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vampcubus · 5 years

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Next Stop (Midoriya/Reader | nsfw)

| A/N: Been hoarding this one away for a while until I was satisfied with it. |

♡ | Warnings: nsfw!!, public sex, thigh jobs, gettin’ cozy with Izuku on a train. | ♡

♡ | Words: 2100+ | ♡

. . .

You and Izuku had the misfortune of catching the train during rush hour, meaning you were packed into one space with little breathing room. The station had been fine when you boarded the train, but as more and more people stepped into the car you were pushed farther and farther together. Currently, Midoriya stood between you and the crowd of people, one arm raised to grasp the handle above his head and the other around you.

You were thankful for him wanting to make sure you weren't crushed. But at the same time you felt bad because whenever the train stopped, you would pitch forward and then abruptly backward into him. You'd bonked your head on his chin a few times as well. The train came to another slow stop, and Izuku's arm kept you from falling forward though you still knocked back into him. "Sorry, Izuku." "It's fine, we're almost there," Izuku assured with a thoughtful smile. To be honest, he didn't mind the situation at all. Being pressed so close against you allowed him to take in your comforting scent and hold you close at the same time. Izuku was flustered to admit that he wouldn't mind you being like this for the rest of the day. Though, as the next stop had you precisely pushing back on his crotch, eliciting a gasp as he felt his manhood come to life beneath your rear. He held his breath as he begged for you to not notice, he'd be mortified. All hope of you being oblivious to his boner were tossed into a blender when you leaned back against him. His eyes went wide with horror as your butt pressed right onto his bulge, he gnawed his lip to keep himself from making a noise. You froze and Izuku felt his heart stop beating.

You only smirked and pushed back once more, grinding your ass against his crotch. You could feel him hard and twitching through your clothing. "Y/N d-don't...!" Izuku stuttered, squeezing his eyes shut as his hips bucked into the friction despite his protest. "N... no, n-not here...!" You have him a pouty face, a whiny complaint at the tip of your tongue before a smug smile spread across your glossy lips instead. You made a disappointed noise but moved your hips away from his crotch. "Fine." You hummed, pushing yourself more against the window. Izuku gaped at you, slack-jawed as you pretended like you hadn't just been grinding against him on a public train. Even worse was that he felt his cock throb uncomfortably hard within his pants, testing the fabric as you peacefully left him alone and wanting. He had told you to stop... but... Izuku bit back a whine of frustration as his head fought with his body. One pleading for reason and the other some sort of stimulation. He shuddered, feeling himself brushing against his pants with every nervous shift of his overheating body. He was so hard, this wasn't fair! So with pink cheeks and half-lidded eyes, the green-haired boy allowed his shaking hands to grasp your hips and pull you away from the window and back against his body. You replied with a questioning hum, looking over your shoulder to see a woefully horny Izuku staring back at you with pleading green eyes. He wanted you so bad, you could see it in the way he gazed at you as if you held a treat in your palm, and yet you continued to tease.

He had told you to wait after all, so you could play dumb. "What is it, sweetie?" You asked innocently, a pure smile masking your sinister intentions as he whimpered and squirmed behind you. He murmured something unintelligible, and you raised your brows with an amused tilt of your head. "What was that? Speak up, Izzy." Midoriya shifted behind you again, mouth gone dry as his tongue wetted his chapped lips, a bashful look in his face. "I... p... please don't stop." He whispered, moving one hand back up to the handle to keep you both steady as the train started moving once more. "You're really okay with fucking your girlfriend on a crowded train? Hm, how naughty..." You giggled under your breath so only he could hear. His face was blazing with embarrassment, but the heat in his loins burned hotter. Izuku was ashamed of how much he wanted to, even though he knew all of the reasons he shouldn't. His hips rocked into you again and you gasped when you felt his hardness pressing between your cheeks. Grinning you turned your head to peer over your shoulder at him, the mischievous excitement gleaming in your entrancing eyes, reflecting the same giddy desire in his own jade pools. "Take it out." You breathed, and he felt his jaw go slack. You couldn't possibly mean...? Your hips rolled against his again, insistently, and he felt his inhibitions leave. He gave in to his desire to press his cock into the friction. He bit down on his lip and hastily pulled down his fly, tugging on his All Might boxers to allow his length to slip through the slit in his pants. His fingers lift your skirt, quickly hiding his modesty underneath the pleated material. He felt his excitement twitch when his tip bumped into your thigh. Parting your thighs ever so slightly you reached down beneath your skirt as discreetly as possible and pulled at the elastic of your panties, leaning back and allowing Izuku's flushed red cock to slip under the fabric and brush against your heat. Izuku bit down hard on his lip as the head of his cock dragged subtly over your outer lips. You were already so wet. Face dark with a deep blush, his wide green eyes scan the other passengers, paranoid as all hell of being caught. Sure, your skirt did a good enough job of concealing his dick between your thighs, but there was still so much risk. He bit down on his lip when the thrill of the possibility of being caught made him throb with desire. You pressed your thighs back together once he slid into your panties, the softness of your thighs and hot cunt surrounding him making him gasp. Licking your lips you ground your ass back against him. Izuku used the arm still firmly wrapped around your belly to pull you even closer. And then you began to rock your body back and forth—not too obviously as to not alert the other passengers—pumping his cock between your thighs and allowing your wetness to drip down onto him, covering his shaft in your slick. To any onlookers, you could pass as an overly-affectionate couple just trying to get home. You could just barely hear him whimpering with closed lips, trying to prevent any sounds from escaping. You knew this would be a challenge for Izuku since he was often quite uncontrollably vocal when it came to sex. You often made him feel so good that he could never contain his moans, babbling endlessly. Now his teeth remained clenched, eyes squeezed shut tight as he struggled to keep his noises in.

“Hah… look at you, the number one hero fucking my thighs where anyone could see us.” You breathed out with a honey-sweet whisper, almost taunting him. He let his mouth fall open as he drank in your incriminating words. A delighted shiver befell his figure as you continued to talk, knowing how easily your voice triggered him. “Mmh, what would… what would your fans think if they knew how dirty Deku could be?”

Soon Izuku started moving his hips along with yours, cock rubbing against your sensitive clit, the head repeatedly poking into the front of your panties and stretching the thin cotton with each thrust against your pussy. He was making small grunting sounds under his breath now, fingers flexing as they twisted your shirt in his grip. "Y/N... Y/N please... hah." Izuku began to pant and whine into your shoulder, nose buried in your neck as his hips shakily chased the friction of your thighs and slit rubbing against his cock. His hips sped as he approached his orgasm, and right before he stuttered out that he was about to cum you reached down and aligned him with your entrance. You hummed, shoving your hips back, his cock trembled within your tight pussy, hips slapping against your own as his green eyes rolled back and he choked down his moan. "N-no don't...!" Izuku hissed, his words smearing themselves across your shoulder. Your pussy was squeezing around him so tightly, your velvet walls all but sucking on his cock as his vision began to spot with blots of white. "I can't... take it..." You slammed your hips back against him, prompting Izuku to grab them as he began to fuck you harder than probably appropriate given the situation. Luckily the chatter of the crowd and the noises of the train moving along masked the wet squelching sound of him pumping in and out of you. "Y-Y/N I'm... I'm gonna c-cum." he warned, biting down on the inside of his cheek when your hips only bucked faster. You were getting close, eyelids fluttering and pearling with pleasured tears as you reached out for your release and threw caution into the wind. "Inside, baby, don't make a mess, o-oh, or we might get c-caught." You huskily whispered back, walls flexing around his cock as he rutted his hips faster. His foggy green eyes darting in every direction to make sure no one was watching.

"Oh, a-angel I'm-I'm gonna be t-too loud, I can't." He huffed, still fucking himself into your warmth despite his own objection. "My hips won't stop moving. I—I oh, nnnmff...!" You turned your head suddenly and captured his lips with your own to smother his involuntary noises. You moaned softly as felt your pleasure peak, finding your own release around his twitching cock. Izuku's world blurred as he buried himself as deep as possible before a high-pitched mewl ripped itself from his throat, only to be muffled by your lips swallowing his sounds as he finally came inside of you. His balls emptied themselves within your hot cunt, his cum filling you up to the brim as the two of you struggled to mask your distinct orgasm faces. You fanned at your blisteringly hot cheeks and wiped the thin line of drool from your parted lips, trying not to pant too loudly. Before Izuku could pull out, the train came to a screeching stop. Always the quick thinker when it came to protecting you, he shot one arm out to keep you steady. At least a third of the passengers riding the train departed in a stream of chatter and shuffling feet, leaving you with a lot more room to move around in. A few people stepped on as the others filled out, but it was nowhere near as cramped as it had been before.

The intercom of the train rang out, filling your ears: “Next stop, Musutafu station.”

As quietly as possible, Izuku pulled out of you and hastily tucked himself back into his pants. You had expected to feel uncomfortable with his cum still inside of you, but all you felt was warmth and a stupidly happy smile pulling at your lips. You shivered when you felt Izuku's lips press against your shoulder blade and then the shell of your ear. "You're in so much trouble when we get home." He breathed into your ear, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Still high on endorphins and your usual light-hearted silliness, you laughed. "You liked it." You teased, swiftly whipping your head around to catch his lips with yours in a brief peck. He avoided your eyes, embarrassed. "Admit it, coward." He grinned at you with a playful tilt of his head, feigning innocence. "Keep talking and you won't get to cum tonight." Izuku's eyes darkened, but you only giggled, the brat in you spurred by his attempt to intimidate you. As if such a punishment was threatening! You didn't need to cum to have a good time, all of his threats were futile! Plus Izuku never had it in him to deny you any sort of pleasure. Even during rough roleplays he could never follow through completely, breaking character just to tell you he loved you and that you could have whatever you wanted. "Ooh, kinky." You wiggled your eyebrows, lips pressed together prettily as you stared at him with wide doe-ish eyes, fluttering your tantalizing lashes. "Is that a promise?" His face went a bright crimson red, one hand swooping up to cover his flustered face and you only wheezed harder.

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kindahoping4forever · 4 years

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I Love You, Ain’t That The Worst Thing You Ever Heard? // Ashton Irwin

This started out loosely based on a dream I had (🤡) and spun into something a lot more complex and interesting. I’ve been working on this on and off for months (bless @cal-puddies who I’m sure is glad she won’t have to hear about this anymore lol); it was actually one of the first things I tried writing on my own (I just couldn’t get this concept out of my head) and as my writing evolved, I had to keep going back to retool and make sure the story did too. Hopefully you’ll think it was worth the effort!

Warnings: FWB-but possibly more-!Ash, slight jealousy/angst but it’s mostly internal, dummies who don’t realize that they’re in love, an absurd amount of smut but it’s justified because there’s an emotional narrative to it (really), moments of Dom!Ash, oral/manual stimulation of a female, overstimulation, spanking, cumplay, (and yet also) protected sex, no for real there is so much smut you guys I think that’s a comprehensive list of warnings but I’m not sure

Word Count: 5858

Cass & Crystal’s Collab Masterlist

Let me know what you think!

————-

“If you’re not ready in 15 minutes, I’m going without you,” Ashton declares.

“Cool but it’s my friends we’re having dinner with, so that might be controversial,” you point out, nudging his elbows off your vanity so you can open the drawer in front of where he’s sitting.

“Oh, they like me better than you, it won’t be a problem,” he teases, handing you the beauty blender you were looking for.

You snatch it from his hand. “Dude, you literally weren’t even invited, you just asked if I was busy and said ‘oh that could be fun’ when I told you what I had planned.”

“I feel like my presence was assumed when they asked you,” he shrugs.

You toss the sponge at him and he laughs as you shoo him out of the room so you can finish putting yourself together.

You and Ashton have been together for a few months, although neither of you have ever tried to discuss what “together” actually means. Your relationship seemed to be an endless string of implications. When you met, it was implied you liked each other. When you made out at a party a few weeks later, it was implied it was as friends. When you started sleeping together, it was implied it was casual. In your mind, you were something more than “friends with benefits” but still something less than a full-on relationship.

He puts a record on and has just crossed into the kitchen to help himself to a bottled water from your fridge when he notices a vase of flowers on the counter that he definitely didn’t send you.

“Fancy flowers,” he comments. “Who sent them?” He asks, despite immediately checking the card and seeing the message “Thanks for last weekend, let’s do it again sometime ;)” alongside what seems to be a masculine name.

You’re rooting around in your closet, trying to find the top you had planned on wearing while your mind is focused on your mental checklist of everything you still have left to do before you leave; it takes a good 15 seconds for it to register that Ash has even said anything and another 10 before you distractedly call out “a friend” in response.

Ashton sits on your couch and while his hands are turning the pages of some random magazine he found on your coffee table, his eyes are fixed on the bouquet he can still see sitting on the kitchen counter. You’ve never discussed exclusivity, he would have no right to be jealous. But he can’t deny the panic that ran through his body when he saw that card and he can’t keep his mind from racing now.

He thinks he’d almost feel better if he’d found evidence you were fucking someone else; he hates the thought of someone else touching you but he’s also confident that they couldn’t possibly make you feel the way he does in bed. He’s not worried about the sex. But flowers? That implies romance, implies thoughtfulness and intimacy, which are things he wouldn’t blame you for seeking elsewhere. He knows he hasn’t been offering that to you in the ways he could, in the ways you probably deserve.

He tortures himself with these thoughts a bit longer and then props himself in the doorway of your bedroom to check on your progress.

“Oh you’re still here? You were so quiet out there I figured you made good on your threat and you were already at the restaurant ordering apps without me,” you tease, pulling on your boots.

Ash gives a half-hearted chuckle in response. “You look nice,” he compliments you quietly.

You flash him a pleasant but puzzled smile; something’s off with him, you don’t think he’s ever said you look “nice” as long as you’ve known him and he never passes up a chance to banter with you.

He makes small talk but you notice the way his fingers are fiddling with the label of his water bottle and how his eyes hesitate to look for yours. By the time you’re ready, he’s nonchalantly mentioned the flowers three times and asked you to a party next weekend, when he usually never plans that far in advance.

You pause gathering your things as you realize what’s happening. He's fucking jealous, you amusedly think to yourself. Part of you wants to tease him about it but there’s an underlying sense of nervousness to it that’s almost sweet. How could something as innocuous as a vase of flowers shake this man’s seemingly endless confidence?

"I wasn't trying to be vague before," you tell him. “I helped someone move last weekend; only a couple people showed up to help, it was pretty intense. That’s what the flowers are for.”

“Let’s do it again sometime, winky face?” He raises his eyebrows, casually drinking from his water bottle to show how unbothered he is.

You make a face. “I should’ve figured you’d read the card,” you tease. “I joked that the move was so brutal I’d sooner buy him the apartment than help again when the lease is up.” To punctuate your story, you walk over, peck him on the lips and affectionately straighten his shirt collar. “I don't know what you're thinking but I can tell you you’re probably overthinking it.”

Ash tightens his jaw and runs his tongue over his lips as he listens to you. "Didn't even know you liked flowers," he shrugs as you smile softly at him.

When he doesn’t immediately follow you out of the bedroom, you know his wheels must still be turning. You get your keys out of the dish and text your friends that you’re leaving now. He finally appears and just as you’re about to tell him you really need to get going, he grabs you and gives you the most over the top, absurdly intense kiss of your life. One hand twisted in your hair, one hand pressing you against him, tongue claiming your mouth as his. He's clearly trying to prove a point - what and to who, you’re not quite sure - but he certainly proves it.

He pulls away, fire in his eyes and casually says, “You lock up, I’ll get the car started?” as if nothing happened.

You stand there, stunned for a moment, quickly attempt to repair your smudged lipstick and lock the door to meet him outside.

The car ride is mostly silent, save for the radio. Ashton plants his hand on your thigh the second you get in the car and it doesn’t budge the entire time. When you grab drinks with your friends at the bar, his hand never leaves your back. During dinner, his arm snakes around your waist the second you slide in the booth next to him. To the outsider this would seem possessive and you're guessing it partly is but you think you’re pretty good at reading Ash at this point and to you, it feels more complex than that.

He’s still his engaging and charming self, chatting endlessly with everyone about everything but you can tell he’s in his head and you’re not entirely sure why. You recall how unnerved he seemed back at your apartment. You think about the number of times he’s leaned in to whisper a joke or comment in your ear tonight. You feel the gentle way his fingers brush over your hip while you wait for the check and you start connecting the dots.

It may have started with jealousy but this goes deeper than some basic macho territorial bullshit. You’re fascinated as you consider this development. He never seemed to feel angry or betrayed at the thought of someone else holding your attention; he just seemed troubled. Sad. And now it feels like he’s constantly reassuring himself of your presence, like as long as he keeps touching you, keeps engaging you, you’re undeniably there with him.

Your head swims as you consider the implications of this. You never doubted you both cared for each other but is it more serious than that to him? To you? You focus on him talking with your friends and you don’t realize you’re staring until you feel his eyes on you. He looks at you with amused expectancy; you just shake your head and smile fondly.

Your friends say their goodbyes and you start down the street back to the car park. Ash reaches for your hand and it kind of breaks your heart so when you stop to wait for the crosswalk, you place his arm around you and snuggle into him. He looks at you quizzically, as if he's surprised by your affection. He truly has no idea how transparent he is sometimes, you think to yourself as you mumble something about being chilly.

As you make your way down the block, he starts chattering away about the night’s events and with each comment you burrow further into his embrace, appreciating the cool night air and the sound of his voice.

By time you’ve reached the parking structure, you’ve got your arms wrapped around him, inside his jacket. He sways with you as you wait for the elevator, “Am I dropping you back home?”

Your answer comes out muffled as you’ve decided to take this opportunity to bury your face in his chest. “Your place.”

He kisses the top of your head and clarifies, “Thought you had work tomorrow?”

As the elevator doors open, you say, “But your place is closer now” with a glimmer in your eye and you pull him, first into the elevator and then into you. You give him a kiss reminiscent of his over the top, absurdly intense one from earlier but yours has no underlying point to prove. You’ve decided you need him, only him and you want to be sure he knows that.

The car ride is once again silent but this time there is a different tension in the air. His hand finds its way onto your thigh again, though this time it’s definitely a few inches higher. You can’t help but study him, as breathtaking as ever, lit only by the glow of evening LA traffic. You’re now almost as lost in your thoughts as you know he was earlier. He was so perturbed by those goddamn flowers, why? If you had found a gift from someone you didn’t know at his place, would you be feeling the same way? You’re pretty sure you would.

He catches your gaze at a stop light or two but he doesn’t say anything, just gives your thigh a reassuring squeeze and turns back to the road. As soon as he shuts the engine off, you’re practically lunging across the car to get your lips back on his again. He indulges you for a minute and then breezily laughs, “let’s get you inside then” as he pries you off of him.

Once inside, it’s a dizzying clash of teeth, tongues, lips and limbs as you stumble up the stairs into the bedroom. You’re not sure exactly when it happened but suddenly he’s in his underwear and has you naked and spread in front of him.

He runs his fingers through your folds as he looks at you with a predatory glint in his eyes, asking, “Wet already, huh? This all for me?”

That’s apparently the extent of his teasing mood as he dives right in and starts eating you out before you even think to answer. You gasp and immediately tangle your fingers in his hair as he ruthlessly attacks your clit, first swirling it with the tip of his tongue and then sucking it in between his lips. The way he alternates broad strokes of his wide tongue with deliberate rapid fire flicks has you whimpering faster than you thought possible.

“Been wanting to taste you all evening, beautiful, thought we’d never get away,” he murmurs as he teasingly presses light kisses into your thighs.

“Ash…” you start, still attempting to catch your breath. “What is going on with you tonight…”

He chuckles and replies, “Says the woman who practically jumped me in the parking lot after dinner?” He pushes himself up your body to kiss you deeply, both of you groaning as you taste yourself on his tongue.

He pulls away just enough to continue, “Says the woman who could barely wait for me to put the car in park before she pounced again?” He kisses you even harder, distracting you enough that you don’t notice his hands have begun to wander until you feel two fingers slowly dragging against your pussy.

You break the kiss with a moan and Ashton seamlessly moves his mouth to your neck, giving several teasing bites and nips before he raises his head to look directly at you and say, “Says the woman who I suspect has been dripping for me since the kiss I gave her before we left for dinner?”

He pushes his fingers into you with ease and expertly starts working them. “Maybe even before? Has my girl been wanting me this badly all night?”

You feel your skin flush as you hear the words “my girl” come out of his mouth; this is new. That’s as far as your thought process gets because then he’s curling his fingers and all you can focus on is the way your walls are beginning to twitch and tighten around them, “Ash… please…” is the best response you can manage.

His hand that’s not buried inside you traces down your throat and over your breasts. “Please what, baby? Think you know you’re gonna have to do better than that,” he teases.

“... Want to cum… PLEASE…” you breathlessly pant out, rocking your hips against his fingers which have slowed to an agonizingly slow pace, keeping you just on the edge of orgasm.

“Oh don’t worry, pretty girl, you’ll cum alright,” he teases with his bottom lip fixed in a mock pout. “Gotta make it up to you, I obviously should’ve filled you the second I walked through your door tonight,” he speeds his fingers back up and adds his thumb into the mix, rubbing it against your clit, causing your legs to shake.

You grip his arm that’s working you over, digging your nails into his bicep as your entire body tenses and you pulse around his fingers. “That’s my girl, that was a good one, wasn’t it?” he coos as he pumps his fingers into you a few more times for good measure.

You can only breathe heavily in response; your mind and body are both reeling. There it is again: my girl. That kiss by your door, his hands on you all evening, now my girl. You’re not sure if it’s intentional or if his subconscious is giving him away, but he’s claiming you. You’re much more comfortable with that idea than you thought you’d be.

