his bottom lip. “You look as stunning as ever. Dare I say even more beautiful than I remember.” 

Y/N blushed and looked down. “Always such a charmer, Ed. I’m glad some things never change.” 

Ed took a seat next to Y/N and placed his whisky next to her wine on the table. 

“Why did we break up?” Edmund asks, his voice slightly strained as he spoke. “Neither of us wanted to.” 

“You said that it would save us heartbreak in the future. That we would drift apart anyway and that you wanted to set me free.” Y/N turned her head and watched Ed’s facial features change. His tight jaw clenched, his brows furrowed and his lips fell into a pierced line. 

“I was stupid. God, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” He shook his head and made eye contact with the girl sitting next to him. “Being away from you only made me yearn for your presence more. Made me fall in love with you even more.” 

“I never stopped loving you, you idiot.” Y/N’s fingers brushed away a curl from his forehead to reveal a look of pure love and admiration. “You look so fucking good tonight, Ed. Like, Jesus fucking Christ.” 

He scoffed, “Says you! When you walked in the room it took everything in me to not tackle you to the ground.” 

“Tackle me to the ground?” 

“Shut up and stop raising your eyebrow at me! You knew what I meant!” 

“Make me.” 

Edmund’s eyebrows shot up and he glanced at the door before kissing Y/N’s lips for the first time in months. Y/N sighed happily at the feeling; after craving Edmund for so long, the sensation of his soft, warm lips were enough to make her body give out. She gripped his jaw in one palm and grabbed his silky black hair with the other, successfully deepening the kiss. Y/N could feel herself getting drunk off of the taste of coffee and whisky that was left on her lover’s tongue. 

Edmund’s fingers padded against the fabric of Y/N’s dress to distract himself from the ever-growing tent in his jeans. They had never gone as far as sex during their relationship, and since they were newly reunited, he didn’t want to test his luck. But, he had to admit, the feeling of Y/N pressed against his body and the sensation of her nimble fingers tugging at his hair was better than all of his fantasies combined. Edmund groaned into her mouth before he could stop it. 

Y/N giggled and moved so she was straddling his lap, both arms laid lazily across his shoulders. 

“This is new,” Edmund choked, shyly bringing his hands to rest on either side of her waist. 

“New year, new me,” Y/N responded, dipping down to press kisses along his neck. 

“Certainly- shit - certainly is new,” Edmund’s hips bucked to meet Y/N’s involuntarily, causing both to whimper. Y/N took this as a green light to start grinding against his now fully hard tent while she sucked Edmund’s hot skin into her mouth. On instinct, Edmund’s large hands moved to her ass, squeezing handfuls of her dress-covered skin into his palms. 

“Y/N,” He groaned, “Sweetheart- we’ve never -” He gasped and leaned his neck out further so Y/N could lap at his pulse point. “We’ve never done this before. Are you sure?” 

“What? I’ve never grinded on you before?” Y/N grinned into the skin and bit down lightly. “Cause unless my memory fails me -” 

“- No, you know that’s not what I meant. I meant have sex, love. I know we’ve gotten close but I don’t want to pressure you into it.” 

Y/N pulled away and looked at the deep purple bruises on his neck before regaining eye contact. 

“Edmund, I want this. Do you want this?” 

He smiled a lopsided grin, “Fuck yes. I’ve been fantasizing about this for years.” 

“And yet you’ve never told me of them? Rude.” 

Edmund grinned giddily and flipped the pair over so he was towering above her. 

“Well, I’ll be able to show you if you ever shut up, darling.” He grinned and grabbed the back collar of his shirt, pulling it off with one hand. 

His chest was mesmerizing; a few dark freckles littered his sunkissed skin beautifully and his strong shoulders flexed as he moved. He must’ve been working out during his time at university because a few veins protruded from his hand up through his forearm. Under Y/N’s hot gaze, Edmund shuttered but quickly recovered. 

“Like what you see, sweetheart?” He purrs in her ear and kisses her temple, his body now hovering over hers. 

“Since when did you get so… that.” Y/N ran her fingers across his collarbone and up around his neck to his locks.  

“I could say the same for you. What gives you the right to wear such a dress?” Edmund groans, “And to pull my hair?” 

“The hope of seeing you and the reaction I get from it.” She tugs harshly, prompting another deep moan to fall from Edmund’s lips. 

With one swift moment, he pushes Y/N’s dress up above her waist with a shaky hand. 

“Even planned the underwear, cheeky girl.” Ed’s mischievous eyes caught hers. 

Y/N grins bashfully and looks away. “I had to go to war with proper armor.” 

“That you did, baby,” He slinks down her body and rests his head in between her legs. “Now, these fantasies… I spoke of.” 

Y/N hums, enjoying Edmund’s mouth on the inside of her thigh. “Mmmm, yes, seems like we share a few.” 

Inch by inch, he licks and kisses his way up her inner thigh to her desperate pussy, growing more eager to devour her as each second passes. He can see how wet she is through her soaked underwear, making his mouth water at the thought. 

“Please,” Y/N moans, hands gripping in his hair once more. He looks up from in between her legs and grins, eyes hooded and smirk lopsided. Whether he was stalling or teasing, Y/N didn’t know. 

In one fluid moment, Edmund licks a stripe across her clothed heat. Y/N’s body arches up at the sensation and she tugs at his hair. 

“You’re going to be the death of me, Y/L/N,” Edmund groans into the material. His first two fingers hook under the fabric and he pulls it down. “There she is.” 

“Edmund, I swear to god.” 

He ‘tsks’ and shakes his head, eyes teasing and lustful. “Patience, darling. I’ve waited years for this. I’m going to take my time.” 

Edmund continues to bite and suck on Y/N’s inner thighs as he watches her get wetter and wetter, and hears her get breathier and breathier. His hands shake as he ponders how to go about giving head. 

“Fucking hell, just do it!” 

“Your wish is my command, Princess.” 

Edmund begins with slow, sweeping motions across Y/N’s clit. He laps up all of her wetness, humming contently as he tastes her on his tongue. Soon, his tongue circles her sensitive nerve barely brushing against it, making her back arch sinfully. Edmund devours her as if she were his last meal; his huge hands wrapped around her hips to keep her in place. 

Inserting his middle finger inside of her, he curls his finger upward into the rigged flesh of her gspot. His honey-colored eyes watch as Y/N mewls in place; one hand in his hair directing his head in circles, the other gripping the headboard, eyes screwed shut and mouth wide open. He releases a deep, sultry moan seeing the pleasure he was giving his love. 

“Feel good?” He asks, unsure if what he was doing was satisfactory. She nods quickly, shoving his face back down. 

“Another finger, Ed,” Y/N gasps, grinding her hips to meet Edmund’s warm tongue. “Please.” 

Edmund pulls out of her completely, only to add his index finger next to the middle. 

“Good girl,” Edmund’s voice was raspy and full of sexual desire. “You gonna cum for me?” 

“Close, don’t stop, please. Y- Yes! Just like that. Don’t stop.” 

Edmund closed his eyes and bobbed his head against her, soiling his nose, cheeks, and eyelids with Y/N’s arousal. His fingers curled inside of her at a quick pace and his tongue swirled against her clit. 

Edmund had never seen Y/N - or anyone - cum right before him. So, when she did, it was the most magical experience of his life. The dirty sound of her screams, the feeling of her clenching around his fingers, the way his name fell so sinfully from her tongue made his dick twitch in his boxers. He could only imagine what her tight pussy would feel like around his needy cock. 

Ed moved from between Y/N’s legs and kissed her on the mouth, hard. His lips were exactly what she needed and the taste of herself on his tongue made her pussy clench all over again. Her shaky hands found the zipper of his jeans and hastily pulled them and his boxers down. 

Y/N brought Edmund’s hard cock into her hand without breaking the kiss. Edmund moaned and bucked into her hand as she pumped and ran her thumb against the swollen, red tip. 

“I need your cock inside of me, Edmund. I need to feel you. Please.” Y/N whimpered, hand jerking faster. 

“Fuck, okay,” Edmund groaned, leaning back and pushing a hand into the back pocket of his jeans. 

“Seems as though I wasn’t the only one who came prepared,” Y/N giggled, taking the condom and ripping open the package. 

“I had to go into war with the proper armor.” Edmund bucked into Y/N’s hand as she rolled the condom on. 

Edmund lined up with Y/N’s entrance and pushed halfway in, resisting the urge to push further. 

“Fuck, more, Ed,” Y/N moaned, throwing her leg over Edmund’s shoulder. He shut his eyes and bottomed out, before pulling out and thrusting in again. 

“Y- Y/N, you feel so good. B- Better than I could have imagined- fuck.” He gasped, finding a comfortable speed. Y/N’s core tightened, building from her first orgasm. Her eyes rolled back and she swore she started to see stars. 

Edmund’s fingers found Y/N’s clit a few strokes in, instantly increasing Y/N’s pleasure. 

“I won’t last,” Edmund grasped, harshly rubbing Y/N and keeping his thrusts even. 

“Good, go faster, please.” Y/N puled Edmund’s lips to hers. 

Y/N’s orgasm was better than the last. Her core tightened against Edmund’s cock delightfully and her teeth ground into Edmund’s bottom lip. At the same time, Edmund was riding out his own orgasm, basking in Y/N’s cunt tightening around his cock. 

“Holy shit,” Edmund murmured as he pulled out and sat up on his knees. 

