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hausofwoo · 1 year ago

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swallow | park seonghwa

pairing: park seonghwa x afab!reader

word count: 5.6K

this is part 2 of open wide! if you have not yet read part 1, i highly suggest reading it first.

summary: ever since that night, seonghwa has been avoiding you. but when new guy yunho starts at the restaurant, tensions rise until it reaches a breaking point.

warnings: 18+, minors do not interact, restaurant!au, bartender!seonghwa, server!reader, enemies to lovers trope, smoking (cigarette), alcohol consumption, sex under the influence of alcohol (but both consenting), fingering, unprotected piv (wrap it up y'all), dick slapping, biting, cumplay, oral (f receiving), face sitting, creampie, degrading, use of petnames (princess, baby), the passion is T H E R E, woosan allegations once again, feat. new guy!yunho, server/work bestie!ryujin, servers!wooyoung and san, restaurant manager!hongjoong.

author's note: i already intended on making a part 2 of open wide, and everyone's feedback was so sweet and helpful on part 1! thank u again to @hausofmingi and T for being my beta-readers as always :-) plz enjoy ♡ ✧*

your eyes flutter open to the birds chirping outside. it’s way too fucking early to be awake right now. you feel yourself in a half-dream half-awake state, mind fuzzy and floaty. you turn your head to the side to see the man you spent the night with; the man who made you feel so good.

you rub your eyes a bit, attempting to wipe away the sleepiness. your vision adjusts, and you take a deeper look at him. seonghwa.

he really is beautiful. perfectly plump lips, long eyelashes, and there’s something about the way his nose is just a liiiiittle bit bumped at the bridge. even in his flaws you find beauty. you can’t resist gazing at him while he sleeps, his hair all messy in his face. why is it that he is so beautiful, yet the way he treats you is so far from that?

he shifts a bit, letting out a gentle sigh. your eyes begin to droop again, and you feel yourself drift off to the sound of his soft breathing.

when you wake, your bed feels cold. he left. you sit up slowly, stretching your arms up to ring out the exhaustion from your body. you look back at the empty spot next you.

it’s interesting that he left without a word, but you don’t know what to make out of it. before last night, you clearly couldn’t stand each other. you thought he was conceited and condescending. he was rude. and even during last night, his ego pooled over. but was the mere thought of missing him childish? you can’t help but to feel like there was something more to it. there was something on a deeper level that made you curious, therefore you wanted it back even more so. you started to feel like those girls from the movies; the ones where the girl becomes clingy after a one night stand. a cliché.

so what if he didn’t stay? it’s not like he actually felt anything for you. it was just a quick fuck. you probably were just another girl that he decided to throw a bone to. that’s what cocky men like him enjoy; just someone to string along and play with until he’s bored with them. you figured that time came sooner than you expected. well fuck him.

he hasn’t made eye contact with you once since you came in to work. you have the section right in front of the bar (thanks for nothing, hongjoong) so you have to just bear through it every time you pass him by. you prep your tables for service, wiping them down mindlessly.

you suppose there isn’t really a right way to go about this. sleeping with a coworker is a no-no, especially in restaurants. it gets messy (but it happens nonetheless). it’s not like you can go up to him and talk to him as if nothing happened. he didn’t exactly set you up for success either. he left without a word, and now you’re forced into the same space as him, clueless as to what to do. you decide to just ignore him unless absolutely necessary.

ryujin hops over next to you, a little too peppy for how you’re feeling.

“are you ready for a great service tonight?” ryujin says sarcastically, but with a grin.

“i want it to be over already,” you force out a dry chuckle, still half-assing the prep for your tables.

“the hell is wrong with you?” ryujin snorts.

“i’ll just—“ you start, but then realize you felt eyes burning into you. you look up the moment seonghwa’s gaze shifts, going back to wiping down the bar. “um, i’ll tell you later.”

“okay…” ryujin says, puzzled. she walks back to her section to prep.

your eyes are compelled to shift back up to seonghwa. at this point it just feels embarrassing to be wondering what he’s thinking, wondering if he felt what you felt sunday night. your thoughts are interrupted by hongjoong approaching you with a tall man, someone new.

“this is yunho,” hongjoong says, almost presenting the man to you. “he’s going to be trailing you tonight. just show him the ropes and i’ll grab him once dinner service slows down.”

yunho steps forward, extending a hand to you. “it’s so nice to meet you!” he gives you a warm smile as you shake his hand.

“it’s nice to meet you too, yunho,” you say, surprised by the immediate kindness. this feels a lot nicer than how you’ve been treated before.

tuesday nights are usually slow, even during dinner service. you had a decent amount of tables, but nothing you couldn’t handle. and fortunately the new guy caught on really quickly, grabbing the drinks for your tables, clearing empty plates when needed… working with him was making your shift a breeze.

“you’ve worked in restaurants before, haven’t you?” you ask yunho. you refill a water jug for your table with him in the back.

“yeah, i have,” he says meekly, rubbing the back of his neck. “you can tell?”

“definitely,” you nod with a smile. “what happened at the last place?”

“the management,” he chuckles, and you knew exactly what he meant without any explanation. “don’t tell anyone, but i quit without notice.”

you fake a gasp, pretending to clutch your pearls. you let out a light-hearted laugh. “don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

yunho gives a sweet smile to you, eye contact lingering a bit. you look down and realize the jug of water started overflowing and quickly move it away, letting out a humored yelp.

“oops,” he whispers, and you both giggle quietly to each other while wiping down the mess.

little did you know, seonghwa was entering the back to switch kegs for the beer on tap, and he walked in on your giggle-fest. he looks between the two of you momentarily as he continues to the back. you don’t even notice him until he passes. in a strange way, you can almost see annoyance radiating off of him. but maybe you’re making things up?

at the end of service, you finish closing all your tabs and count your tips at the bar with ryujin and wooyoung. yunho was in the back with hongjoong, debriefing the shift. you assumed seonghwa was in the back too, but you pushed away the curiosity.

“what a slow night,” ryujin sighs. she holds up her measly few bills and fakes a cry.

“how was training the new guy?” wooyoung inquires, packing his things.

“it was really good,” you can’t help but smile a little too big. your face drops when seonghwa walks back out to the bar, carrying a pack of beer to restock. you swear he steals a glance at you before kneeling down to refill the low-boys.

“speak of the devil!” ryujin grins, with all of you shifting your view to see yunho walking to the bar with an apron in hand.

“i think you guys might be seeing a lot more of me from now on,” he says, fake-cockily. the three of you congratulate him, all while seonghwa minds to himself.

“when’s your next shift then?” you ask.

“hongjoong said i’ll train the rest of the week, and then my first day live is sunday,” he says, throwing his bag on his shoulder.

“you know what that means…” wooyoung voices mischievously.

“uhhh, what does that mean?” yunho utters, a curious expression on his face.

“sunday celebration!” ryujin throws her hands up in excitement.

“what the hell is sunday celebration?” yunho laughs.

“basically,” ryujin starts, “it’s where we all go out after our shift to a dive bar nearby and drink away our sorrows. but this time we can drink in ACTUAL celebration!”

“i could be down for that,” yunho says. he looks directly to you. “will i see you there?”

your lips part to answer, but your ears are punctured by glass shattering, and the sound of beer fizzing on the floor. your head snaps over to see seonghwa grumbling and picking up the pieces.

“party foul!” wooyoung says jokingly, but then was met with seonghwa’s glare. “kidding…”

you stand from the bar stool and gather your things, taking the cue to leave. “i’m gonna head out. yunho, see you tomorrow?”

“yup,” he says, holding back a smile. “i’ll see you then.”

you turn to walk to the door, feeling eyes like daggers piercing your back.

seonghwa is messing up a lot lately. which is very unlike him, being that he’s a perfectionist. you rang up an order of drinks for your tables, and yeah it was quite a few drinks, but you had never seen him mistake a gin martini for a vodka martini. you approach the drink pass with the misfired drink, setting it down.

“seonghwa,” you call to him, pointing at the drink. “i need a gin martini.”

“that IS a gin martini,” he says flatly, filling a beer from the tap. so sure of himself.

“no,” you insist. “this is vodka.”

he approaches the pass, setting down the beer with its appropriate ticket. he plucks a cocktail straw to do a straw taste of the drink. but with the sip, he wasn’t remotely shaken. he just tosses the liquid in the sink, remaking it without a word.

“you just gonna stand there and watch?” he says while stirring the beverage.

“are you gonna make it right this time?” you snap.

he places the drink on the pass, clearly pissed off. he slams the ticket next to the drink and glares at you, almost too close. you feel the huffs of his irritated breaths fanning your face, and for the first time since that night, you really look at each other. but all that was tangible in the air was anger.

“run your drink, princess.” he enunciates your nickname, packing a punch.

after finishing your closing duties, you’re ready to leave and put this shift behind you. you wave goodbye to your coworkers and start heading out the back door, it being held open by a loose brick. just as your feet hit the pavement of the alley, you hear your name being called behind you.

“wait!” you turn to yunho calling after you, and stopping in the doorway. “you leaving?”

“oh, uh, yeah,” you say, adjusting your tote bag on your shoulder. “i got all my side work done so i’m heading home.”

“oh, okay,” he says shyly, obviously with a second thought on his mind.

you look at each other for a moment, but not out of awkwardness, just with a peculiar feeling of enticement.

“so um, how was training with wooyoung today?” you ask.

“oh yeah,” yunho laughs. “it was good. he’s really funny with his tables.”

“yeah, that guy’s definitely a yapper,” you both giggle to each other in amusement.

“sooo… you’re walking home?” he asks, leaning on the frame of the door.

“i usually walk home, i don’t live that far,” you explain.

“me too! maybe i can walk you—“ yunho gets cut off by seonghwa barging into the doorway.

“can i borrow her for a sec?” seonghwa says, barely making it a question.

yunho hesitantly nods, “yeah, um, i guess i’ll see you later?” he says to you, giving you a small wave.

“yeah, i’ll see you tomorrow yunho,” you force a smile, with a pleading HELP ME written behind your eyes.

seonghwa leads you to the walk in, slamming the door behind him. he hovers over you and you can literally see the heat fuming off of him.

“what do you want, seonghwa?” you ask bluntly, trying your best not to sound intimidated.

“we need to talk,” he growls at you, stepping forward, forcing you to press up against the wall behind you.

“about what?” you quip with a begging tone. is this really the time to talk about it?

your eyes bore into each other, faces inches apart. his snarl nearly dissipates when he rips his eyes away from yours for a moment to glance at your lips. you blink up at him in temptation. you can feel the tension in the air, wondering if it was contempt or all encompassing desire. perhaps it was both.

“th–that shit you pulled earlier, don’t do it again,” seonghwa hesitantly lets out, nearly losing his composure.

“what, when you fucked up my drink order?” you ask.

“when you grilled me in the middle of service,” he defends.

“for fucking up, yeah,” you say, crossing your arms. “doesn’t feel nice to be scolded for your mistakes, does it?”

he glares at you for a beat, clearly unsure how to dig himself out of this hole. a hole that he dug. as if he snapped out of a trance, he steps back slightly. he clenches his jaw, and in a swift motion, withdraws from the walk-in. you’re left alone, still pressed up against the icy wall. a rolling cloud escapes your lips, making you realize you had been holding your breath.

it felt like sunday night didn’t come soon enough. this weekend was busier than usual, so all the running around on top of the rigidity of seonghwa was making you go mad. it’s difficult to avoid someone you hate when you have to retrieve drink orders from him all day. luckily, he just reserved to himself and you followed suit.

throwing your bag onto the bar, you slump into the bar seat at the end of the night.

“here,” hongjoong passes a shift beer to each of the servers at the bar, including you. “you guys need these after this weekend.”

you give a thank you while cracking it open, taking a big gulp. you let out a big sigh of relief.

“you’re right, hongjoong,” you say blissfully. “i did need this.”

ryujin snickers next to you, nudging your shoulder. “there will be plenty more at sunday celebration, don’t you worry.”

“speaking of,” san says, grabbing the shoulders of yunho. “congrats on your first live shift, yunho!”

“yeah, how was it?” you ask. you can’t help but smile at the beaming man.

“it went…” yunho starts, pausing for effect. “swimmingly.”