The second it seems like you’ve started to catch your breath, Ashton withdraws his fingers from your body and sucks them clean, exaggeratedly groaning his approval. You reach out for him, hoping for a kiss but before you even realize what’s happening, he’s back between your legs lapping away at your center again. “ASH, what the FUCK,” you cry out, legs involuntarily closing around him.

Unfazed, he easily spreads your legs back how he wants them and looks up at you, face obscenely wet and glistening from his task. “You tasted so good on my fingers, I wanted more straight from the source,” he shrugs and immediately returns to his mission.

You involuntarily let out a tiny moan at his remark before tugging on his hair to get his attention. “Too much” is all you manage to get out before he licks at your clit in just the right way to make you jolt and let out a guttural groan.

He pulls back and snickers against your thigh. “That’s what I thought, do I know my girl or do I know my girl? Know when you're ready for another one before you even do, know how to leave you speechless with just a couple flicks of my tongue,” he sneers, rapidly fluttering over your clit in demonstration. “Know this pussy even better than you do, bet you’ve never had anyone else who can say that, have you?”

You grab onto his shoulder and moan as soon as you hear that magic phrase, my girl, again. Ash’s dirty talk has always been a huge turn on for you but tonight the language is as telling as it is arousing: you are his. You decide that you like it, you want that and you like that he wants that.

You sigh deeply, disappointed but not surprised, when he pulls away just as you feel your climax begin to build. He kisses up your stomach until he reaches your tits, spreading sloppy kisses over one while he squeezes the other, rolling over the nipple with his thumb. You��re not quite sure why tenderness is your instinctual response but you go with it, softly running one hand through his hair and stroking his face with the other.

He looks up at you and his eyes are as breathtaking as always, glowing with both a familiar fire and also a softness you’ve only seen on occasion. You can’t help but smile as you tell him, “You’re unbelievable.”

“Is that a complaint or a compliment, my dear?” He asks with a smirk as he turns his attention to your other breast, repeating his actions.

“Not sure… both maybe…” you reply, in a dreamy haze of fondness, amusement and desire.

“I’ll take it,” he mutters against your skin. Satisfied with his work on your chest, you see him start to move back down between your legs.

“Ashhhh… no, need more,” you object, attempting to pull him back up to you.

“That’s what I’m tryna to give you here, baby,” he chuckles, allowing you to pull him up to your lips.

You frantically kiss him and grabble between your bodies until your hand finds his erection still confined in his boxers and you give it a squeeze. “GOD, Ash, honestly I just want your cock more than anything right now,” you hate how pitiful you sound but you also hope it’s enough that he’ll give you what you want.

Instead he looks you directly in the eye, grins and taunts, “But when don’t you want my cock more than anything?”

He impishly pecks your nose and confidently states, “First you cum on my tongue. THEN you can cum on my cock.” And with that, he’s suddenly peppering quick kisses all the way back down your body, musing almost to himself, “No one else can make you feel this way, can they, darlin’? Know how to get you off like this? Gets you this needy?”

Ashton dives back in with a renewed sense of purpose and has you cumming within moments; you swear at a certain point you can feel him grin against your sensitive core, clearly reveling in the nonsensical murmurs you don’t even realize you’re letting out until you hear them yourself.

“Good girl, sound so pretty when you cum for me, taste even better,” he praises, pressing a final kiss to the inside of each of your thighs before he’s on his feet, finally stripping off his underwear and retrieving a condom from the bedside table.

You’re tired from his teasing but the anticipation of finally having him inside you fuels your decision to snatch the package from him and begin tugging at his cock as soon as he’s within arms reach. You roll the condom on him as he tucks your matted hair behind your ear and says, “Been so good tonight, baby, you decide how you want it.”

You purse your lips in amusement because while his offer appears generous, based on the tone of the evening and the charged mood you're both in, there's no way he doesn't already know you're about to choose his preferred position.

You reach up and kiss him lustfully one more time before you dramatically turn over and raise yourself up on all fours, looking over your shoulder at him with an expectant look. He raises an eyebrow at you and you playfully roll your eyes at him, "Are you going to pretend like you're surprised or are you gonna fuck me?"

He grips your ass cheeks, kneading them in each hand, fondly clicking his tongue, "Cum twice already and still so impatient.”

You expect him to tease you; he always does and after the evening you’ve had, you assume you’re in for another tortuous display of dominance so it takes you by surprise when he’s suddenly sliding in to you. You hear his breathing become noticeably more pronounced as he buries himself and his fingers lightly trace down your spine, his actions pausing for just a beat longer than you'd like.

Without even giving it a second thought, you start eagerly moving against him. "Need me that badly you can't even wait one second for me to catch my breath?" He taunts in a voice that's both amused and aroused. He wraps his hand in your hair and yanks hard. "So desperate for me to wreck you, gotta fuck yourself on my cock?" He punctuates his question with a swift smack to your ass.

You attempt to scoff at his teasing but a simple, strained “FUCK” leaves your lips instead as you steadily rock yourself back against him. He doesn’t seem to mind your initiative, responding to your movements with approving groans and keeping his large hands occupied by covering your ass, first with sharp slaps followed by firm yet tender rubbing to soothe your reddening skin.

You hear yourself chanting “More. Please. More.” in a staccato rhythm matching the way you’re throwing your body back on him. He complies with your request, hand coming down on your backside multiple times in rapid succession and you cry out in satisfaction. You love the sting but you think you love the fact that you’ll be wearing his marks for days even more.

A particularly strong blow has your arms giving out, dropping your upper body down to the bed with a moan. He takes this as you handing over the reins and quickly moves his hands from your ass to your hips, grip digging into your skin as he takes over and starts pounding into you.

“Goddamn you wrap around me so good, it’s like you were made to take my cock weren’t you, beautiful?” His praise has both your mind and body humming; it’s been a long evening and although you’ve already had two orgasms, you find yourself overwhelmed by the undeniable need to cum with him inside you.

He pushes down on the small of your back to pop your ass and fuck you at a better angle but the way his fingers firmly but gently fall on your skin reminds you of how he touched you earlier in the evening. In the restaurant. On the street. In the car. Always wanting to feel you, always confirming your presence, always reassuring the both of you that your rightful place was with him.

An unexpected wave of affection washes over you and suddenly you’re needing him in a much different way. You manage to feebly say, “Ash? Babe?” as you muster the strength to raise yourself back on one arm while you fling the other behind you, blindly searching for him.

You almost never call him pet names so it immediately jumps out at him; he notices the shifted tone in your voice and halts his actions. You turn your head to meet his gaze as he pants, “You alright? What’s happening?”

Your hand finally finds his resting on your hip and you give it a squeeze, “Changed my mind. Need more of you on me.”

The confusion and concern that were clouding his features softens into something familiar yet somehow undefinable as he gingerly pulls out and leans forward to give you the softest kiss you’ve received all evening. “Well, let’s do that then.”

You spin around to face him and sit back on your knees, pulling him into another soft, slow kiss, brushing his hair off his forehead. He basks in your tender attention for a moment before he’s guiding you back down onto the bed, situating himself to fully lay on top of you, between your legs, careful not to break your kiss until you’re ready.

He slips back inside you and before he even gets the chance to ask, a breathy “Yessss” is all the confirmation he needs to know that this is what you were craving. You wrap your legs around him and run your hands across his broad back, “Just wanted to feel more,” you explain.

Your eyes are closed, relishing the feel of his weight on you and the stretch of him inside you, so you don’t notice the way he silently studies you for a moment before he lifts himself up and starts thrusting into you again.

For all the filth that’s come out of your mouths this evening, this round finds you both unusually quiet, letting your joined symphony of moans, groans, “yeah”s and “fuck”s say everything that needs to be expressed.

You feel him reach for your hand and move it to rest above you on the pillow, interlacing his fingers with yours; you respond with a squeeze and then one up him by turning your head to nip at the moon tattoo closest to you, simply because you can. He’s left his signature up and down your body tonight, it’s only fair you get to leave a small token of your appreciation on his.

He hisses at the feel of your teeth lightly grazing his skin. “Come on, darlin’, play nice.”

“Since when do we do that?” You breathlessly reply and then bask in the glow of the grin you receive in response.

Still smiling, Ash shakes his head. “If you’re able to make smartass remarks like that, clearly I’m not doing my job here.”

He takes one of your legs from around his waist and lifts your thigh back towards your chest; your mouth opens to moan but nothing happens as he pulls almost entirely out and then fucks into you so much slower and deeper than before. He chuckles, “That’s more like it.”

You consider rolling your eyes at his teasing or panting out another sassy quip at him but the way he’s moving in you feels so otherworldly you honestly don’t care about anything else. You grab on to his forearm and dig your nails in.

“Feeling good, beautiful?” He reaches between you and mercilessly rubs your clit. “Who’s making you feel this good?”

The sound emanating from your throat might be his name but mainly sounds like a series of whimpers.

He rubs harder and thrusts deeper. “Didn’t hear you, speak up. Whose cock makes you feel like this?” You continue crying out nonsensically as you feel yourself on the verge of your third orgasm.

You need him close so you pull him down to you for a kiss. He sloppily licks into your mouth, panting against your lips. He’s almost as gone as you are. You bite at his bottom lip and say, with a bit more desperation than you anticipated, “Gonna cum for you, Ash.” He nods understandingly and pecks your lips once more.

His lips move to your neck as his thrusts speed up again; he’s determined now and you’re moaning in earnest. You feel that familiar burning in your core and your eyes instinctively flutter shut, savoring the fall into bliss.

"Uh-uh, eyes open, baby. Want you to look at me. Need to be sure you know whose cock it is you're cumming on,” Ashton commands.

You force yourself to focus on him as you start to unravel, your entire body on fire, tensing deliciously; your mind is screaming his name but only indecipherable whines fall from your lips. Ashton is relentless as he fucks you through it, his thrusts never slow; no matter how impossibly tight your pussy squeezes around his cock, he never stops driving into you even rougher and deeper than before.

His eyes remain locked on yours, making the entire experience feel unbelievably more intimate. You swear you can feel every pent up emotion from the evening - the jealousy, the worry, the possessiveness, the passion, the… love? - in his gaze and you’ve never had a more intense orgasm, physically or emotionally.

As you come down from your high, you hear him praising you, “Yes, baby... love making you cum… you always give so much… always such a good girl for me.” His words alone would've earned a reaction from you but he sounds as wrecked as you feel, causing you to emit a deep and breathy moan at this realization. He’s panting so heavily you know his release won’t be far behind.

You feel like you're mad with desire at this point; you're beyond satisfied and you know you couldn't possibly cum again but you still feel like you're wanting something, you still need more of him. Feeling emboldened by watching Ash lose control and the euphoria still pulsing through your body, you find yourself digging your nails into his arms and muttering, “Want your cum, Ash.”

He lets out a grunt as his hips slam into yours. “Oh, you’re definitely about to get it,” he smirks.

You sigh partly out of exasperation and partly out of arousal for what you’re about to request. “No, Ash, I want it,” you pant. “Want you to cum on me, make me yours.”

His hips slow as he processes your words. “Fuck” is all he can manage to growl under his breath in response. He pulls out and you whimper at both the absence of him and the anticipation of what’s going to happen.

Ashton peels off the condom and you can’t take your eyes off him as he wraps his long fingers around his cock and begins to stroke himself. It only takes a few tugs before he’s gasping and murmuring your name and you have to moan along with him when you feel his warm cum spurting onto your stomach and chest. He maintains a firm grip as the rhythm of his hand varies, making sure he squeezes out every last drop for you.

He hangs his head in exhaustion for a beat and then takes in the sight of you: fucked out, chest heaving, painted in his release. You catch him staring and offer him a tired yet mischievous smile; he seems to pick up on your wavelength and smirks as he runs a finger through the substance on your breasts and brings it up to your lips for you to suck off.

“Jesus, baby,” he groans, shaking his head almost as if he can’t believe his eyes. “Don’t move.” He affectionately rubs your thigh a few times before he moves off the bed and ducks into the bathroom, returning seconds later with a wet washcloth.

He climbs back next to you on the bed and presses a passionate kiss to your lips before he starts gently cleaning you up; it’s quiet for a few moments and the intimacy is not lost on either of you. You reach up and brush his wild hair from his eyes. “Hey,” you start, fondly.

He smiles much softer than he has all night. “Hey yourself,” he giggles.

You pause and feel a bit of leftover boldness coursing through you, so you comment, “You seem like you’ve got something on your mind.”

Ash bites his lip and exhales deeply, clearly considering how to answer. He looks down, avoiding your eyes, and fusses over a mark on your hip that’s sure to form into a gnarly bruise by morning. “Sorry if I got a little crazy tonight, I know I‘m usually better at checking in with you,” he muses.

You sit up and squeeze his shoulder. You feel the urge to reassure him but you can tell he’s on the verge of opening up and you don’t want to derail him. You’re trying to find the courage to prompt him further when he surprises you by admitting, “It just really fuckin’ got to me when I thought... “ he trails off, looking away again. “I got weirded out about those flowers and I shouldn’t have. And I’m sorry.” He tosses the washcloth onto the nightstand in exasperation.

You give him a faint smile. “Ash, I told you ---”

“I know and I believe you but I just started thinking... and then I couldn’t stop,” he confesses quietly. He stands up and pulls on a pair of shorts before busying himself by starting to tidy the bed.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom. You figure he could use some time to process whatever it is he’s still trying to work out so you wash your face, brush your teeth and slip on a t-shirt of his you find discarded on the counter.

You venture back into the bedroom and find him tossing the pillows back onto the bed after having changed the sheets. He still looks lost inside his thoughts and you yearn to ease his mind. You walk over and hug him from behind, burying your face into his back; he gives your arms an affectionate squeeze.

“I know we don’t really talk about this kind of thing but I feel like you should know I haven’t seen anybody else since we started talking,” you offer, your confession muffled with your face still pressed against his skin. “It hasn’t even been a conscious thing, I just… haven’t been interested, I guess.”

Ashton pulls you to his side and kisses the top of your head. “Thank you for telling me that,” he murmurs, rubbing your back.

You quickly come around and kneel on the bed in front of him so that you’re at his eye level and you wrap your arms around his neck. “And I liked everything that happened tonight; you know I would have told you otherwise,” you assert. He nods in acknowledgement so you continue, “I like hearing you tell me I’m your girl, I like when you make me feel like I’m yours... ”

You feel tempted to look away, to fidget with the necklace he’s wearing but you resist. You look straight into his hazel eyes, full of warmth and attentiveness, and state, “You know, I could be yours, if that’s something you decide you want.”

Ash only lets your words hang in the air for a split second before he wraps his arms around you tightly and kisses you slowly; it’s intense and passionate but not in the same over the top, cocky way that he kissed you back at your apartment. This kiss is also trying to prove something but it’s a message meant only for you and he’s taking his time to make his point clear.

When your mouths finally separate, you take a deep breath and steady yourself on his arms. You open your eyes at him and grin. “Was that your way of asking?”

—-

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#5sos smut #ashton irwin smut #ashton smut #5 seconds of summer smut #ashton irwin fic #kindahoping4forever #smut #kh4f fic #I Love You Ain't That The Worst Thing You Ever Heard #I'm so glad this is finally posting lolll #also shout out to Allison for hyping this last night bc otherwise I probably would've stayed up all night trying to finish something else #Feedback is appreciated #thank you for reading :)#thank you to Cass for her notes they are both helpful and also keep me humble because they roast me good

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stressisakiller · 4 years

Text

The Verdict

Bucky Barnes x Reader Soulmate AU

(Hello Sunflower Part 11)

Summary: It’s time to be judged, but like always, nothing is ever easy.

Warnings: refences to torture. Murder. and cussing

Word Count: 2k

A/N: A short chapter this time. I may end up rewriting this chapter and the last chapter, but we will see Let me know what you think and if you have any requests for future chapters! Thank yall for reading!’

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The trials began the Monday after you were saved from Hydra. All of the Avengers were being called in for questioning, which was ridiculous but sadly needed. Nat’s was the worst so far, as she always told you, she has a lot of red in her ledger but so did you. You knew that she hated all of the things she had done in the past and you knew having to answer for all of them was affecting her more than she would like to admit.

Today it was your turn, to say that you were nervous would be an understatement but you weren’t one to back down from a challenge. Walking into the courtroom, you could feel everyone’s eyes on you. You wore a nicer version of your usual attire but you were not going to try to put on a show for these people. If they were going to judge you they would be judging the real you. You knew that you were a sight, with the bruises and cuts that covered your face and arms. You stared forward as you walked towards the judge, not letting anyone see how nervous you really are.

The judge called you to the stand, you placed your hand on a bible, swearing that you would say the truth the whole truth nothing but the truth. You sat down at the stand and looked around at the people that had your future in their hands. Some of them looked nervous like they were afraid of you, but some of them looked calm, only one or two were openly glaring at you. You took that as a win. The questioning began.

“Tell the jury your name and your affiliation with Hydra.” You stared at the prosecutor for a moment before answering, why did he look familiar?

“My name is Y/N Stark,” you heard gasps from some of the people in the audience. “When I was born I was stolen from my family, they believed me dead. I was raised by one of their lead scientists. He told me that he was my father and since he was all that I knew I believed him. He worked for Hydra and raised me in and around a Hydra base. When I was ten they injected me with the super-soldier serum that they had also used on Bucky Barnes. I was brainwashed as used as their soldier.” Your voice was steady as you spoke, not allowing the nerves that you felt to be evident.

“After they brainwashed you they sent you on assignments? Mostly to assassinate people seen as threats to Hydra. Is that correct?” His voice held disdain for you and you swore you could hear a twinge of glee as he spoke. Your brow furrowed momentarily, why does his voice sound familiar. Something about him struck a chord in your memories but it was fuzzy.

“That is correct, however, due to the fact that they placed me in a machine that they affectionately and accurately called the blender, I had no control over my mind.”

“Would you please tell the jury what exactly this “blender” did?” he seemed to revel in your discomfort.

“It was a machine that you were strapped into, a rubber piece was shoved into your mouth so that you wouldn’t break your jaw, and electrical currents were forced through your head until all that was left was a terrible blankness.” your voice slowly falling as you spoke, the images of your father watching with glee as you were strapped to it several days ago.

“So they erased your mind?” he seemed incredulous at the possibility, “then how, pray tell, were they able to force you to do missions?” You stared at the man in front of you in disbelief, you had long ago learned how to read the emotions of others, he thought you were lying.

“After wiping us, they had a series of trigger words that would activate the soldier that they had programmed into us. The soldier's main purpose and mission was to serve Hydra. They would do anything to accomplish that.” the iron in your voice seemed to surprise him, he hadn’t expected you to fight back. He thought that you would just roll over and let them punish you for crimes that you had no choice in.

“You mean that they had full control over you? Please explain.” You bit back your anger, you couldn’t let this man anger you, if he succeeded then your cause was lost.

“Imagine being in a taxi,” eyebrows furrowed throughout the courtroom, that was not what they expected to fall from your lips, “you are in the backseat and there is a piece of bulletproof glass between you and the driver. Now imagine that this driver, driving like a maniac and hitting innocent people. But you, you’re stuck in the backseat, the doors are locked and no matter how hard you pound on that glass or how loudly you scream, you can’t make the driver stop. That is what it feels like for us when the soldier is in control.” the pain from your nails digging into your palms is what grounded you, the feeling in the pit of your stomach grew, something in his eyes was shifting, as if he was deciding something.

“Well then, do you remember what your trigger words are?” his eyes seemed to glint in the harsh light of the room. You simply shook your head,

“I have never known, once I hear the first one all I am able to focus on is the pain.”

“Let me remind you then…” a terrible grin took over his face as he spoke the first word. Pain. You were so fucking tired of the pain this brought and by the men that believed that you were nothing more than their tool. He spoke fast, the words rolling off his tongue in Russian and all you could do was clench your fists and wait it out.

“Ready to Comply.” The words felt natural on the soldier’s lips, always there, always ready. The weaselly man in front of you had the audacity to smirk at the soldier.

“Am I speaking to the soldier or to the girl.” his eyebrow raised as he spoke

“The soldier.” Her voice was colder than yours, emotionless.

“Good,” he clapped his hands together, his smile widening, “I have a mission for you, kill them.” Her eyes snapped to his, watching his reaction as the soldier spoke.

“There is only one mission,” her words were clipped, eyes narrowing as she spoke, “you have no control over me.” He blanched, stepping back as if struck,

“I am your master, you will listen to me.” his voice was raised as if he was trying to command her by sheer volume. The rest of the courtroom was watching the interaction in shock, no one dared move. Bucky watched in concern but knew that this was your battle and he would only intervene if absolutely necessary. You and the soldier stared at the man in front of you, seemingly calm, but there was a fire in your eyes.

“Fuck you. Did you really think that I was able to escape while Hydra was still able to control me with words?” The fire in your voice was barely contained, as you spat the words at him.

“You are my soldier and I demand that you listen to and obey me!” His face was turning red in anger, a fact that you and the soldier found funny.