“Yeah, holy shit.” Y/N laid limp, giggling at Edmund’s messy hair and flushed face. “Let’s never break up again, yeah?” 

Edmund sent one of his famous smiles Y/N’s way. 

“Never again.” 

[yeojaa]

finders keep hers, iii.

read parts one and two!  the long awaited conclusion!  i’m sorry it turned into a friggin’ novel.  i hope it does the first two parts justice, though.  these kids are...  idiots.  i love them and you (and also the best beta reader @hobi-gif​)!  💖

pairing.  jjk x named f!reader.  rating.  explicit, ofc.  tags.  this is...  really soft at certain parts.  and then really raunchy at others.  oops?  but fr - mainly fluff with some smut at the end.  you might need a filling.  wc.  5.4k.

You’re buzzed into the building without a moment’s hesitation, the kind concierge with the gummy smile and greying temples beaming at you as you enter.  “Nice to see you, Miss Lee.”

“You too, Mr. Choi.”  A grin of your own is offered, gym bag hiked higher over your shoulder as you pause to chat.  You’re in no rush.  “Is he home?”

“I don’t believe so.”  The sudden look of disapproval that colours the older gentleman’s features is almost comical, reminiscent of a disparaging parent.  It’s the same expression you’re greeted with nearly every time you visit.  “He left in a town car yesterday afternoon and I don’t think he’s been back since.  That boy’s going to get himself in trouble one day.”  As if Jungkook didn’t already - as if it didn’t follow him around, glued to the bottoms of his Italian leather shoes.

“Tell me about it.”

“You know…”  There’s that twinkle in Mr. Choi’s eyes again - the one that tells you he’s about to repeat the same words he always does when he catches you alone.  “A nice girl like you could get him to settle down.”

Your response is what it always is - a scoff and a laugh rolled into one.  It careens off your tongue, ringing in the spacious lobby.  “I don’t think anyone will ever get him to settle down.”

How true that is, you’re not sure.  For your sake, you try not to think about it too much. 

The old man is undeterred though, shrugging his narrow shoulders beneath the neat uniform he wears.  It’s a little loose in the chest but immaculate otherwise, tie knotted in a classic Windsor and collar ironed perfectly.  He levels you with that shrewd stare of his but says nothing further, simply engaging you in an unspoken staring contest. 

Sometimes, you wonder how much he sees.  How much he knows .

You break before he does, tearing your gaze away and blinking rapidly.  He laughs, full bellied and deep from the chest.  “Get on upstairs, Miss Lee.”  You aren’t offended by the dismissal.  “It’s always nice chatting with you.”

You remind yourself to bring him chocolates the next time you’re by.  The ones with hazelnuts, because those are his favourite. A fact you only know because you’ve helped your best friend pick up a box for him every Christmas, writing the card and having him sign it right before it gets left behind the desk.

Actually, you helped Jungkook with a lot of things.  Always had.  It was simply the nature of your friendship - passed down by your parents and forged stronger by childhood playdates, your fair share of teenage squabbling, and college hangovers so bad they’d created an unbreakable bond.  

Whenever he would need you, you’d be there - whether that meant picking him up at 4 AM from the airport because he wanted “some shitty fast food and to see you” or helping him pick gifts for Mother’s Day.  There was no task too small, no moment too inconsequential. 

Unconditional love, they called it. 

It’s why you have no problem swanning into his apartment with the extra key you’ve had since he moved in, kicking off your trainers and tucking them neatly alongside the rows of black leather and expensive sneakers.  

You do so much for him that you take where you can, indulging in all of the luxuries you’ve never been afforded.  Unparalleled view, stupidly expensive toiletries, a damn jacuzzi tub . 

You pull your sweater over your head - truthfully, one of Jungkook’s from college that you’d never felt inclined to give back - and toss it over the back of a barstool on your way into the guest suite.  Your bag follows shortly after, deposited at the foot of the bed that exists as a rotating welcome mat to your and Jungkook’s circle of friends.  

The rest of your clothes - sports bra, shorts, thong, socks - are stripped, folded, and tucked into the laundry bag you keep handy.  You know you could leave them here and Jungkook’s housekeeper would take care of it, but you’ve never been too comfortable with that.  Different upbringings.

The spray is like sweet relief the moment you step beneath the rainforest shower.  It’s the perfect temperature and pressure, melting the sweat and tension from your bones.  

But it isn't why you’re here, so you make quick work in the glass enclosure, scrubbing your body bare and lathering and conditioning your hair into a squeaky clean mess.  Any other time, you’d just spend a good half hour standing beneath the head but you’re feeling particularly indulgent today.  

Call it a spa day, courtesy of one Jeon Jungkook. 

You don’t bother to dry off, water splashing across the floor as you step from the shower and sink into the spacious tub that overlooks the heart of Seoul.  Diptyque bath oil encapsulates the room in a bubble of sweet almond, similarly branded candle burning on the ledge.  The jets release a steady stream against your tired back and legs, massaging your limbs into jelly. 

You can’t help the sigh of utter relaxation that rolls off your tongue, sinking into water in the same instance your shoulders do.    

This is what dreams are made of.  Anyone who says differently is an idiot and a liar. 

“When are you going to tell her?”

You’re not expecting the voice and it breaks the silence like a thousand pound weight, shattering the calm and nearly startling you enough for you to knock your head on the edge of the tub.  

There’s no reason for you to be surprised.  Not really.  This isn’t your home, after all.  You aren’t entitled to any sort of privacy.  

It doesn’t matter, though.  The discomfort in your chest is unfolding regardless, lodging rocks in your throat.  

Because it’s a female voice.  Lilting, soft, draped in familiarity.  Not someone brand new.  

Your heart stutters at the realisation.  The rush of blood against your eardrums is so loud you momentarily wonder whether they can hear it all the way in the living room.  They must be able to - it’s practically deafening.  You can’t even hear the rest of their conversation.

Their conversation .

Which seems to have ended, leaving only silence.

You suddenly remember your shoes, your sweater.  Traces of you littered throughout the apartment that isn’t yours.  God, you’re an idiot.  He was going to kill you - or she was.  You’re not sure which is worse.

You’re reaching for the fluffy white towel on the rack when you’re scared near half to death yet again.  This time, by your best friend who cuts an imposing figure in the doorway, broad form resting casually against the frame.  He looks surprisingly unbothered, curls pushed back from his forehead by a pair of sunglasses and arms folded over his chest.

“Jesus!”  The shriek comes four octaves higher than it normally would, pitching into the open so loudly you wince.  “You scared me!”

You can’t help the way you peek past his shoulder for a sign of the girl he’d brought home.

“Enjoying yourself?”  There’s something amused dancing in the darks of his eyes, his mouth curving around the same emotion as he steps into the bathroom.  You’d be bothered if he were anyone else, unnecessarily long legs carrying him to you in three strides.  

“I didn’t know you were home.”  You can’t quite meet his stare, still far too distracted by the mystery woman.  Had he left her on the couch?  Maybe his bedroom as he snuck you out?  What excuse could he come up with?

“Didn’t know you were home either.”  

He’s made himself comfortable right on the ledge of the tub, marked fingers dragging lazily through the still-scalding water.  He doesn’t seem terribly in a rush.  That puts you on edge.

Was he going to hide you in here? 

“I wanted to relax after my run.”  You don’t owe him an explanation - not really - but you offer it anyway.  You figure you need to, when you might’ve ruined his Sunday morning romp session.  You can’t bring yourself to address it, though.  The words just won’t come, sitting on the tip of your tongue like thorns.  It hurts to swallow. 

Jungkook doesn’t further the conversation - a first for him.  He’s normally a chatterbox.

The silence stretches on.  Suffocating.

You force yourself to speak, staring down at your hands that are slowly pruning beneath the water.  “Should I… go?”  The way it comes is feeble, soft, uncertain.  You hate it.

By the look of surprise on his face, he does, too.  He cackles suddenly, like a goddamn witch.  “Why?”

Heat floods across your cheeks.  You wish you could blame it on the bath or the steam that still collects on the mirrors.  It pulls high over your ears, colouring them tomato red and embarrassed.  Surely, he knows why.  

When he repeats himself, it’s harder, without any of the laughter from before.  

Rather than answer, you wave a hand through the air, fingers wiggling.  The universal sign for you know .  It should be enough - you hope it’s enough.  Your ego won’t let you verbalise it.  

“Suddenly mute, baby?”

It isn’t quite mocking - teasing, maybe - but it stokes the fire that burns in the pit of your stomach and licks uncomfortably at the organ in your chest.  You don’t even look at him as you nearly spit the words, petulant and far more bothered than you should be.  “You’ve got a girl here.”  

A laugh that isn’t quite a laugh comes, swathed in velvet and coloured blue.  The effort you make to not shoot him a glare is herculean.  

He’s still snickering when he speaks.  “You mean my sister?”

“Your sister?”  It’s more surprise at yourself that has you whipping to look at him, bewilderment tossing all other emotion out the window.  Because his sister was practically your sister.  How had you not recognised her voice?  You feel silly all at once, the embarrassment from earlier fading into reticence. 

“Yeah.  I spent the night babysitting the twins.”

You sometimes forget how much Jungkook loves children - especially his sisters’.  It’s hard to reconcile the family man he effortlessly transforms into when he spends most of his waking hours playing the perfect part of unaffected bachelor. 