“sounds like a cause for celebration!” ryujin sing-songs, raising her beer in salute.

you all raise your glasses, short one person of course: seonghwa, who was mopping down the bar floor. after a hefty drink, wooyoung crushes his can first and tosses it in the trash.

“let’s start celebrating, sannie,” wooyoung says, throwing his arm over san’s shoulder. (seriously, what the hell is going on there?)

san and wooyoung book it out the door and ryujin follows soon after, finishing her beer and beckoning you to join.

“almost done, you go ahead!” you encourage, packing up your things hap-hazardly with one hand and chugging your beer with the other.

“shit, you guys drink fast,” yunho says, swishing his beer around to hear how much he has left. with a laugh he says, “wish i could just take this to go.”

“i won’t tell,” you whisper to him, grabbing him to join you. “walk with me?”

“okay,” yunho smiles, almost looking like he had stars in his eyes.

you two waltz out the door, leaving seonghwa at the bar cleaning alone. and with your eyes finally averted away, he can finally have no shame in watching you intently out the window. he is so fucked.

“here’s to yunho!” mingi hosts the cheers, with everyone raising their glasses, clinking them together and collectively taking a drink.

“guys,” yunho says with his face still contorted from the liquor. “thank you so much. you’ve all been so welcoming!”

“of course, you’re part of the fam now!” san smiles, wrapping his arm around the man’s shoulders.

everyone takes their respective seats and mingle amongst each other, all while taking more shots and drinking more beer. you, of course, were sat with ryujin and wooyoung talking about the latest work drama.

“have you guys noticed something different about seonghwa lately?” wooyoung asks. “like when he broke that beer the other night? i swear, the whole year i’ve worked here i’ve never seen him break a thing.”

“dude, yes,” ryujin says, leaning in. “he fucked up a couple of my drink orders today. so weird.”

“he’s definitely been in a bad mood lately,” you mumble, holding back from telling your secret.

“yeah, more than usual,” ryujin rolls her eyes. “he probably just needs to get laid.”

you choke back a bit on your drink, taken off guard by the comment. you realize the problem is not that he needs to get laid, but that he did get laid. and now he’s being tortured by seeing the poor girl at work every day. why did he have to sleep with you when you know he feels nothing but disdain for you? are you just a toy to him? you begin to feel dizzy, partly from the alcohol, but also from the thoughts spinning in your head.

“you okay?” wooyoung asks you, handing you a water. you nod and take the drink from him, but his eyes are quickly diverted to the bar. “oh shit, seonghwa is here.”

“what?” ryujin tries her best to look subtly. “do you think our shit-talking manifested him?”

“i don’t know,” you huff, trying to figure out a way to avoid him. “but i’m gonna go sit on the patio.”

“there’s a patio?” yunho chimes in, hearing the last bit. “can i join?”

you smile and nod, leading him back. this will be a good distraction.

“so…” you start, leaning against the wooden patio covering. “how do you like it here? at the restaurant, i mean.”

“it’s definitely different,” yunho laughs. he leans on the covering next to you. “everyone is super nice, the food is good… and it’s nice to work for a local business. the management seems to really care about the employees.”

“definitely, hongjoong is great manager.” you nod to him.

“it’s actually crazy,” yunho starts. “i’ve never seen so many attractive people all working in one place before.”

“what, like ryujin? or wooyoung? or san?” you giggle, realizing he was right. you do have a LOT of hot coworkers.

“well, sure,” yunho says shyly. “but no, i meant you.”

“oh,” you say, caught off guard. you suddenly feel a lot more drunk. you look up at him momentarily, him leaning closer to you.

if someone else saw this body language from an outside perspective, they’d think that he looks like he wants to kiss you. and so what if he did? would it be the worst thing in the world to entertain this, even after your mess with seonghwa?

yunho leans in and places a soft kiss on your lips, quick but sweet. when he pulls away, you’re left looking at him with an unreadable expression, but in your mind, you were reeling.

there was something… missing. and it irritated the fuck out of you. yunho did give you butterflies, but you wonder if it’s just because it feels nice to have attention on you. especially from someone that’s actually kind and seems like he actually wants to get to know you. but in your crazy toxic head, you realize what was missing. passion.

“i-i’m so sorry, i shouldn’t have done that,” yunho says, touching his fingertips on his lips.

“no, no,” you say, grabbing his arm. “it’s okay.”

before yunho can get out a word, the back door shuts with seonghwa walking out, witnessing the scene. you can’t resist stepping back slightly from yunho, as if it’s not too late to be caught. he looks between you and seonghwa, adding two and two together just from the tension alone.

“i think i’m gonna head back inside,” yunho says, rubbing the back of his neck. “sorry, again.”

“yunho, wait,” you call after him, but he already shuts the door behind him.

“let him leave,” seonghwa commands, leaning against the wall.

“what are you even doing here, seonghwa?” you ask, already putting your guard up.

“the fuck are you doing with the new guy?” he says, placing a cigarette between his lips and lighting it with a match. of course he’s one of those pretentious dudes that uses a fucking match to light a cig.

“since when do you smoke?” you say, desperately trying to change the subject.

“i don’t,” he says casually, blowing a cloud into the air. “just been stressed lately.”

“i can tell,” you say, raising an eyebrow. “it’s like you forgot how to bartend.”

“it’s not just work,” he says, brushing off the insult you threw at him. “it’s also you.”

“what about me?” you basically refuse, shaking your head. “i’ve been doing exactly what you want me to do. i don’t talk to you, i don’t look at you. i pretty much avoid you at all costs. you’re off the hook, seonghwa. you don’t have to worry about me bothering you.”

“who says that’s what i wanted?” seonghwa says, finally looking directly to you.

“you didn’t have to say it,” you spit at him, forcing him silent.

the air feels heavy. seonghwa struggles to find words for what he wanted to say. he looks down again, ashing his half-smoked cigarette. the back door opens to wooyoung and san following after him, both opting to sit in the patio chairs in the corner. they continue their conversation, and seonghwa looks to you.

“we should talk somewhere more private,” he says, motioning to your coworkers. he’s already grabbing his keys from his pocket.

“why, so you can keep being an asshole to me without an audience?” you say.

“because i want to finish what we started,” he mumbles, walking out of the patio and to the back parking lot.

you try your best to resist, but curiosity overcame you as you follow.

after a short but tense drive, you arrive at what seems to be seonghwa’s apartment. he shuts the engine off and jumps out of his car. you slowly try to register what the hell is happening, unbuckling and hopping out. seonghwa doesn’t look back you, he just continues walking, knowing you’re trailing after him. he unlocks his front door, letting both of you in. he closes the door behind you, watching you examine your surroundings.

“this is exactly how i imagined your place,” you say, almost to yourself.

“you’ve been imagining my apartment?” he smirks.

“yeah,” you scoff. “it’s just as cold and rigid as you.”

“thanks,” he mutters sarcastically.

“so now what?” you say expectantly. “you bring me back here yell at me? make me cry?”

“there’s only one scenario i want of you crying,” he says, stepping closer to where he’s leaning over you. you suddenly feel stone-cold sober.

“and what’s that?” you say, tongue in your cheek, pretending not to know exactly what’s about to happen. and pretending you don’t want it so bad.

seonghwa grabs your cheek, beckoning your face closer to his. his eyes bore into yours, before landing down to your lips. not holding back anymore, he presses his lips onto yours with purpose. your lips meld into his, placing your hands on his chest. your kiss deepens in fervor, as if the hunger completely took over both of you. soon enough, you’re moving together towards his bedroom, clothes and inhibitions shedding along the way.

you fall back onto the bed with seonghwa standing over you. he takes off his belt while looking down at you with a look that can only be described as burning desire. once he discards his pants, he slowly runs his fingers across your panty-clad core. you’re embarrassed by how fucking wet you are already, slightly closing your legs around him.

“no no, princess,” he smirks down at you, licking his lips. “keep them open for me.”

you do as your told, letting him push your underwear to the side and feeling the wetness between your folds. he gathers some of your slick and brings his fingers to his mouth, savoring it.

“fuck,” he tilts his head up as he groans, unintentionally bucking his hips against the edge of the bed. “you taste so fucking good.”

with one hand gripping your thigh, the other hand dips back to your heat to slowly insert his middle finger in you. he lets you adjust momentarily before sliding in his ring finger, curling them both. he thrusts in and out, all while watching you squirm under his touch. he just watches in awe, mouth hanging open as he fixates on your pussy enveloping his digits, coating them with your essence. he releases the hand on your thigh to palm himself at the sight. he twitches in his underwear, precum soaking through at the tip.

as if he couldn’t take it anymore, he withdraws his fingers from inside you and rips your underwear, completely tearing the fabric to have more access to you. he tugs his bottoms down to release his aching cockhead, the tip leaking in a long drip onto you. he guides his member down the length of your core to gather your juices and stimulating your clit all the while.

with an elongated hiss, he enters you slowly. you’re taking every inch of him, pulsating around him. you moan with him as he starts rolling his hips into you. you can feel his head hitting every inch of your walls, the pressure making you moan in sweet agony. your sounds ring in his ears, savoring the whimpers you let out just for him. this quickens his pace, still driving into you with cadence.

he’s literally fucking you into the mattress, splitting you open with vigor. you find it impossible to keep from tightening around him in pleasure, and he loses a bit of his rhythm. he pulls out of you completely.

“you’re gonna make me cum if you keep squeezing me like that,” he says between exasperated breaths. he holds his length above you, slapping it onto your core. he bites his lip to hold back a groan before grabbing your waist to switch positions.

he sits up on the bed and places you on top of him. he holds your waist as he guides you down onto his cock. he examines every inch of your face, reveling at the way it contorts at the feeling of him entering you. once you adjust to him again, you start moving. you ride him, throwing your head back. seonghwa takes the opportunity to kiss and bite at the expanse of your neck. he moans as he begins thrusting upwards in tandem with you. he’s hitting all the right spots, and your bodies move together like a dance.

the moans you let out are uncontrollable, a testament to the overwhelming pleasure coursing through you. it feels like no one’s ever made you feel this way, feel this good. and maybe it’s true; maybe no one has ever awakened this primal, animalistic desire within you. it feels addictive, and you could not get enough. you pull him closer, yearning to feel every inch of his glistening body against yours, desperate for your forms to meld together in an all-encompassing embrace.

he crashes his lips to yours in a fervent kiss, a surge of passion pouring through and intensifying with every passing second. he reaches his hand down to toy with your clit, forcing you off his lips to let out a wanton moan. you core clenches around his length and a wave of stimulation transcends your body.

“cum with me, baby,” seonghwa lets out softly, continuing to thrust into you and toying with your clit.

you throw your head back in ecstasy, all while seonghwa’s eyes devour every inch of you, mesmerized by the sounds of your moans, the sweat trickling down your neck. each movement and touch sends shivers down his spine, solidifying his obsession with you. he wishes with every fiber of his being he could immortalize this sight in his mind forever. he is absolutely captivated by you.

“you’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs before resting his hand just below the side of your face.

his jaw goes slack when your core clenches erratically around him, drinking up this view as you completely come undone on his cock. he continues to piston into you until he follows immediately after, no longer holding back his moans of euphoria.

as your hips both begin to slow to a stop, seonghwa pulls you off of him, eyes still full of unrelenting lust.

“get on top of me,” he says, pulling you to straddle his face. “i want to taste myself in you.”

his hands grip your thighs as he guides your folds to his eager mouth. as soon as your core meets his tongue, a moan escapes his lips. his seed is still spilling out of you, and he licks up every drop with determination. your hips are still above him, hesitant to put your full weight on him.

“i need you sit on my face,” he says between licks. “i want you to fucking suffocate me.”

his hands on your thighs urge you down, letting you become fully seated on his mouth. he devours you, exploring every inch of you. you rock your hips against his tongue, each motion intensifying your pleasure. his hands encourage you to move faster, to take what you want from him. he separates from your core briefly to groan.

“baby, fuck my tongue,” he commands, attaching back onto you, granting you full access to his mouth.

you let his tongue slide into you and thrust onto it, all while his nose bumps at your clit. you feel the tension building in your stomach once again. the overstimulation sends you spiraling, hips continuing to grind onto his hungry tongue. you see his eyebrows knitting together in bliss, the vibrations of his insistent moans sending a pang throughout your body.