“Bold of you to assume that I didn’t come to terms with my demons, I am both the soldier and the girl. I have been since the tattoo showed up, nothing that you could do to me affected me anymore except to cause me pain. Why do you think so many of your targets got away, or the fact that I never showed you any bodies? I am no longer under Hydra’s control, I have made peace with the soldier inside of me, we now have only one mission, and it has nothing to do with hydra.” your teeth were clenched as you spoke, fighting the urge to kill the man in front of you, instead you stood. “Men and women of the Jury as well as everyone else present. This man is Hydra, he wanted me to kill you, trying to use the brainwashing methods that they have used on me in the past. I am no longer the woman that I was back then. Neither is Bucky, the man who will be on trial before you tomorrow. We were forced to become soldiers and assassins. We had our memories and emotions ripped from us, in the most painful way imaginable. They placed words in us that would make us their puppets that we have only recently been able to get rid of. I was forced to cover my soul mark from fear of them using it against me. I was tortured in more ways than you can imagine I have been broken and pieced back together so many times that I no longer knew who I was until I was able to escape. I was forced to watch myself kill my parents and have no control over my body as I did. Yes, Bucky and I have committed a multitude of sins. But trust me when I saw that his 70 years and my 30 years under the thumb of Hydra, with no memories and no control, is enough atonement for those sins. But all the same, we will spend the rest of our days with the Avengers, saving as many lives as we can to pay for the ones that we were forced to take.”

The whole room was silent at your words, all of them surprised by the confidence and power that you exuded. The judge called for the man from Hydra to be taken and put into custody and then called for the Jury to go speak and decide the verdict. You were allowed to leave the stand and go sit by Bucky, reaching for his hand as soon as you sat. No one else could see how much you were shaking except the man beside you, you just wanted this day to be over. You wanted to be back in Tony’s lab eating chocolate and drinking coffee while watching him work. The Jury was gone for an hour, an hour of worry and fear. They filed back in, the lead handing their verdict to the judge. He asked for you to stand.

“In the case of Y/N vs the united states and Bucky vs the united states” your eyes widened in surprise, they weren’t supposed to decide for Bucky until tomorrow. Hearing his name Bucky calmly stood up beside you. “The jury finds the defendants innocent of all charges. Due to the evidence that the defendants were not acting according to their own will. The jury states that no more action will be necessary as long as the defendants agree to remain as part of the Avengers saving lives instead of ending them”

He read out the verdict as if he was ordering a Sunday lunch as if it were nothing to him that you were now free. You felt your legs begin to tremble, almost giving out under you before you are pulled into a crushing hug by Bucky and then Tony. You were finally free.

Tagged users: @calwitch @writerwrites

#winter solider fanfiction #winter solider x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky x y/n #bucky imagine #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #james buchanan barnes #james buchanan bucky barnes #hello sunflower

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justkindaoverhereobsessing · 4 years

Text

just another day at the office

In which a pregnant and hormonal Ziva is in deep need of a middle-of-the-workday quickie. This is just smut, friends, zero plot at all.

Thanks to @indestinatus for some of the dialogue!

___________________

It starts with a vague feeling of discomfort, something Ziva can’t even identify. There’s just the sense that something is amiss with her body, something in need of fixing. It makes her restless and she shifts in her seat, trying to focus on the computer work at hand. The words swim on her screen, though, and she crosses and uncrosses her legs involuntarily. She feels… twitchy.

And for some reason, she can’t stop thinking of Tony.

At very nearly five months pregnant, she has long since been excluded from fieldwork. Instead, her days are filled with more of the same—desk work, paperwork, computer work, and frequent bathroom breaks. She really, really misses not being pregnant.

It takes nearly twenty minutes to figure out what’s wrong.

She’s never been so turned on in her life.

If not for the distraction of work and the fact that such feelings are entirely out of place in this setting, she would have realized it sooner, but it’s no matter. Now that she understands what her body is aching for, she can’t stop thinking about it.

Every shift in her seat—and there are a lot of them—sends waves of longing through her. Every time she leans forward to type, her bra brushes slightly against her nipples, making her bite her lip to keep from making some very inappropriate noises. She ends up closing out of her email entirely, because she keeps typing her thoughts rather than what the message is meant to say; there’s little room in a professional memo for the word ‘orgasm’.

Finally, she sends a single text to Tony when she feels like she’s about to lose her mind.

When you are finished at the crime scene, please hurry back here.

Then she drops her head down onto her folded arms on her desk, her thoughts flipping back and forth between scolding the baby for its bad hormonal timing and wondering if she shouldn’t just fake sick and go home early to take care of herself.

This is getting almost painful.

___________________

Half an hour later, an out-of-breath Tony appears in front of her desk. “Ziva, are you okay?” he asks, panting slightly. “I got your text and replied, but you didn’t answer.”

His face is like a breath of fresh air to Ziva, who is deeply struggling by now. “Tony!” she cries in reply. “I need to talk to you. Come. Now.”

She gets to her feet with a grimace, a hand supporting her growing belly, and brushes Tony off when he tries to help. If she’s touched right now, she might just explode.

“Are you okay?” Tony repeats, though he keeps his distance. “Are you in pain? Is the baby okay?”

“We are fine. You talk too much.”

She leads the way to the men’s bathroom, pursing her lips as the innocent friction of her legs rubbing together from walking does strange things to her state of arousal.

She nudges Tony inside, following him in and locking the door behind them.

Tony is—understandably—a little confused and more than a little concerned by her behavior. “Ziva, what are you—”

She cuts him off with a fierce kiss.

He kisses her back, but she can tell his heart isn’t in it. He’s too busy trying to figure out what’s going on.

He figures it out real quick when Ziva starts to undo his belt buckle, though, and he breaks the kiss, backing a foot or two away. “We can’t. Not at work.”

“Why not?” Ziva demands, sexually frustrated enough that this small rejection almost makes her want to cry.

“Well, I’m pretty sure Gibbs would be pissed, for starters. This would be like taking rule twelve and putting in a blender, honestly.” Disregarding his protests, Ziva starts to unbutton her own shirt, draping it carelessly over a stall door.

“We are not dating. We are married,” she reminds him.

“Okay, but I’m pretty sure no-sex-in-the-office is still an implied rule.” Tony’s voice sounds distracted, though, and his eyes are glued to her chest—they widen when her bra joins her shirt up on the plastic wall.

“No one has ever specifically told us not to,” she disagrees, stepping out of her pants and panties in one go.

“That’s the thing about implications, though, right…?”

Ziva can smell a victory, but Tony’s not completely convinced yet. Whatever, she’ll start without him.

It’s a little awkward to maneuver with her belly in the way, but she hops up onto the counter between sinks and props a foot up beside her so her legs are spread—then, she doesn’t hesitate to reach down and start sliding her fingers through the wetness she finds there.

She lets out the smallest involuntary moan, and Tony latches onto it. “I don’t think you can be quiet enough to get away with this, Ziva.” The tent in his pants says he really doesn’t care, though.

He’s right—she is a bit of a screamer. She’s way too far gone to care right now, however. Pregnancy hormones are a bitch. “Then you had better come muffle my voice with your mouth,” Ziva decides, beginning to slide two fingers in and out of her own slick warmth. It draws another moan, and, almost looking like he’s in a trance, Tony starts to step toward her.

“But we have work to do,” he tries feebly, one last time.

“When in your life have you chosen your job over pleasuring a woman, Tony?” Ziva demands. “Especially a woman who is pregnant with your child. I do not know who you are or what you have done with my husband, but I need him back now… Or at least I need his cock.”

That finally convinces Tony, and he laughs, drawing close enough to stand between her legs. “Alright, alright,” he agrees. “Only because I love you. And because I know you’re in this hormonal state because of me.” As he talks, he gently moves her hand aside, replacing her fingers with his own and beginning to move them skillfully as she hisses. “And because you’re the sexiest woman in the world. But just this once, okay? We’re going to have a hard time supporting a baby if we lose our jobs over this.”

He doesn’t wait for her answer, though, instead leaning in to kiss her as he starts to work his fingers harder below. “Tony,” she protests against his lips, “I do not have it in me to withstand much foreplay today. Are you ready—”

“I’m always ready for you, sweet cheeks,” Tony purrs immediately.

“Oh, thank god.” Ziva still whines a little when he withdraws his fingers to undo his belt and pants and shove them down with his boxers, but she doesn’t have to miss him for long.

After just a moment, she can feel him at her entrance, hot and insistent, and he raises his hands to start gently teasing her nipples. She groans loudly enough that he laughs and shakes his head at her. “Remember,” he murmurs, leaning in to touch his forehead to hers with a teasing, affectionate smile on his face, “no yelling.”

“I will yell if you do not fuck me now, Tony.”

“As you wish,” he answers, and one of his hands leaves her breast to position himself so he can push in with no further taunting.

Ziva immediately groans, and Tony kisses her sharply to cut off the noise. It’s a good thing, too, because as soon as he starts to move in earnest, she finds it impossible to control her noises. Pregnancy just makes her so sensitive, and she’s pretty sure this would be a euphoric experience even if she wasn’t already so painfully aroused before he even arrived.

Unfortunately for Tony, this quickie really will have to be quick, because it barely takes Ziva thirty seconds to orgasm. She bites Tony’s lower lip—he doesn’t seem to mind—and manages to mostly stifle the cry that comes out of her throat as she comes harder than she has in ages.

There certainly are upsides to this pregnancy.

As soon as the aftershocks of her orgasm stop, though, Ziva has to push Tony away; now she’s too sensitive. He groans a little, but he immediately pulls out and gives her space. “Just using me to achieve your own ends there, Ninja?” he asks wryly, equal parts amused and sexually frustrated.

“Always,” Ziva answers with a satisfied grin, and she accepts his hand to help her slide off of the counter. “Do you want me to…” She licks her lips suggestively instead of finishing her sentence.

Tony laughs. “As much as I’d love that, it should probably wait til we get home tonight. I wouldn’t make you get on your knees in a dirty bathroom when you’re five months pregnant, love.” The mirthful affection in his tone is impossible to miss. “I’ll just… ya know. And then I’ll go back to my desk. You go ahead.”

Ziva sees the logic in this and gives him one last deep kiss for inspiration before swatting his bum and pushing him toward a stall. “Thank you, Tony,” she tells him, sincere but on the verge of laughter.

“Thanks is all I get?” Tony asks as he waddles away, his trousers still pooled around his ankles. “You make me feel so cheap, woman.”

Ziva chuckles loudly and gets redressed as quickly as she can to the sounds of skin moving against skin and Tony’s voice emitting soft grunts.

He’s always been much better at quietness during sex than she has.

___________________

When Ziva makes it out to the bullpen, McGee and Gibbs are back at their own desks. “Where’ve you been, Ziva?” McGee asks curiously.

“I have been… doing stuff,” she answers noncommittally, moving toward her desk.

“Hi, I’m Stuff,” Tony says immediately behind her—Ziva hadn’t realized he followed her that closely out of the bathroom.

McGee’s eyerolls somehow always manage to outdo themselves, and this is no exception. “I was just fine with her explanation, Tony,” he complains.

“Get back to work, you three,” Gibbs interjects grumpily. The way he looks between Tony and Ziva leaves little doubt that he understands exactly what they just got up to, but having had a pregnant wife before himself… he doesn’t scold them. He gets it, and really, this isn’t the most ridiculous thing the David-DiNozzos have ever done in this building.

It’s just another day at the office, honestly.

#ncis #ncis fanfiction #tiva #tony dinozzo #ziva david #cynthia writes stuff too #here i am avoiding writing smut for waao #by writing smut that is plotless #killin it here aren't ya cyn #anyway i woke up thinking about this today #wtf was i dreaming about #and shout out to #the biscuits #for always encouraging my smuttiest self from writing her smuttiest shit #rather than doing anything productive lmao #and thanks to sof for the dialogue #it made me laugh in the gc and i had to steal it (with permission)

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whirlybirbs · 5 years

Photo

— tenderly feral, iii.

summary: you settle in. things are okay. you’re trying. daryl is, too. together. pairing: daryl dixon x female!reader rating: t for violence, references to murder/assault/loss, s5 spoilers, if that matters. word count: 3.1k a/n: set mid-season 5. i am full feral rn, churning out chapters at the speed of light so these two can just kiss already. again, @thatdamnokie made a playlist for this fic. please give it a listen! it’s perfection. anyways here’s daryl dixon having a crush.

✘ previous chapter. ✘

When you wake up, the world is quiet.

The only sound is that of your breathing. You pull open your eyes, still heavy from sleep, and are greeted with the golden rays of the morning sun creeping in through the living room’s windows. The crisp, early breeze kisses the curtains, rippling the fabric like waves in the sea. The sun is warm on your cheeks. Everything is still. Peaceful.

So, for the first time since this all started, you roll over and go back to sleep.

Your knees knock Daryl’s, thigh pressed up against his as you bury yourself into your pillow and slip back under into sleep.

And Daryl watches it all -- watches you nestle into the blanket you’d unceremoniously stolen from him during the night, watches you inhale and exhale and tumble down into your dreams for another few minutes of bliss.

You nudge his hip with yours, content with the shared body heat of the touch.

It’s enough. His skin buzzes at the contact.

He’s not a religious man -- never has been. Merle neither. His pa sure as hell wasn’t, but his ma? Daryl can remember a glimmering golden cross around her neck; he can remember a prayer before dinner, a whispered prayer and before bed. She sure as hell wasn’t anything holy, but Hershel... Hershel had spoke of angels and heaven and all things beautiful in this world.

Daryl figures you’re just about all those things right now.

It’s like a punch in the gut.

✘

You feel stupid.

You look like you belong out there. As Carol changes behind you into an outfit that screams parent-teacher meeting, you huff and shrug on another sweater in hopes of looking less like you’ve just walked in from outside. You’re supposed to be a teacher. You’re supposed to be soft and kind and even-tempered and alive.

You don’t feel like any of those things.

The problem is, it’s set in your cheeks. In your eyes. You can’t shake the outside.

You’re on your third change of clothes when Carol speaks.

“Hey.”

Your hands are shaking from frustration. You drop them to your hips and serve her a miserable look in the mirror.

“Why don’t you wear the blue one?” she says softly, “It looked nice.”

“... I don’t want to do this.”

It blurts out from your lips quicker than you can catch it.

And Carol’s face warps into a look of calculated confusion.

But, before she can console you, you swipe at your eyes and haul on the blue sweater and tug your hair up and away -- the bruises around your neck have faded off into a delicate yellow color. If you squint, they look like nothing more than a smear of dirt.

“You know...” Carol speaks after a few beats of silence, “I don’t think any of us are ready to do this yet.”

You swallow. Your eyes hit your hands and you wring your fingers.

“I wanna try,” you breathe, “But...”

“But it doesn’t feel real.”

“Like it’s a dream,” you rush out, “And when I wake up --”

“None of it will have ever happened?”

Yeah. Something like that.

Carol’s hand touches your arm.

“When you an’ Daryl found me,” you shake your head, eyes fleeting shut as you grapple with the sting of tears, “I was gonna give up, y’know. After all these months of just... running and surviving and... doing what I had to do? I was tired. I was... I was tired of being alone. A-And, now we’re here and we’re alive and I... I slept in a home... A real home...”

“It’s okay,” Carol steps in to sweep her hands along your arms, “It’s okay to be afraid.”

You don’t know how to tell her you’re not. And that’s the worst part.

You don’t feel a damn thing.

✘

You slip onto the porch before Carol, feeling out of place and uncomfortable.

Daryl’s there -- he’s posed on the railing, perched precariously against the beam as he cleans his crossbow and loads and unloads his bolts. He’s not really there, he’s miles away, thinkin’ about things that he has no business thinkin’ about. Being in these walls... He can feel himself going soft. So, his own walls climb higher and higher up. Like armor around his heart.

And then you smile at him and they just... crumble.

It’s not a real smile. It’s tight-lipped and full of anxiety. But, it’s something softer than he’s used to. Your arms are wound tight around yourself, boots toeing the boards of the deck when he speaks up.

“... You look nice.”

Compliments. That’s a thing -- ain’t it? Pretty girls love compliments.

(Daryl wonders, off-handedly, when he started caring what pretty girls thought.)

“Yeah?” you shirk, glancing down at your outfit, “I think I look stupid.”

“Nah,” he croaks, eyes lingering on your face, “You look... good.”

You don’t feel it.

You don’t feel a damn thing.

Daryl sees it.

Carol steps out before you can speak, smile cut into her features at the sight of you both. In recent days, you’ve started to like the older woman -- Daryl’s apparent respect and care for her have gone a long way in your eyes. You relax a bit at her appearance. She looks as... domestic as you do. Her face lights up at the sight of you and Daryl chatting, and she makes a point of quirking a brow his way.

He ignores it.

“Have you showered yet?”

Her hand pats your shoulder, chin jutting as if to say let’s go -- and as you descend the steps, Daryl makes a huffy sound.

“Later.”

“M’ gonna hose you off in your sleep.”

“You look ridiculous, y’know.”

“Ha ha,” Carol chirps, “Shower. At least try to make this work, Daryl.”

He tosses his hand, something playing behind his eyes as he scoffs again.

“Ridiculous!”

You’re laughing a little as you head to the school, and Daryl sees it.

✘

“She’s stronger than you think, y’know.”

Carol scoffs at Daryl’s words. Behind her, Rick’s eyes narrow as he watches the treeline. It’s still early. The morning sun hasn’t hung itself high in the sky yet.

Daryl’s hand are glued to the strap of his crossbow. He grips the black strap tight, knuckles going white. Irritation bites at his nerves, then, boiling at Carol’s sudden motherliness -- she does this sometimes, and he hates it. Merle did shit like that, too. Tried t’ be the daddy he never had. But... Carol’s different. Like a sister. A good sister. She means well.

“She’s afraid,” Carol mutters, “She’s like a deer. Skittish.”

“She ain’t used t’ settling down,” Daryl supplies, “She ain’t weak.”

“Neither are we,” Rick chirps, moving to toe at the blender by the abandoned home on the outskirts of Alexandria’s walls, “And that’s what we need right now. We don’t know if this will work out.”

“We oughta try,” says Carol, “Or... I dunno, make it seem like we are.”

Silence slips between the trio.

“For now, this stays between us,” Rick breathes, “And we try.”

✘

You don’t know about that.

Because after one day of trying and four people asking you if you’d be at Deanna’s dinner party later, you’re about ready to run. You could pack your bag and be outta here in an hour. Forget this sweater and this fuckin’ McGraw-Hill science textbook in your hands.

The kids... there’s about ten of them. In the morning, it’s the younger ones. Later, it’s the older ones. It’s a good system, but as you introduced yourself and the days materials, you couldn’t help but feel like a fraud.

This version of you died months ago.

Daryl is swaggering towards the gates when you break at noon.

You cross paths like two comets in the sky, stopping short before one another without a word.

“How was it?”

“Shit.”

“Huh.”

You shake your head and wave the textbook.

“There’s a dinner party tonight.”

“Fuck that.”

“Right?”

You toe the dirt for a second while Daryl tries to pin the look on your face. He can’t put his thumb on it. Under the high noon sun, you glow with a melancholy sort of aura. Sad. Lonely. Makes his chest ache a little.

You sigh. “You goin’ out?”

“Might as well,” he scoffs, “Ain’t got a job yet.”

“Be careful.”

A smirk. “Me?”

It prompts another one of those tight-lipped smiles you do, the ones that are becoming more frequent. You knock his arm with your fist gently as you pass, rolling your eyes.

“Shut up.”

“Need anything?” he asks as he begins to walk backwards, eyes still stuck to your figure.

“A drink, maybe.”

Daryl snorts. “M’ sure the dinner party will have some, huh.”

“Don’t remind me,” you call over your shoulder, “Have fun, wild child.”

The middle finger tossed your way is affectionate.

✘

Aaron finds him in the woods.

And they find Buttons.

And Daryl realizes he might as well try.

After Beth... it was hard to fuckin’ stomach the idea of trying. It is. Her death still stings like a fresh wound. Besides Rick, besides Carol, Beth was the only other person who’d managed to really know him. To stand him. Daryl, in all his bitterness, ended up being able to call Beth a friend -- they were different people, wildly different, but they’d kept each other sane when things got bleak and when she went missin’... He felt a part of himself go missin’, too. Just like after Merle.

That was for the best, though -- Merle’s death.

He could be Daryl, after that. Not Will Dixon’s son, not Merle Dixon’s baby brother. He could be Daryl Dixon.

And Beth Greene had been a friend to Daryl Dixon.

And you? You’re... you’re getting there.

“Who is she?” Aaron asks on the trek back to the walls.

Daryl blinks a few times at the curly haired man over his shoulder before throwing a scoff into the air. He swings his crossbow over his shoulder.

“Who?” he hoots, trying to seem indifferent, “Boston?”

“... Is that what you call her?”

Daryl shrugs. Aaron chews the inside of his lip. He sees the tense nature that creeps into the trackers posture.

“I heard you saved her,” Aaron asks, careful in his words, “In the city?”

“Almost didn’t,” he grunts, hauling through the brush. He seems to snarl at the memory, “I did, though, and... She’s a good person. Took a gamble, but she’s good. Sometimes y’ gotta trust your gut.”

“Deanna said she was a teacher... Before all this, I mean.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think she wants to do it no more,” Daryl cuts in, “She ain’t... I dunno. None of us are who we used t’ be.”

Aaron falls quiet at that.

“You think you’ll try...?”

As the walls of Alexandria come back into view, Daryl wrings the strap of his crossbow.

“Maybe.”

✘

He does.

And you do, too.

You’re two beers in when you finally decide this dinner party wasn’t worth the threats Michonne and Carol had both hurled at you in an attempt to get you to go -- you tug the cardigan you’d thrown on over your sun-dress tighter around your shoulders as you decide that some air would be best and move to meander towards the front porch.

The sounds from inside sound foreign.

Alive.

And as you step outside, you catch the familiar figure of Daryl Dixon retreating down the street. At the sound of the door closing, he turns around --

And it’s like gettin’ punched in the gut.

He knew you were pretty before but... he knows you’re real pretty now. You’ve got a pretty dress on and your hair is done up in neat braids and you’ve got a necklace on that glimmers in the porch light.

If this was before everything, Daryl is convinced you wouldn’t have even looked his way. Not once.