“How are they?”  You ask because you care - you adore Minseo and Minhyuk - but also so you can move the conversation along.  The last thing you want to do is dwell on your mistake.

“They’re good.  Getting big.”  He’s got that smile on his face - the one that’s softer than any other, with deep lines at the corners of his eyes.  Reserved especially for the people he cares about most.  Your favourite sight.  “You can come with me next time.  Minnie asked about you, anyway.”

Warmth blossoms in your chest.

Being liked by peers?  Great.  Being respected by your superiors?  Rewarding.  But being loved by children?  It was in a league all its own - better than ice cream on a hot day.

“Sure.”  You can’t keep the grin away.

That is, until he speaks again, circling the conversation back.  “So, were you jealous?”  His ability to piss you off is uncanny.  It’s like it’s written into his genetic code, each molecule of his body tasked with ruining your day. 

“No.”  It’s meant to be a scoff.  It’s not very believable.

“You sure, princess?”  The fingers on your chin are wholly unnecessary - he’s got you caught in his stare, locked in place with nowhere to go.

“Yes, Bunny .”  You know how much he hates the nickname, only tolerating it because it’s you.  You can’t deny the pleasure that comes at the sight of his jaw tensing, muscle jumping in agitation.  Just as he’s your weakness, you’re his, too.  “Now let me finish—”

He cuts you off, sharp and unrelenting:  “Get out.”

“Excuse me?”  

“You heard me.  Get out of the tub or I’m pulling you out myself.”  Risen to his full height, he’s an imposing figure.  Even worse, there’s something you can’t read in his expression - something that has your nerves firing wildly.  Your heart rattles around in your chest, uncertain.  

He leaves you without another word.

You scramble out of the bath as quickly as your confused limbs allow you, knotting the towel beneath your arms.  You’re not quite sure what to do next, caught between pulling your clean clothes out of your workout bag and demanding an answer from your sphinx of a best friend.

What the hell was his problem? 

Your impatience wins out as you’re tugging a brush through your hair, fumbling uncharacteristically through knots until you’re too frustrated to continue.  You’re ready to tear into him when you storm out of the guestroom;  you’ve got a barrage of insults on your tongue, proverbial gun cocked and ready to unload.  

They melt away when you spy him on the couch, neatly wrapped bouquet laid across the coffee table.

“Come here.”  It’s not a request so much as a demand - commanding and soft all at once.  A small part of you wants to fire off a rebuttal;  that part dies when he repeats himself, louder this time. 

The seat you take beside him is begrudging, a good foot of space held between your bodies.  You fiddle with the hem of your towel, turning a loose thread over and over your index finger. 

“What?”  It’s snippy, discontent - kerosene on the fire that burns beneath Jungkook’s skin.

“Watch it,”  he retorts, though there’s no acid to his words.  Frankly, he sounds more frustrated than angry, more exasperated than pissed off.

That makes one of you.

Only he can bring out this side of you - brusque and biting.  “ You watch it, Bunny.”

Fingers find the bridge of his nose, a gesture you don’t see very often.  Guilt blooms behind your ribcage as he rubs at the tension between his eyes.  For someone who has it all, he looks like he’s a moment away from losing it. 

“You’re a brat, you know that?”  

“Takes one to know one,”  you retort, not unkindly.  

“You’re making this really hard,”  he snaps in the same instant he all but throws the overwhelming bunch of flowers at you.  

You nearly drop them you’re so surprised.

“What are these for?”

“You.”

“Me?”  

“Did I stutter?”

If you weren’t so busy studying the arrangement of florals, you’d have some witty comeback.  As it stands, you’re preoccupied by the pretty bunch of peonies and tulips.  You wonder what he’s done wrong - why he’s found it necessary to soften the blow with your favourite flowers. 

Your thoughts drift back to his sister’s words:  when are you going to tell her?

All at once, you want nothing more than to leave.  You don’t want whatever heartbreak is about to come.  You’re not ready for it.  

“Listen—”

He cuts you off, again.  “I love you.”

You’re not sure how your face looks.  You imagine you could look up flabbergasted in the dictionary and you’d find a photo of your expression right now.  “What?”

Jungkook won’t quite look at you, intently focused on an indiscernible point against the far wall.  When he speaks the words again, they’re full of uncertainty - but not in the way you expect.  The confession is as believable as any you’ve ever heard - he really does sound like he loves you - but somehow, it’s draped in dread and held aloft by hummingbird wings.  “I love you.”  

He’s nervous, you realise in amazement. 

“Come again?”  

He meets your stare then, brow knitting with unease.  He doesn’t say it again, though.

“Are you messing around with me?”  You don’t mean it how it comes - a little accusatory.

“I’m not an asshole.”  Except both of you know he certainly can be.  You don’t call him on it, though, opting instead to peer curiously at him, hands fisted around the bouquet in your lap.  “I talked to my sister.  She…”  He shrugs once, an almost helpless roll of his shoulders.  “She told me I was an idiot.”

You’re not surprised by that.  Lina had always been the one to give it to him straight.

“She said I would lose you if I didn’t get my shit together.”  There’s a bit of childish petulance that works its way into each syllable - he hates being told what to do.  “Said I needed to tell you or I’d regret it.  Which is stupid, because we’ve been best friends forever and she’s younger than me so what does she know—”  He must realise he’s rambling, something he never does.  “But—”

“But?”  Quiet, hopeful, coaxing. 

There’s a warmth in your chest - illuminating and golden and so bright it hurts to think about.  It grows with each moment that passes, spurred on by the look in his eyes and how they find yours.  

Hesitation pulls the silence a beat too long.  The light wanes.  You wonder if the moment has passed.  

And then he continues, a little more earnestly.  “Was she right?  Am I going to lose you?”

You’re not entirely sure what he’s asking.  You don’t think he even knows what he’s asking.  You try to answer anyway, as honest as you can without pinning your heart directly on your sleeve.  “You’ll never lose me.”

“You know what I mean.”  

Did you?  “You’ll never lose me.”  You’re the one repeating yourself this time, just that bit harder.  

“Then say it.”  Again, not a request.  A prayer, perhaps.  Ardent and needy - a world away from the Jeon Jungkook you know.

You don’t hesitate.  “I love you.”

He doesn’t either - upon you so quickly you don’t have time to blink or think.  

How he kisses you now feels different.  More .  It’s like being consumed entirely - changed from the inside out in ways you never thought possible.  Where he touches, sparks fly, filling you like stars in the night sky.  Lava rolls over every inch, dragging heat and want and need from the soles of your feet to the tip of your nose.  You’re gasping rather than breathing, clawing against the front of his shirt and twining your fingers into the strands that curl over his nape. 

“You never told me you could kiss like that.”  It’s lacking coherence, made by a partial inhale and wild, wondrous eyes.

His response is a laugh and another kiss, forceful and adoring and utterly devastating.  “Shut up,”  he mouths against your lips, tongue licking over your teeth and gums like he’s trying to memorise every inch of you.  Hands follow in the same amorous motions, tugging and pulling and aching for you closer;  the tips of his fingers sear white hot heat over your hips, the small of your waist, the delicate bones of your ribcage.

“I’m serious...”  You really are - far more than you should be.  You’d been missing out on this ?  It’s incomprehensible.

The sound he makes is more of a growl, playful and resounding in the cavern of his chest.  It rattles your own, sending your heart on a downward spiral into the pit of your stomach.  His nose traces the column of your throat, soft lips guiding him further until he’s mouthing hotly over the bare skin of your shoulder.  Tongue teases, delves ever so gently into the dip of your collarbone, and swipes back up, laving over the maroon that peeks around the edge of his teeth.  You can’t help but keen, holding him so closely you wonder if you’re suffocating him.

“So am I.”  Each syllable is punctuated by another nip, another nibble.  It seems like his goal is to bloom roses across your skin - a wreath to welcome him home, made by his own touch.

You don’t mind.  

“Say it again,”  he demands, hopeful and unashamed from his place against your neck.  

The admission comes easily, as if it’s always lived on the tip of your tongue.  “I love you.”  

“Again.”  You’re not ready for the way he stares at you - like he’s never done before.  Like he’s seeing you for the first time and he’s awestruck.  “Say it again.”

“I love you.”  Hands find the familiar contours of his face, thumbs brushing over the hollows of his eyes, over the beauty mark that sits front and centre beneath his lip.  Each graze follows a repetition of the confession, as if you might burn the three simple words beneath his skin - write it into his DNA like he’s written into yours.  “I love you.  I love you.  I love you, Bunny .”

He holds you close - so tightly it feels almost as if he’ll crush you - and captures your mouth again.  It’s more gentle but just as lovesick.  A thousand unspoken words spill from his tongue to yours, swallowed whole with greed you don’t bother to hide.

“I need you.”  It’s whiny, framed by a pout that could end wars and paired with doe eyes so wide and innocent you almost want to roll your own.  

“You have me.”

“Do I?”  There’s a very deliberate roll of his hips, denim of his jeans rough against the exposed softness of your inner thighs, hands manoeuvring over the partially covered swell of your hips.  The press of his fingers is purposeful, digging tension into every inch.  As if he might transfer some of the unadulterated need that thrums through his veins, turning his heart to jelly and brain to mush.

“Since when do you ask?”  You have a point.