“seonghwa, p-please,” you beg, as if you weren’t the one on top of him, fucking his mouth. his dominance overtook you in every way, no matter what position. “i’m going to cum.”

he nods as if he’s saying, ‘yes, please cum on my face, please let me feel you,’ but is stifled by the grinding of your hips. he flattens his tongue so you can thrust your folds on him, and he’s smirking with lust behind his eyes. you let out a cry in pure bliss, your core contracting and spilling your essence onto his lips. he swallows every drop before latching his mouth back onto your clit, prolonging your orgasm. your movements slow down, and you let out a satisfied moan.

you fall off of him, positioning to rest your head on his chest. the waves of pleasure start to subside, and the only thing that can be heard in the silent air was the synchronization of your heartbeats. then reality hits you.

“seonghwa,” you say quietly. “what are we doing? why are we doing this?”

“i don’t know,” he sighs, bringing his hand up to run his fingers through your hair. he struggles to find the right words. “i just… i don’t think i want this to stop.”

you lift your head up, almost thinking it’s a joke. but when you look into his eyes, you can tell he’s being genuine.

“but… but you hate me,” you say.

“i could never hate you,” he urges. he places his hand on your cheek, stroking softly.

you want so badly to believe him, to trust the softness in his eyes. but a voice in the back of your head reminds you that this is temporary, this isn’t real for him, and urges you to not fall for this trap. your mind plays over the past few weeks of turmoil between you. you recall every harsh word, every cold stare, and wonder if this moment of tenderness can truly outweigh all of that pain. is it worth risking your heart again?

“then i need you to explain yourself,” you say, pushing his hand away. “tell me why you’ve been like this with me.”

he sits up, taking a deep breath. “i’ve been so fucking stupid,” he shakes his head. “i think all these years of working at a restaurant kind of roughed me up. i think i built these walls to try and prove myself in the industry, to prove something to myself. and it made me become someone i don’t even like.”

he meets your gaze, seeing your anticipation for him to continue.

“and then i met you, and i still had these walls. i walked all over you and made you feel like shit. and what’s so fucked up about it is that despite that, i actually started to like you,” he runs his fingers through his hair. “i was scared. i’m still scared.”

you never expected him to be this vulnerable with you, let alone confess his feelings for you. you sit up and kiss him softly, intimately.

in that moment, the barriers between you begin to crumble. it’s not going to be easy, but for the first time, you find yourself on the same page.

“i don’t know what comes next,” you say softly. “but we can be scared together.”

a/n: guys i am so proud of this one! i hope i successfully portrayed the intensity between them. shit got my heart racing personally. again, im new to writing fics so plz leave feedback and reblog to support me! thank u sooooo much ♡

edit: sadly there will be no part 3, but i will be releasing something new within the next week or so, so stay tuned 🫶🏻

✰taglist✰ @trinityhasjams @mxnsxngie @sooberryworld @mingtinysworld @spenceatiny18

#park seonghwa #ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez smut #ateez fic #seonghwa smut #seonghwa x reader #ateez one shot

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ari-ana-bel-la · 3 months ago

Note

Hi can you do dad Charles to a toddler where they are on a boat spending time with family and Charles teaches her how to swim thanks

Little Swimmer

The Mediterranean sun hung high in the sky, casting shimmering reflections on the gentle waves that lapped against the side of the yacht. A light breeze rustled through the white canvas canopy, keeping the summer heat from becoming overwhelming. Laughter and chatter filled the air as Charles sat on the edge of the yacht, feet dipped into the crystal-clear water, watching his little girl with a smile.

Yn, just two years old, sat proudly on a giant pink flamingo floatie, her tiny hands gripping the sides. She was wearing a bright red swimsuit, her curly brown hair still dry for now, though Charles doubted that would last much longer.

Arthur sat cross-legged on the deck, sunglasses pushed up onto his head, watching the scene with a smirk. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" he teased, arms resting on his knees. "She’s small, Charles. What if she gets scared?"

Charles turned to his younger brother with an amused huff. "She won’t. She loves the water." He then looked back at Yn, whose big green eyes were filled with a mix of curiosity and nervousness. "Right, ma petite?"

Yn hesitated, glancing down at the water. Her chubby legs kicked slightly, making the flamingo bob up and down. "Pas tomber?" she asked softly, looking at her Papa for reassurance. (" Not falling?")

Charles immediately reached out, placing a comforting hand on the floatie. "Non, mon amour. Papa est là." His voice was warm, steady. "Tu es en sécurité." ("No, my love. Papa is here. You are safe.")

Charlotte, sitting nearby with Pascale and Lorenzo, chuckled as she adjusted her sunhat. "She trusts you more than anyone, you know," she commented. "She’ll do it if you’re in the water with her."

That was exactly what Charles planned. With a final reassuring squeeze to the floatie, he slipped into the water, the coolness instantly refreshing against the heat of the sun. He looked up at Yn, who watched him closely, still a little hesitant.

"Regarde," he said softly, floating on his back for a second before righting himself. "Papa nage, c’est facile, d’accord?" ("Watch. Papa swims, it's easy, okay?")

Yn sucked in a small breath, glancing at Arthur as if to check whether he thought this was a good idea too. Arthur gave her a little thumbs-up, and that seemed to be enough.

"Okay," she mumbled, her tiny hands gripping the sides of the floatie a little tighter.

"Très bien, ma fille," Charles praised, his heart swelling with pride. He moved closer, his strong hands gently gripping the bottom of the floatie. "Je vais te descendre doucement, et tu bouges tes bras et tes jambes comme Papa, d’accord?" ("Amazing, my girl. I'm going to lower you gently, and you move your arms and legs like Daddy, OK?")

Yn gave a small nod, her lips pursed in concentration.

Very slowly, Charles lifted her under her arms and eased her into the water. She let out a little gasp at the sudden coolness against her warm skin, but Charles was there, steady and strong, his hands never leaving her. Her arms instinctively wrapped around his neck.

Arthur chuckled from the deck. "Looks like she’s not ready to let go just yet."

Charles just smiled. He wasn’t in any rush. "C’est normal," he murmured, rubbing Yn’s back. "Tu es courageuse, ma petite." ("That's normal. You are very brave, my darling")

After a few seconds, she leaned back slightly, still clutching Charles but no longer clinging desperately. He adjusted his grip, holding her under her arms again. "D’accord, essaie de bouger tes jambes comme ça," he said, demonstrating a little kick. ("OK, try moving your legs like this")

Yn watched carefully before hesitantly trying to mimic him. Her little feet splashed against the water, creating small ripples.

"Oui! Très bien, Yn!" Charles praised, beaming.

Lorenzo, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke up. "She’s got good coordination for a two-year-old," he noted with a smile.

Yn’s face lit up at the praise. She looked back at Charles. "Encore?" ("More?")

Charles nodded, his heart full. "Encore."

For the next few minutes, they repeated the motion. Charles held her steady, letting her find her rhythm, always keeping her close. Eventually, he slowly eased back, keeping his hands just beneath her.

"You’re swimming, ma chérie," he murmured, voice filled with awe.

Yn’s eyes widened as she realized that she was, in fact, floating on her own. "Je nage!" she squealed, looking back at Arthur excitedly. ("I'm swimming")

Arthur whistled. "You’re a natural, Yn!"

Yn giggled, but soon after, she lost her balance and slipped under the water for a second. It was barely a moment before Charles scooped her up, pressing her to his chest. "C’est bon, c’est bon," he soothed, kissing her wet curls. ("It's alright, it's alright")

Yn clung to him for a second, then peeked up at him. "Encore?" she asked.

Charles laughed, absolutely amazed at how brave she was. "Encore."

The next time, she did even better. And the time after that, even better still.

Soon, she was swimming short distances between Charles’ open arms, her tiny legs kicking furiously, her face a mix of excitement and determination. Pascale, from her spot on the deck, wiped a proud tear from her eye. "She’s incredible," she murmured to Charlotte.

Charlotte smiled. "Just like her Papa."

After nearly an hour, Yn turned to look at Arthur, who was still sitting on the deck. "Tonton, viens!" she called sweetly, reaching her little hand toward him. ("Uncle, come!")

Arthur groaned playfully. "Oh, so now you want me to get in?"

Charles smirked. "She asked nicely. You have no choice."

With a dramatic sigh, Arthur stood up, stretching before diving in with an elegant splash. Yn shrieked with laughter, clapping her little hands. Lorenzo followed soon after, and soon, the three brothers and their little princess were playing in the water, laughing and splashing.

Eventually, though, exhaustion started to take over. Charles noticed it first—Yn’s movements became sluggish, her little hands rubbing at her eyes.

"Okay, ma chérie, c’est fini pour aujourd’hui," he murmured, gathering her into his arms. ("Okay, my love, we are done for today")

Yn let out a tiny protest but didn’t fight him too much. He swam them back to the yacht, where Charlotte was waiting with a fluffy white towel.

"Tu as fait un super travail aujourd’hui," she praised, wrapping Yn up and drying her off. ("You did an amazing work today")

Yn, still sleepy, rested her head against Charles’ shoulder, her tiny hand curling into his wet curls. "Papa…" she murmured.

"Oui, ma douce?" ("Yes, my darling?")

"J’aime nager," she mumbled, her voice drowsy. ("I love swimming")

Charles smiled, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Et j’aime toi." ("And I love you")

Her only response was a soft, happy sigh as she drifted off to sleep in his arms. Charles held her close, his heart full.

Pascale reached out, stroking Yn’s damp curls gently. "You’re a wonderful father, mon chéri."

Charles looked down at the sleeping bundle in his arms, warmth flooding through him. "She is everythingfor me," he whispered.

And as the yacht rocked gently in the evening breeze, he knew there was no place in the world he’d rather be.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

Also, French isn't my first language, I'm still learning it, so please be patient with me.

-🩷🎀

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kenyummy · 1 year ago

Text

BEACH DAY ꒰⚘݄꒱ BLUE LOCK

SYNOPSIS: as a manager during the nel, a well-deserved rest was needed. what better way to rest than a fun day in the hot summer air, in a bikini, at the beach?

note: this was originally a special for 100k reads on my wattpad book found (which u should SO read btw #shamelesspromo) but to avoid confusion i edited out a lot of mentions of the manager characters who were included in this short! i really hope you all enjoy!

TODAY

is a completely regular day of fun outings. Shidou had (in)formally organised a beach trip, something you decided would be a good idea. The NEL has been stressful on all of you, whether it be you and the other managers, the players, or even coaches—taking a good day off seemed to be a good idea.

So, you were heading to the beach.

The place where women can wear skimpy bikinis without being called promiscuous names (it would happen anyway—but in a perfect world everybody would mind their own business) and the place where strange men (some of those men may happen to be named Otoya and Aiku) would check out the local fauna dressed in said skimpy bikinis.

It was a fun day of splashing around in the waves, ignoring all problems present in your life, and unwinding in the grainy sand. You miss it. That is why, even though you're sure this will happen to end up in disaster, you agreed.

So, this is what got you in this predicament now—thirty minutes before you had to get there with a ten minute trip driving—that was all that was left for you to remember everything.

Swimming outfit. A change of clothes. Sandals that won't trap sand. What else...

You ponder as you stare down at your duffel bag, filled with everything you need. Money—food stalls at the beach were always ridiculously expensive for no apparent reason, Floaties—you never know when somebody might just need some abrupt saving. Towels—plenty of towels, A robe—you'll probably be a little chilly when you get out of the water.

Apart from the obvious essentials like hair ties, deodorant, sunscreen, keys and whatever other odd things you need whenever you go out—you think you're good to go.

You take a good look at your swimsuit. You haven't worn it in a while. A simple black two-piece with each front piece of fabric being held together with two silver rings—it's a little smaller than you would've liked, but you don't own any other kind, so you decide to just go with it.

You roll up your towel nicely and tuck it into your bag, then zip it up. You stare down at the fat duffel bag that is practically bursting at the seams. You are ready to take on the final boss—the beach.

You stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom, pulling at the tight elastic band of your bikini. It digs into your skin slightly. Hissing through your teeth—you decide it's nothing, and quickly make your way outside.

With your bag under your arm, you walk out and look around. Two of the other manager girls said they'd saved a spot underneath a bright purple umbrella. It takes little effort to spot it in all its neon glory.