Your buzz peaks at the sound of his trademarked scoff. You follow the sound, lazily trudging down the steps and meeting him half-way on the sidewalk.

Something hangs in the air between you both, and your lips turn down in an amused smile. You’re closer now, noticing that he’s finally showered and changed into a nicer shirt. This one has a damn collar for god’s sake. His usual vest, though, still hangs from his shoulders as he eyes the party over your shoulder.

“How was it?” he asks finally, hands jammed in his pockets.

“Shit,” you chirp, noting the parallel from your earlier conversation as you drop your head and offer your half-full beer his way, “Not goin’ in?”

“Fuck that.”

He takes the beer and snags a long sip, tipping it back as you both begin to head back down the block towards the houses Deanna has allotted for the group. The silence is comfortable; between the sounds of your steps the night creeps out into the walls. Crickets and peepers and coyotes and... and if you close your eyes you can pretend everything’s normal again.

And you try.

And then, a voice calls out --

“Hey!”

Both you and Daryl turn, eyes wide.

It’s Aaron -- the lights of his house glow warm behind him. Beside you, Daryl’s face warps in confusion.

“Thought you were goin’ t’ that party over there --”

“Oh, I was never going to go ‘cause of Eric’s ankle,” the man glances up, laughing a little, “Thank god.”

Daryl squints, posture stiff. “Why’d you tell me t’ go then, huh?”

You blink between the two of them. Aaron does the same.

“You tried. It’s... I dunno, it’s the thought that counts.”

Aaron catches the glimmer of understanding the passes over your face.

“Look,” Aaron starts, “Come in. I made spaghetti... It’s... It’s pretty good --”

Blue eyes pass to you. You snag the beer, take a sip, then shrug.

“Don’t look at me.”

“You comin’?” he asks, brows furrowing.

“You’re both more than welcome --”

Your head moves between them both as you swallow, a bit of awe on your face as you realize Daryl’s pinned this on you; it’s a moment of comradery, a moment of ‘going down together’, and... and it’s nice.

So, you shake your head and give a little laugh and gesture for Daryl to lead the way.

And he does.

✘

You’re relatively quiet during dinner -- conversation fleets between Aaron and Eric who supply a hefty portion of noodles and wine. You have to admit it’s nicer than Deanna’s; you don’t feel like you need to smile and wave and maintain an unwavering sense of politeness. Daryl certainly feels the same way and you roll your eyes as he wipes his mouth with his sleeve.

You shove your boot his way under the table. He makes a face. You hand him a napkin and he scoffs with his mouthful of spaghetti.

“M’ good, thanks.”

He proceeds, then, to slurp another pile up and you pull a face.

“Sorry about him,” you mutter towards Aaron and Eric who share surprised looks between the two of you, “He’s part animal--”

The corner of his mouth is pulled upwards as he laughs, hunched over his meal. “Shut up.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

And for the first time, you flash a full smile his way before sipping your wine.

Eric just... sips his drink. Aaron kicks him under the table.

And all is well.

✘

Aaron wants him to recruit.

Your whole world is glowing from the wine buzz when he shows you both the garage, littered with bike parts. Daryl, then, seems to perk up -- he gravitates towards the table full of gears and engine components before taking pause.

It makes you wonder about the question you’d asked him the night before. About who he was before all this. Clearly, all this means something to him. You’re just not sure what.

“I don’t want Eric risking his life anymore --”

“Yeah,” Daryl breathes, “You want me riskin’ mine, right?”

From your spot in the doorway, you feel the bite of anxiety grab at your heartstrings. Eric, beside you, must have noticed, because his hand is careful on your arm. You spare him a tight-lipped smile as Daryl pulls the blanket off the bike and steps back; reminds him of his brother’s bike but... newer. This one isn’t a low-ride. It’s fast. Lean. Mean.

He catches your eyes through the bike’s frame and Aaron’s pose.

“Yeah,” Aaron exhales, “because you know what you’re doing. You’re good out there. And... because you do know the difference between a good person and a bad person.”

Your eyes hit the ground.

“You talked about saving her,” Aaron says, gesturing to you, “And... And -- we need that. Alexandria needs that.”

The air is heavy when Daryl finally speaks. “I got nothin’ else to do.”

You have to laugh, smile creating dimples in your cheeks as Eric mimics the gesture. Daryl winds himself around the bike, waving to Aaron.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll, uh, I’ll get you some rabbits.”

And you can tell Daryl is trying.

✘

The evening is quiet and you and Daryl are shoulder to shoulder on the front steps of the house.

The cigarette in his hands is nearing its end, embers swallowing it whole as ash litters the stoop. Daryl takes one last drag before dropping the butt to the cement and smothering it with the toe of his boot. It dies quick and the smoke that swirls around him is a little dizzying.

You’re still drunk.

He is, too, if he’s being honest. The wine snuck up on him.

You lean back on your elbows, watching him.

“You’re gonna do it, then?”

“What?”

“Recruit,” you say slowly, “For this place.”

“Might as well.”

“So, we’re stayin’?”

“Gonna try.”

He looks back at you and you snort, blinking up at the moon.

“... Alright.”

Daryl nudges your boot with his. “What’s that mean, huh?”

“Nothin’,” you chirp, lolling your head his way, “I’ll have t’ wait by the gates fer you to come back, I guess.”

His heart hammers a little.

“Shut up.”

“M’ serious,” you cry, shoving his arm, “It’s... That... I dunno.”

“What?” he presses, chin jutting as he speaks, “Use yer words, Boston.”

You roll your eyes. “That my nickname now?”

“Always been.”

“Gonna start callin’ you Dipstick,” you mutter, “Cuz you like ‘em so much.”

He laughs at that. “I’m surprised you even know what a damn dipstick is.”

“I know things,” you chirp, “I can check my own oil.”

He leans back, lip quirked. You’re still watching the sky, stray fly-aways escaping your braids. It’s cute. You’re pretty, still, in the glow of his four glasses of wine. Prettier than before. Maybe it’s the moon. Makes you all kinds of starry-eyed.

“Ain’t you somethin’ special.”

He means it.

“I will wait, though, at the gates,” you slur, “Make sure yer okay.”

His eyes narrow. Daryl mimics your posture, leaning back on the top step with his elbows and reclining a bit. You cross your legs at your ankles and sigh, prompting him to press on.

“Why?”

“‘Cause you’re th’ only person here I like,” you supply, “Besides... I dunno, the others don’t count. I like ‘em enough but they ain’t my friends.”

Friends.

It’s like a punch in the gut.

“Friends, huh?” he asks quietly, “That what we are?”

You turn your eyes to him and his dart away. “I’d like t’ be.”

“Alright.”

“Friends, then.”

“Yeah.”

For the second time tonight, you look alive.

#tenderly feral #daryl dixon imagine #twd imagine #the walking dead imagine #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x you #norman reedus x reader #we love some CRUSHING

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srhlsx · 4 years

Text

CHAPTER 2

master | ch. 1 | ch. 3

Tightening the high ponytail your hair was tied in, you listened to the whirl of the blender on the kitchen counter in front of you mercilessly blending together the fruit and yogurt inside. At first the color was an alarming splatter of red and white, but after a moment it smoothed out to an appetizing pink. The gears grinding together echoed through your empty home and you sighed a bit dramatically.

Ping!

You broke out of your stupor, shaking your head back and forth to clear the fuzziness as you turned around to where your phone lay on the table a few feet away. Picking it up and glancing at the screen, you squinted your eyes in confusion at the name that had messaged you.

New Message: 9:03AM

Oikawa Tooru: (y/n)! Are you busy!!!

You pursed your lips together in thought, unsure about what your classmate and old friend could want at this time of day with such enthusiasm. The school year started in a few days, your third and final year of high school, so it wasn’t like he needed anything relating to that. Curious about what he wanted you typed out a reply.

No. It’s 9am.

Oikawa Tooru: I see the spring weather has yet to thaw your heart </3

Oikawa Tooru: Can I come over, I need to talk to you

You rolled your eyes at his comment, not appreciating the reference to the reputation you’d earned throughout your time in high school. You agreed to let him come over, telling him you’d be in the backyard and he could just let himself in through the fence gate.

Oikawa Tooru: Can I get you anything from the quick mart? Snack? Drink? My treat!

That was odd. Oikawa had never openly offered to get anyone anything. You didn’t really want to go out later in the day, so you asked him for something for your lunch and he quickly replied that he’d get it.

You called out to your dog with a quick whistle, hearing him bounding through the house to come join you in the backyard. He pushed his head against the backs of your legs, urging you to move faster and get out of his way so he could explore the space outside that he already knew perfectly. You laughed and swatted at his butt as he ran past you. “Get going you big loaf.”

Thirty minutes went by and you were throwing a ratty tennis ball across the yard, your dog bounding after it with endless stamina, the jowls on his face flapping back in the wind. It made you laugh as he scooped up the ball and turned around quickly to race back and repeat the process all over again.

As you went to throw the ball again, the sound of the gate rattling from around the side of your house caught both your attention and your dog’s and soon he disappeared. A moment later you heard a yell of surprise, then nervous laughter with a few loud barks.

You turned to the set of matching outdoor furniture arranged around the patio you stood on, pulling out two chairs to accommodate you and your guest.

The tall figure of a boy of your own age rounded the corner with your dog close behind, his closed eye smile was aimed at you as he waved cheerfully and called out to you over the repeated barking and excited yelps. He jumped back a few times to avoid being knocked over, hopping on one foot awkwardly and swatting at the beast playfully. Oikawa Tooru had graced you with his glorious presence on a bright spring day.

“He’s has gotten bigger since I last saw him!”

“Well, he’s still a bit of a puppy,” You laughed, snapping your fingers in their general direction which made your dog’s ears perk up and catch his attention. He quickly bounded over to you, circling a few times before sitting and looking up at you with his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. You reached out to scratch his ears affectionately, the whack of his tail wagged back and forth making a loud noise against the patio table he sat under. “He’s almost two now.”

“That’s not a puppy, (y/n).” Oikawa laughed as he walked up to you, pointing at the mastiff that had now moved to laying at your feet. “I know puppies, and that is not a puppy.”

You waved him off and offered one of the chairs for him to sit on. He thanked you, then handed over the plastic bag he was carrying with the food you had requested inside. You thanked him too after taking a glance in the bag and grabbing the stick of jerky you asked for. You unwrapped it quickly and held it down towards your dog, who gently took it in his massive jaw and began munching away.

“Did you seriously ask me to pick up a treat for your dog?” Oikawa asked. The look on his face was less offended and more amazed as he shook his head and laughed.

“He’s such a good boy though!” You grinned, reaching down to squeeze the dog’s face and make all the wrinkles push together as he continued to eat the treat you’d given him. You straightened back up after a moment of babytalk then looked over at your guest. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today?”

Oikawa removed the sunglasses he’d been wearing, folding them to hang from the collar of his shirt and looking at you sideways. “Am I not allowed to visit an old friend?” He stretched his hands up then folded them to rest behind his head, smirking over at you with that typical, shit eating grin he had perfected long ago.

“Don’t start with that shit,” You laughed darkly, flicking his ear. “You offered to pick me up food, you are clearly bribing me.”

“Well, you’re not entirely wrong.” He said, sitting up straighter in his seat as he turned to look at you fully. “I have a proposition for you~”

“Good God,” You stated, looking at him with an unsure expression, eyebrows furrowed together as you waited for him to continue.

“I need you to be my girlfriend.”

You blinked a few times, wondering if you heard correctly. “Excuse me, what?”

“Fake date me,” He repeated, like what he was saying was such a casual thing.

“Why in the world would I do that?” You asked him, shoulders stiffening as you looked at him. You knew Oikawa enough to call yourselves friends, having gone to school together for years now, but this was completely unexpected.

“Here’s the situation, (y/n).” The sudden change in his tone of voice and the look on his face told you that Oikawa was really serious about what he was saying. You hadn’t seen him with that kind of expression very often so you stopped your nervous laughing and actually looked at him. “This year is going to be really important to me for volleyball, we have a really good chance at making it to nationals.”

You nodded along as he spoke, explaining the pressure that was going to be on him and his teammates. You knew that kind of pressure, you put it on yourself every day when you practiced and performed for dance.

“And while I really do appreciate all the girls who come up to me and bare their souls in confession, it’s too much.” He said, running a hand through his hair that was surprisingly unstyled that day. He looked stressed just talking about it. “We’re talking like at least two a day recently, and they’ve started coming to practices, I can tell it bothers the team and coaches but I just can’t be cruel.”

“So you need me to get in the way of all that?” You asked, having slouched down in your chair and playing with the tie at the front of your athletic shirt, you turned your head to look at him with an eyebrow raised. “Scare ‘em off?”

“Well,” Oikawa reached up to rub his neck, he looked at you with an almost sheepish expression. “Yes. I figured if they heard I had a girlfriend then they’d leave it alone.”

“Why me?” You asked after thinking about it for a moment. It was a valid question, you were positive there were a number of girl’s he could’ve gone to about this and they’d agree without a second thought. Someone to date for real. But you?

“You’re the prettiest girl in the school, (y/n).” He said right away with a roll of his eyes, which made you look at him with a shocked expression, you hadn’t been expecting that. “And me being me, it makes sense that two good looking people would get together at some point.” There he is.

You scoffed, “Right when I thought you were really desperate for help, you play the vanity card. It’s a no from me.”

“(Y/n), please.” He was almost begging at this point. “You know it’d help you out too!”

“Enlighten me, Tooru.”

“Everyone knows that chump basketball player broke up with you,” The memory made you grind your teeth and look away, embarrassed. You’d been around a little bit and heard what people were saying about you, how they pitied you and how sad it was that you’d been dumped in such an embarrassing way. Oikawa noticed your change in mood and hurried to try to fix it. “(Y/n) the guy was a five, maybe, on a good day and you’re a ten without trying. Let’s be honest and say he did you a favor. Besides, I know tons of guys who are already planning on asking you out the first day we get back.”

It didn’t really make you feel better, but you looked over to him again anyways. You couldn’t deny that what he was saying to you made a little bit of sense, you’d be helping a friend. “What is this all going to entail? What are you asking me to do?”

“Just act like my girlfriend.” Oikawa perked up at the sound of you seeming like you were agreeing. “It’ll be easy, plus I was your first kiss after all so that’s nothing new.”

“That was middle school you idiot,” You rolled your eyes but smiled over at his excited expression. “Like four years ago.”

“And I’ve only gotten better~”

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu #haikyuu!! x reader #hq!! au #hq!! x reader #Iwaizumi Hajime #iwaizumi x reader #haikyuu iwaizumi #oikawa tooru

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loveforpreserumsteve · 4 years

Text

Not Without You (Canon Divergence Stucky Fix-It-Fic)

Eight:

So, there was a change of plans. At first, Steve was sure that the compound was the best place. Where they could call some of the others who were off-planet and come up with a plan. Only, when Scott started theorizing about a possible time machine did Steve understand where they really needed to go.

Even if Steve did feel bad about bothering him at home.

With a blue Iron Man helmet in one hand and Morgan in the other, Tony paused on his way to the cabin when he spotted the van. A curious look was on his face before Steve opened the door. Really, Tony should've realized who it was considering he parked next to Natasha's black Audi, and only a select few knew where thee Tony Stark and Pepper Potts settled down.

"Uncle Steve!" Morgan cheerfully greeted, wiggling out from Tony's grasp as she raced over to him.

"Hey, Bug," Steve smiled, effortlessly lifting the little girl into his arms. Hugging her close as he looked past her to her father and asked, "Nat update you?"

"Yeah," Tony confirmed, displeased as he crossed his arms and briefly glanced down at the ground. Returning his attention when he heard the Langs climbing out of the van, he admitted, "When she told me who you were with, I thought you'd finally lost it."

As Morgan pet Steve's scruffy beard, Steve took her hand in his and playfully blew a raspberry to her palm before he conceded, "I thought I lost it too. This is Scott and his daughter, Cassie."

Kindly, Tony grinned and waved for the trio to follow him up the porch steps, "C'mon. Maguna and I were just about to have some lunch." Teasingly, he looked back at his daughter and joked, "A handful of crickets on a bed of lettuce."

On Steve's hip, Morgan exaggerated a look of disgust by scrunching her tiny face, and giggled when Steve mimicked her as he affectionately touched his forehead to hers. All the while, Cassie mocked, "Rich people eat the weirdest things."

Glancing over at her, Steve grinned and winked. Having grown fond of the teen within the last two and a half days, Steve even decided to drape his arm around her shoulders. Giving her a familial squeeze before dropping his arm, he gave Morgan's cheek a kiss then set her down.

"Wasn't expecting you until later," Nat greeted Steve, arms crossed along her chest and her longer hair braided behind her.

"Mr. Leadfoot here sped the entire way," Cassie answered, almost bashfully as she stared at Natasha in awe. Of course, knowing Natasha, he knew that it wasn't uncommon for people to be stunned by meeting Black Widow in the flesh.

"Captain Noble? Breaking a law?" Tony feigned skeptically as he lingered by the door. Peeking inside, he asked, "Food? Something to drink?"

"Sure," Cassie easily agreed, taking a seat on the outdoor furniture.

"That's really nice," Scott smiled, joining his daughter.

"Would you like some help?" Steve asked, lingering by the door along with Tony.

Tony smirked, "You're the one who will need help if you don't come say hi to Pepper, first."

Steve nodded and followed the shorter man into the house. Nonchalantly, Pepper was sitting comfortably on the sofa, reading. Steve was always pleasantly surprised with how easy the Stark-Potts lives had gotten since stepping away from avenging. Of course, Steve imagined that if Bucky had survived, they would've also settled down in a cabin that Steve built.

"Here's our favorite lumberjack," Pepper greeted with a warm smile as she bookmarked the novel. Gazing up at a disheveled Steve, she commented, "Long time, no see."

Heat spread across the apples of his cheeks, and Steve scratched at the back of his neck as he apologized, "Sorry, Pep. You know I was on a… mission."

"No need to apologize, big guy," Tony surprisingly assured, patting Steve's broad shoulder on his way to the kitchen. Pulling down some glasses and a tray, Tony informed, "Everyone deserves a year of self-discovery. Or five."

A smile tugged at his lips as he looked down at his boots. Although they all knew Steve wasn't searching for himself, Steve liked the sound of that better than what it really was. Especially with how pathetic the truth made him appear. Pity even colored Pepper's expression because she knew it too. Of course, she, herself, had been desperate like Steve once. Okay, more than once, Steve allowed. Tony, after all, did have a habit of narrowly escaping death.

When Steve heard the sound of a blender, he snapped his attention over to Tony. While it had taken a while for Steve to get used to the taste of some of the health shakes that Tony made the team, he'd be lying if he denied that he missed them. He had even bought a blender and tried to make them, but could never get the proportions right.

"Now, get over here and put those muscles to good use," Tony teased, as he poured the blended beverage into a pitcher. Placing it on the tray with the glasses and waiting for Steve to carry it back outside.

Following Tony, and smiling down at Morgan, Steve set the tray on the table. Casually noting how Scott was pacing and Cassie was sitting on the edge of her seat as though she was about to jump up at any minute to either stop her father, or join him. Glancing over at Nat, he could tell that she was figuring out what to do too.

Kneeling, Tony got to eye level with Morgan and suggested, "How 'bout you pick out some pretend clothes for later?"

"Okay!" Morgan quickly agreed, rushing inside of the house.

As he straightened out, Tony crossed his arms and gestured, "Alright, let's hear it."

Nodding to himself, Scott quickly went into relaying the Quantum Realm and how one has to be really, really, really small to get there. Having already heard it the night before, Steve didn't pay too much attention to Scott's explanation of how long it felt versus how long it actually was. Instead of getting his hopes up at the suggestion of time travel -- actual time travel! -- Steve chose to pour himself some of the healthy shake. Catching Cassie's eye, he poured her some too.

"Now, we know what it sounds like," Scott finished, eagerly studying Tony.

"Tony," Natasha started, "After everything you've seen, is anything really impossible?"

"You're telling me this doesn't sound crazy?" Tony questioned, quirking a brow at her.

A smirk played at her lips as she reminded, "I get e-mails from a raccoon, so nothing sounds crazy anymore."

Tony silently agreed with that, still not looking convinced. Especially as he argued, "Quantum fluctuation messes with the Planck Scale. Which then triggers the Deutsch Proposition. Can we agree on that?"

While Tony looked over them, he took their silence as confusion, and he wasn't really that far off. Steve, for one, didn't know what they were talking about. So, Tony reiterated, "In Layman's terms, it means you're not coming home."

"I did," Scott protested.

"No," Tony corrected, "You accidentally survived. It's a billion to one cosmic fluke. And now you wanna pull off a… What do you call it?"

Holding her head held high, Cassie proudly answered, "A time heist."

"Yeah, a time heist," Tony confirmed, his tone softening with the teen. Steve looked down at his shake, not wanting to see the hurt and defeat on his teammate's face from the memory of the teens he lost.

Then, in a moment, Tony's stance and expression hardened. Always choosing aggression whenever hurt, and now was no different as he mocked, "Of course, why didn't we think of this before? Oh, because it's laughable? Because it's a pipedream?"

Cassie's jaw clenched, but she didn't sass. Instead, she kept her focus on her untouched drink and tried to reason, "There are stones in the past. We can go back and get them."

"We can snap our own fingers," Natasha added.

"Bring everyone back," Steve softly tacked on.

"Or," Tony dissented, "Screw it up worse than he already has, right?"

"I don't believe we would," Steve refrained from clenching his jaw. Desperately needing Tony to see the smallest of possibilities. It was the only thing keeping Steve holding on. If this didn't work, he didn't know what he'd do.