“You’re right,”  his grin is almost lazy, drawing over his mouth in a measured crawl.  “Good girls just do what they’re told, right?”  His grips tightens almost imperceptibly, holding you to him almost effortlessly.  You’ve been in this position a hundred times before but it’s never been this easy - like breathing.

The gasp you offer is all mock affront, hand laid palm-down across your chest.  You don’t miss the way his gaze follows it before ticking lower, unabashed in its admiration.  “Are you saying I’m not?”

“Don’t know, baby.”  The war on your neck has resumed, teeth traded seamlessly for the softer promise of his tongue, the dry brush of his lips.  It’s almost sinful, garnering sighs of affection and need from somewhere low in your throat.  “Want to be a good girl for me?”

You’re not quite used to this version of him - playful and needy and not nearly as demanding as usual.  A part of you wants to draw out the side of him you know is there, hidden just beneath the surface;  the other wants to bask in this, all feather soft and cotton candy sweet.

“Always,”  you return, with a coquettish smile and fluttering lashes. 

“Always,”  he murmurs, tasting it for the first time.  He sounds almost giddy when he repeats it once, then twice, then a third time for good measure.  You think it’ll come again, laughter rolling off your tongue as you stare into the eyes of the boy you love.  Instead, he speaks in a voice full of gravel and grit, all traces of your sunshine boy suddenly swallowed whole by the darks of his pupils.  “Fuck - I can’t wait to have you.”

“Then what’re you waiting for?”  You don’t need to push him.  You like to do it anyway.  It feels right .

“You’re the worst.”  What Jungkook means is you’re the best and I love you and I’m going to fuck you six ways into next week .  What he means is this is the scariest thing he’s ever done but it’s all right because he has you.  What he means is thank you - and how he shows it is through worship.  

On the way to the bedroom, he crowds every inch of you, holding you so closely you wonder if he’s trying to carve himself into your bones.  He’s firm and unrelenting, balancing you against his chest as he smothers every available inch of your shoulders in sweet, sloppy kisses.  He revels in the way you cling to him like you’ve never needed anything else. 

In his bed, he lays you out and strips you bare.  He offers devotion with every pass of his fingers, every trail of his tongue.  He wants you so badly it’s hard to focus on giving you everything you deserve, but he tries anyway.  He sucks love into your neck and over your breasts, pinching your nipples between his fingers until you’re panting and he’s aching for the same treatment.  

On his knees, he prays at the altar of your body, taking his time to map the constellations on your skin, the memories written into each scar and dot.  His tongue follows the raised flesh that sits across your hip - an unfortunate mishap from a schoolyard dare.  You whine and he nearly cries, soothing over the sensitive spot with hands and lips and tenderness.  He lays kisses on each freckle, each irregular mark.  From your navel to your knee and everywhere in between, he caresses and comforts, turning those blemishes into stars.  

He also teases - subtly, quietly, with wandering hands and focused breaths.  You don’t realise it until it’s too late, your insides molten, your pulse a thunderclap in your ears.  

“Jungkook.”  It sounds more like begging than anything.  Exactly what he wants.

“What’s up, princess?”  Spoken so casually, as if he isn’t between your legs, long fingers tracing through the slick that coats your thighs.  He gazes up from behind too long strands, all wide-eyed and terribly sweet - until he pops a digit into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks around the taste of you.  “Something wrong?”

“Stop teasing.”  You hear yourself whine but it doesn’t quite sound like you, higher pitched and needier than you’ve ever been.  

“I thought you were going to be good for me,”  he returns with a tut and a push of that same finger deep into your cunt.  He flexes it experimentally, beaming up at you when you clench around the intrusion that’s too much and not even close to being enough all at once.  “You’re so wet, baby.  I just slide right in.”  

As if to drive his point home, he drives another finger in, scissoring them languidly to stretch you open.  It’s such a pretty sight, messy and inviting.  He can’t resist a taste, dragging the flat of his tongue over and around the fingers that continue to fuck into you at a faster pace.   

“ Jungkook! ”  You’re shrieking, bucking against the onslaught of sensations.  A shapely arm immediately cages you against the bed, palm splayed across your hips.  

“Stay still.”  It’s a growl, teeth bared against the sensitive pearl between your legs.  Words are punctuated with the softest pressure - a silent threat that goes no further.  You wonder what he’ll do if he has to repeat himself.  “Good girls listen, remember?”

You’re fumbling across his shoulders, nails digging crescents everywhere you can reach.  You need him so badly it hurts .  “Please.”  

“Please what?”  That patented, stupid smirk cradles his mouth, tongue peeking out as he stares at you expectantly.  “If you’re going to be so demanding, at least use your words.”  He watches the way your eyes roll back into your head when he slots another finger in with the others and curls them against that particular spot that has you seeing stars.  The bastard has the audacity to coo at you.  “What’s wrong, baby?  Can’t speak?”

You’re near wailing, gasping and whining around words that sound like his name.  Angry red lines sprout across his shoulders, his arms - demands carved into flesh. 

He makes a sound, wistful and resigned.  You think - try to think, beyond the pleasure that’s building steadily in the pit of your stomach - that he’s finally going to give you what you need.  You’re almost crying for it, moisture crowding your lashes and threatening to spill over.

Then he withdraws, all at once.

You could scream.  In fact, you do, red in the face and chest heaving.  “I hate you!”  

“No.”  He’s upon you in an instant, insistent and terribly smug.  There’s a playground in his smile, childish laughter spilling into the spaces between you.  “You actually love me.”  He noses at your neck, the heat of his palm searing against your side as he sighs almost dreamily.  “Say it again.”

You answer him with something more than love - frustration and annoyance and so much devotion you can’t keep it out no matter how hard you try.  “No.”

It’s a challenge more than anything.  He knows it;  you know it.

He accepts it readily, just as you expect him to.  

“Say it.”  Enamel presses steady, heavy, into the sensitive spot right beneath your ear.  He mouths over the skin that blows out red and inviting beneath his ministrations, the firm press of his fingers gripping you without hesitation.  You can feel the entire weight of him against you, length nestled comfortably against your core.  He repeats himself as he rocks against you, dragging the swollen, leaking head of his cock through your folds with an agonising slowness that has you clenching around nothing.  “Come on, baby.”

You’re keening, adjusting your hips and grinding against him.  You still won’t say it, hoping to find a rhythm in the quiet that’s punctuated by your laboured breaths and his occasional laughter.

“Just say it and I’ll give you what you want.  I’ll give you everything.  Promise, sweetheart.”  

Framed against the late morning sun, hair spilling across his forehead in curls of india ink, he’s so handsome your heart leaps into your throat.  “I love you.”  It’s a wet confession, carried by a wave of emotion you don’t expect.

“I love you,”  he echoes, sinking into you so gradually you feel like you’re caught in slow motion, all of your focus balanced on the tip of a needle.  

It’s never been like this before.  Each inch is a delicious stretch, filling you and claiming you.  The drag is incredible, your walls fluttering around the intrusion and aching for more.  You bite back a sob, digging into the wide expanse of his back with your nails as your mouth seeks purchase anywhere it can - over his jaw, up his neck, across his shoulders.  He soothes you as he presses deeper, reassurances whispered against your temple.  

“I’ve got you, baby.  Let me make you feel good.”  When he bottoms out, you demand more - somehow, somehow - locking your ankles against the small of his waist. He doesn’t miss the way you clench, so tight around him it almost hurts , when he says those three words once again.  “I love you.”

His lips find yours and he brushes them over and over - a salve for the burn he ignites beneath your skin.  It doesn’t matter that he’s both the calm and the chaos.  Jungkook’s always been everything to you.

The rhythm he sets is unhurried and perfect.  Each snap of his hips has his cock dragging against your walls, filling and stretching you so well;  everywhere his skin brushes yours, you’re alive.  There are a million nerve endings going haywire beneath your skin, flashing bright as holiday lights.  

That’s what it’s like - Christmas morning .  Picture perfect and filled with wonder.

He’s completely smitten when he draws back just enough to see the entirety of you - your fucked-out expression, the rose-wreath he’s wrought around your neck, the sweat that beads between your tits and tempts him to duck his head.  “I love you.”  It’s almost hypnotising - watching you take him, pussy dripping and needy around his cock. 

“I love you,”  you parrot back - or try to.  It’s not very coherent, driven to a point of nonsense when his hips begin to stutter and he makes up for the loss of rhythm by slipping his fingers over your clit in circle eights.  

You’re at your breaking point.  He knows - can read you like the back of his hand - and holds you there, back bowing to kiss you breathless, pressure unrelenting against the bundle of nerves.  

“That’s it, princess.  Right there.”   

The coil snaps at the third pass and there are hot tears streaming down your cheeks, his name spilling off your tongue in tandem with the erratic thudding of your heart.  White spots your vision, entire body electrified as you crash headlong into an abyss of bliss.  You hear him join you with a hoarse whine, a mix of your cum slipping out of you as he rides out his own high with shallow thrusts, mouth open and panting against your shoulder.  

The comedown is hazy, dusted in exhaustion and a thin sheen of sweat.  When he slips from you, he doesn’t go far, tugging you comfortably against his side like you’re not both a little gross.  It’s not the first time you’ve fucked but it feels different.  

“I love you, baby.”  

“I love you, Bunny.”

You realise - it feels exactly like that.  Making love.

[honeysofte-archieve]

birdsong.

rating: teens and up. suggestive themes.

pairing: cremisius aclassi/female lavellan.

word count: 2,559

summary: Lavellan stays the night. Or rather: a morning.

haven’t written anything in a long while so this might come off as really clumsy & cringy, but here it is, anyway! <3

* * *

She is wearing his shirt.