They both sit atop a beach towel, with odd things like sunscreen, keys, and waterproof mascara all scattered around them. You wave a little before you sit down on a part of the towel, taking in the sight of the beautiful beach.

Children running around, adults chasing after them—some guy was even getting told off in the middle of the waves for losing his swim trunks. All in all, the beach was positively bursting with rich energy.

You missed this. You haven't felt this calm in a good while. Dealing with all those rowdy boys vying for your attention—it took a toll on you.

Too bad this peace would not last for too long.

Your phone dings. You pick it up and press on the notification—it's a snap from Shidou. You hesitantly click on the picture and it's a closeup of his left eye—but in the background, you can see the side of the building you had just changed inside, and a shirtless Otoya is trying to kick at somebody.

You don't even have the chance to properly react when a loud yell interrupts your thoughts. You snap your head towards the sound so fast your neck aches—the source was Rin on the floor while, even though a second ago a phone should've been in his hand, Shidou is jumping him.

A smart, sassy quip and loud groans erupts from both you and the other manager girls—you slap your phone down and squeeze your face in your hands.

Perhaps this is the start of doomsday, you think as the overly massive group starts making their way towards you and your blaring purple target of a neon umbrella.

"[name]!!" Bachira crashes into you—with the way he knocks you both to the sandy ground, he should be playing rugby instead of soccer—and rubs his cheek against yours like a loving cat. "I'm so excited to see you again! You never come by our stratum!!"

He's flat on top of you and the stares you're receiving start to grow uncomfortable. You push back at his chest but he simply opts to sneak his arms around your shoulders, "Bachira...!! Let me... get up..."

It takes the brute force of Barou King Shoei to remove his figure from latching onto yours. With a twitching brow and eyes that could stab daggers into Bachira—a small laugh unintentionally escapes your lips when he talks, "You're all sandy, you disgusting bug. If you get all that sand on the towel, I'll seriously kill you."

Bachira is being held up by the scruff of his water suit like a cat. He dangles in the air and flings himself at Barou next—"Fight me, king!"

"YOU—!!!"

Ignoring the upcoming brawl on the ground, you step over the two and you find your way towards...

"Hello, Isagi."

Your voice seems to make him jump—his eyes widen in surprise at the sight of your face and he looks far too nervous to be speaking to you. "O—Oh... Hello, [name]...! It's good to see you again..."

He's trembling and making such intense eye contact that you wonder if he's okay. His fists are clenched hard beside his body and you think he might just about have a heart attack. "Are you... okay?"

He answers a little too quickly, "Yes! I'm fine, haha, why would you worry about me? I'm totally good! Best I've ever been! Why would you ask? I look okay, right? Well, I gotta go now! I'll see you later, [name]!"

He runs off like he's a high school girl who's just had her first conversation with her senior crush. I can't tell if he's insecure about how he looks or worried about being disrespectful to me.

Maybe it's a mix of both. Isagi is on the slimmer side, compared to guys like Barou. Even though I know he's not, he looks like he's on steroids.

And Isagi's always been worried about being disrespectful to you—worried about overstepping boundaries and making you uncomfortable—at least when he's in his usual, clear state of mind. There's no telling what he's thinking when he stares down at you late at night after a good game with that overconfident, egotistical smirk.

Anyways—he's rushed away by now, and you're just standing here looking all stupid. Oh well. At least you're not alone for too long, because your attention is quickly stolen away by a certain trio.

Karasu, Otoya, and Yukimiya all come up to you—only one bothers to wave or even smile (there's no surprise he's a model—he's seriously gorgeous, you note when glancing down at his torso).

"Hey." The sneaky ninja is not so sneaky anymore, because he doesn't even try and disguise the way he's staring at your chest. He gives you a thumbs up, to which you scowl, "Lookin' good."

"Get your eyes off my chest."

"Sicko." Karasu shakes his head with a disappointed expression. You deadpan.

"You too, stupid crow."

"Did your mothers not teach you respect?" Yukimiya clicks his tongue—eyes fluttering closed as he shakes his head. He soon turns his head towards you and he actually does make eye contact with you—a step above his two friends. "It's nice to see you, [name]. You look very nice. Ignore these two."

You promptly ignore the offended looks shot at the model—you opt to just stare, perhaps a little too dreamily (but you couldn't care less, really), and smile back, "It's nice to see you too, Yukki. Thank you, you look handsome today, too. I was planning on ignoring those two, anyways."

"Woah, that is seriously hurtful." Karasu places a hand over his bare chest where his heart would be. "Too bad I don't care."

You roll your eyes. "Of course you don't, stupid crow."

"Would you stop calling me that?"

"Would you stop staring at my boobs?"

He pauses. "Point taken."

Having Nagi cling to you during your time at Blue Lock is pretty hard already. Believe it or not, he's 6'2, and believe it or not, having a grown 6'2 man hanging off your side makes it pretty hard to get around.

Having a shirtless, messy-haired Nagi plant himself right on top of you and having his face smushed against the top of your chest is a little worse.

You can feel a burning stare at the back of your head. You're not sure if the stare Reo is giving you is directed at you or the snow-haired boy. (Perhaps it is both and he's just conflicted—you would understand).

"Nagi..." You push back at his head and slowly intertwine your fingers in the white locks. They're softer than you imagined, but the ends are unmistakably dead. You should cut it for him later. "Go swim or something."

You are disappointed (yet, not the slightest bit surprised) when he promptly shakes his head no and proceeds to dig his nose even deeper into your exposed skin. His voice is slightly muffled, but still plausibly understandable, "Nuh-uh. Dun' wanna."

Your eyes twitch. Perhaps you have been spoiling him a little too much—so much so he refuses to leave you be.

"'Cause I didn't wanna go, but then mmmm... uh—Reo told me you were gonna come... and it wouldn't be too much of a hassle if you stayed with me. Hadn't seen you in so long. Missed you."

Right. You forgot he told you that before, too. Perhaps you had been a bit too doting on Nagi—he's clingy-er than you remember. Or perhaps it had been similar to that saying, distance makes the heart grow fonder.

A loud shriek (it sounds far too girly to have come out of Nagi's mouth, but go figure) alerts you and you see Nagi has been grabbed backwards into a headlock by Barou King Shoei. Perhaps he had turned away from the villainous side since your last meeting with him, because right now, he's saved you twice, like a hero.

Nagi doesn't even fight the King's death grip—he flops like a dead fish and it looks rather funny seeing it so closely. Nagi is taller, yet much lankier than Barou, who looks like a bodybuilder compared to the lazy snowhead.

"You're kicking sand all over the towel, Mr Hassleman." Barou snarls and jerks Nagi's head back. The boy doesn't react other than wearing his little :x face. "Go swim it off. Now."

Nagi does not make any visible effort to move. Barou still holds him like a ragdoll in his grip when he turns to look at you—you laugh a little and move your sunhat out of your eyes. "Hi, Barou. It's nice to see that you came. I didn't think you'd like the beach."

He looks a lot different with his hair down, you note. But in a good way. Fallen beneath his shoulders—you wonder why he does not wear it this way more often. He still holds his signature forever pissed-off expression, "What the hell is that supposed to mean? You think I'm incapable of having fun?"

You pause, with a small grin. "Yeah, kinda."

He gives you a deadpan expression. "You're the same as always, you shit manager."

"I thought our relationship had progressed to the point we'd gotten past these mean names." You place a hand over your chest, a cheeky smile on your lips with a faux-hurt expression. You didn't usually joke around like this—it wasn't really your thing—but he was just far too easy of a target to tease. "I'm hurt, King."

He cocks a brow—you see Nagi trying to wriggle around now, and it's good to know he didn't actually die—"Seriously? Didn't think you were the type of person to care."

"Doesn't matter now. You're gonna swim, right?" With a nod of his head, you break away from his sharp stare and give him a small wave with a closed-eye smile. "Well, I'll leave you to it. Oh yeah—by the way, you look good with your hair down. You should do it more often. Anyways, see you later."

You do not catch the half-hearted wave Nagi sends you—which was just him flopping his arm up in the air—nor do you catch the look Barou throws over his shoulder at you, "... Not too bad yourself."

He says, but you do not catch it.

Nagi stares up at the man with a blank expression, "Who knew you were all sweet on our manager, huh, King?"

The King in question growls like an animal and tosses Nagi into the ocean like a ragdoll, "Shut the fuck up!"

"Beach volleyball?" Chigiri stares with confusion in his bright pink eyes as Kurona sits on Gagamaru's shoulders—setting up the tall net. His hair is tied up in a high ponytail, and his bangs fall over his eyes. "Are you serious?"

His head turns to yours when you shrug, "Why not? Beach volleyball is super fun. It's not like you guys can play soccer on the sand."

Chigiri pauses to think your words over for a second. You give him the most empty stare you can muster before you speak, "You really can't play soccer on the sand, Chigiri."

"Well, still. Are you gonna play?"

You shake your head and spare him a small smile. "No, I think I'll pass on this one. I'd like to see you play, though. You seem like you'd be really good at volleyball."

He gives you a pretty smile and shakes his head. "Oh, I don't know. I wasn't really planning to play either. I was honestly just thinking of sitting down with you and just relaxing."

"Oh, but I really would like to see you play. I bet you'd be better than anybody else out there, Hyoma." Not to be brass or anything, but you like to think you know a good amount about Chigiri—including how to get him to do what you'd like: Fan his ego. Or to put it in better words, praise him. "I think you'd look pretty cool."

You give him the nicest smile you can muster, and you're sure that's what seals the deal. He turns his head away from yours—yet you can practically sense the smirk he now holds—"Well, if you really think so, why not?"

You laugh a little as he walks onto the court, and each side with six players—even if in official beach volleyball, there were only two on each side, this was the most unofficial game you've ever really witnessed.

Otoya and Karasu are jumping on each other's shoulders in an effort to block the spikes—it only ends in the one on top tumbling to the ground and Yukimiya shaking his head in an I'm not mad, just disappointed motion.

Bachira is using his feet to play, kicking the ball up even when his hands were a completely more viable option—you think this is illegal, but who are you to judge—and Shidou is doing the same thing, except he... is hogging the ball. You aren't even sure how you hog the ball in volleyball, but he's managing it.

Rin is the one who manages to get it away from him but it only ends up in another tussle—something you do not bother to stop because one of the manager are already running toward them with a can of hairspray (which, if you were not previously aware, has the same effect as pepper spray if directed into the eyes).

You loll your head back and let out a heavy sigh. This beach day was going better than you had expected—still, your group by far had gained the most traction from how loud you all ended up being. You've gotten countless stink-eyes from old people, especially when Shidou yells out profanities in the vicinity of little children.

You wonder if the police may get called on you all. Maybe you should pretend you're not in their group as a last-ditch effort if it does end up happening.

You are broken out of your thoughts by a small, almost nervous greeting, "Um... hey, [name]."

You look to where the source of the sound came from—you get an eyeful of Isagi's bare torso before you see his face. He's looking off to the side awkwardly as if the mere action of looking at you would be purgatory, and he looks like he doesn't know what to do with his hands so he grips the end of his swimming shorts awkwardly. It's cute.

"Hi, Isagi." You smile. You shuffle over to create a little more room on the towel you are sitting on. You pat the free spot beside you and nudge your head towards him, "Come sit."

Obediently—you didn't expect him to move so fast—he sits beside you. He still looks stiff and nervous, so you ask him what's up. He responds, quickly but much quieter than his usual calm tone, "I was... um... ah, this is so stupid..."

He sucks in a deep breath of air and turns his back towards you. It's a little more built than you imagined. "I was... just gonna ask if you could put sunscreen on my back... I can't reach, and I trust you more than the... others."

You can practically feel the way his face burns up from how his voice cracks and grows more hushed with every word. To save him from the embarrassment, you decide to spare him from teasing words. "Sure. I don't mind. I'm glad you trust me, Isagi."

The words come out a little more sultry than you intended as you test the waters and place your fingertips on his bare shoulders. He shivers. You can feel it.

You spread the sunscreen all over his back—he places his face in his hands as you work your hands a little lower. When your fingertips brush against the waistband of his shorts he has to bite back a small groan. This was utterly humiliating for him—seriously, this was sad.