Sadly, Tony smiled at Steve as he admitted, "Gotta say, sometimes I miss that giddy optimism. However, high hopes won't help if there's no logical, tangible way for me to safely execute said time heist. I believe the most likely outcome would be our collective demise."

And just like that, Steve could feel the last bits of his heart shatter. Although Steve and Tony didn't always see eye-to-eye, Steve still cared for Tony. Hell, in a different life, he would've been Uncle Steve to him too. Always trying to care for Tony in Howard's memory. But if Tony didn't even think there was a chance…

Lost in his own thoughts, Steve tuned out their bickering. Trying his hardest to not spiral down to that lonely, dark hole he had been in in the beginning. Finishing off his shake, he set the glass down before he could break it. Knowing that Pepper wouldn't be too happy with him if he did so.

Holding onto the porch railing, he saw Morgan race out of the house and climb onto Tony. Gladly, Tony hefted the little girl onto his hip and turned for the house. Steve knew that this couldn't be it.

It just couldn't be.

A little -- okay, a lot -- desperate, Steve grabbed onto Tony's arm. Pleading, "Tony, I get it. And I'm happy for you, I really am. But this is a second chance."

Holding Morgan just a little closer, Tony declined, "I got my second chance right here, Cap. I can't roll the dice again." Then, a little softer, just for Steve, Tony added, "Really, Steve, I'm sorry."

Thickly swallowing, with tears building in his eyes, Steve nodded. Letting his hand drop, just like his heart as Tony walked inside of the cabin and Steve hurried back to the van. Leaning against the vehicle and burying his face in his hands as his breathing started turning to pants.

Cautiously, a hand touched his back and Nat's familiar voice attempted to comfort him, "He's scared."

"He's not wrong," Steve breathed out, peeking over at the petite woman.

Cassie crossed the drive and asked, "What are we gonna do?"

"We need him," Scott sighed defeatedly.

"What, are we gonna stop?" Cassie demanded, looking over the adults in front of her. Wondering if she finally saw the avengers for what they truly were. For what he was.

Natasha kept rubbing Steve's back, bringing him back down. Making it easier for Steve to remember who he's supposed to be. He's Captain America, god damn it! So, he rationalized, "We're gonna need a really big brain."

#not without you #stucky #steve rogers #bucky barnes #steve rogers x bucky barnes #marvel #fanfic #wattpad #ao3 #canon divergence #post infinity war #endgame au #nomad steve #angst #hurt/comfort #fix it fic #otp #eventual happy ending #uncle steve

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avengerscompound · 5 years

Text

The B-List Avenger - 2

The B-List Avenger: A Hawkeye Fanfic

Series Masterlist // PREVIOUS

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing: Clint Barton x F!Reader

Word Count: 2694

Rating: E

Warnings: Action, Injuries, Angst, Pregnancy, Smut (vaginal sex)

Synopsis: After an explosion in your building, it’s up to Hawkeye to get you and your daughter to safety. There might be worst ways to get to know someone.

Chapter 2: Upstate New York

You were in the hospital for two weeks. In that time your mother flew in from out of town to take care of Alexis. You had received significant bruising on your spine that was exacerbated by the amount of time it took you to run to the evac point. The leg injury had required sixteen stitches.

Most of your friends had been affected by the sudden attack by HYDRA too so apart from when your mother brought Alexis around to see you, you didn’t have any visitors. That is, except for Clint Barton.

Clint had come in a day after you were admitted looking like he hadn’t been shot at all. You knew for a fact that he had. You’d seen wound with your own two eyes.

“Avenger’s get the good insurance.” He’d said when you’d asked about it.

Every day for two weeks he came in to see how you were doing. Sometimes he was there when your mother was visiting with Alexis. When that happened Alexis was just obsessed with him. He took it with good humor. Letting her climb in his lap and held conversations with her like she was a full-grown adult and not a one-year-old.

Your mom was developing quite the crush. If Clint was there when she was, she always spoke animatedly with him and praised him for how good he was with Alexis. Or for saving your life. Or for just general Avengers things. If he wasn’t she took to speaking about him to you. How cute he was. How great it was that he kept stopping by. How he looked like he’d be such a good father.

It would be annoying, and you tried very hard to pretend it was, except that you thought the same thing. He was cute. And hilarious. And he was really amazing with Alexis. Not to mention his arms were amazing. You really, really wanted this to not just be him taking pity on you.

Only the signals were as mixed as if they’d been put through a blender. When it was just the two of you he’d respond to flirting like it was a second language that he spoke fluently. Always knowing just the thing to say that would make your mouth dry and other parts of you much moister. If Alexis was around though he flicked between being potential future husband candidate of the year, laughing at your mother’s jokes, being affectionate and caring to your daughter and smiling and joking with you. Or he was all business-like he’d stopped by out of some moral obligation and had no desire to even make friends with you.

On the day before you were due to be released, he came to see you while you were alone.

“Checking out tomorrow?” He asks, leaning in the doorway of your room.

“Yeah. The doctors said I still need to take it easy. I’m not allowed to pick Lexi up for another month.” You explain. “Also, I don’t actually have a home anymore. Or a job. So that’s gonna be fun.”

Clint grimaces and walks over, sitting on the end of your bed. “What are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna go back home and live with mom until I get back on my feet. It’s pretty shit. But there’s not much I can do about it.” You answer.

Clint looks crestfallen. His shoulders slump and he looks down at his hands. “Where does your mom live?”

“Upstate New York.” You answer, poking him with your foot.

He looks up at you with a smile on his face. “That’s where I live.”

“I know it is. It’s a little hard to miss.” You say.

“How far away?” He asks.

You chew your lip and look at him. “Like two towns over. Maybe half an hour or so? Forty-five minutes tops.”

He scoots a little closer to you. “So you think we could hang out sometime?”

“I’d really like that.” You agree.

It’s another couple of weeks before you see him again. You were busy having to talk with insurance people, buying clothes and settle down into a new routine. Alexis was pretty thrilled to be spending so much time with Grandma. She’s even more thrilled when Clint shows up to pick you up for your first date.

“Cwint. Cwint. Come.” She squeals as she stands at the end of the hall bouncing up and down on her chubby little legs.

“Hey, kiddo. Just give me a minute to say hi to your mom.” He says, kissing your cheek. “You look beautiful.”

“Looking pretty good yourself, Barton.” You say. Which is not a lie. He’s wearing a suit that’s color isn’t quite gray and it isn’t quite blue. It doesn’t quite fit him right, but just something about him in it makes you want to get him out of it.

He follows Alexis to her bedroom where she shows him all the new toys that have been bought for her since the move. He lets her show him everything before ruffling her hair and telling her he is taking you out. She doesn’t take it well. Almost immediately breaking down into tears and throwing herself on the ground.

“Aww… kid. You’re killing me.” Clint says, crouching down beside her and patting her back. “Tell you what, next time we can all go out.”

That doesn’t help. At all. She just becomes more hysterical. Thankfully your mom comes and saves the day. Taking her into the living room to watch TV while you escape with Clint.

“I’m so sorry. I think after the incident, she’s gotten really attached to you.” You say as you follow him out to the car. It’s a lavender Volkswagen Beetle. You try not to look as surprised as you feel about him driving it.

“That’s what we’re calling it? The incident?” Clint asks as he opens the door for you.

“I don’t really know what else to call it.” You say when he climbs into the driver’s side.

“The incident is fine,” Clint says. “And don’t worry about Lexi. I always say that I hate kids. But I think actually …” He trails off and groans.

You turn to look at him as he drives. “What’s wrong?” You ask.

He whines. “Can’t talk about deep stuff.”

“Does dating someone with a kid scare you?” You ask.

“Yes.” He whines. “But only marginally more than getting serious with anyone. I’m not good at it.”

You start to nervously strum your fingers on your leg. “Clint. I’m not trying to push you into anything that you’re not ready for…”

He grabs your hand and holds it still. “You don’t have to say it. I’ve told myself it a million times now. You can’t lead this chick on. She has a kid and you and your fuckin’ problems with … whatever … will hurt them both. I like you though. A lot. I get it if I’m too high risk, but if you could give me a chance.”

“Is the ‘whatever’ intimacy issues?” You ask, linking your fingers with his.

He nods his head.

“If you do this and they get the better of you, you’ll break both our hearts you know?”

He nods again. “I know. I can’t promise it won’t. I can’t even promise we won’t break up for other reasons. I just feel like maybe I can do it with you. In a way, I haven’t with anyone else.” He lets go of your hand and runs it through his hair. “Normally when I think about someone I … like or whatever…” He shakes his head. “Even if it’s just for a one-time thing. I have an expiry date in my head. One night. Two weeks and three days. Six months and she cuts up most of my clothes. With you, I don’t see a time.”

You sigh and turn and bite his shoulder. “How serious are you about trying?” You ask.

“Pretty serious.” He says. “Maybe I should grow up a little.”

“Just a little though.” You tease. “Would you consider going to therapy?”

“Aww… therapy?” He whines. He pulls the car into the parking lot of a steakhouse and looks at you. His blue eyes doing that sad puppy thing. “Yeah. I guess I could probably use it, given I don’t sleep.”

“Alright. If you’re willing to do that I’m willing to try. I do have one more question though.” You say.

“Yeah?” He says sounding nervous.

“How do you feel about putting out on the first date?” You ask.

He smirks and squeezes your leg. “I am in favor of it.”

“That’s good because I am dying to get laid.” You joke.

Dinner goes fine. He really does have a way of putting you at ease even when he’s slightly panicked and overthinking everything. After dinner, he takes you up to a lookout that looks over the town and takes in some forest and the Avengers compound in the distance.

You sit side by side holding hands, your head resting on his shoulder and his cheek on your head. “It’s really beautiful up here.” You sigh.

“Yeah.” Clint agrees. “I always see things best from high up.”

“I think they call that being far-sighted.” You tease. “You can get glasses to correct it.”

Clint digs his fingers in your sides. “You think you’re so funny.” He snarks, as you squirm away from him.

At some point his hands move from your side to your back, pulling you tightly against him. You wrap your arms around his neck and you’re kissing before you even know what’s happening. It’s hungry and desperate. You claw at each, bite at each other’s lips. Your tongues swirl together and explore each other’s mouths.

His hands move down to your hips, dragging you closer and then up under your skirt. You break the kiss panting. “We should - we should go somewhere - less public.” You pant.

Clint teases along the line of your panties. “You sure about that?”

You whine a little and nod. “Pretty sure.”

“Your place or mine.” He asks, helping you to your feet.

“We gonna have a sleepover?” You ask as you head to the car.

He falters for a moment and you watch as the gears turn behind his eyes. “Yeah. Yep. Sleepover. That’s what couples do.”

You pause at the door and look at him. “Clint?”

“No. It’s good. I want this.” He says with a smile.

You laugh and shake your head before getting in the car. “My place then.”

As soon as you’re back at your mom’s house you’re all over each other. He kisses at your throat and tugs up your skirt. You somehow manage to get through the door and he pushes you through it and up against the wall. Your hip bangs the side table by the door and the vase sitting on it tips over with a clatter.

“Shh… Clint.” You whisper. “You need to be quiet.”

“That’s going to be a problem for you. You’re not going to be able to stay quiet.” He whispers back.

You drag him into your room. “Because I’ll be laughing so hard?” You tease.

He pushes the door closed and pulls his shirt off before wrapping you in his arms. “Such a smart ass.” He smirks, unzipping your dress. He pushes it down off your arms and you start to kiss again. Moving slowly towards the bed, shedding each piece of clothing one by one. He picks you up just before you reach the bed and tosses you on it.

You move back and he stalks up after you placing slow deep kisses up the insides of your legs. When he reaches your inner thigh he’s pulling your soft flesh into his mouth and sucking on it hard enough to leave small bruises. His nuzzles at your pussy and you spread wider for him. He flattens his tongue and swipes it up your folds before placing a large open mouth kiss over them. His tongue swirls around, tasting everything it can reach and he pulls back sucking your clit into his mouth.

Your hips buck up. “Holy shit.” You hiss. He smiles up at you and rolls his tongue over your clit.

You arch back tilting your hips up to his face. His fingers tease at your entrance before he thrusts them into you. You gasp clenching around his digits. He finds your g-spot almost instantly like he’s targeted onto it and when his fingers push against it he curls them like he’s beckoning someone to him.

He fucks you with his fingers as his tongue continues to work your clit. It isn’t long before you’re a whimpering mess under him. Trying to keep quiet as your legs shake and your core muscles clench. You pull his hair and clutch at the sheets as you completely come undone. Your orgasm hits you hard. You twist under him, trying to escape it as it surges through you and you drag your pillow down to your face crying out into it.

He strokes you through it and then reaches for his pants, pulling his wallet free. You take the pillow off your face and watch as he pulls a condom out of it.

“You think you were getting lucky tonight?” You ask sitting up and taking it from him.

“If the boy scouts taught me anything it was always come prepared.” He says smirking.

“Nice pun,” you say, tearing the packet open. “But it’s ‘be prepared’.” He starts laughing and you put the condom between your lips and crouch down placing the condom over the head of his cock and using your mouth to roll it in place. He lets out a strangled moan and his hands bunch in your hair. You bob your head a few times, loving the sound of his soft moans, but he takes your jaw in his hand and guides you up to him. Kissing you hard and pushing you back into the mattress.

You feel his cock press on your entrance as he lines himself up with you and with a roll of his hips, he sinks into your cunt. You both groan as he fills you and you adjust to him. He starts to thrust. You wrap your legs around him, linking your ankles at the small of his back.

He kisses down your throat to your breast sucking your nipple into your mouth. Your hands roam his skin, running your fingertips up his back at a feather touch before digging them into his firm biceps.

Your skin prickles and flushes with heat. “Oh fuck, Clint.” You groan as you feel the pressure of your orgasm weighs you down.

“Me too.” He groans.

His fingers dig into you, he picks up his pace and you come. You arch up and just as you let out a cry his mouth is on yours smothering it. You each moan into the kiss as you find your release.

He comes inside of you, you close your eyes and focus on the pulse of his cock as he empties. For a moment you just stay like that kissing, as the last of your orgasms shudder through you.

“Fuck.” You sigh as he slips from inside of you and rolls off. “I needed that so badly.”

Clint salutes you. “Happy to be of service, ma’am.”

You go clean up together and dress, you in flannel pajamas with dogs on them, him in his boxers, before climbing into bed. You rest your head on his shoulder and he wraps both arms around you. “Just a little warning. I sleep like shit.” He says, pressing his lips to your forehead.

“That’s okay. I’ll sleep through the TV if you turn it on. Just keep it down for my mom.” You say, closing your eyes.

You fall asleep quickly, cuddled up to him. In the morning you wake as the sun comes through the curtains. Clint is deep asleep on his side facing you and sprawled out on her back between you is Alexis.

“I’m doomed.” You sigh, pressing a kiss to your daughter’s forehead and closing your eyes again.

// NEXT

#clint barton #clint barton x reader #hawkeye #hawkeye fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #reader insert #smut #b-list avenger #upstate new york

139 notes · View notes

oghoneytryst · 6 years

Text

wild card.

request: best friend!harry and y/n are drunk one night and stuff gets spilled where they’re both in love with each other

where an innocent game of UNO with tequila and a twist makes harry and y/n’s night go wrong

a/n: hi. this is my baby. i love her a lot. pls treat her well.

this is also quite long, so I guess save this for later and read during that sweet spot in your life where you have all the time in the world. thank u enjoy.

----------

Insensible to how the night will progress, y/n admits that the aftereffects quickly following a tequila shot’s persuasive innocence rather impresses her.

“That,” she blurts out, “looks downright disgusting.”

Y/n breathes in the retched smell, leaning on the cheap granite with her weight pressing down on her forearms. Her eyes wander over the islands of accidental spills scattering across her kitchen counter – alcoholic puddles have gone to waste. Harry, positioned over his mess of a workspace, stands confidently tall on the opposite side.

“Oh, shut up!” he retaliates, throwing half of a lime at her ebullient figure.

The citrus bounces against y/n’s skin, right beneath her collarbone. She emits a gasp of shock from the cool sensation, but still manages to trap the small fruit to chuck it back at her best friend.

“Asshole!” she laughs. Never should she have teased Harry over his ability to recreate the infamous drinks he has downed in foreign countries. Peering down at the failed concoction before her, y/n bites down on her tongue and prevents any smartass remarks from sliding right off.

Well, alright, one more can’t hurt.

“I don’t think you’re making this right,” she says, ignoring whatever metaphorical daggers might possibly impale her best friend’s fragile ego.

Harry, in turn, sticks out his tongue. “You don’t even know what I’m making,” he remarks, picking up the blender to examine the poison inside.

“Sure, I do. It’s some drink you had in . . . Belgium.”

“Brazil,” he corrects, “but close. Your geography skills are truly remarkable, d’ya know that?”

“Well, I’m sorry, Mr. I-Have-A-Net-Worth-of-70-Million, but we don’t all have the privilege of expanding our education through continent-hopping on our private jets.”

Harry lowers the blender. His brow furrows, staring quizzically at his friend, then asks, “70 million? Really? Is it really that low?”

The two share an instant look of amusement; sparkling eyes and wide-open mouths. The kitchen walls echo with their wasted laughter. A drawn-out “Wowww” vibrates from y/n as she soaks in the Cheshire man’s conceited joke. Harry has to assure her over and over that “I’m joking, I’m joking!”

A couple minutes pass by. “You’re making a right mess of my kitchen,” y/n points out. “Are you planning on cleaning all of this up?”

“Of course,” he promises, then mirrors her position: leaning on the cheap granite, weight pressing down on his forearms. With a wide countertop anchoring right between them, Harry inches closer, cautious with his effect. “You don’t peg me as some sort of animal, do you?”

His beautiful features are even more inviting up close. Despite the friendship that blossoms through every year, y/n finds that Harry evolves with intimidation. Perhaps it is that charming charisma of his that grows with his every new love affair; either way, the stench of his alcoholic breath and the dirty stubble of his chiseled face – it has her drooling at every reunion.

“Of course not,” she breathes out, instantly catching onto her mistake when Harry’s face scrunches from the smell. “Ah . . . shit, sorry.” She laughs. Yet another invisible cloud of stench attacks her best friend, and all that she can do is cower behind the shelter of her hand in embarrassment.

Harry chuckles. “It’s alright. My breath is just as retched.”

Her hand pulls away from her toxic mouth with his assistance. His thumb finds leisure and softly caresses her knuckles. Y/n is almost dumbfounding in her lost stare, but her brain throbs from the bewildering thoughts nesting inside.

For one, she admires the way her hand disappears in his own; the inked cross sways back and forth to a calming rhythm on his soft skin.

Furthermore, there is a glimmer always present in his green eyes; kindness and serenity and comfort interconnects to craft the universe within.

Finally, his trademark that mesmerizes this lifetime and the next to come. She falls in love with his silent smirk, drowns in his prominent dimples that she imagines has captivated the world.

It is this and a plethora of other wonders that has her lost amongst a sea of hopefuls. There are a countless number of hearts that beat for him: a simple, extraordinary man. Unlike them, she will never be brave enough to tell him so.

It can’t be more of a clichéd nightmare to live in: reserving her most passionate desires and suffering in the presence of her unattainable best friend. A tragic fate, she admits, that graces her in the most torturous way.

“Um...” y/n blinks, settling back into the reality of the night. “So, are you going to finish whatever it is you’re making, or what?”

Harry chuckles, releases her hand and straightens up. “It’s already done. Besides, I thought you said it looked downright disgusting.” He puts his long legs to use and takes a single step toward the kitchen sink. From a rack adjacent to it, he pulls two wet glasses left to dry and returns to set them down on the counter.

“Oh, well I did, but that just makes it all the more interesting! Plus, you’ve wasted about half of my liquor cabinet, so I’m hoping that this will at least make for a memorable experience.”

“Well, in that case,” Harry, proud and tall, pours even portions of his concoction into their respective glasses, “bottoms up!”

Y/n smiles and accepts the glass from her cheerful friend who radiates with self-fulfillment. She normally doesn’t take risks with strange potions, knowing that the contents can very well end up surging back up her stomach and on her living room floor. Be that as it may, she knows that harry is prideful. She will do anything to see that charming smile of his, even if the painful realization hits her: a smile is all that she can wheedle out of him, despite wanting so much more.

With a delicate shake of her head, she raises the glass in sync with her eyebrows as to say cheers! The drink burns in her throat, but she downs it in a rush, hoping that it will loosen her up for the long night to come.

“No, you fucking didn’t!” Harry exclaims, 67 minutes having happily ticked away. Joyous tears pool in his eyes, fits of giggles bouncing off the living room walls.

“I swear, I’m not kidding,” y/n chimes in, downing another swig of her beer.

Needless to say, Harry’s magic potion did not sit well with her. As deliciously relieving as it had been, y/n had been wary of its powerful effects. Like creator, like creation, she had recited in her hidden thoughts prior to Harry suggesting the two relocate to the couch in the living room.

Since then, there have been silly story exchanges, and one of y/n’s has brought Harry to the brink of amusing insanity.

Y/n leans an elbow against the back of the couch and elaborates. “In my defense, I had a lot to drink that night. We had planned to go out and celebrate, but most of us ended up getting plastered at the pre-drink, so we just stayed at Sophia’s place. I think she was a little pissed at us, though. She really wanted to shag someone that night.”

“Not like you would’ve let that happen anyway,” Harry accuses, grinning at his friend’s shock and confusion. He licks the taste of retched beer from his lips and explains. “C’mon, we both know you’re incredibly clingy when you’re wasted. One second apart from Sophia and you would’ve cried more than when you’d thrown your phone out the window.”

“Hey!”

“I mean, seriously, y/n? Airplane mode? How do you manage to come up with that logic?”