She is sitting by the wide window sill, leaning against the wall and reading a leather-bound book while balancing a cup of herbal tea on one of her folded knees, and she is wearing his shirt and--

not much else, to be honest.

This is naturally the first thing Krem notices once he opens his eyes because he’s surprisingly one-track minded when it comes to Lavellan to his greatest embarrassment. Not that her appearance is the only thing that he cares about, far from it for he would adore her no matter what, but it certainly makes her all the more distracting to him.

The boys like to give him shit about it, too -- how utterly obvious and showy his affection and desire for her is. Krem would shut their faces permanently with his fist if Lavellan didn’t find it so endearing and smile at him sweetly whenever the topic comes up. Sometimes she even gets on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek in front of all of them like she’s not ashamed at all of his affection for her and isn't afraid to show she returns the sentiment just as wholly.

And isn’t that the most amazing thing in the world for someone to have? To love and be loved so genuinely and kindly that one can feel it all the way inside their spine and lungs, a comforting presence no one wants to lose, ever.

in ao3.  ♥

But of course, the topic of love has never come up, at least in spoken words. Everything is still quite new and wonderful, but Krem knows it's true. He loves her. And he's pretty positive she loves him too. Or he hopes she does, the other option gives him way too much anxiety so he's trying not to think about it. Like, ever.

But anyway, Krem can’t help but stare with no words to describe what he is feeling. He can feel the faint flicker of red on his cheeks. He can feel how his heartbeat quickens two-fold. He can feel a weight loosening free inside his chest as he watches this beautiful creature that is somehow his.

Inquisitor Lavellan looks open and vulnerable and beautiful in the morning sun, the light dancing on her neck and chest-- the old scars on her face, the faint stretch marks and moles littering her thighs and arms more prominent this way. She is frowning slightly as she reads, her teeth tugging her lower lip in concentration at whatever is happening in the book, before she licks her thumb and turns another page, oblivious to Krem’s gawking.

The shirt, of course, is not the main reason he can't keep his eyes away from her, though, even if she looks very attractive in it.

No, the very thing that has Krem astonished is that she's still here. In his room. In the morning. For the first time since they've started doing this, kissing and laughing and having sex, and Krem… isn't entirely sure what to make of it.

Lavellan is a very busy woman after all.

A few moments pass before Lavellan glances in his direction and takes a double-look when she notices him awake. Krem kind of does this awkward finger-wiggle sort of thing at her because it's quite impossible for her not to figure out he's been staring at her quite intently for a while now.

"Good morning, Cremisius,” Lavellan murmurs with a small smile on her heart-shaped face and does a finger-wiggle right back at him, making it look somehow elegant and not idiotic as hell.

No one, not one person, calls him Cremisius. No one except for her. And he likes how the name forms in her mouth, likes the look on her face as she says it aloud. His heart always skips a beat when she does it and he doesn’t think he will ever get used to it. He is so easy for her.

Lavellan looks unusually relaxed this morning, Krem has not often seen her like this-- probably no one does. She works and works and works and rarely takes time for herself and it’s always rubbed Krem off the wrong way how much people demand of her, never giving her a break, never letting her just be. Sometimes he feels like fighting every fucker who makes her feel like she doesn't deserve time for herself, but he desists. Mostly.

But here she is. Here she is this morning; still with him despite her duties and demands of others. For the first time during their relationship. It's almost astonishing.

“Morning.” Krem’s throat is slightly dry and his voice catches just a little when he meets her bronze coloured eyes. Maker, he hopes it’s not too obvious.

“Did you sleep well?” Lavellan asks gently, closes her book and takes a sip of her still steaming tea. She mustn't have been awake for long though the morning seems already later than normal. Krem is usually already long awake at this hour, doing drills with the boys or eating an early lunch.

Krem blinks and blinks again before finally realises she’s expecting an answer and he ends up nodding. And for a while, they just keep staring at each other in silence before Krem can’t help but beam at her in something like happiness.

“I like your shirt,” he blurts out, feeling absolutely moronic today for some reason. It makes Lavellan lift her eyebrow and for a while, Krem is sure she’s going to ignore the comment as she often does, but this time she only shrugs and says:

“I was feeling a little cold.”

It’s summer and it’s not true, both of them know that, so Krem grins, his lips wide, and Lavellan rolls her eyes in something like fondness. She scratches her leg, the shirt collar dropping downwards as her body moves and Krem has to swallow hard.

The moment isn’t awkward, per se, it’s just new and it seems like neither of them really knows how to fill it. It doesn't feel like the place for empty chatter.

“You look good in it. Comfortable. Very.... stimulating,” he dares to comment and suppresses a lewd grin that threatens to slip out.

“Hmm,” Lavellan answers. She seems amused, however faintly, which Krem takes as a victory. He feels an urge to do something with his hands-- pull her closer across the distance and touch the soft skin of her thigh. Or something.

“So,” Krem says slowly. The scratchy sheets are bundled around his waist and he scratches his abdomen. His chest is bound, but he doesn’t feel self-conscious around her, not anymore. For she knows him; she knows most things about him. He knows a little less about her, but he’s determined to learn every piece of her in time.

Lavellan opens her book again.

“So,” Lavellan answers and even though she’s not looking at him, the corners of her mouth are twitching. It makes Krem braver than he is.

“I kind of didn’t expect you to still be here.”

His words are casual and not accusing, not in the slightest, and he’s glad that Lavellan notices it as well because her expression doesn’t change.

“I’m taking the day off,” Lavellan replies and flips a page forward in her book, though she’s not reading it as far as Krem can tell, just staring at the words since her eyes don’t move on the paper.

“Can an inquisitor take a day off?”

“Who could stop me? I am the Inquisitor,” Lavellan kind of scoffs, kind of laughs. Krem’s gaze is focused on her pink mouth because, Maker, he is apparently just as bad as most other men are when it comes to a pretty face. He really hopes Lavellan doesn’t notice, that’d be quite embarrassing. Not that he has ever pretended to know something about words like honour or chastity.

“... Fair point.”

Lavellan hums underneath her breath, a breathy sound that is filled with something untraceable to him. He wonders what she’s thinking about.

“What are you reading?” Krem asks casually as he can, feeling slightly idiotic because he doesn’t know what to do at this moment. He wants to stand up and go to her, he wants to kiss her and pull her back to bed and do things to her that makes her body wet with sweat and pleasure.

Still, he does nothing except grip the bedsheets into this fist and takes a deep breath. He can be patient when he wills so-- he can be patient for her.

“A romance novel. Or rather a bodice ripper, I would say.”

“Shit,” Krem replies. Or more like mumbles as he still feels a little tired after the night despite having slept so long this morning. He's sort of surprised the chief hasn't come barreling through his door yet, the big damn oaf.

“Josephine gave it to me,” Lavellan continues casually. She is combing her long blonde hair with her fingers as she speaks and Krem wants nothing more than to touch her right at this moment. He aches with it, his fingers cramping at how hard he is gripping the bedsheets.

“She apparently got it from Vivienne who got it from Cassandra who got it from Sera who got it from... somewhere." Lavellan pauses. "Josephine called it the ‘the most beautifully written love story of this age’ so naturally, I needed to read it.”

“So, how is it?”

Krem doesn't want to talk about books.

He wants to pull her back into his bed and do things to her with his mouth and sleep some more afterwards.

“Mildly entertaining and educational. Considerably smuttier than I expected truth to be told, but I don’t mind. See, I had no idea qunari could be so incredibly... bendy.”

Lavellan grins at him, her mouth in a wicked bow, and Krem is not blushing. He is not. He is a grown man and doesn't flush at the mere mention of sex, that would be ridiculous considering he spends most of his time around Iron Bull and the other boys who hold nothing back.

"I'm certain you could ask the chief about it if you're really curious."

Lavellan huffs. "No thank you, that is definitely not the kind of conversation I want to have with my lover's superior."

Krem's heart jumps into his throat. Lover, he thinks. He likes the sound of the word. It feels fitting for them.

“Come here,” he requests throatily, changing the subject to something he is more desperate for. “Please.”

Lavellan spends a moment only looking, or perhaps studying, him with her piercing eyes before she sets down the book and her now empty teacup on the window sill and comes to him, all gentle smiles and cold fingertips. Just before he lays down, she takes off his shirt and Krem feels a tiny bang of disappointment before he realises that the sight of her bare frame, her charming curves and soft belly and generous chest, the constellations of freckles, moles and scars on her skin, are a marginally better sight.

Lavellan lets him look at her a moment that doesn't feel like enough time to drink in the picture she makes before she settles beside him on her stomach and Krem closes her delicate hand inside his own sword-callused one.

“You look so beautiful,” he confesses, perhaps too honestly, the words escaping his mouth like a bird out of its cage For a short moment Lavellan looks almost impossibly surprised like this is something she didn’t expect him to say at all. Her eyes are wide and sweet with something like utter fondness for him.

“And you are looking very handsome,” she counters, never quite knowing what to do with a direct compliment and this time he definitely blushes quite visibly but finds himself not minding it that much at all anymore. She could see all of him, naked and laid bare, and he would let her, always. No secrets, no fears.