You're not completely oblivious to this fact, so in a menial act of pity for the poor guy, you try and finish up as quickly as possible—if only to save him from the embarrassment.

It feels far too intimate to be just a friendly gesture. He wonders if you feel that way too. You lightly rest your palms on his tense shoulders when you are done, sitting on your knees and leaning your face near his own, "Done."

He'd be lying if he said his heart didn't skip a beat. He swallows thickly, blunt nails digging into his palms as he shuffles around so he faces you. The words that come out of his mouth are a little shakier than he would've liked, "T... Thanks... [name]."

The smile you have plastered on your face is nothing short of pretty, he thinks. "No problem. You can come to me if you need anything, okay?"

Why do you have to say things like that, [name]?

Isagi gives you a small nod, and practically forces a wavy smile onto his lips. "Yeah... You're really helpful, you know that?"

You laugh. "I know."

The mood between you two is calm and the strange tension from before has dissipated. You're smiling from ear to ear, about to say something—when Isagi's demeanour changes completely. You're not too sure why, but he seems to spot something behind you and his eyes completely shift.

Gone is the meek and shy boy, and in his place is a coy, smiling man. He places a hand on your upper arm—it makes you jolt and look at him in surprise. A second ago, he couldn't even look you in the eye, and now, he was shuffling closer towards you like it was the most natural thing ever.

"Anything, right?" He finally speaks, and he moves his hand up, away from your arm and it lightly traces underneath your jaw. He looks deeply into your eyes, but still keeps glancing behind you. "Can I do this?"

You do not get a chance to ask what this happens to be—although, it does not take a genius to figure it out, and you are no genius—or even spare him an answer before he grabs your hardcover novel and holds it up in front of where the two of your lips meet—covering your kiss from the other players that surround you all.

He doesn't dare take this further than a small kiss—yet, it wouldn't be considered a simple peck either. His hand holds the underside of your jaw lightly and tilts your head up so he can easily feel you and the back of the hard-cover book feels cool against your cheek.

You'd like to believe the reason your cheeks are on fire is from the blaring heat of the sun shining down on you—even though you are underneath the shade of that purple umbrella. His lips taste sweet, like a fruity drink. You think a stall nearby is serving something similar to that.

You can feel his smile against your lips, and he seems to be all too happy to have you like this. He tilts your face forward and your body has to follow—to the point you practically collapse into his lap. It feels much more intimate now that you can feel his bare skin against your own.

Isagi moves his hand down from your jaw down toward your waist, holding you taut against him and letting his fingertips rest in the dip of your back.

You finally end up moving backwards, and your sunhat almost falls off your head—Isagi quickly readjusts it when he pulls away. He gives you a sweet smile—though, it grows more cocky when he glances behind you again—and says, "You really are helpful, [name]."

You blush a little but still retain that same smile when his hands trace down your spine gently, romantically. "I know."

Isagi joins in on the beach volleyball fun with Nagi after Rin and Shidou leave in favour of taking a dip in the sea (you think you hear Shidou saying something about skinny-dipping, and you pray to every god imaginable you heard wrong), so you are left to yourself once more.

You are perfectly content. Your sunhat lay on the towel beside you and your legs are peeked out in the sun—reading your book where you last left off.

Your life is perfectly calm until it is not.

Hands suddenly cover your vision and all you see is darkness. You jerk your head up and are about to say something when a heavily accented voice suddenly rings out throughout your ears, "Guess who?"

You could recognise that voice in your sleep from how often it haunts your dreams. You recognise that voice even before you hear it. You slump down where you sit, letting out a heavy, almost tired sigh. "Kaiser..."

"Ah! How did you guess it so easily, hübsches Mädchen?" He removes the hands blocking your vision and he suddenly plops himself down, right in front of you—of course, his little guard dog is right by his side, sporting his usual guileless expression. "Perhaps you think of me far too often, hm? Also, I told you to call me Michael. We are closer than that, no?"

You shake your head, eyes slightly squinted at him. "I don't know about that. Hello, Ness."

The puppy-dog boy waves his hand at you, clearly delighted. "Hello, [name]!"

Kaiser looks annoyed at this interaction. He scoffs, rolling his electric blue eyes and waving you off mindlessly, lashes fluttering closed, "Whatever. I cannot believe you're just reading at the beach."

You raise a brow. "What's wrong with that?"

He picks up the book by its spine and tosses it nonchalantly on the towel beside you, lips curled downwards into a sneer, "It's terribly dorky. You look like a huge dork."

"You sound like you care about that more than me."

"I don't want my love interest to look like a huge geek. Appearances matter a lot, you know." Yeah, you make that really clear. He abruptly stands up—Ness scrambles to get up as well—and looks down at you, finger curling upwards towards you like he's beckoning you to follow him. "Come on."

You blink with your nose scrunched up. "Excuse me?"

He coughs into a closed fist, looking up at the bright blue sky so he doesn't have to meet your gaze. He still holds a hand out to you, "Come on. Don't keep me waiting."

You're so shocked that you actually find yourself following after him—though, you do not take his outstretched hand and it is left hanging awkwardly. Ness would've taken it.

Your sandals flop on the sand as you walk down the beach, past families and couples and people simply wanting to tan—you follow behind Kaiser in silence while Ness walks beside you. You hope people don't think of you three as a throuple. That would absolutely not be good for your image whatsoever.

You pause as soon as you realise exactly where he is leading you. He's stepped halfway into the water when you halt your movements right before the splash of a wave hits your toes.

"Yeah, no thanks." You abruptly turn on your heel and proceed to try and make a getaway—you don't get too far until Ness grabs your wrist and tugs you backwards. You tumble into him—somehow, he doesn't fall over and only grabs your upper arms in his hands with a frantic expression.

"Please, [name]! Kaiser really wants to swim with you!"

Kaiser hisses through his teeth lowly and stares at Ness like he's just cursed out his mother, "What the hell, Ness?! I never said that!"

The small boy does not make it very subtle when he gasps in shock. Ness slaps his hands over his mouth and shakes his head—his voice is muffled when he speaks, but you can still understand slightly, "I—I never said that! Nobody said that!"

He's so embarrassed the poor boy rushes into the water and disappears beneath the waves. You wonder if he has become one with the sea. In the distance, you can see Kurona and Hiori chilling on a large unicorn floatie—with drinks and colourful straws—that should've only been able to fit one person.

You and Kaiser are now just staring at each other in very much awkward silence. You take a languid step back. "Well... If you don't want to swim..."

Once again, you do not get the chance to dash away because he's grabbed you and pulled you into his grasp before you could even react. You look at him with wide eyes—but you're practically putty in his hands when he bends down and clasps his arms over the back of your thighs, throwing you over his shoulder like a menial sack of potatoes.

Your sandals fall off your feet as soon as you find yourself tucked over him—you let out a very loud, very offended, very embarrassed gasp of shock, "What the hell... ?! Kaiser—put me down! Sick bastard!"

Your words have no visible effect on him. Your head slumps down when you feel him walking, and your hair hangs over your head. You get a good eyeful of his back. He's also more muscular than you imagined. Makes sense why he could even do this. That doesn't mean you're not pissed, though.

You can't see his face, but you can practically envision his signature cocky smirk and how it paints his stupidly handsome features, "I'm all fine, hübsches Mädchen. Are you ready?"

Huh? Ready for what—!!!

You feel so indiscriminately stupid for even asking this question—you should've already known the answer—because you suddenly find yourself collapsing into the water, salt filling each of your senses and the loud noises of children screaming around you fading to muffled nothingness.

You jump up as fast as you can—you're just tall enough so you can stand with your chest above the waves. You start coughing to try and get the small amount of water you happened to swallow out of your system—your hair is now wet with the water and is suddenly heavier, and you're shivering cold.

Kaiser, the asshole he is, is laughing wildly at your expression. You push your hair away from your vision and you receive an earful of his—stupidly charming—laughter. His hands clamp over his mouth in a last-ditch effort to muffle himself, which only makes your face flush hotter with anger and your chest tightens.

You want to yell and scream into his face, but you choose the better way out. You puff your cheeks out and hold your breath as you dive back under, swimming behind him and slamming your foot into the back of his knees so that he tumbles forward, face-first into the water.

You've never felt prouder of yourself.

You bob your head back up and start to laugh wickedly now—it was his turn to look like a drowned rat. When his head comes above water, you can't help the tears of laughter that brim across your waterline when he gives you a deadpan, silently fuming glare.

His wet bangs cling to his face (somehow, it suited him—the mere thought made you feel a little angry, in the way that your stomach started to feel all weird and your heart skipped a beat or two) and his red eyeliner is smeared down his cheek. He pushes his blonde hair back, so that his damp bangs fall over his left eye and his hair is parted strangely to the side.

"Hmph." He looks away from your figure—you have to cling onto his shoulder to stop yourself from falling over, and your chest heaves up and down wildly to breathe. "I don't know what you find so funny."

You look up at him from your slumped position, eyes squinted upwards and you're practically sparkling with joy, "You... you look hilarious! Ahahaha—look at you! I can't—" Your words are cut off by your gasps for air.

Kaiser does not look the least bit impressed. He stares down at where your cheek is planted on the side of his neck, right where the blue rose lies. His hands stabilise you by falling into the small of your back—right where Isagi's fingertips once touched.

You finally regain your composure and move away from how you were practically pressed up against him—your cheeks are starting to hurt from how hard you were smiling, and you now sport a much calmer sort of grin when you stare up at him. "Ah... I'm sorry—don't look so mad—"

He rolls his eyes, which makes you chuckle, hands resting on his shoulders, "Oh come on... don't look at me like that... I'm sorry..." Your tone is far too playful to sound apologetic. He is slightly enjoying the attention you bestow upon him, but the thought makes his head hurt so he chooses not to reflect on it. "Michael..."

Fuck. His name sounds so nice coming out of your mouth.

He still keeps up the annoyed act, however, even when you grin up at him with that stupidly pretty, stupidly knowing look, "Don't be like that... I'm sorry, okay? What do you want me to do to make it up to you?"

The blonde pauses, blinking owlishly and looking down at you. You are still smiling, and he can feel your heart beating loudly in your chest. You almost look dazed, probably from your previous session of full-blown laughter.

His hands still rest lowly on your hips. He moves one and tilts your chin up with his thumb, "Hm." A smirk coils onto his lips and in an instant you can see the happiness that practically radiates off his being. "I think this will suffice, for now."

He leans forward, and suddenly, he is kissing you. Unlike Isagi—he wastes not a second to slip his tongue between your lips and kisses you as deeply and passionately as he can muster—it's so Kaiser, so him that it makes your stomach twist within itself.

His hands run down the side of your body—the places where his rough fingertips meet the skin that you usually cover with clothing make you jolt and goosebumps form on your wet skin.

His bangs tickle your cheek and despite how wet they are, they are soft. His left, tattooed hand finds itself on the side of your stomach and his blunt nails sink into the soft flesh—he grabs at whatever he can get his hands on. It's lowly and desperate and so unbefitting, so uncharacteristic of him—but in this moment, he can hardly find it within himself to care.

The hot sun beams down on you both and it causes your head to grow all hot and fuzzy—Kaiser's natural warm body heat is not helping either. You're feeling so much all at once that your hands unconsciously place themselves on his bare chest in a small attempt to create a sliver of distance between you two.

It does not work. Your torso leaves no room or gap as you're sunken into his arms—it makes him groan into your mouth and god, you almost feel sick to your stomach when you realise your first thought after hearing it is that you really want him to do it again.

You're not underwater anymore, but you might as well be. Every sense is muffled—the children screaming, the cool, glittery water that surrounds your bodies, even the blackness that clouds your closed-lidded vision—all you can feel is him, his tongue in your mouth and his hands running all over the smoothness of your skin.

Suddenly, you feel your lungs aching, and you realise you need air. You try to pull away—but his face follows yours like he's a mindless dog, and you could've laughed at it if you had not been so stripped of oxygen. You need air and yet he's kissing you like you are his air—it's a fact that makes your cheeks flush red hot.

The only option you can think of is the next action you take—you squeeze your hand out of where he presses your chests impossibly close and entangle them within his damp, blonde locks—tugging backwards and forcing him to leave the slightest amount of space between your mouths, so you can gasp for air.