Y/n simpers and sinks deeper into the cushions. “I was drunk!”

“All I’m saying is,” Harry laughs, blanketing a single hand over his squinty jaded eyes, “I’ve had my fair share of drunken mishaps, and never once did I think to throw my phone out the window with the intent of having it turn into an airplane.”

“Hmm. Then I suppose you’re not as imaginative as moi,” y/n teases, raising her shoulder to meet with her chin.

“I’m sure that’s the word you’re looking for.”

“It is. And also!” Y/n pauses, forcing her mouth to keep closed as a hiccup ripples through her body. “I’m not clingy! I may be affectionate sometimes, but as far as I’m concerned, I am currently riding on Shit-Face Avenue and have not clung to you once. Have I?” She shakes her head. “No, I haven’t.”

“You haven’t.” Harry shrugs, leaning against the back of the couch. “You could though, if you wanted to.”

Y/n stiffens. She blinks away the images that rise to the surface of her lingering eyes. As intoxicated as she currently is, the suggestive remark does not go unnoticed. In fact, if she doesn’t know any better, she can be right to assume that her best friend is implying a dangerous journey into uncharted territories.

Yet, having been friends with him for so long, she has caught onto his antics, especially those deriving from alcohol consumption. He claims her to be the clingy one, but there is no denying the overly affectionate, touchy man that overpowers him in such powerless situations. She has experienced it before, although it has never gone farther than his arms around her, and a sloppy peck on her face.

She’s never allowed it to go further.

“Anyway,” she trails off, breaking through the creeping silence that she isn’t aware had sneaked its way in. “I didn’t realize my mistake until the next morning, when my phone was already shattered and the damage had been done. So, it goes without saying that I’ve learned my lesson. Don’t get super wasted and expect your equally intoxicated friends to stop you from throwing your phone out the window.”

Harry laughs. “Y’know, if you didn’t want your drunk alter ego to post anything embarrassing on your social media, you could’ve just deleted the apps altogether,” he suggests. “Join me on my cleanse.”

“Oh, please.” y/n scoffs. “You’re acting all high and mighty as if you’ve deleted Twitter off of your phone.”

“Alright.” Harry raises his hands in surrender. “Sometimes I’m curious as to what’s going on in the world. Sue me.”

“For all of your 70 million? Don’t have to tell me twice.”

“Oi!” Harry giggles. He takes out the pillow supporting his back and chucks it at his best friend. “Alright now.”

“Seriously though.” Y/n shoves the pillow back into his grinning face. “That would’ve been good money to have when trying to get my phone fixed. Damned thing was so expensive in repairs that I couldn’t even afford it.”

“Then how’d you get it fixed?”

“I didn’t. It cost less to just replace it. Or rather, pretend that it had been stolen so that my phone company could replace it for a lower price.”

For such a casual conversation, Harry’s sudden intrigue grows with this new information. He sits upright, tucks the decorative plush pillow behind his back, but never leans against it. Instead, he faces y/n with a single beer bottle in his hand and an expression that depicts the rusting gears turning in his brain.

“Wait, so...” Harry pauses. He points at the slim device laying face-down on the coffee table. “That’s an entirely different phone?”

“Yeah?”

“But it’s the same number.”

“Right.”

“But then...” Another insightful pause. Harry licks his lips and continues, “Your messages and stuff. From your other phone. Did they transfer or are they—”

“Gone,” y/n finishes for him, perplexed at his perplexity. He is behaving rather strangely, almost as if he has hesitance – as though he will say too much. She’s not too sure what exactly it is about her phone that stirs so many questions out of him.

“Pictures, messages, even my contacts. My phone company deactivated the other phone, but everything on it is inaccessible anyway. They said that it’s possible to just take out the SIM card and put it in a new phone, but since I already went along with my stolen-phone plan, that solution is out of the picture. So, I’m just taking the blow, but it all works out. I had gotten rid of contacts that I don’t talk to anymore, and I got my old contacts from other people – I got yours from Sophia – and I felt very refreshed overall. There’s a lot of losses though. Lots of memes that I have to scour the internet to find again.”

“But . . . but like, you’re still receiving messages and stuff, right? After switching phones?”

“Well, yeah, I hope so. That’s the whole point. Why?”

Harry shakes his head dismissively. “Jus’ wondering.”

It is a very casual way for him to disregard the curiosity brewing in the air. It has potential for success, if not for y/n’s investment in his every thought, especially with those that concern her.

“Harry,” she warns. In a split second, she imagines herself handling the glass bottle by its neck, sticking the other end in his face as a threat. She fortunately resists to do so when picturing the toxic-liquid spilling out and infesting her couch cushions.

Y/n squints her eyes. “Why are you so interested in the pivotal and precise details of my phone?” She leans closer to him, fighting the grin that tickles her lips. She tilts her head and executes a strange yet inquisitive expression. “What are you hiding?”

Harry can’t withstand the giggles from bubbling out his throat. He brings his hand up to y/n’s nose, and pinches it between his index finger and thumb.

“Squish.” He chuckles, which causes y/n to let out a symphony of snickers, and soon he finds his own face heating up with vivacious amusement.

“No, but really,” says y/n after composing herself. “What’s up?”

Harry prims his smiley lips and blinks up at the pasty ceiling. “The sky.”

“Harry!” y/n laughs. It swells her heart to hear him so happy and entertained; his glee multiplies alongside his hyena laughter. Yet, she’s impatiently itching under her skin, desperate to know whatever secret it is that he is hiding.

It takes a few ticklish kicks of her sock-clad feet rumbling against the side of his legs for him to raise his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright!” he gives in, and traps her impatient ankles with his large hands. Her limp legs settle over his thighs, one of his arms drapes over her shins. “I was jus’ wondering cos’ I might have gotten drunk one night and I might have called some people on my contacts list.”

Y/n raises her eyebrows. “Did you call me?”

Her best friend thinks on it for a short moment. He chews at the inside of his cheek, tips his head from side-to-side, internally at war with himself. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t remember. Did you get a call from me?”

“I don’t know. It depends. When did you get drunk?”

“Erm . . . that night it had been August. Nick’s birthday party. What ‘bout you?”

Y/n allows a few seconds to pass for the information to absorb. She then sinks further into the cushions and slaps a hand over her eyes in realization. “August. Sophia’s actual birthday.”

“Oh. How unfortunate,” Harry monotonously replies, but the infliction of his tone near the end of his sentence gives him away. There is a laughter that he is trying to suppress.

“No, you’ve got to be joking!” y/n groans, unveiling her face. “You’re telling me that you drunk called people and I missed it?”

“No. I mean, I might not have even called you that night. As far as I’m concerned, Mitch might have been the only one who received a voicemail.”

“There were voicemails?”

“Not really. Mitchell’s the only one who didn’t pick up.”

“This sucks.” Y/n pouts, chugging down the small amount of beer left in her bottle, and discards the glass vessel on the coffee table.

“Aw, lovie, it wasn’t anything. Just a drunken mistake. It’s just me slurrin’ on some words that don’t make sense.”

Y/n smiles. She rubs at her left eye as her right hand sluggishly points in his general direction. “Not your lovie,” she mumbles, and reaches out her arms to him. He doesn’t react to her response, but complies with her affection and scoots closer. Her legs bunch up to her chest, his left arm encircling halfway across her waist. She wraps her flimsy arms around his broad shoulders, and loudly whispers into his ear, “And any entertainment is funny entertainment,” then snuggles her head into his left shoulder.

Harry laughs at the sudden shift in ambience. He’s not sure if her statement has made sense, but he’s not sober enough to puzzle over it. “Remember when you said you weren’t clingy?” he whispers, presses his cheek on the top of her head, with little fuzzes of her hair sticking to his skin.

“Shut up,” she grumbles, scratching at his belly. His stomach instinctively shrivels up from the tickling sensation, but following his short fit of giggles, he settles back into the moment. Limbs entangle, hearts softly beat next to each other, and a million unspoken words paint the entire room.

She wants to stay here forever. She knows very well that once the moment is over, he will be off to another place, somewhere lightyears away. It’s like a nervous tick of his: never being able to stay still. Touring nonstop for five years most likely encourages this behavior, and he’s lucky enough to have the money to escape whenever he wants.

And though it is a blessing – to have so much control over his life – she can’t help but feel sad for him. She doesn’t know if he ever thinks years ahead into his future, but in case he doesn’t, she does it for him. She imagines him falling in love with his one; the person that he will share his private stories with and create a new life with. Whoever it is that earns his devotion is who y/n empathizes for, because certainty is not always in Harry’s vocabulary.

Commitment and settling down is not something of ease for him when considering all that he has been through. The heartache. The pressure of a million watching eyes. The loneliness. He’s not the same boy he used to be – he even said so himself. Though he is who he is for the better, y/n still mourns for that lost part of him. She wonders if he will ever settle down, or if he will continue to move at a pace that is impossible for anyone to keep up with.

Any moment longer and y/n will begin to tear up from her own overthinking. She’s grateful for the scare that Harry gives her when he spots a small red packaging on the coffee table.

“Ah, sick!” he exclaims. He snakes his arm from around her waist, discards his beer bottle on the coffee table, and reaches for the card game. “You had Uno this entire time and didn’t think to tell me?”

Y/n loosens her own grip as he takes the cards out of their packaging. Her arms slip from shoulders and rest on her lap. “I didn’t peg you as an Uno enthusiast.”

“Of course. Bet I’d kick your arse,” he says, winking at her deviously.

“Oh, I bet you could.”

Harry whines while shuffling the cards in his hands. “C’mon, y/n! Just a couple games.”

“It just seems incredibly underwhelming right now.” She shrugs.

Harry doesn’t response right away. Instead, he sifts through the deck, and mischievously smiles. Suddenly, y/n is worried.

“Let’s make it more interesting then,” he suggests.

“...Interesting how?”

“We play as normal,” he explains slowly; his thumb slides the cards into his opposite hand one-by-one. “Except when one of us puts down a wild card,” Harry slaps the distinctive black card face-up on the table, “the other person has to answer a question.”

“A question?”

“Yeah, and not some bullshit question like what’d you have for breakfast? No, it’s got to be a question asked with the intention of spilling a secret.”

Y/n’s eyes pry open a little more at this. She sits up straighter, tucks her legs under her weight, and shifts uncomfortably. As close as she is with Harry, there are still many things that he does not know about her. It all ranges from simple adolescent mistakes, quarter-life crisis thoughts, and of course, the big lottery secret.

“I’m definitely not drunk enough for that.”

“Then we’ll spice it up some more,” Harry offers with persistence and determination. “Every time you have to pick up from the deck, you have to drink. It’ll loosen you up. Sound good?”

No. It doesn’t sound good to her. It sounds like an extremely messy route to a destination undiscovered, one that y/n fears will have the potential to damage their friendship. It isn’t so much for the mere possibility that she will slip up and admit her admirable feelings for him. Rather, it is for the truly riveting secrets that he threatens to get her to confess. Everything and anything that he feels curious enough to ask about will be available to him with just the slap of a single playing card.

As incriminatingly frightening as this is, y/n can’t help but wonder about his own little devious secrets. There is no dismissal of the mysterious aura that crowns over his cryptic mind. Harry is the single most unreadable person that she has ever met. As much as she knows him, she doesn’t. He keeps as much of his life as private as can be, and for good reason. He’s a clever man, one that can be described as a great, undefined question mark.

It is all so tempting. How is she to possibly say no to a peak into his baffling mind?

Once she mumbles out a quick “Sure” in confirmation to his twist, the two set out an agreement of rules: only pick up once from the deck to save a few brain cells, dropping a plus two on top of another plus two creates a plus four and so forth, a reverse is basically like a skip, and please, no fucking train.

“And whoever gets Uno, the other person finishes their drink,” y/n announces. She grows giddier over the game by the second.

Harry smugly grins at her. He shuffles the deck to make sure the colors rightfully scramble from the last game that y/n and her guests have played. “For someone who wasn’t too sure about the game,” he deals out two hands of seven cards respectively, “you sure are getting a little cheeky.”

Y/n innocently shrugs. She scoops up her cards and faces away from Harry to keep him from cheating. She deflates at the sight of her hand – a few green, a couple blue, some action cards here and there – nothing entirely exciting. In other words, no wild card. She masks her disappointment with her most impressive poke face, and challenges Harry by raising her chin up confidently. “What can I say? I might get a little competitive when I’ve had a few drinks in me.”

By the time that Harry gathers up his own cards, he reaches and flips over the card at the top of the deck. A yellow 0. “Is that right?” he wonders aloud. He has already caught a glimpse of his hand and has the seven cards neatly compiled into a small deck in his hands.

“Most certainly.”

“Well then, Ms. Competitive, would you fancy starting us off?”

Y/n narrows her eyes. “Does that mean that you don’t have anything to play?” she asks, placing down a yellow 2.

“It means that I’m trying to be a gentleman and let you start the game.” Harry puts down his own card – a red 2. He smiles cheekily. “But I guess you’ll never know now, huh lovie?”

Y/n searches her hand and grumbles. “Damn it,” she whispers under her breath. She grabs ahold of her choice of drink while hugging her cards protectively to her chest. She takes a good and lasting sip. It burns terribly, almost hard to swallow, which makes her wonder if perhaps this game isn’t going to be as enjoyable as she once believed. She can, however, feel a stiffness in her shoulders relieve itself. She trudges on, one arm stretches out to grab from the deck. When she peers at her new addition, she involuntarily lets out a cheer. “Aha!” her hand slams down a vindictive red +2.

Harry locks his jaw, his tongue swipes amongst the inside of his bottom lip. He nods understandingly, a crooked smile stretching unevenly on his face. “So that’s how it’s gonna be, eh?” he asks rhetorically, all set to pick his poison from the table.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” y/n replies, watching him suffer as he downs his drink, a few seconds longer than hers in celebration of the double pick-up. “I’m only playing the game.”

“Yeah, right. ‘f course.” Harry sets his glass down and picks up two cards. Y/n is about to make another smart remark, but she misses the twinkle in his green eyes prior to him smacking down his choice of card.

The first wild card of the night.

Y/n freezes. Her jaw slowly unhinges; she blinks at the black card practically sparkling in the dim lighting. She must be color blind. It must be another red card, or maybe it is a misplaced blue, but the oval shape divided into quadrants is a little harder to ignore.

“What the fuck?” she exclaims, glares at Harry, who sits with his shoulders raised to his ears, a shit-eating smirk plasters his not-so-innocent face. “No way,” y/n shakes her head, “you cheated.”

Harry’s shoulders drop. His mouth squishes a U-shape. “Wh – how would I cheat? I’m only playing the game.”

Y/n rolls her eyes when he throws her own words back at her. “Yeah, well, your strategy is shit.”

It’s true to her, at least. As the owner of the card game, she has played a handful of times. She has figured out her own strategy to success. To her, playing the wild card is the last move a player should do to ensure victory. However, in this moment, this ideal might not entirely work out in her favor. There is nothing more that can confirm that than when she finds herself in defeat, awaiting Harry’s torture.

Harry takes a moment to ponder, strokes his chin in an evil manner before coming to a halt. From the low chuckle that escapes him, y/n knows that it cannot be good for her.

“Y/n,” Harry declares, savoring the syllables on his tongue. “Which one of my exes did you like the least?”

It takes a second for the question to seep through to her brain. Her thoughts already cloud, so she’s uncertain if the inquiry is entirely terrible. “Are you serious?” she retaliates, corking up a single eyebrow at him. “Out of all the questions that you’re dying to ask me, that’s your most pressing one?”

Harry chuckles with mock amusement. “We’re starting off easy, baby. I hope you know that this isn’t the last confession I’m getting out of you tonight.”

Y/n shakes away the flutter in her heart from his endearing pet name. It is quite easy to pretend that he says it with significance – that it is real. “If it’s so easy, then don’t you think you could have asked me this whenever? Not through a conniving card game?”

Harry scoffs. “Sure, like you would’ve told me the truth. You’re always on about Harry, as long as you’re happy, I’m happy. Bullshit. It’s just the two of us singles now, spill the tea, sista!”

More giggles erupt from y/n. It’s hard to concentrate and Harry’s subtle slang doesn’t make it easier to focus. Before she knows it, the name, “Kendall” is running off her tongue.

“Kendall?” Harry repeats, sinking the information into his brain. “Why?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Oh, c’mon, y/n! You have to elaborate on it! You didn’t think much about it. Why her, eh?”

“I don’t know,” she answers. “She’s just the first one who came to me.”

“This game isn’t fun if you lie, y/n.”

“But I’m not—” Y/n pauses. She catches the knowing and burning look on his face. Her act isn’t fooling him, so she sighs, and proceeds to create a quick web of reasons as to why this ex disinterests her from the rest.

In her brain, it is simple, but when she tries to string it into comprehensible sentences, she finds it a little more complex.

Maybe it is because Kendall makes her feel inferior with her high-class model status. Of course, that doesn’t entirely separate her from his other model exes. It has to be because of something in association with that: her undeniable beauty and impossibly unmatchable body type. The way her waist pinches effortlessly, her long legs that can stretch for miles. Y/n has seen the orange boots of hers that fit right over her entire leg, the same ones that she imagines herself uncomfortably drowning in.

Maybe it is the on-and-off relationship that she’s had with Harry. It is an unexpected romance that begins in 2013 and randomly pops up every other year. She remembers his trip to St. Barts, as well as the pictures from the yacht that had been leaked. They cling onto each other, groping, touching, kissing – an intimacy that strains her. He’s introduced her to his mother, perhaps as his girlfriend, when he’s only ever introduced y/n as a friend. Despite their relationship not working out, the two still get along. Their friendship remains.

And maybe, just maybe, it is because she can’t seem to find any sensible reason to dislike her at all. There must be a reason Harry remains her close friend. It may be that one has to know Kendall to understand Kendall, and though y/n hasn’t dug into the depths of her mind, she has met her once or twice. And once or twice, she had been kind, she had been cool, and she had been distastefully perfect.

“I don’t know. I guess it’s because you two seem kind of different.” Y/n shrugs. She nests the sharp branches of her thoughts back into the shadows of her mind. “Just a weird pair, is all. Satisfied?”

“Sure.” Harry nods. He has the faintest ghost of a smile. “Blue,” he says, continuing on with the game as though the tension in the air is unnoticeable.

A couple more rounds pass them by. Though y/n manages to win both games, she declares it a loss seeing as though she hasn’t been able to cop the holy grail wild card. Harry, on the other hand, has tested their friendship with a lucky +4.

It is clear that Harry is using this game for his own personal and informative gain. He pries for answers that always linger in his head, ones that he assures y/n are normal for best friends to share, but never once has she given him the satisfaction.

That is, until now.

“What’s your biggest kink?”

It throws y/n off for a second, especially when the tequila shot is slicing down her sensitive throat. It is an invasive question that not many expect from him, but it’s obvious that alcohol clouds his better judgement. “Excuse me?” she remarks, blinking profusely. “So much for being a gentleman.”

He can’t seem to keep a straight face. His cocky energy radiates at her fluster, so what can she do but get it over with and answer his question?

She begins rather shyly, knowing right away which specific sexual pleasure it is that drives her over the edge. She then learns to embrace her driven taste that, to her dismay, has not yet occurred. In her head, she can’t control the images from sneaking up on her, pushing her straight off the cliff. She can’t tell if the incredulous smirk that Harry has on is due to his shock and satisfaction from her confession, or because he can also imagine himself in such a fantasy with his own partner of choice.

Despite how in-depth and personal y/n goes on about the fiery flare that burns in her stomach, she will never tell him that it is him and his body that she imagines discovering hers, and that it has never been easier to fantasize than with her personal choice physically in front of her.

Even now, as they start a new game, the obvious shift of tension does not dissipate. A hotness still lingers in the air, but the two friends pretend to be fools for the sake of their friendship. Whether the cracks are crumbling or the cement is stiffening, neither are too sure of.

Y/n picks up her cards, prepares herself for disappointment despite her latest victory. What calls attention to her dull eyes ignites a sudden spark that has been missing. The wild card stuffs between her red 7 and red skip, and it parallels the most beautiful sight that she can ever recall envisioning in her short and simple life.

She can’t let the opportunity slip away. It no longer matters to her whether she is the one who calls the infamous Uno phrase at the end of this round to claim another reign. Harry cannot slither his charismatic magic to the deck any longer, as she assumes he’s been doing considering his unfathomable luck with wild cards.

She is the one with the power of the first turn. She is the one who isn’t thinking clearly, slaps down the familiar black card in all of its glory, and cheers to herself with a silent seizure of celebration.

And Harry is the one who stares in shock, baffled by the turn of events.

“Hmph.” His lips purse to the side in an awkward manner. He wonders how he can swivel his way around this predicament. “Right, and I’m the one with the shit strategy?”

His comment on her impulsive play does not rain on her gloating parade. Instead, she bounces her leg up and down, scouring for a question that will leave him with nothing but his vulnerability. Harry has accepted his fate; he leans back on the couch in anticipation. He eyes the vodka bottle on the table and wonders if it will do him any favors.

Y/n takes some time to scheme. With her prior hand of colorful cards, she had a million questions storming in her brain at lightning speed. Now, she draws a complete blank, with the towering beanstalks and sunflowers mowing down to an empty, dying field.

In such a desperate time of need, a single question rises. She hesitates and wonders if she really wants to know the answer. She wonders if her goal is to inflict pain upon herself – is it a pleasure that she cannot control? It is the only solution in the midst of seconds ticking away, Harry’s impatience growing.

Harry. He sits and basks in the glory of her uncertainty. Chances are that he anticipates a seductive retaliation to his over-the-line inquiries. This possibility might be more fun since that is what he is trying to get out of this game: fun; enjoyment; entertainment. A good story to reminisce, but nothing more.