Lavellan cups Krem's cheek and peers at him with an unflinching look, her thumb stroking the curve of his moist mouth. His tongue peeks out of his mouth and he swallows hard.

“Your freckles have grown bolder under the summer sun,” she comments aloud as her fingers explore every nook of his face, tracing the bridge of his nose with her long nail and thumbing the fragile, blue skin underneath his eyes that are still puffy from sleep. He feels invincible, confident beyond explanation. That's what Lavellan does to Krem.

Krem licks his lips. He licks his lips and the tip of it catches on Lavellan's fingertip, just before she presses her tender mouth to his own and kisses him for the first time for what feels like forever.

And it's a very good kiss. One of the best he's ever had.

Not overly gentle, but intense and sweet, and it consumes him entirely with its depth, making him feel thoroughly light-headed and happy.

So happy. Being with Lavellan makes him the happiest he's ever been. He's a lucky son of a bitch and he’s the first one to admit that.

"I'm glad you stayed tonight," Krem whispers, his voice husky with need and she looks straight into his eyes before murmuring: "Me too."

Afterwards, a comfortable silence surrounds them for a long while. They fill it with kisses and hungry caresses, but they're not in a rush to start anything more. They continue until Lavellan breaks apart and searches his eyes with her own brown ones. For some reason, there's a touch of sadness in them.

"You know it's nothing personal, don't you?" she asks hesitantly, her fingers drumming against his chest as she talks-- a habit that tells him that she’s genuinely nervous about his answer. She swallows before continuing: "If I could, I would wake up in your arms every morning, it’s just-- "

"I know," Krem murmurs, shushing her words with a small peck. And he does, but fuck how he hates it. Sometimes he would just want to bury her in his arms and hide her from the rest of the world. Not that Lavellan would ever let him, but a man can dream.

"Good." Lavellan nods, satisfied. She brushes his forehead with the back of her hand, sweeping off a drooping hair strand that's been tickling his brow for a while now. Krem isn't sure if he deserves such tenderness from her. Or anyone.

"Good," Krem repeats with the biggest grin that flashes his teeth and Lavellan rolls her beautiful eyes before kissing him again with a fierce sort of enthusiasm that takes Krem off guard.

But neither of them are leading it to anything more. They're perfectly content just like this, with rush or impatience for nothing.

It's a new feeling and it's lovely.

"This is nice," Krem says after they pull apart again with their mouths wet and red, her doe-eyes almost swallowed up by her black pupils.

Lavellan looks entirely fond. She presses her lips to his forehead, the gesture not overly sweet but close enough. "It is."

"Maybe you could… take a day off again some time," Krem suggests making Lavellan sort of snort in surprise. Though before Krem can feel too bad about asking, she murmurs acceptance in his ear.

"Mm. I'll see what I can do."

It's as good as a promise.

[peachsayshi]

Chapter 6 - Festival

Gojo Satoru x Female Reader

Tags: Friends with Benefits, Smut, Teasing and a little bit of Fluff.

Summary: Your best friend Rina is curious about what's been keeping you so busy, and the two of you run into Gojo and his student at a food festival.

A/N: I have been working on my jjk fics but this chapter was a little bit difficult for me to write. A little bit of backstory and plot building here. Gojo and personal space? Non-existent. You can't tell me that the man wouldn't abuse his flirting rights.

- - - 

“Aren’t you a little warm in that top?”

Rina glanced at the high collared t-shirt you were wearing under your mini dress. The top covered the marks that Gojo left on your neck but the material was a little too thick for the summer heat. Thankfully, there was a breeze cooling you off otherwise you would be dripping with sweat.

“I’m fine,” you replied, directing your attention onto the vendors instead of your best friend’s narrowed eyes.

Rina asked you to come along to check out a food festival set up in the city. The entire district was lined with painted stalls which made for a picture perfect scene. The rich aroma of cooked food danced around you, enticing the bustling crowd that was growing in numbers. From golden battered fried takoyaki balls to mouthwatering barbecued yakitori, rainbow cotton candy that sent strings of sugar into the air and sweet kakigori to cleanse the palette…

Everything was making your stomach grumble.

“Oh, let’s get okonomiyaki!” Rina suggested.

After picking up your orders, you both sat at an empty table where you could enjoy your meal. You were ignoring the way Rina continued looking at you suspiciously, clearly not letting go of her obsession with the top you were wearing.

“Okay, that’s it. Let me see it.”

“See what?” you questioned, covering your mouth as you tried to chew on your food.

“The hickey you are hiding.”

You nearly choked as you swallowed but Rina didn’t flinch at your reaction. You patted your chest lightly, clearing your throat as you gathered your thoughts.

“I’m not hiding anything!” you replied defensively.

Rina rolled her eyes at you, “then at least tell me who the guy is…”

You waved your arm nonchalantly in her direction, desperately trying to avoid getting into a losing battle with your best friend. If there was one person in the world who didn’t need superhuman abilities to tell what you were thinking - it was Rina. She read you like an open book, making it near impossible for you to keep a secret from her. How you managed to go this long without her figuring out you were hooking up with Gojo was a miracle.

“I just want to know exactly what has been keeping you so busy recently,” she continued, “I’m having a hard time believing it’s work because you would be in a miserable mood if you were spending all your free time at the office.”

“ Or we can talk about how absolutely delicious this is...” you blurted, letting her words travel in your ear and out the other as you pointed at the meal in front of you.

Rina lifted her brow, shaking her head in disapproval. She calmly placed her chopsticks on her plate, leaning forward a little closer to you before hooking her finger in the collar of your shirt and tugging it down to check your neck.

“LIAR!”

You clasped your hand over the mark, your eyes widening as you prodded your best friend with your other finger.

“Oh, you are in trouble!” a sly smile spread across her pretty face, “when did you start dating again? I thought you swore off men after what happened with the fitness instructor..”

“Please don’t remind me of him…”

“Then who is this mystery man that you are hiding?”

You pressed your lips together, hesitant to reveal the truth about the deal you and Gojo had made. Yes, you were having fun together and none of it was supposed to be as serious as you were making it out in your head. In fact, Rina would probably applaud you for initiating this to begin with.

But…

Rina also liked to ask hard questions: why were you using him instead of confronting your heartbreak? Why were you chasing after something false instead of trying for real love again? Do you really want to risk ruining the friendship you both have?

Those were questions that you didn’t have the answers to.

“It’s...It’s some guy at work, you don’t know him…” you stated, finally settling on a good enough excuse to satisfy her curiosity

“How long have you been seeing him?”

“Just a few weeks…” you fibbed.

“Tell me what he’s like?”

“Uhh…he’s fun, I guess …handsome, kind of charming…but it’s only been a few dates, I still don’t really know him well yet.”

You swallowed hard, hating yourself for not having the courage to tell Rina the truth. Your best friend continued throwing questions at you while your brain spat out the answers before you could even think things through, your guilt twisting your insides with all the lies you were spewing.

“I’m sorry for not telling you sooner…”

Rina smiled, placing a hand on your shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “I just want you to be happy. If you like this guy, you should give him a chance. Who knows, maybe this could turn into something serious…”

“I am not really looking for anything serious,” you admitted, allowing yourself to be vulnerable. “At least not right now…”

How could you want something serious after what happened?

You and your ex-boyfriend were together for five years. You met him when you were both at university and he swept you off your feet. His handsomeness showed through his kind personality and he always managed to make you smile. He was your first of many things, including this painful heartbreak.

You hated yourself for getting comfortable with him, for allowing your mind to plan a future that you both could share. You were disappointed that he made you fall in love with him but more so, that he abandoned you to piece together what was left.

You always felt like you never had your closure. When you asked him why he cheated, he never gave you a solid answer. He was ashamed for keeping his infidelity a secret for so long that his only response was a pathetic apology.

Who was this woman that he was willing to jeopardize your relationship for?

Why did he stop loving you?

You blamed yourself because you couldn’t understand.

One minute you were happy and the next you found yourself betrayed in the worst way possible.

You had enough respect for yourself to know that you couldn’t stay with a man who would treat you this way. When you broke up, you expected him to beg for your forgiveness. He was your prince charming, of course he would come crawling back.

You only knew that he had moved on with his lover when you caught the two of them at the supermarket together. They were buying peas, completely entranced with one another and the adoration that your former boyfriend used to look at you with was now passed on to the woman with golden hair.

He was your weakness and you…

You still loved him.  

Rina’s eyes shifted to the crowd, pausing when she recognised a face among the sea of strangers.

“Oh! Look who is over there!”

You glanced over your shoulder, following her line of sight until you saw your dirty little secret wave at you from a distance.

Gojo was eating ice cream, mindlessly swerving around the crowd and looking exceptionally fine in his summer fit. Adorned on the top of his head were cat ears, a little souvenir trinket that some of the vendors were selling at their stalls. His free arm was draped across a teen boy’s shoulder, whose unamused face indicated that he was not keen on being here.

“Rina-chan!” Gojo sang as he approached your table, “it’s nice to see you!”

“You too! How are things?”

“Great! Busy with the usual but today I decided to stop by with my student. This is Megumi…”

The boy awkwardly bowed to greet you and Rina.

“It’s nice to meet you both…”

Gojo’s shades slid down his nose slightly, and you caught a glimpse of those blue eyes. When he winked in your direction, you couldn’t help but blush.

“What are you two up to?” he casually asked.