Your hand tugging at Kaiser's long hair, hard, and you hotly panting into his mouth—he'd rather be caught dead than admit this aloud, but it doesn't feel half bad.

Your eyes crack open slightly, and you have to choke down a laugh when staring at his expression. His face is flushed bright red—compared to his usual pale complexion—and his squinted cerulean eyes are clouded with unmistakable desirable passionate lust.

"Scheiße, hübsches Mädchen." He curses lowly, chest rising and falling erratically as he pulls you in even closer—if that were possible. You can feel every ridge and bump of his hard torso against you and the smirk that pulls across his lips makes your heart pound. "You make my heart race."

When your breathing starts to even, he closes the gap between you both once more, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth and biting down—you whine into him and he kisses you softly as some sort of minor apology—you'd never hear the word sorry come out of his lips, after all. His hand dips down to trace up and down your spine, while the other rests below your ass.

He slides his lips away from yours, down your neck and he rests his face in the crook between your neck and shoulders—pressing languid, open-mouthed kisses against the salty skin. His hair falls over his shoulder and trickles into the water like molten honey—it flutters around in the sea and he looks stupidly gorgeous like this.

Now that he's not blocking your vision nor taking over each of your senses, you can see now see the distant figures of your friends all playing together in the sea, including that of Isagi. He's talking together with the others and having fun while you're over here, making out with one of his most hated rivals.

Still, you can't find it within yourself to give it a second thought when his teeth sink into your neck, and his hands tighten around your upper thighs. He lifts his head after you whimper a little and push him back—he follows where your eyes lead and you're sure he also happens to see the head of your dear friend.

The smile that curls across his lips is nothing short of dangerous. "Oh, is that Yoichi? Are you worried about him seeing us?" You do not give him a verbal answer, but the way you look down and the way your lips tremble gives him everything he needs. "How cute. No worries."

He lifts his face and all you can see is him. His hair falls over his shoulder and his bangs tickle your cheek once more. His touch is undeniably soft despite the carnal look he sports in his sharp, angled eyes. "Why don't we give him a show, hübsches Mädchen?"

He whispers so delicately—you do not have the mind to shake your head no, nor do you protest when he slips his tongue between your obediently open lips once more, hands tucked around your hips.

Your heart will not stop pounding. Kaiser smiles at the fact that he is doing this to you. He smiles at the fact you are like mindless putty in his hands, and he smiles at the fact that he can feel bright blue eyes staring holes into him—there's nothing wrong with showing off, right?

3K notes · View notes

asterafroditis · 2 months ago

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Hi! Can I request a reader who is the wife of Lilia ( respectively the mother of the boys), she is also a fairy so she looks very young. One day she comes to visit the boys at the NRC and the freshman/sophomore/pop club members/house keepers (depending on which of the boys you are writing about) see her and say "what's a girl doing at the NRC? She's so pretty, maybe ask her out on a date (can do without the dating part)" and the boys respond with "dude, that's my mom/wife...".

𐔌 . ⋮ fae matron .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☓┆ Platonic Cater, Kalim, Floyd, & Ace x fem! reader and Lilia x fem! reader

𓏵 652 words

ᝰ.ᐟ headcanons, she/her pronouns used, fluff

I'm going to assume the boys means the other Diasomnia students (´⌒｀;)... This selection is also pretty random, I just chose people Lilia has had good interactions with throughout the story (￣∇￣)

feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

ᝰ.ᐟ masterlist

It’s not every day someone unfamiliar strolls through Night Raven College—especially a woman. Word spreads quickly: some pretty girl with otherworldly looks is heading toward the school from the forest path. She’s graceful, warm-eyed, and clearly very beautiful, but she looks too young to be a visiting alumnus, much less anyone important.

─────────────────────────

Cater blinks and lowers his phone, nudging one of his friends who was standing nearby. “Whoa. Who’s that? Total stunner alert.” He squints, adjusting his phone camera a little like he’s trying to subtly zoom. “Pretty sure I’ve never seen her around before. You think she’s like... a new school nurse or something? NRC’s seriously upping its game.”

Before he can open his camera app, a small frame appears beside him.

“Cater,” Lilia says casually, hands in his sleeves, “you do realize that’s my wife, right?”

Cater freezes mid-tap. “...Say what now?”

Lilia chuckles, clearly enjoying this. “Fae don’t really age like humans do. She’s older than you, you know.”

Cater’s jaw drops. “Bro. BRO. I wasn’t trying anything, I swear! She’s just, y’know, super pretty! No harm in lookin’, right?!”

Lilia just hums. “Mm-hm. I’ll let her know you think she’s pretty, then.”

“NOPE—I’M GOOD. THANKS. #OUTOFHERE!”

─────────────────────────

Kalim is squinting curiously, a friendly grin on his face. “Whoa! She’s dressed like a noble or something! Is she lost?” He waves cheerily. “Hey! Do you need help finding someone?”

Before she can respond, Silver steps between them calmly. “She doesn’t. She’s here for me.”

Kalim blinks. “Huh? Wait... really?”

“She’s my mother— err.. Lilia's wife,” Silver says, tone even, eyes already starting to droop again like this is just another Wednesday.

Kalim sputters. “That’s your mom?! She looks—uh—I mean—wow! She’s really elegant!” He scratches his neck sheepishly. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to be weird!”

Silver just nods. “You weren’t. Just... remember that the next time you see her.”

“Noted!”

─────────────────────────

Floyd watches her pass by with mild interest. “Eeeeh? Never seen her before. She’s kinda cute. Got that floaty vibe like a jellyfish... soft lookin’...” He starts walking toward her like a shark catching a scent. “Maybe I’ll give her a squeeze and see what kind of noise she makes~”

Before he can get too close, Lilia materializes behind him. “Touch my wife and I will turn you into something squishable.”

Floyd turns slowly, blinks at Lilia, then lets out a barking laugh. “Eh?! That’s your wife?! You’re serious?” He tilts his head at her again. “Guess I see it. She dresses kinda like you.”

Lilia nods, clearly pleased. “She has excellent taste.”

Floyd stretches his arms lazily. “Tch. Boooring. Was hoping I'd get someone to scream.”

─────────────────────────

Ace nudges Deuce and tilts his chin toward the fae woman. “You seeing this? What’s a girl doing at NRC? She’s... kinda hot, not gonna lie.”

“Do you EVER engage your brain before speaking, human?!”

Sebek’s voice booms from behind them, nearly making Ace jump out of his skin.

“That is Lady Vanrouge! Wife of Master Lilia, esteemed matriarch of the Diasomnia household! How DARE you—!”

“Okay, OKAY, I didn’t know!” Ace holds his hands up in surrender. “She looks like she could be a student, I didn’t mean anything by it!”

Sebek scowls, teeth clenched. “You will hold your tongue around her. Show some respect!”

You wave a hand gently, stepping in with a calm smile once you heard the familiar yelling of a certain green-haired freshman. “It’s alright, Sebek. I know he meant no harm.”

Ace, still sweating, mumbles, “Yeah, uh, sorry. You're real pretty and all, but I’ll keep my mouth shut from now on…”

Sebek’s chest puffs proudly. “Lady Vanrouge has always commanded admiration—just not from you.”

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pedge-page · 7 months ago

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Ok can I request something maybe out there. but sedation kink with doctor Joel. like I’m kind of into the idea of doctor/scientist prepping me for an exam or study and putting me under, reassuring and stroking my face because I’ve never been under anesthesia before and he wipes my few tears as I drift off. then he’s fondling me, putting my legs in stirrups, and observing my reactions to different stimuli like fingers, a brush, vibrator, mouth, putting cooling/tingly cream on my nipples/clit, etc., as I’m out and making notes and taking polaroids of my reactions like little twitches and noises, how wet I get, if my nipples react (if he can make me cum by just my nipples) edging me and im making little tired whines but eventually making me cum a few times while I’m out and he’s just watching what happens from down there and talking into his little mic that’s recording all this. then if I start to come to too early he tuts and asks if I want to stay under and I’m still out of it but drowsily say yes because I’m confused but feels good and he (safely) gives me some a little bit more of sedation just enough to keep me in that floaty place and starts fucking me so good that I actually come to while he’s inside and I fully come to as he’s removing the monitors and telling me how good I was for him and asking if it felt good and he’s giving me some water and kissing me telling me it’s okay to sleep because I’m still tired as he cleans me up so he can take us both home.

A Doctor’s Care

Doctor!Joel Miller x F!Reader

Nonny, you practically wrote this yourself. Please give yourself a massive pat on the back, because this was a fantastic idea. I've been foaming at the mouth about it for months (I'm so sorry It took so long!) Hope you're still around to read this!

Warnings : virgin!Reader, corrupt!doctor, corruption kink, sedation kink, non-con, oral, throat fucking, squirting, sex toys, nipple play, unprotected sex, kinda DDDNE-ish , groping, slight breeding kink, pussy pronouns, foot fetish, uhhhh please lmk if I'm missing anything

18+ ONLY

- - - -

“Now, you can start counting up to ten.”

You take a deep breath, trying you best to ignore the needle he had just inserted into your arm. “One, two, th-three, fooour, f-fi…”

He softly brushes your smoothed cheek, watching as your eyelids sag, the heavy lure of sleep washing over your entire body. Your muscles sink into the bed, eyes barely being able to close fully. You had never felt more relaxed. Up to this point, you were an axnious mess, but you knew you were in the good, trustworthy hands of Doctor Miller.

A stray tear wells up, threatening to spill. He smiles warmly and brushes it away for you. He doesn’t want to see you cry when you don’t even know why.

If you were a little more observant, you would have questioned why it was only Dr Miller moving forward with an anesthesia-induced operation. Typically there’s always more than one practitioner in the room. You would have wondered why nobody else was in the hospital at all.

He told you he could make a special booking for your physical exam, just the two of you, to help alleviate any anxiety about the scary aura of a hospital, the sick people roaming around and watching, peeping in through the doors. He made sure you were the only one here today, to help you get comfortable and have nothing to worry about.

Of course, it is Sunday. Nobody operates on Sunday. The hospital was completely empty save for his office and this room.

Not only is this out of standard procedure, this was off the books.

This was illegal, and you had no idea.

“Dr. Miller, log 47,” he says into his little recorder. “Patient is sedated fully. Heartrate and breathing—“ he gently hovers his fingers rigor below your nose, his eyes scanning the beeping monitor next to you—“ normal and stable. Beginning examination.”

Maybe, if you were smart, you would have also questioned why you needed to be sedated for a basic physical exam. You didnt ask what a physical really entailed, which gave him the perfect excuse for... well. This.

Joel had offered you some privacy before where he left his office to allow you to change your day clothing into the sterile gown. Such gentlemanly, professional attitude is tossed out the door as he doesn’t hesitate to unfasten the front, popping the buttons off one by one. He starts at your chest, exposing the silk smooth curve of your breasts. “Beautiful, healthy body,” he breathes. Every entimeter of your skin is observed closely. He continues, making his way down to your stomach, admiring your naval with his thick hand petting softly over your belly and unbuttoning down your hips. “I can already see excellent shape for reproduction, should she choose…”

He grins, now having you fully exposed to him under the bright light. Joel places his recorder in his chest pocket, leaving the mic on so he can continue to do his work with both steady hands.

“Fuck me,” he groans, the tent in his slacks already pressing against the cool metal table under you. He adjusts himself slightly, no concern for the perversion of his hard cock jutting out in the open as he brushes it against your legs and arms while circling you.

Dr. Miller was a practiced man. He'd lifted enough unconscious body parts throughout his career, being careful yet precise. It took him no time to hoist your legs into the cradled bend of the stirrups, spread wide and slightly elevated so that your core was exposed.

“Testing reactivity,” he says before pressing your feet with his thumbs. He massages your arch, feeling the tendons shift and resist. His lips ghost the ball of your foot. "Smooth here too. The skin of the feet haven't started callousing yet." Joel’s wet tongue glides along the crevice, thick and warm, before sucking on your toes, lubricating them with his tongue over and over again. He moans, closing his eyes and palming his bulge. You don’t seem to stir at all, but he does briefly catch the way your eyeballs shift underneath your lids, brows drawing then releasing.

He pushes the stirrups forward more, hands on the backs of your thighs until your knees are bent, as if ready to birth.