“Are you in love with someone?”

If there has ever been a person capable of flustering Harry up to the point of complete bewilderment, y/n effortlessly earns that title. No promotional interview has ever stumped him as much as this single moment does now. Though he usually stutters and responds to questions vaguely without even really answering them at all, he knows the solution to all of the media’s curiosity. He is careful to not reveal too much, as some things are meant solely for his knowledge. He holds no obligations to share his secrets, and he holds no true obligations to spare y/n an answer. It is easy for him to simply walk out of the game as a sore loser; a coward of a man whose word holds empty.

The reality of it is that he does have an answer. He’s sure that he does, but there is a hesitance that lingers when he considers if he is truly being honest with himself. For once, he does not know himself as well as he thinks he does.

“Don’t answer rhetorically,” y/n adds, pressing on amid the silence she causes. “Don’t say your mother. Or Mitch or Stevie Nicks or something like that. Just . . . do you love someone?”

Harry’s smile diminishes. In its place: a hauntingly emotionless appearance. He is far gone in his own thoughts, and y/n worries that she has broken him. “What’s the question then?” he asks, allowing y/n to breathe and choke all at once. “Do I love someone, or I am I in love with someone?”

His allusion to the contrast quite honestly fazes her. She doesn’t bother to notice the divided significance that the two phrases have. Pining the two under the perfect spotlight unveils a stark perspective that makes her question her own emotions. Does she love? Or does she fall in love, down a smothering abyss that reaches no definite end? Is she sunbathing on the moon, or is she hurtling through the infinite depths of space?

It is a simple request for clarification, but she wonders if Harry tortures himself enough with notions of love to make such a separation between two very similar things.

“Um,” y/n pauses – this is a second chance. She can retract her statement and avoid the heartbreak that may follow one of his answers. “In love,” she answers instead. “Are you in love with someone?”

She expects him to think on it. She expects the pressure to deflate from his lungs in a shaky breath. She does not expect him to be so certain over something so confusing and undefinable.

“Yeah,” he answers, tops his sentence off with a nonchalant, cherry-sparkling shrug.

“Who is it?” she presses on, already accepting the discomforting ache.

“I’m not telling,” he says. There is no offense to his tone, but she knows that there is a secret he is protecting. She does not know why he is protecting it from her.

“Well, you have to give some kind of an elaboration,” she persists, and subtly clears her throat. It burns with the sensation of emotions closing it up. “Is it . . . are they like,” y/n exasperatingly exhales. She slumps her shoulders in defeat. “This person . . . are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“But not entirely?”

“It’d be pretty embarrassing to be entirely in love with someone who I’m not even sure is in love with me back.”

Y/n grimaces. How can they not?

“Okay, so, you’re in love with this person, but do you think . . . y’think you would ever stop everything for them?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean like . . . slow down. You’re young, H, and you’re just starting to reach the peak of the mountain. And once you’re at the peak, there goes the stars. Who knows what else after that? You can’t see it yet because maybe you don’t want to, maybe you like not knowing what’s next. But that person that you love, or are in love with, or whatever it is, do you love them enough that you’ll settle for just the clouds? And not the high ones, I’m talking about the really low ones that few people get to touch and maybe even die trying to—”

“Y/n,” Harry whispers. He leans closer to her trembling, broken down frame. “Why are you crying?”

His firm hands grip onto her shoulders. He tries to comfort her, concern sketches into every precise detail on his face. He has momentarily forgotten about the game; his cards are discarded, facing up on the coffee table for any prying eyes to see. He’s not sure where everything went wrong, but the puzzle is the least of his worries if he cannot get this single piece to fit.

Y/n sniffles, absolutely humiliated by her own pity party. Once so optimistic, she blames the alcohol that drowns her in unexplainable sorrow. “You can’t ask me that,” she replies and wipes away at her eyes. “I’m the one with the wild card.”

“Y/n—”

“Just answer the question so we can finish this stupid game, Harry.”

Harry frowns. This poor construction of a façade that y/n hides behind is so heartbreaking. She forces a brave face, but he knows now more than ever that she wants to fall apart. Maybe if he weren’t here, she actually would – but in his presence, she keeps her chin up, lips pursing, and awaits an answer to spite the wetness on her cheeks.

“It’s hard to answer,” he says quietly, never once breaking the contact with her glass eyes. “I don’t think I can know until it happens. You know that looking too into the future is hard for me.” Y/n nods and absorbs every single word. “I don’t think you’re supposed to know when you’re in love. But this is my life, y/n. I can’t slow down. I can’t run away. It’s different for me.”

“So, you wouldn’t try?” she asks, which coaxes a shrug out of him. “Not even for the person that you’re in love with?”

There’s no response from him, but that alone is enough of an answer.

“Okay,” y/n croaks out, settling back into her gaming stance. “Green.”

To their sharing dismay, the game continues. Harry drops a green 4, y/n combines a green skip with a red skip and a red 0. While her sniffles resemble torpedoes to his ears, he feels powerless to do anything about it. He feels worthless, and sort of dirty, sitting on her couch, pretending as though she isn’t having the absolute worst time of her life, all because of him.

It’s uncomforting. It’s wrong. She has this pain and it is strong, so strong that it impacts him severely. He senses a burn in his nose. He tries to focus on the numbers and figures on his cards, but his vision blurs. He dabs at his jaded eyes, clears his throat, shakes his head, but all of his thoughts revolve around her distress.

“Uno,” she calls in a rush, impatient for the game to end. She imagines the following events to transpire: she excuses herself and goes to bed; Harry lets himself out, locks the door with the key hidden not-so-cleverly under her doormat; he climbs onto a plane and leaves for somewhere far, far away, in another part of the world where the beauty of torturous pain cannot follow him; they remain friends, but there is something different between them, something unspoken, something that just cannot be fixed. They are friends, but they are not the same friends as before.

She can’t possibly imagine the +4 that he smacks down over her discarded yellow 6 after downing the rest of his drink. It’s impossible – how does he win so much in life and in a silly game?

“Fucking plus four,” y/n whispers under her breath. She sets her cards down with her bottom lip quivering as she reaches for another choice of poison. What stops her hand right over the glass bottle is Harry’s own devouring hers. He puts her actions to rest as the world, for one miniscule moment, stops entirely.

“What do you,” Harry pauses, searches for her eyes. He’s begging for some compliance; his universe collides with hers. “Do you have feelings for me?”

Y/n closes her eyes. She shuts them tight, pulls her hand away from his protection, and wishes that he wouldn’t touch her again. “You can’t ask me that.” Her lip curls as she refuses to answer.

“Wh – what do you mean I can’t? It’s my turn—”

“No,” she argues. She blinks her eyes open and roughly brushes the tears away with the back of her hand. “You can’t ask me that, please, don’t ask me that.”

Harry wants to retaliate. He almost demands an answer from her, but one sight at her in ruins, and he has no choice but to back off. “Fine,” he says, “but I still get to ask a question.”

Y/n sits up straighter. The frown on her face transforms into a cold, hard stare. “Fine.”

“Would you kiss me right now if you had the chance?”

Y/n seems to have a lack of concern for his question, but her interior screams in agony. Oh, how the night has progressed, but one ounce of courage intertwines her vision with his, and her answer is very clear.

“No,” she answers honestly. It isn’t the response that he expects.

Still, he keeps his ground. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to be another drunken mistake that you regret in the morning.”

Before he has the chance to react, y/n is already reaching for her drink, and sips it straight from the bottle.

“You wouldn’t be,” he musters out after she licks the remnants of alcohol from her lips. “I’d still remember it in the morning, and I wouldn’t regret it. And I wouldn’t regret anything that happened after that, too.”

She doesn’t know what he wants from her. She’s damaged beyond repair, and quite frankly, she’ll never look at her beloved Uno the same way again. This isn’t how she once pictured her night to turn out, and now she wants nothing but for it to end.

Y/n swallows. She picks up her cards, then counts four from the deck to add to her hand. “What color?” she asks, and leans down on her nervous knees that bounce up and down.

“Y/n, can you stop this for a second? Can we just talk? Please?”

Y/n doesn’t want to talk. In fact, the plea makes her brain pound again the confinements of her skull. “You know,” she rubs her eyes, and throws her card across the table, “I quit. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

She stands up from the couch and faces away from Harry so that his eyes can burn into her back. She increases the distance between them, preparing herself to fall apart once she makes it to her bedroom.

“Wait,” Harry says, standing up with her discarded pile. “But you picked up a wild card.”

“Harry, I’m done playing.” She waves her hand, not bothering to spare him a glance.

“Alright, then just ask me!”

“What—”

Y/n emits a gasp when her whole body forcefully turns around, pressing gently against the wall. She feels his hot and toxic breath hugging her skin, two hands firm on her shoulders.

“What the hell?” she asks, struggling to push him away.

“You don’t need a stupid card game to ask me what the voicemail said, so just ask me.”

Y/n stops her movements. Her puffy eyes stare up at desperation in its purest form. “Voicemail? But you . . . you remember calling me?” she asks, thinking back to their earlier conversation about his drunk antic. “You left me a voicemail?”

“Ask me what the voicemail said, y/n. And I’ll tell you.”

She’s at a loss for words. Her mind feels as though it cannot comprehend a single thing that swims through her eyes and ears. His face, so marvelously structured, the most beautiful face she’s seen. He’s so pretty and he’s so vulnerable to her, but she’s not sure if she wants him to be.

“What did the voicemail say, Harry?”

Her best friend huffs. This is the point of no return. “From what I can remember, it erm, it went something like, hey y/n...”

“Hope you’re having a good time, wherever you are, not too sure, doesn’t really matter. I’m on a . . . I don’t know, a roof, sort of? A balcony, sorry, I’m safe, don’t worry. Um, I’m pretty drunk right now. Nick doesn’t know when to stop with the tequila shots. Anyways, yeah, I’m plastered. And on a balcony. And I’m looking at the stars, and the moon, wow, it’s like so bright. And I’m looking and I’m thinking where is y/n? Why isn’t she looking at the moon? Then I say to myself, oh, right, she’s not here. And I dunno, that sucks. It sucks when I realize that and it sucks that you didn’t pick up your phone.

I don’t know. This is just . . . ergh. I don’t know even know what ‘m saying anymore. I can’t think right now, all of this is coming off as word vomit, but I can’t think, but I’m still thinking. And I’m wondering why do I feel so sad that she’s not here? Then I tell myself, you stupid bloke, it’s cos’ you love her. And then I remember. Right, that’s right, I love her. I love you. In love with you, I mean, cos’ I’ve always loved you, even when you’re being annoying and even when you don’t pick up your phone.

...Ah, shit. I just . . . I just realized what I’ve done. Shit. That’s not good. If you can just . . . ignore that last part, please, I’d really owe you one. But um . . . I know I’m drunk, but the tequila is dissolving the gate in my brain and it’s letting all of this stuff out. So, the stuff’s been there, it’s just . . . yeah, it’s not cos’ I’m drunk. I’ve always wanted to kiss you and stuff. But, if you uh, if you listen to this, maybe we can talk about it. If you want. But if you don’t, then just, I don’t know. Ignore me, I guess. Pretend it never happened? Sounds good. Alright. Shit. Goodnight, lovie.”

Harry paraphrases his drunk rant as much as he can. He leaves out the pauses of hiccups and laughter, the um’s and erm’s, the spontaneous profanity. He recites to her the most important parts, she ones that she needs to hear. Or rather, the ones he needs her to hear. By the time that his revelation comes up, y/n already has hot tears streaming down her sensitive cheeks.

“So . . . it was you,” he says, bold enough to reach up and wipe away the tear that drips under her eye. His hand hovers over the side of her face, cupping her there soft and tender. “That was your question. I remembered everything I had done in the morning. I didn’t regret it, cos’ at least then I knew whether or not I was embarrassing enough to be in love with someone that didn’t see me the same way.”

Harry bites his lip. For the longest time, he had reason to believe that she had rejected him. She had ignored something that she hadn’t even known she had been ignoring. Time is now incomprehensible. It feels to him like a Mardi Gras parade of flinging daggers, striking him from every different direction.

“I’m tired,” y/n says. In the most delicate way, she reaches into the space between them and pushes his arm away. The bubble that encloses their innocence for each other now shatters, shards of memories and confessions prickling the very air they breathe, suffocating their lungs until there is nothing more to suffer over.

He stands frozen. He watches her trudge away, inching farther and farther, and he knows that it will be over. Because of him, there is a possibility that even something as simple as friends is off the table.

“Stop walking away from me,” he demands. She hears the strain in his voice, the perfect crack that, if pushed any further, can temporarily damage his vocal cords. He’s tired. He needs rest; she doesn’t know what she needs, but of course, she puts him first. She puts his health over her own, his wellness over anyone else’s. He doesn’t want to leave, but he has to. He has reached the end of the sentence – the very period that no comma, no semicolon, no pause or break or continuation can ever overpower.

“Goodnight, Harry,” she says, not bothering to wipe away the sorrow fallen on her cheeks. She can’t hear him – almost as if he doesn’t exist and never has. It is so easy to pretend, so that’s what she does. It makes the rest of her journey to her bedroom that much simpler; it also makes it that much harder to ignore the sound of her front door opening and closing, fumbling and locking, until a sonder silence snuggles next to her for the hours to come.

part two

#honeytryst

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hpdabbles · 5 years

Text

If You Were Mine

“What is this?”

Harry looks up from where he’s setting the oven to pre-heat their cookies just in time to watch Ron press a button on his blender. The blender he may add, that had half-filled with fruits and uncover to boot. His mouth opens to shout a warning but it’s too late.

His friend turns it on, causing the blades to swing around and around doing their job. Ron watched with fascinated eyes leaning over to peek into the glass counter.

Which was a mistake on his part.

The buzzing machine shoots out some strawberries nailing Ron in the eye, some of the cut-up pieces of banana also sent flying landing around the counter with a splat. Ron hisses like an irritated cat moving away from still shaking blender.

It fell over shaking on the counter and spilling what little remains inside it. The redhead gasps, hastily retreating back as it trembles all over the counter.

“It’s possessed!” His friend shouts, scrambling for his wand. “We need to kill it before-”

Harry reaches out grabbing the cord and pulling until it unplugs. Instantly the blender stills, Ron’s wand inches away from it. He sighs, dropping the wire to take account of the damage. Luckily nothing broke this time but the counter will probably stain if he doesn’t vanish the mess right away.

Waving a hand over the spill, Harry concentrates his magic, and wills it to do his betting. It’s been a few months since he’s tried to learn wandless magic, there have been times when his magic didn’t react at all, and sadly these were one of those times.

Frustrated that it didn’t work, Harry turns to Ron with a raised eyebrow. He tries not to show just how irritated he is but it bleeds into his voice anyway. “Must you attempt to break all my stuff every time you come over?”

He had the decency to look sheepish as he waved the wand making the mess vanish. “Sorry. Its just...everything is so muggled here. It’s not like this at home. There I understand but here...I don’t know Harry it feels weird here.”

Harry lowers his eyebrow, setting his jaw downwards in a warning. Seeing this the other starts to wave his hands. “Not that it’s a bad thing! I just..want to understand is all. Why you choose this....over, well, you know.”

There is a lull in the conversation everything left unsaid hanging in the air between them. Harry knows he should address it but, he’s been avoiding this conversation for months now, unable to explain just why he wanted to live this way again to someone who just wouldn’t see how he possibly could want to. Ron is a pureblood, and while that never really bothered their friendship, it also made them vastly different.

He couldn’t imagine a life without his magic doing everything for him. Harry couldn’t imagine a life where magic could fix everything. Maybe that’s why it was so hard to find a compromise.

Harry, for all his accomplishments, for all his adventures, for all the magic he learned through the years, was still the muggle raise half-blood that had always imagine a muggle type of adulthood.

He wanted his own house with his own telly so he could decide what to watch and when. He wanted his own garden so he could decide what to plant and how. He wanted his own kitchen with his own cooking supplies so he could eat whatever food fit his moods best. He wanted a college diploma that would get him a fine job and prove all those people of his boyhood wrong. Hell, he even wanted the married life and the white fence.

Ginny had been more than eager to offer him that, but she wasn’t the Weasley he wanted. Maybe that’s why he choose to hide away in the muggle world. He had to stop pretending at some point, didn’t he?

Some things were just a part of a lonely kid’s dream no matter what year it may be.

Harry forces those thoughts away with practice easy. “It’s fine. Just next time tell me what you want to do before you do it? I’ll teach you how to use it. Like this, for example, is called a blender.”

“You’re not going to use it again, are you?” Rons says, his voice just a tab bit softer with an apology. Harry accepts it wordlessly offering his best mate a smile. It’s odd to see Ron, in all his wizardly attire standing in Harry’s expensive modern kitchen, equipped with the newest of muggle technology.

The Potter family fortune turns out to be worth even more in the muggle economy. He never had to work another day in his life, not unless he chooses to. It was mind-blogging sometimes to know he could look at something and not have to worry about the price even though he always found himself double-checking and budgeting anyway.

Old habits die hard he supposes.

The only thing he really spent money on was his house. It’s a three-story, in the middle of his own private forest and filled to the brim with large windows and comfortable muggle furniture. It’s isolated so he never has to worried about his fame catching up to him but close enough to a muggle city that he can get anything he needs.

A perfect place to hide. When Ron first saw it, he compared it to a resort cabin and Harry found he really liked that compassion.

He would have liked it more if Ron asked to stay and live there-

“Oven will be ready soon,” Harry says cutting off his wishful thoughts. He “Then we just slap the cookies right in and wait for thirty-five minutes. What do you want to do while we wait?”

“Maybe you can help me write my vows?” Ron suggests a goofy smile blooming on his face. He looks so utterly in love and Harry can’t breathe. “I’ve been going over them but I’ve never been much for words. I need to be them to be perfect for Hermione. My girl deserves the best.”

“She got it you know,” Harry says staring at his best mate trying not to show how much he wants to be sick “She’s got you”

Ron throws his head back and laughs, his chest heaving with the same sound that may as well have cause Harry to fall for him. “Thanks, Harry. You always know just what to say.”

No I really don’t. If I did, it be our wedding next month. But instead, I have to watch the two most important people to me tear me apart all over again. He thinks but finds different words falling from his lips. Lying has gotten so easy over the years. “What is are best friends for?”

“Why to be wingmen of course,” Ron says very carefully and Harry’s smile freezes on his face. Seeing this the redhead hastily continues “Now I know what you’re going to say but hear me out!”

“Ron, I told you I don’t fancy girls.” It had been the closest he’s ever come to his true feelings but it was tiring to have the love of his life fling one female after the other at him when he realizes Harry wouldn’t be his in-law.

“Exactly! Which is why I found a nice bloke for you.” Ron says his blue eyes sparkling. Marlin he’s trying so hard to make Harry happy. Can’t he see how slowly he’s killing him instead? “Well, okay Hermione did, but I’ve met him and I approve. I think you would too if you just gave him a chance-”

“No Ron.”

“But-”

“Drop it,” Harry says looking away, unable to keep the eye contact. “Please just...drop it”

The lull in the conversation is back, heavier than before and Harry hates it. Hates how it’s become part of their interactions. Hates that it made the once easy silence between them to feel chocking.

Ron leans against the island counter, the only thing standing between them now. “Look Harry usually I would just let this go but it’s been almost two years and you’ve bearly go out. I’m worried about you. Please mate, just one date.”

Harry closes his eyes, he can’t say no to that voice. It’s too small, too affectionate. “One date you say?”

“Yes,” There is triumph in his voice, the kind he used to scream into Harry's ear whenever they won a Quidditch game. It makes him smile a bittersweet thing that blue eyes miss because Harry has yet to turn back to him.

“What he’s named then?”

“You already know him. It’s Draco Malfoy.”

“Malfoy? Ron, I already regret this.”

“I know, I know, especially with our history but just give him a chance! Please? For me?”

There it is, the feeling of having someone cut his legs from under him, the feeling of drowning on dry land. The feeling he’s had around Ron since his second year after learning his best mate would never look at guys the same way Harry did.

He wants to cry, wants to scream, wants to rage and yell but instead, he just nods. “You know very well that I’ve do anything for you.”

Ron beams.

The cookies taste like lead in his mouth. Harry isn’t surprised, all the food he makes with Ron end up tasting the same.

#dabblecentral #If you were mine #unrequited love #Harry is the best man at the Ron's wedding #Ron just wants to be a good friend #He's hiding from all things magical and heartbreak #Their all about twenty two here

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barchiefanfiction · 6 years

Text

Sweet as Pie

by keiraknighted

for Barchie Halloween

prompt: that pumpkin pie sucks but I will eat three slices because you look so proud

AO3 // ff.net

Archie doesn’t cook. Ever. It’s not that he’s against cooking. It’s just that he’s terrible at it. He’s so terrible at it that once, when his dad wasn’t home, he tried to make mashed potatoes by putting raw potatoes in a blender. He’d called Betty to ask her why it wasn’t working and she’d just laughed at him for five minutes. Not his finest moment.

But despite his disastrous previous attempts at cooking, he’s trying again now.

Betty had texted him an hour ago saying she was craving pumpkin pie. Her mom used to have a tradition of baking it on the first Saturday of October every year, but since Hal went to prison, a lot of family traditions have been abandoned.

So Archie had found a recipe online, and now he’s in the kitchen, covered in the cinnamon that he’d spilled everywhere earlier, trying to work out the difference between beating and whipping.

He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing, but how hard can it be to follow a recipe?

His dad walks into the kitchen, surveying the carnage with dismay.

“I’ll clean it up, I swear,” Archie promises.