“Well, I finally got Miss “Busy All The Time” to myself today and we just had some okonomiyaki, that guy over there is selling it…”

Gojo hummed and swirled his tongue around his vanilla ice cream before calmly replying, “I know, she’s been so preoccupied lately! Oi, when are we going to have our catch up session?”

Your face grew warmer, Gojo was good at keeping secrets and him playing off like he hasn’t been the one taking up all of your spare time only resulted in you staring at him with furrowed brows.

Thankfully, Megumi interrupted the conversation.

“I’m going to walk around for a bit,” he stated, turning his heel to walk away from your little group.

“I’ll meet up with you in a minute,” Gojo replied with a nod.

“I’m also going to use this opportunity to find the restroom. Gojo can keep you company until I get back,” Rina added, as she stood up from her seat.

Gojo gave her a thumbs up, “happily!”

The sorcerer took Rina’s place, sitting down across from you while his long legs bumped into yours as he adjusted his position. He paused for a moment, watching your friend and his student disperse into the crowd before finally returning his attention back to you.

“Nice outfit by the way but a little warm for today’s weather in my opinion.”

“I wonder whose fault that is…” you mused, pressing your lips together to stop yourself from smiling at his teasing comment, “I bet you think you’re so cute assuming you’re completely innocent in all this.”

Gojo smiled, “Actually, I know I’m cute.”

You couldn’t deny it, even right now as you watched him with those ridiculous cat ears that pulled back his white locks. He definitely was catching the eye of every girl and guy who passed by.

You flicked one of the black ears on his head,  “this is a new look for you…”

“I bought it for Megumi but he wasn’t too pleased wearing it around, kept saying that I was embarrassing him...” Gojo explained with a frown.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on your thighs and bringing the ice cream in his hand to your face.

“Want a taste?” he asked innocently.

Your heart skipped a beat, unaware that Gojo would get this close to you in public. He knew that you hadn't told anybody about what you both have been doing and you wondered if he was deliberately trying to put you in an awkward position. You subconsciously scanned the crowd to see if Rina or Megumi were around.

You tilted your head back slightly before asking, “do you understand the concept of personal space?”

“Relax,” Gojo said in a low voice, “no one is paying attention to us.”

“What if they come back…”

“I’ll see them before they see us,” he replied with confidence, grazing his free hand over your thigh. “Besides, you look like you could use something to cool you off…”

You arched your brow, deciding to give in and play this little flirtation game. You bit your bottom lip, gently wrapping your hand around his slender fingers and slowly leaning forward to lick the ice cream off his cone. You kept your gaze on Gojo, focusing on the devilish smirk that spread across his lips as he watched with approval.

“Mmm, that is good…” you moaned, before looking at him with glittering eyes, “wait, I didn’t get any ice cream on my face, did I?”

Gojo chuckled under his breath, “you’ve got a little something right here…”

His hand moved up to your face, his fingers holding your chin as he brought your lips to his. You inhaled, holding your breath as you were caught off guard by him stealing a kiss. The moment was fleeting and before you knew it, he parted his lips from yours but trailed his hand down your neck to take a peek at the hickey he left on your skin.

“I usually don’t care about where I mark you but if it’s a big concern I’ll make sure to do it in places where only I can see…”

Even though he spoke in a low whisper, you felt like it was loud enough for the whole crowd to hear how flustered you just got by his words.

You cleared your throat, turning your face away from him to regain your composure. “Behave, Satoru…”

“Mmm,” he hummed, “I could keep going but Rina will be back in any minute…”

You sensed a hint of annoyance in his voice when he said that.

The sorcerer leaned back, inviting the space that separated you both as he ate his ice cream with indifference. Sometimes you wish you could flip the switch as easily as he did but you found it impossible.

Rina arrived before you could even respond to his statement.

“What did I miss?” she asked, patting Gojo lightly on the shoulder to request returning to her seat.

“Nothing special,” Gojo answered with a shrug as he stood up , “I think I’m going to head back and find this kid before he leaves without me knowing.”

“Enjoy the rest of your evening! Also, you should stop by the candy shop sometime. I’ve been working on some new treats I think you might like…”

“I will,” he promised, stretching the lying game even further. He proceeded to remove the headband he was wearing, his white hair flopping over his shades as he handed you the cat ears. “Hold on to these for me won’t you…”

You took it, puzzled by the sudden gesture.

“What for?”

“Just an excuse to pick it up from you later,” he remarked innocently, “otherwise I’ll never see you!”

Rina laughed, clearly not catching on to his hidden invitation. Gojo waved goodbye and walked away, leaving you both to return to your date.

For a moment you thought your lie was about to catch up to you but realised that it was easy keeping this secret because nobody would expect you to hook up with Gojo.

You guys have been playing this song and dance for a while, saving your flirtatious banter and curiosities for when you two were alone together. Maybe you’ll come clean eventually, but for now you wanted to enjoy the bubble you were in.

You played with the cat ears in your hand, completely unaware that you were smiling to yourself.

- CHAPTER 7: GAMES - 

[19tozier]

wish you were sober (richie tozier)

warnings: underage drinking, mentions of sex, angst, pining, reader is an unreliable narrator at best

inspired by the song wish you were sober by conan gray

[losers + reader are 16+]

if someone were to ask you when you fell in love with richie, you don’t think you’d be able to answer them.

was it when you met him, thirteen and wild and so magnetic you couldn’t stay away from him? was it when you followed him into a sewer, endlessly terrified but trying to be as brave as he made you think you could be? was it when you looked at him and realized he had grown up right in front of you, and you hadn’t realized? or was it all the little moments in between, the mundane and the electric all in one?

you have no clue. all you know is this: you’re in love with richie tozier, and there’s nothing you can fucking do about it.

you bring your cup to your mouth, the edge of it pressing into your bottom lip. you don’t take a drink from it; you’re already a little buzzed, and you’re reluctant to get any drunker. you don’t want to do anything you’ll regret.

across the room from you, somehow perfectly visible despite the mass of dancing bodies separating you from him, richie leans against the wall, his arm around the waist of his girlfriend, who isn’t you.

you exhale as slowly as you can. inside of your chest, your heart feels like it is poised to shatter.

it shouldn’t shock you anymore. richie has a new girlfriend seemingly every month, a revolving-door of pretty girls that giggle when he kisses them and wear his jean jacket around school but ultimately never stay long. richie never offers explanation as to why they break up and you never ask. you’re afraid of whatever it is he might say. you’re afraid of knowing you’re not good enough for him if all of them weren’t.

you sigh. you’re such a fucking cliche. falling in love with your best friend, silently pining away as if it’ll make him notice you? you’d gag at the thought if it wasn’t your life.

a shoulder brushing against yours distracts you from your thoughts, and you glance over to see stan’s expectant face. he raises an eyebrow at you. “you alright?”

you want to scream. no, you’re not alright. you don’t think you’ve been alright since before you were officially a loser. but you can’t say that to stan, not without being perfectly honest, so you arrange your features into something resembling a smile. “what’s up, buttercup?”

stan scoffs. “you’ve been spending too much time with richie.”

will it ever stop hurting, the constant reminder of how close you are with richie but never close enough? “or he’s been spending too much time with me,” you say, sniffing arrogantly. the facade you put on sometimes is easier than breathing.

stan rolls his eyes. “sure, that’s it.” he pauses, squinting at you. “are you sure you’re okay? you look… upset, i guess.”

you snort, taking a sip of your drink as an excuse not to respond right away. your heart is in your throat at the idea of being caught. “you guess? gee, thanks stan.”

he narrows his eyes at you, his nostrils flaring slightly. behind him, bill is jumping onto mike’s back, laughing loudly. “shut up, you know what i meant. are you alright? seriously.”

you don’t give yourself time to hesitate. stan has a sixth sense for when he’s being lied to and won’t stop pestering you until you tell him the truth, and you’d like to not confess to him tonight. “yeah, stan,” you grin, feeling the lie like sawdust in your mouth. “i’m all good.”

he gives you a skeptical look, searching your face, but eventually he just sighs and nods. “alright, fine. if you need anything, you know where to find me.”

you nod back, glad you managed to escape that. “thanks, dude. hey, i’m gonna go grab a different drink, i’ll be right back.”

you don’t wait for him to say anything, or for anyone else to come with you. you just slip away, using the hordes of drunk teenagers to your advantage until you manage to get to the kitchen.

your shoulders slump, the smile you’d painted onto your face slipping away. slowly, you pour the rest of your shitty beer down the sink, opening the fridge and rifling around until you find a soda, stealing it before you can talk yourself out of it. whoever’s house this is won’t care, and besides, you think you need it.

when you leave the kitchen, your eyes fall to the spot where richie had been leaning. the wall is empty now.

pathetically, your eyes fill with tears. of course you know richie has a lot of sex, considering the self-satisfied smirk he’ll wear after getting fucked combined with the rumors that follow him like the perfume of whatever girl he’s seeing. the worst part is they aren’t even bad rumors; you’d lost count of the amount of times you had heard of how good a lover he is, or how his dick is as big as he’s often bragging, or how he does this thing with his mouth that feels like absolute heaven—

you’d heard enough. too much, probably. and it burrowed into your brain like the most insidious of weeds, sprouting thoughts you never should have let take root.

but of course richie was off fucking his girl. she was gorgeous, after all, easily one of the prettiest girls you’d ever seen, all smooth tanned skin and long blonde hair and hourglass figure. the kind of girl that richie deserved to have on his arm. the kind of girl that you would never be.