“Very healthy looking patient below the waist. I’ll need to taste more—test more before the insertion.”

Joel shifts along your side, and with no hesitation, grasps your tits roughly. He scrunches and squeezes tightly, pushing your nipples out until they’re hardened and swollen. He loves the way they feel in his big palms. It was last week when you let him do a breast exam, he was able to fondle them to his liking. He wanted to give them a taste then, but knew you weren’t ready for that.

Consciously, anyway.

A hot month descends upon your breast, and he glances up once again to see your reaction. He rolls your nip around and around before biting lightly. That receives a flinch. He smiles, sucking harder. They’re so warm and firm in his mouth, and he can’t help but suckle along them with fat suctioning sound each time he releases. “Very good potential for milk. Bet she’d make the sweetest milk.” He draws away, grabbing something from the table next to him. “Documenting …” he dabs some freezing cream directly onto your nipple and snaps a picture when your head jolts in surprise. Little sounds get lodged in your throat as he rubs it into your skin, kneading your mounds like dough. “Pretty thing…” he whispers seductively.

He alternates between his hot mouth and the cold cream, watching your head toss slightly here and there. Your heartrate had also picked up, beeping a little more fervently. Nothing major, but a few beats per minute quicker than before.

“We’re gonna stress her breathing next,” he sighs, moving up above your head. He feels your collar bone, working his hands up along your esophagus and underneath your neck. Pressing slightly to watch how much further your chest expands for air to ensure you’re still adjusting breath properly.

Dr Miller unzips his trousers, his hard length falling free and slapping your forehead. He chuckles lazily, rolling it over and over, his tip nudging your nose and closed eyes. You’re so compliant like this. Not even a peep of protest as he nestles his balls overtop your sockets and pushes his head against your soft lips.

“Seeing how well she can take …foreign objects…obstructing the jugluar.”

He presses in, your lips parting of their own accord to accomodate the intruder. “Ughhh,” he growls. His hands splay along the table, inching himself forward with a roll of his hips. Your jaw opens wider, forced to take the growing girth of his member. A strangled noise hiccups in your throat, and he immediately draws out. The monitor by your side beeps loudly before returning to a regular pace.

He aligns himself again and fucks your mouth, this time further than before until the mushroom tip is bulging in your throat.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhh,” he moans heavenly. He pulls out, lets you breathe, then forces it deeper. Again and again until you’re taking him for five seconds at a time, deeper and deeper, the table rattling with his incessant humps. “Fuck..you take that, swallowing my cock like a princess, you take cock so good little slut.”

He thrusts in and out until he’s on the verge of cumming. Slipping his cock out the final time, he grips the base, growling to keep his orgasm down. He’d been thinking about it a long time, where he’d defile you last with his seed. As tempting as your tight throat was, he knew there was better ways to make you his confidential patient, forever and always.

Your vital signs were steady again, although more elevated than you started. Your head twitched to the side slightly, eyeballs rolling under your eyelids. Your body can sense something is happening externally, but cannot rouse itself to intercept.

He smiles, stroking your spit stained cheeks. “You’re doin’ very well, sweet pea.” its one of his favorite things about these types of exams. Watching how much a patient's instinct tries to fight his ministrations. Yet failing under the sedation and trusting senses of its owner.

For the next hour, Dr. Miller plays with your body. He’s inserted a bullet vibrator up your vaginal walls, controlling its speed and intensity on the little device. With each change in setting, your body reacted differently. Your hips bucked involuntarily, head swayed side to side. Hums of pleasure bubbled in your chest and out your nose, straining to make a coherent noise. He watched, spreading your folds so your little clit was perfectly on display. She throbbed, swelling to an engorged state. So vibrantly colored, filled with blood as he sets her nerves ablaze.

He’d press his warm lips to her before patching it with a cubed ice. Your body didn’t like that, stomach tensing and knees wanting to lock. He had to get the stirrups tightened around your calves to keep you spread open for him.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers quietly against your thigh, his plush lips ghosting the inside. He’s left his mic on recording, giving himself the freedom to savor your goosebumps for himself.

Dr Miller circled around you again, viewing your exposed chest. Your nipples were stiff, and he makes note about how erect they’d become since starting your test. He presses his mouth there, his fingers dancing south to come in contact with your drooping pussy. He’s got a little cup underneath your butt, to capture any of your juices that might leak from his ministrations. For extra (taste) testing in the future.

With his mouth on your breast and three fingers rubbing your clit in clockwise motion, Joel suckles and fingers you with deadly precision.

“Trying to make the patient—“ his tongue circles over your nipple thrice before nipping at your nipple, sucking it to a point—“reach climax.”

He spanks your pussy, rewarding himself with a quiver from your body. “That’s it babygirl, you feel that?” He slaps it again, your body jolting, but his teeth sink further into the flesh of your boob to keep your chest in place.

He removes his hand entirely, focusing solely on sucking your tits. There’s a little device wedged inside you, not unlike the bullet vibrator, but this one can sense contractions. It connects to a monitor across the room, recording the pulses inside your pussy.

“That’s it—I see it—she’s working up to it—“ he sucks harder on your tits, swallowing his own saliva, eyes desperately strained to see your cunt reflected back on him on the TV and the matching pulses growing next to it.

The lines reach their heightened point, and your body wreathes appropriately as you cum. Your poor little cunny, contracting around nothing as you orgasm from his tongue on your breasts alone.

“I want to see if I can just—“ he slips his hand back down to your pussy, diving three fingers in at once and rapidly squelching upward towards that gummy part inside.

Suddenly, you let out an audible yelp, knees folding inward as liquid gushes from your opening.

“Oohhhh yes, that’s a good girl, that’s a good girl!” He praises, smirking as you continue to squirt all over his palm and splash onto the floor. The fucking cup wouldn’t capture all of it, an he’d have to really clean up. But he wasn’t expecting such promising results.

“She’s well hydrated for sure.”

By the way you shake your head, eyes starting to peep over, it doesn’t seem like you knew you could squirt either.

“Shhhh,” he hums, putting his palm over your eyes to block the light. “Rest now, you’re in good hands. Do you want to keep sleeping?” He glances over at the IV bag, already dripping another extra droplet into your system. “You’re so warm and safe here. Let’s rest a little more.”

You let out a sigh, eyes closed and nodding slightly before falling to the side, back into a deep state of unconsciousness.

How pathetic you can’t even tell your lower half is soaking wet of your own doing.

He makes his way back to stand between your legs, kicking away the little rolling stool.

“See how well this pussy takes a real poundin.’” He pumps his shaft along your slick entrance, dabbing it repeatedly and grinning at how wet it sounds. He’d been edging himself this whole time. Not just this evening, but the entire few months he’s been you ever doting, caring, overly invested doctor, waiting to get you right here, spread out for him.

“She’s still so soft, so tight,” he gulps with a pant. Your chest was inflating up and down more quickly, so he knew you could feel something happening. “You’re doin’ great, baby. Just—just a little more—“

He notches the tip along your weeping hole. “She’s so patient for me.” He wonders if you’ll feel this in the morning when you wake.

Sliding in the first inch, Joel opens his jaw in silent prayer, head tilted back towards the ceiling. He pushes in again, feeling the first bit of resistance from your walls. Shit, he knew you were a virgin. You had marked it embarrassingly during one of the first appointments where he intimately needed to know all your sexual activities. You’d admitted having masturbated, which he encouraged as healthy, though the truth was so that he wouldn’t have to try too hard to stretch you out at this exact moment. Luckily he had loosened you up pretty well with his fingers and tongue this good hour, so when the good doctor pulls out then thrusts half his length in one go, you can’t offer any more rebellion to it.

When he finally bottoms out, he lets out a satisfied whimper. His cheek turned upright into a selfish, wicked grin. “Fuck, your pussy looks so good around my cock,” he says loudly, taunting the fact that you couldn’t retort even if you could hear him properly. He hasn’t had any relevant, professional notes to take for a long while now, instead resorting to little ‘fuckfuckfuck’s as he thrusts his hips in and out of your now loosened cunt.

He reaches for the wand vibrator, switching it on and positioning it right at your clit, against the base of his dick. Its whirs to life, making your whole body contract in on itself.

“Auuggghhhh fuck yeah—fuck that’s it sweet girl—just feel that—feelin’ it so good.” He continues to fuck you open, biting his tongue and watching you shift with each rut into your unconscious body. Your eyelashes flutter, instinct fighting to get you awake. Jesus he wants it—wants you to wake up right fucking now, see what he’s doing to you. The way your eyes would float, confused, coming into focus as the trusted doc is battering your once pure insides in the name of your health.

You didn’t know he’d already been fired and relocated from 6 different hospitals across the country for this exact reason. Granted, most anyone could report was inappropriate behavior and groping. He’d have his way with girls like you, in this exact position before. If anybody ever fully caught on to this, he’d be strung up in jail by now.

Whines bubble up from your chest as he gropes your tit with one hand, swirling the wand around your nub with the other. It takes a few minutes of on and off before he feels you clenching around him and cumming. Your back arches slightly, gasping through your mouth. He has to steady himself with his hands flat on either side of the observation table, hunched over and ramming into you while you’re still squeezing the fuck out of him. He likes the way your juices splash down his thighs and balls with each puncture. He’s a good doctor though, making sure you wouldn’t bleed or tear throughout this rough ordeal. He’s a proper man when it comes to his practice.

“Shit, shit—babydoll—fuckyeah this pussy—I’m not gonna be able to give this one up--“ He hums to himself, eyes shut.

You barely register the fact that you’re coming to. Your eyes are slitted but the tunnel vision is still so strong. Foggy and muffled, you can feel your body moving but can’t bring your muscles to do anything about it.

“D-J-oel,” you rasp, eyes fluttering close again as you definitely feel something deep within your stomach. You’re still so out of it, half your senses fading and drawing while being stimulated, unable to fully reach your brain. Your body is screaming to wake up though despite the tempting lull back to sleep. So you open your eyes again, rollin them around you. Your vision becomes clearer, still blurring but able to make outlines and lights now. Still in the hospital, still with the bright lights, still with Doctor Miller—

Doctor Miller, standing between your spread, naked legs with his wet, hard and long cock disappearing in and out of you. Doctor Miller, cursing and staring at where your bodies join, oblivious to your aroused state. Doctor Miller, telling you sweet words like how he’s gonna take you home, he’s gonna keep you like this till you’re full of him, then he's really gonna watch you grow, none of it really making coherent sense to you at the moment.

But there is that feeling inside, deep within your core that’s growing. Everything feels so wet and hot at the same time. He’s incessantly rubbing something delicious, electrocuting your nerves to an awakened state so far more than anything else.

You let out a strangled moan, and his head shoots up, watching you roll your neck and look around. Your sounds get louder, jaw flexing to let them loose.

He's been caught, and he doesn’t stop. “Fuck-fuck babygirl that’s it—M’takin real good care of ya—watch…watch me…watch me when ya cum—“ he groans, gripping your hips and slamming into you almost abusively.

“Ah-ah-ah-ah!” You wail, unable to tear your limited vision away from him as he ruts like a dog in heat, his hips humping your ass.

He lets out a startled bark, stilling inside you all the way. That makes your eyes fly wide open, more awake now than before as you start to cum around him. You don’t know what’s happening, don’t understand it and yet your body only knows pleasure, and that’s what your brain releases all over your insides and out. He’s so warm inside, filling you with something hot and sticky.

There’s a thin sheen of sweat on you, and even greater on him. He pulls out, mummuring some praise at your pearly, pulsing slit. Your heart is pounding, but body exhausted, like you’d been at this for a while now. You can’t move your head, and your eyes feel heavy once again.

“Hey, hey,” he coos softly next to you. He cups your face in his big hands, bringing you to look at him. “Hey there, angel. How we feeling? You did amazing.”

He feels gentle, touching your fuzzy spots all over again like honey. “Mmm,” you nod.

He smiles, beginning to turn off the monitors and unhook you from the sensors. “Did such a great job for me, never had a patient as good as you.” He kisses your forehead, long and comforting. now with the needle out, you still feel drowsy, but with his reassuring words and touches, you don’t feel the need to get up any time soon.