Fred looks amused. “Are you actually cooking?”

“I’m baking,” Archie corrects. That’s right, he knows what baking is. “Betty wants pumpkin pie.”

“Ah,” Fred nods knowingly. “Archie to the rescue, is it?”

“Something like that,” Archie mutters, turning pink. He avoids his dad’s knowing smirk.

“Good luck,” Fred says, leaving Archie to google whether or not brown sugar is the same as normal sugar.

The pie is in the oven when the doorbell rings. Archie doesn’t bother taking his apron off before answering the door. It’s Betty.

“You weren’t supposed to be here yet,” he says.

“I’m bored. You weren’t answering your phone.” She looks him up and down. “Are you… baking?” she says, incredulously.

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

Betty grins. “Sorry,” she says. “It’s just… remember the time with the mashed potato?”

“I remember,” Archie sighs. “Are you coming in or what?”

“Yes,” Betty says, still grinning impishly. “Veronica’s coming too, by the way. She’ll be here soon.” She brushes past him to get inside. “You smell like cinnamon,” she notes. Archie flushes.

He follows her to the kitchen where she leans against the counter. The timer dings and Archie goes over to the oven, slipping the oven mitts on his hands.

“What did you make?” Betty asks, peering over his shoulder.

Archie pulls the pie out and turns around, presenting her with the pie. It actually looks like it’s supposed to.

Betty’s face lights up, and Archie can’t help but smile proudly. “You made me pumpkin pie?” Betty says, clasping her hands together.

“Yeah,” Archie smiles, pleased with himself. “You want a piece?”

“Yes!”

He cuts her a piece and puts a dollop of whipped cream on the top before placing the plate in front of her with a flourish. Betty picks up the spoon he’s provided her with, and Archie watches with baited breath as she takes the first bite.

She pauses. Then she keeps chewing. She swallows.

“Well?” Archie prompts.

Betty smiles. “It’s delicious, Arch. Great job.”

Archie beams with pride and Betty shakes her head, smiling fondly.

“I’ll have some too,” Archie says.

“No!” Betty bursts out. Archie frowns at her, confused. She looks a little sheepish. “I, uh… want it all to myself?”

Archie rolls his eyes and cuts her another slice, though she isn’t even halfway through the first piece. Betty grabs the can of whipped cream and sprays it all over her pie. “It isn’t really pie unless it’s covered in whipped cream,” she explains.

Archie grabs the can and sprays it directly into his mouth.

“You’re disgusting,” Betty says affectionately.

“Says the girl who sprayed half a can of whipped cream on her pie,” Archie smirks. “You know you want some,” he says, holding the can in front of her mouth. Betty screws up her nose but she opens her mouth. Before Archie can press down on the trigger, Fred walks into the kitchen, and Betty quickly turns back to her pie, embarrassed. Archie puts the can of whipped cream down.

“What are you kids up to?” Fred asks. “How did the pie turn out?”

“Delicious,” Betty says with her mouth full. She gives Fred a thumbs up.

“Cut us a slice then,” Fred says to Archie, and Betty doesn’t object to sharing some of her pie with Fred so Archie cuts a slice for him. Fred takes a bite and puts his fork down, nodding. “Not bad, son.”

Fred and Betty share a look that Archie can’t decipher.

“I’ll eat your piece if you don’t want the rest,” Betty offers.

Fred raises his eyebrows at her. “Sure. I have to head out anyway.” Fred leaves the kitchen, and as he exits the house he calls back, “Veronica’s here.”

Moments later, Veronica joins them in the kitchen.

“Hey, V,” Betty says. She’s finished her first piece of pie and is nearly done with the second. Veronica eyes Betty’s plate.

“What are you eating?” Veronica asks.

“Archie made me pumpkin pie.”

Veronica looks to Archie. “You cooked?” she asks, incredulously.

“Why is everyone so surprised?”

“You don’t cook. You suck at it.”

“Oh yeah? Try this pie and prepare to eat your words,” Archie says.

“No, don’t,” Betty says.

“Why not?” Veronica says, even as Archie is cutting her a sliver.

“Betty wants it all to herself,” Archie rolls his eyes.

“It’s just a tiny piece, B,” Veronica says. She gets a small piece on her fork and puts it in her mouth. Then she promptly spits it out.

“What’s wrong?” Archie asks, concerned.

“No offence, but this is terrible,” Veronica coughs. “Betty, you actually ate this?”

“It’s not that bad!”

Archie looks to Betty. “You said it was delicious.”

Betty grimaces, turning pink. Veronica snorts. “She clearly lied.”

Archie stabs his fork into Veronica’s piece of pie to taste it, only to find out, it is, in fact, terrible. It’s definitely not sweet enough, and the pasty isn’t really cooked on the bottom. Plus, the pumpkin part has a weird consistency. Archie spits it out.

Betty looks at him apologetically. He bursts out laughing.

“God, why did you eat so much of it?”

“You looked so proud, I didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” Betty shrugs.

“You two are impossible,” Veronica huffs. “Archie, you cooked her pie, despite the fact that you can’t cook. Betty, you actually ate the pie, despite the fact that he can’t cook. You really are made for each other.”

Archie goes red, and risks a glance at Betty, who is steadfastly looking at her plate, her cheeks tinged pink.

“I need to go wash my mouth out,” Veronica says, heading to the bathroom.

Archie turns to Betty. “You really didn’t have to eat it,” he smiles.

“But you went to so much trouble,” Betty says.

“Yeah, but,” he shrugs, “I only went to that trouble to make you happy. Kind of defeats the purpose eating the pie made you miserable.”

Betty laughs. “It didn’t make me miserable. You being happy makes me happy.”

Archie grins. “Me too.” His eyes flick to her lips. She has a little speck of whipped cream on her bottom lip. “You have cream on your lip,” he says, brushing it away with his thumb, then sucking the cream off his thumb.

“Arch—” Betty says, and then she surges forward to kiss him. He kisses her back, and luckily, she tastes more like whipped cream than the terrible pumpkin pie.

Veronica chooses that moment to walk back into the kitchen.

“Barf,” she says, and Archie and Betty break away from each other. “Can we go to Pop’s for some real food or do you two need some alone time?”

“We can go to Pop’s,” Archie says. “But just know that the whole time I’ll be thinking about kissing Betty.”

“So what’s new?” Veronica rolls her eyes. “Let’s go, I’m famished.”

Archie takes Betty’s hand, and they follow Veronica outside.

“Hey, Arch?” Betty says.

“Mmm?”

“I really appreciate you making me pumpkin pie and everything,” she says. “But please never try to cook again, okay?”

Archie laughs. “Or,” he grins. “You can teach me how to cook.”

Betty smiles. She stops to give him a peck on the lips. “Deal.”

#barchie #barchie fanfiction #barchiehalloween18 #fanfiction #prompts filled #canon divergence #ratedg #short oneshot #fluff #halloween #baking #t:sweet as pie #a:barchiefanfiction #a:keiraknighted #fanfic

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fyrapartnersearch · 6 years

Text

Your milkshake brings all the OCs to the yard

Damn right, they're better than mine. I could write you, but I'd have to get back to you on time, place, and amount.

About my milkshake: Jaimie/27/F/Working 40 hours a week/Looking for something casual but long term

Your Milkshake:

- My milkshakes are of my own creation. I expect yours to be the same. (Original characters only please. I don't care to write any fandoms at the moment).

- All the boys to the yard, your milkshake must bring. (I write MxM stories. I am perfectly happy to double or triple or whatever number you want of any number of characters of any variety. My own stipulation is our mains be male and the story is MxM centric).

- Aged milk? Sounds gross. But please be 18+ so there's no issue of age. I am grown and I don't want to go to jail for writing with minors.

- Let's talk about...milkshakes? I am more than happy to OOC chat. I love meeting people and making friends.

- Don't like my shake? No Problem. Sometimes people don't mesh well. I will absolutely tell you if the story is going nowhere/ let you know if I want to stop/ Can't write anymore. Please do the same. I will not be upset and respect you more for it. I might even hit you up if you feel like the time might be right at another date.

- I'm bringing my own blender. I am providing story prompts and characters to play against below. If you're interested, please select a character and plot. If you don't like any of these, please explain that to me and provide plot suggestions. I am open to brain storming but I don't want to have to do all the leg work. That's where we lose people...and interest...

* (Character bio's in depth will be provided to those interested in the story/character combo.)

The Flight plan (plots)

1. (Fantasy/Sci-fi/Modern) Starrtop or affectionately dubbed 'Starr' by his small group of companions is a botanist and lover of any kind of plant life. Working in a world filled with something akin to 'scientific magic' people not only live along side the growing technological industry but also have discovered alchemic answers to the 'magic tricks' in the world. As a result animal-like monstrosities have been released in this land along with anomalies in the plant life. A glorious haven for ST, he works in an old castle like building, toiling behind 'chemicals' to enhance plants to better serve humanity. There is a 'slip up' here and there, but nothing that can't be swept under the proverbial rug...or burned. The quirky semi-scientist who slums it in a laboratory has never lived a life of adventure in the fantastic world around him. They say he can work magic on foliage but perhaps someone in his genus could strike up some chemistry instead.

2. (Fantasy) Serbian is foremost a sorcerer but a small fact remains that he is also a demon. Demons fall in many categories in this world, some being benign, others being a threat. In this world there are humans and those who are not. Serbian falls into the aforementioned slot, which he is all too painfully aware of. Spending his time with a page held against her will, and a two tailed beast, the demon often finds himself peddling his wares to fellow demons and humans alike, forever on the move, a nomad in a mysterious continent. Yet, the humans strive to rid the world of demon-kind engineering 'aeygles' a hybrid of human and demon kind to ward of the surmounting threat to humanity. Stifled with a secret hidden within himself, Serbian struggles to live in a chaotic world wrought with danger, aeygles, daemons, mystery, and magic. Will he succumb to the rise of humanity, or help snuff it out before the Aeygles prove to be more dangerous to both demons and humans alike?

3. (Fantasy/Slice of Life/Modern) Thad is a damn good chef. He has hit a low point however and now works in a sleazy part of town, in a run down restaurant, smack between a strip joint and a dollar theatre. This doesn't get him down however, being a slacker is kind of his thing. When he's not working, he spends his time in bars, drinking, or playing the bass in a punk band for kicks. The point remains however, Thad is a damn good chef. He has been for over 500 years. Though that's pretty young in the lifetime of an imp. The world has always had a side not so often seen, and his world is nearly invisible, thanks to the OG monsters who kept things in the shadows. Life for monsters has been changing however, vampires being more lax, werewolves running amok from time to time. Still, despite this low point, it's but a small bump in the trajectory of his so-called life. He'll either continue on as he has been for 500 years or be thrown for a loop by whatever comes his way. But that's the beauty of life. You never know who or what might be coming down the road.

4. (Fantasy/Sci-fi) On the alien planet of Avis, in the Sol System- a neighbor to old Earth's Solar System there live a species undisturbed for eons. Despite the lack of communication between others, the Harpee have thrived with their minimalist technologies, living on their harsh, jungle infested planet. Muteo, a young Harpee prince is leery of taking on his mother's position as ruler of his people. However, with four waring factions between the Harpee, there is a little competition. With the threat of contact from other worlds looming and the choice to follow in his mother's footsteps- what is the prince to do? Will he choose to explore these 'settlers' from another world, or to unify his people and fight them.

I only role-play through email: [email protected] (there it is!)

#oc rp #multiple paragraph #long term #email #smut rp #submission

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ohnojustimagine · 7 years

Text

Someone Not You

Kenny Omega/Reader, mentioned Kenny/Kota Ibushi 2210 words; Smut and Angst

This is set after the G1 finals.

Anon requested post-match smut with Kenny and I’m pretty sure this probably isn’t what you wanted because it’s basically angst with more angst on top, so I’m sorry about that! But there is smut in it? At least?

***

You always watch Kenny’s matches from backstage. He’s asked you a few times if you’d rather be in the audience, but you prefer it this way, with some distance. You love to see him do what he does best, but sometimes it’s not easy for you, to witness what he puts himself through. And tonight you know he won’t be holding anything back, so you take a deep breath, steadying yourself, eyes glued to one of the monitors as the final begins.

It’s full on right from the start, and you’re familiar enough with Kenny’s body by now that you can see how he’s favoring his knee even when he shouldn’t be, tension knotting in your stomach as things progress. The botch with the table is so bad that you have to turn away for a while, but you clench your jaw, forcing yourself to watch: every bump, every blow as it continues.

He’s utterly brilliant, magnificent even in defeat, and it never fails to stun you how much of himself he gives to his matches, leaving nothing behind, prepared to sacrifice his whole being in the service of what he loves. But tonight, it’s all for nothing, and Naito’s already on the mic, accepting his trophy and his due.

And at last Kenny staggers into the room with the Bucks either side of him, giving you a weak thumbs up as he collapses down onto a bench. The three of them are almost immediately in deep discussion about the match, reviewing footage on someone’s phone, Kenny still breathing heavily with an ice bag pressed to his neck. “Here,” you say, standing behind him, taking the bag, holding it in place, and he glances back up at you, giving you a small, gratefully affectionate smile before continuing on with his conversation.

Eventually, he limps off for a shower, and you wait, making aimless small talk with Matt and Nick for a few minutes before they start going over the match again, between themselves, so you move away a little, giving them some space. They’re never anything but polite to you, but there’s a guardedness, a distinct reserve in the way they treat you. You used to think they didn’t like you, and maybe at first, that was true, as they’re so protective of Kenny that they don’t trust easily, but as time has passed, you’ve come to realize it’s more that they don’t feel there’s any point in getting to know you. You’re aware you’re just another in a long line of Kenny’s relationships, none of which have ever lasted.

And you want to tell yourself you’re different, that you understand him, that, unlike some of the others, you don’t demand any more than he’s capable of giving, but you’re not so sure that even matters. Not in the long run.

Kenny’s first priority is his career, always, and perhaps that should bother you, knowing that you come second, but his dedication and ambition, that clear-eyed single-minded focus, are all part of what you love about him, so you accept it.

Or, at least, you try to.

You all head off for dinner with Masa and some sponsor, and Kenny’s even quieter than normal. He’s exhausted, of course, you wouldn’t expect any less after a match like that, but there’s another aspect to it tonight. There’s an edge of restless tension to him, the hint of something not quite resolved, as if the tournament isn’t actually over.

And maybe it isn’t, not really, because this tournament hasn’t been like any other, and you’re not stupid.

You know why.

You’d asked Kenny about Kota when you first got together, curious with all the stories you’d heard, wondering how much was and wasn’t true.

“Ancient history,” he’d scoffed, and even then, you’d known he was lying. And not so much to you, but to himself, as if you weren’t the person who he needed to convince.

But you’d let it go, told yourself that whatever had happened, they were no longer together, that Kenny was with you. It’s only now you’re starting to suspect that Kenny hasn’t ever really been with you, not wholly, that there’s somewhere within him you won’t ever reach, a piece of his heart that can never be truly touched by anyone less than golden.

He’s silent in the taxi on the ride back to his apartment, and you offer to go home to your own place if he needs time alone, but he gives you a look, like you’re crazy, and says, “Of course not.”

And as soon as you’re inside, the door shut tight behind you, Kenny pulls you close to him, arms wrapped around you, and he just stands there like that, holding you, breathing. You gently hug him back, taking care with how you touch him, not wanting to cause him any more pain, aggravate any of the hurts he’s received over the last few weeks. You feel his body start to relax, his muscles loosening, and after a few minutes, he starts to kiss you. You’re expecting something slow, unhurried, but there’s an urgency to it that surprises you, and you respond in kind, your arousal quick and intense, rising within you, uncontrolled.

He unbuttons your skirt, and you pause long enough to take it off, your panties removed along with it, kicking off your shoes before reclaiming Kenny’s mouth with desperate insistence.

He walks you backwards towards the dining table, and you’re expecting him to lift you up so you can get your legs wrapped around his waist, but instead he turns you around, pushing you down face first so you’re bent over the surface. He shoves your t-shirt up out of the way and unfastens your bra, running one hand up and and down your back, his other hand between your legs, two fingers rough into your wetness.

He fucks them in and out of you, and you shift your hips, greedy for more, needing his cock, but instead he drags his fingers upward, one teasing at your ass, circling over your hole before pushing in. You moan, because yeah, you know what he wants, and you love it like this.

“Don’t move,” he mutters, the words sounding so much like a threat it sends a cold thrill through you, so you wait, listening to him walk off, looking back over your shoulder as he returns with lube. And this isn’t a seduction, there’s no slow tease here, only ruthless efficiency as he slicks up his fingers, two inside you, then three, and you’re more than ready.

He enters you slowly, and you inhale, letting yourself relax into it, because no matter how many times you do this, Kenny’s still big, and it always takes you a second to get your head round the feeling of it, but then you nod, say, “Okay.”

“No,” he says, a strained impatience in his voice. “Don’t talk.” He starts to move, and he doesn’t hold back, going rough and hard right from the start, and fuck but you can feel it, the sharp burn of every thrust, the pleasure of it so viciously crude you have to bite down to stop yourself from crying out, not wanting him to ever stop.

You manage to get your hand under yourself, rubbing your clit, and you’re soon coming, tightening around him, and you hear him moan, low and harsh, slamming into you one last time as he finishes.

He pulls out of you, and you wince at the feel of it, but he doesn’t say anything. You can hear him panting, his hand still pressed into the small of your back, holding you down, and after a few moments, he stalks off, silently, into the bedroom.

You don’t move, gathering yourself, but then you push up on your hands, standing, heading straight for the bathroom where you shower. The water’s too hot, but you don’t adjust it until it feels like your skin’s on fire, scalded raw.

Kenny’s asleep by the time you make it to the bedroom, and you stare down at him. He’s usually peaceful in slumber, but tonight he’s frowning, lines etched across his forehead. His legs twitch, and he murmurs something that you can’t quite make out, even though you lean in, trying to decipher the words.

You sigh quietly to yourself, and climb into the bed, lying beside him, gazing up at the ceiling.

***

You wake early, slipping on a robe and leaving Kenny snoring as you head out into the kitchen to make some tea. And you’re idly scrolling through twitter when you see it, the video of the two of them backstage last night, right after the match. You suddenly sit up straight, immediately tense, watching it all the way through and then watching it again.

And it’s not as if you didn’t know, but knowing something and seeing it are two utterly different things. The way they look at each other, what passes between them, unspoken, their touches, their posture, their bodies expressing so much more than mere words could ever hope to.

You breathe in, placing your phone face down on the table and taking another sip of tea.

An hour or so later, Kenny wanders in, still naked, sleepily rubbing his eyes. “Hey,” you greet him, and he bends over, kissing the top of your head. He opens a cupboard, rattling around, fixing himself one of his high-protein shakes, the blender buzzing as he mixes it.

He’s leaning back against the counter when you turn, watching him carefully, waiting for his reaction when you say, “Do you want to talk about Kota?”

And there it is, that flash of something in his eyes; passion or hatred or maybe both, an intensity like nothing else, but it’s only the briefest second before his face goes hard and blank, shuttered against you. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“I saw the video of you two,” you say, aware that you’re likely pushing too far.

But he only says, “Yeah,” perfectly, evenly casual, as if it’s nothing. “I’m sure everyone’s seen it by now.”

He gulps down the last of his drink, putting the container in the sink and walking back into the bedroom. You sit there a while longer, thinking, but then follow him.

He’s sitting up in bed, tapping a message into his phone, and you can’t stop yourself from glancing at the screen long enough to check, noting that it’s Matt he’s texting.

“You should sleep some more,” you say, and he shrugs in reply.

“How’s the knee?” you ask.

“Okay,” he answers, the word short and curt.

“Don’t forget you’re seeing that surgeon tomorrow,” you remind him. The appointment was booked weeks ago for straight after the finals, because he’ll need as much time as possible to recover before the Destruction series starts.

“I remember,” he says, finally looking up. He smiles at you, eyes so tired it makes you ache, and lifts up the covers beside him, inviting you in. You snuggle up next to him, your arm draped over his waist, head in the crook of his broad shoulder, wanting this to be the place you belong.

After a while, he puts down his phone, lying down on his back and pulling you over on top of him, kissing you. It’s warm and familiar and comfortable, everything last night wasn’t, and you reach down, taking hold of his hard cock, lining it up against your waiting cunt, sinking down on to him.

You roll your hips, riding him good and slow, making it last as long as you can until he comes, watching his face, how beautiful he is, wishing more than anything this could last forever; one pure, true moment that never ends.

When he’s done, he spoons up behind you, kissing your ear. “I love you,” he says, softly. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” you tell him. “I know.” And you do, because he does, but what you also know is that he doesn’t love you enough, that his affection for you is merely that: affection, not some grand sweeping passion that legends are made of.

But if that’s all you can have of him, you’ll take it. And maybe that makes you sad, or pathetic, but you don’t care.

“I love you too,” you say. You lie there, waiting as you hear his breathing deepen, feeling his chest rise and fall against your spine as he drifts back into sleep. You slide out of his embrace, sure not to wake him, and wander back out into the living room. You tell yourself you won’t watch the video again, but you do, letting it loop over and over until you finally close twitter, tossing your phone aside in anger, a sour, metallic taste in your mouth. And it’s yourself you’re furious with, not him, because you don’t know what else you expected.

You’re aware the rational, dignified action would be to break things off, give him the freedom you suspect he can’t or won’t admit he needs, but you’re far too stubborn to take the easy way out. You and Kenny have that in common, at least, you think bitterly.

You’ll fight for him, and you’ll lose, you’re certain of that, but you won’t give up.

Not until the very end.

#kenny omega #kenny omega angst #kenny omega smut #kenny omega imagine #njpw imagine

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