you knew this would happen. still, the pain of it takes your breath away.

you manage to stumble your way back over to the losers, greeting them with a smile that feels entirely too wooden. you play the part, laughing with bev and leaning into ben’s shoulder and gossiping quietly with eddie. you stick to your script, even when richie stumbles down the stairs sometime later with the girl tucked under his arm, both of their clothes in disarray and richie’s curls a wild mess. you’re such a seasoned professional that you barely miss a beat with eddie, even when your eyes find the hickey sucked under richie’s jaw and stay there.

for the rest of the night, you do your best to stay away from richie, always at least one loser between you two. you doubt he notices, too wrapped up in his girl. you think her name is sandy. she’s so beautiful it hurts.

eventually, you think it’s probably late enough that you can leave without raising much of a fuss. all of the other losers are still there, but bev’s already dozing against ben’s shoulder and bill is fighting a losing battle with his own drooping eyelids. you can probably slip out now, you figure, before you fall apart.

you manage to say your goodbyes as quickly as possible, waving as you turn to leave. you drove here with the others in stan’s car but it’s not too far of a walk. besides, the cold might do you some good—

a hand wraps around your wrist, jerking you back against a broad chest. when you turn, you come face to face with one richie tozier.

god, years later and he’s still the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. his jawline is sharp and square, his shoulders broad and sturdy, a whisper of the strength he will carry as a man but no less impressive now. gone are the days of the dorky kid you first met; he’d long ago traded in his hawaiian shirts for jean jackets and ripped jeans, silver rings glinting around his fingers and a chain hanging into the open collar of his t-shirt. again, you are reminded of the rumors that constantly follow him. you’re just angry they didn’t think he was hot from the very beginning.

“where are you going?” he asks, his words slurred. he’d been downing the shitty spiked punch earlier like it was his job.

you sigh, tilting your head back to look at him. there’s another hickey just to the left of his adam’s apple. “home,” you say, simply. “i’m tired.”

he frowns, stepping closer to you. the heat radiates off of him. “but i haven’t gotten to talk to you all night,” he whines, pouting ridiculously. “i missed you.”

it shouldn’t affect you. richie flirts like breathing, with anyone who will entertain him. it’s just how close you two are that means his flirting is usually aimed at you. “sorry, rich,” you say, and you find that you mean it. “next time, okay?”

his fingers release your wrist, only to catch on the curve of your waist and pull you close. the heat of his hand burns through the flimsy material of your top. you’re so focused on trying to stay upright just from that simple touch that you almost miss what he says next.

“can i come with you?” his voice is low, rough, more of a growl than anything else.

you blink, stupefied. usually you’re quicker than this, able to keep up a banter with him that’s rivaled only by him and eddie. now, you’re left tongue-tied, the endless wanting inside of you threading around your throat and choking you. “what?”

“can i come with you?” he repeats, looking down at you with his pretty eyes. his glasses slide down his nose. you fight the urge to push them back up. “we can take my truck. this party’s kind of a bore, honestly.”

you swallow, feeling your heart stutter. “what about sandy?” your mouth is so dry your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth.

richie shrugs, casual as all hell and infuriatingly attractive. “she can last without me for a bit. i’d rather hang out with my favorite girl.” he grins at you, his dimples curving into his cheek.

it makes you want to scream. he says things like this all the time, calls you doll and baby and love like he has the fucking right, constantly says you’re the most important person in his life. and yet, he doesn’t feel the same way for you as you do for him. and he never will.

still, you’re a sucker for him. your lips curl into a weak smile. “sure, rich,” you whisper; any louder and your voice will crack. “let’s get out of here.”

he doesn’t even stop to say goodbye to anyone else, just crowding against your back and walking behind you the entire way out the front door. he’s so close that his chest brushes against your shoulder blades, his fingertips grazing over your hip. you focus on not tripping.

once you’re outside, you hold your hand out, not looking at him. “keys,” you command.

he laughs, full and bright as he digs his keys out of his pocket. “yes, nurse ratched,” he teases, dropping them into your hand. “right away, nurse ratched.”

you scowl at him, turning away to stomp your way down the block to where richie parked. it’s not a long walk but the late autumn night is chilly, especially through the thin material of your top and your skirt. you shiver, wrapping your arms around yourself.

before you can really react, richie’s shrugging off his jacket, settling the heavy denim over your shoulders. he’s just wearing a plain black t-shirt underneath, the cotton clinging to his biceps and chest, and you can’t tear your eyes away, even when he murmurs, “should’ve said you were cold, doll.”

the jacket smells like him: the apple of his shampoo, the warmth of his deodorant, the smoke from his cigarettes. it shouldn’t be a pleasant scent but it is, because it means comfort. it means home. it means your best friend and the love of your life.

your shoulders slump, your hand trembling when you finally reach his truck and reach for the driver’s side handle. “thanks, richie,” you breathe, climbing into the car before he can answer.

you don’t really know what he had in mind when he asked to leave with you, but you’re too overwhelmed to handle being alone with him for too long. already, having him this close is fogging your brain. you need to get away from him so you can fall apart in peace.

you decide to just take him home and walk from there. it proves to be the best choice, because not even a minute into your drive his chin is dropping down to his chest, his eyelids closing in longer and longer blinks until finally, he’s dozing in the front seat, big body curled in your direction. it fills you with so much warmth you think you are burning from the inside out.

it should be ridiculous, how much you love him. you should be at your limit for how much you have to give, capped out a long time ago, but everyday you fall for him a little bit more. whenever he does something particularly sweet, or funny, or attractive, you feel a little more of yourself crumble away to lay at his feet. at this point, you’re more fracture than glass, crushed into a fine powder under richie’s foot.

by the time you pull into richie’s driveway, he’s snoring lightly, his glasses knocked askew on his face. part of you wants to let him sleep, but the bigger part of you knows you need to get him into the house. you already slack on your best friend duties by secretly being in love with him, you don’t need to leave him out in the cold too.

sighing, you turn the key and shut the car off, getting out and walking around to the passenger side. you shake his shoulder, gently at first, then rougher when he doesn’t respond. he grumbles, swatting at you. you can’t help but laugh, shaking him again.

“rich,” you croon, shaking him with both hands. he groans, scrunching his face up. you snicker. “c’mon asshole, you’re too heavy for me to carry.”

he pries one eye open, glaring at you. “or you’re too small to even try,” he taunts back, sticking his tongue out.

you roll your eyes, tugging him out of the car. he goes easily enough, stumbling a little bit leaning into your side as you lock the car behind you.

you weren’t kidding when you said he was heavy. he’s just so much bigger than you, tall and broad and undeniably masculine. you try your best to take some of his weight with an arm curved around his waist, but you don’t think you’re really doing anything.

the lights are all off inside, richie’s parents gone for the weekend at some conference for his dad’s work. it makes you feel better about how you two stumble around in the dark, knocking into the walls and tripping over the stairs. finally, without much incident, you make it into richie’s room, depositing him on his bed before he can fall and brain himself on his table. his desk light is on, throwing the room into shadow but just light enough for you to see his face.

his curls spread around him on his pillow, his eyes already closed. he’s on top of his covers but there’s not much you can do about that. the only thing you can do is untie his boots and pluck his glasses from his face, letting him get as comfortable as he can with his clothes still on.

you stop, looking down at him. he’s almost angelic in his sleep, peaceful and quiet for probably the only time in his life. he’s so gorgeous like this, vulnerable, unguarded. it makes you feel like a creep to be looking at this without his knowledge. or his approval.

biting your lip, you turn to the door, only stopping when you realize you still have his jacket. carefully, you shrug it off, going to lay it on his bed when his voice stops you.

“keep it.”

you look up to see his eyes half-open, locked on you. the lamp throws his face into sharp angles and shadow, but the expression on his face is soft. his fingers stretch towards you.

“it looks good on you,” he continues, his voice barely more than a whisper. “you should wear it all the time.”

you don’t know what to say, frozen at the foot of his bed. it feels like everything you’ve ever wanted, before you remember that he’s drunk and out of his mind. he probably thinks you’re sandy. there’s no way he’d ever say that to you.

but he keeps going, his voice rough, smooth velvet over steel. “you look good all the time. makes me feel insane. just wanna touch you but i can’t.”

your heartbeat is pounding in your ears. through trembling lips, you manage to get out, “what about sandy?”

he shrugs, a tiny movement that feels unsure. you’ve never seen him shy like this. the fact that sandy’s likely the reason makes you burn inside. “she’s cool and all, but she’s not you. you’re my best friend, (y/n). i love you.”

you gasp softly, nowhere near loud enough for him to hear. your heart feels like it’s being pulled in two. “i love you too, rich. more than you could ever understand.”

but he shakes his head firmly. “no, you don’t get it. i love you. you’re my—you’re my other half. my partner in crime. i’d be lost without you.” before you can respond, he sighs and whispers, “wish you were my girlfriend. not sandy.”

his eyes slip closed the next instant. as you stand there, simultaneously turned to stone and burning alive, he gives a soft snore, his features relaxing in sleep.

you stare down at him for what feels like centuries, suddenly too old to move. you look down at the jacket in your arms, then back up to him. a loose curl lays against his forehead. your fingers itch to push it behind his ear.

“i wish you were sober,” you whisper. he doesn’t twitch.

you leave the jacket laid at the foot of his bed when you go.

(part two)