“Here, drink this—“ he hands you a little platic cup of water with a straw. You take a few sips, suddenly feel a massive, near painful pressure in your throat, like something had been lodged there not long ago. Coughing slightly, you give him back the cup, falling back against the headrest.

“Shhh, it’s okay. No need to fight it. You can keep resting.” He kisses you on the lips, silencing any protest. Your brain still feels so floaty, you don’t even question the way his tongue swipes along your teeth. You don’t care, enjoying the way he’s treating you so well after the procedure. He makes you feel safer than ever.

“Gonna clean you up now. Take you home.”

Of course, you don’t think about it, as he makes you feel so at home now. You quickly fall back asleep. Joel wheels you out of the room, down towards his un-registered truck and into the back where he whisks you away to your very new, very permanent, very secluded "home."

- - - -

Taglist:

@harriedandharassed @lola8888673 @its-nebuleuse @zliteraturehoe @merz-8 @joeldjarin @pascalscoffin @pedroshotwifey @ghostslillady @innerpersonunknown @missladym1981 @mrsoharaxx @survivingandenduring @milla-frenchy @cockykookiee @fairytale07 @daddy-din @pedropascalsbbg @spookyxsam @somehopeatlast @millercontracting @pedrostories @mishala005 @theoraekenslover @animez96 @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @puduvallee @cassiecasluciluce @loohoop @himboelover @callsignwidow @wintersquirrel @fluffygoffpanda @picketniffler @bbyanarchist

#joel miller fan fiction #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal smut #last of us fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller fan fic #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #tlou smut #last of us fic #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fic #last of us smut #the last of us smut

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cntloup · 1 year ago

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how he shows his love...

Thinking about Simon swaddling your waist with his muscular arm and pulling your body closer to his until you’re fully flushed against him, so he can feel all of you. Like all of a sudden sensing this urge to feel you. And he takes your jaw in his rough, calloused hand, his thumb brushing over the soft skin while his blazing gaze burns through you. And he crashes his lips onto yours, kissing you with such fiery passion, all the fierce love and devotion he holds for you in his once deemed cold, dead heart that you have melted over the years, seeping through his lips and flooding into your heart and soul. All the while holding you tightly against him to make you feel all his love, all of him. Until you’re left feeling dizzy and floaty, breathless in his arms as his eyes fixate on yours once again, taking note of the knowing look in your eyes. And you know this is his way of showing how much he loves and adores you without any words.

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #cod x reader #ghost cod #cod ghost #ghost call of duty #cod fanfic #cod #cod mw2 #mw2 #call of duty #cod modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty x reader

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thegnomelord · 1 year ago

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Imagine Intoxicated Sex With Ghost

CW:NSFW, MDNI, intoxicated sex (weed) Subbot Ghost, domtop Mreader, safe/sane/consensual, smoking, playing with hands, anal, recreational drug use.

Ghost doesn't like being inebriated. Even when out drinking with the lads at the nearest pub he'll never reach the point of intoxication where he can't drive a car or punch a man's lights out if he needs to. He saw what booze did to his pa, saw what the drugs did to Tommy, he doesn't want the Riley 'legacy' to dig it's roots into him — just the thought of it makes his stomach churn and his lungs feel like they're infested with black mold.

But sometimes when both of you are on leave, the battlefield miles away yet the lingering ache of it all filling his bones with static, he'll indulge in the weed his doc prescribed. It took him a while to be comfortable to use it, both with himself and you. But he trusts you, knows you won't do anything to him that you two hadn't agreed to prior; you're good for him like that.

Too good.

Making the blunt feels intimate in a way Ghost can't describe. The way you sit right next to him on the couch, both of you on even level, works to relax some of the usual tenseness in his spine. It's the careful glide of your knife along the cheap cigar to create a clean cut so you can empty the dried leaves into the trash that has his heart beating a little faster — then again, he's always liked the look of a knife in your hands and how precise you could be with it.

He'd die before he told you his thoughts, so he takes the empty cigar paper without a word and carefully measures how much of the weed he puts in, just a little shy of the recommended dose. He feels your nonjudgmental gaze on his fingers as he rolls the makeshift blunt, yours might be the only one that doesn't make his skin prickle with discomfort.

"You're getting better at that." You note. Ghost's blunt making skill isn't such a slop-job as it used to be when he first started doing this, but it's by no means pretty. "Practice some more and they might start looking half-assed."

"Sod off." The edge in his tone would cut deeper if he didn't bump his shoulder against yours. "At least I don't make 'em look like logs of shite."

"Mean." You tut but shoulder his weight without complaint and wrap an arm around his waist. He leans further on you until he ends up laying across your lap, his back pinning your legs down and his head resting on the couch arm, making himself comfortable like a cat in a sunning spot.

"What? Can't handle the truth?" He says, staring at the blunt in his hand. You don't rush him, sitting in comfortable silence with your hand loosely carding through his disheveled hair, fingers scratching his scalp and the soft blond strands curling at his nape for a few minutes while Simon prepares himself. You know he's ready when he pulls the face mask off his face, biting the end of the blunt between his teeth and turning his head towards you.

You reach to hold his jaw, the sensation of your fingers scraping against his stubble both electric and calming for him. With a small 'click' an equally small flame sparks at the tip of the lighter, the fire dances in his dark eyes as you hold it at the other end of the blunt until it's tip is ignited.

Simon holds the blunt with his fingers, eyes closing as he takes a deep and controlled breath. The smoke lazily crawls down his trachea to settle in his lungs, he holds his breath until there's a small tightness in his chest before breathing out just as slowly. It takes a couple more puffs before he can feel the vestiges of that lazy high begin to nibble on his nerves, eyes cracking open to look at your visage through the dancing smoke.

Weed takes the edge off life for him; the constant ache of his body is easy to forget when the pleasant buzz fills his skull, chest full of feathers and a deep floaty calmness settling in his bones. Only his spine feels weird, like his lower back is made of kinetic sand, muscles tensing and relaxing but even that works to calm him down, ground him to the sensation of your fingers carding through his hair.

When a low grunt escapes him you lean down, plucking the blunt from his lips to kiss him. This kiss isn't rushed like most of your intimacy needs to be — you have all the time in the world. Ghost opens his mouth and hums into the kiss, the taste of weed on his tongue as he lazily licks into your mouth and along your teeth, lingering whisps of smoke escaping through the crack of both of your lips.

You part so he can take another drag of the blunt, your warm lips leaving chaste kisses on his forehead, nose, eyebrows, cheeks, eyelids when he flutters them shut, and anywhere where you can reach. From the corner of his eye he sees you turn the Tv on, setting some cartoon on a low volume to further ease him into the mental space of calmness. Then your free hand reaches to loosely hold his own free hand, your thumb tracing the scars on the back of his hand.

Your hands don't wander any lower, letting him feel your warmth while he lazily finishes his blunt until it's gone. "You alright Si?" You ask.

"Like a hog in shite." He manages, tilting his head to further lean into your hand that's scratching his scalp. It's something he loves about you — the slow approach you like to take with him. Not just jumping straight to sex, though that's fun too, but sitting there with him, letting him ramble about who knows what while you two watch some shite cartoon, giving him sweet kisses when his hand tugs on your shirt.

It makes Simon's heart feel like it could leap from his chest if his ribs weren't in the way. Fuck, at times like these he could probably spill his heart out to you if the weed didn't line his tongue with lead. He still tries in his own way, taking your hand that's holding his and starting to play with your fingers. Following the lines of your palm with his thumb, curling your fingers and laying sloppy kisses along your knuckles, humming contently when you hold his jaw loosely and scrape your thumb against his stubble.

Simon doesn't know when he gets aroused. Only that one moment he's not, and by the time you two part from another lazy kiss he's tenting his sweatpants.

"Hey," Simon grunts, holding your hand by the wrist as he nibbles on your finger. "Want you."

"You already have me." You snort.

Even high as a kite Simon's not all too pleased with your humor, nipping your finger just at the edge of pain. "Smart arse." His lips follow his teeth to soothe the bite with a small kiss. "Want your cock."

Straight to the point, that one.

A small laugh escapes you, "Alright, alright." He grumbles like a bear roused from hibernation when you have him sit up. He grips your shirt to demand one more kiss from you, your lips distracting him so he doesn't notice when you pick him up. The face he makes is hilarious, like a dog that thinks he's too heavy to be picked up.

But he gets over it quickly, large arms wrapping around your neck to hold onto you as you stumble to the bedroom. A breath escapes him when you lay him down on the bed and he doesn't let go, resulting in you tumbling into bed on top of him. The curse you let out when you fall on him makes him giggle like a school boy.

He's absolutely no help when you try to take his clothes off, laying there like a sack of potatoes and only occasionally wriggling in place. Simon gives you an annoyed look and a chiding "Why'r you so slow?" when you have him lift his hips so you can slide his sweatpants and boxers down his legs. His cock bobs against his belly, a tiny drop of precum smearing against his skin.

"Because you're no help." You grunt, quickly taking your own clothes off. "Seriously Si, you're like trying to move a mountain."

But you don't mind him being like this. You love it, and you love him when he just huffs something under his breath and flops over on his front. He spreads his legs, his hard cock laying between his thighs and his hole just peeking out from between his cheeks. "Mhm," Humming Simon hugs the pillow, nuzzling his cheek into it as he gives you a lazy look, his pupils blown wide and eyes puffy. "Sounds like an excuse t'me."

Even with you it took him a while before he could turn his back to you like this, trust you like this.

"Fuck Simon, look at you." Gently you push another pillow under his hips to hike them up and the way he arches his back to grind his cock against it has your breath stuttering in your chest. You can't keep your hands off him, gingerly massaging the back of his thighs as you slowly trail up, purposely skipping over his ass to dig your thumbs into his lower back. "Gorgeous."

Simon lets out a slow breath as your fingers make the muscles relax, eyes closing and his back rippling as he melts into the sheets. "Well aren't you a charmer." His voice is mumbled into the pillow and the small wiggle of his ass he does to entice you is cute as hell. "C'mon." He nags, throwing the harshest glare he can at you. "Fuck me already." He demands, but he doesn't try to get up from his position, content to just lay and have you listen to his commands.

That's another thing side of Ghost you only see when he's high as a kite — he likes being a pillow prince, to give you orders and rest easy knowing you won't do anything he doesn't want. If it doesn't make your heart melt, that he trusts you like that, you don't know what will.

"Alright, alright," You placate him by finally groping his ass while you grab the lube on the nightstand with your other hand. You squirt a generous amount on your hand and warm it up between your fingers, settling between his legs in a way you can lay kisses along his spine while you slowly circle your fingers around his hole. You reach around with your other hand to lazily stroke him, the lube making the glide of your hand smooth and pleasant.

He's more vocal like this, a low half moan leaving him as Simon closes his eyes. Usually the feeling of a body looming over his back would have him tensing and bearing his teeth, but all he does now is breathe in and relax, muscles tensing for a fraction of a moment when your fingers breach him before he relaxes again. Simon's arms tense to hug the pillow tighter, the soft material muffling the soft moans and deeper grunts you pull from his chest with every small movement of your finger.

It's impossible for you not to tease him. "You like that, sweet prince?" But your tone is light and loving, pushing your finger deeper and distracting him from the small hints of pain the stretching of his muscles brings by stroking his cock more firmly, thumbing his cumhole.

Simon moans unabashedly and nods, biting the pillow and worrying it between his teeth when you push another finger inside him. "Mhm," He doesn't deny it. He can't deny it when the weed in his system makes the pleasure 10 times stronger, the usual electric pleasure now slowly replacing the marrow in his bones as your fingers twist and curl against his slick walls. "So good fer me." He mumbles.

Simon feels like he's floating on a cloud; Each kiss along his spine makes small shivers race down his limbs, the coldness of you pouring more lube over his hole complementing the heat of your hand around his cock, his drool soaking into the pillow and the sweetest sounds escaping him as you stretch him out. His cock leaks a constant stream of precum, his hips occasionally giving minute twitches to fuck into your hand but he's too relaxed to do more than that.

"Ready?" You ask when you think he's stretched enough, slowly pulling your fingers out of him. His hole clenches around nothing, dollops of slick lube escaping past his rim and running down his heavy balls; neither him nor his body is happy about the sudden lack of stimulation.

"Hurry." He orders, cracking an eye to watch you from the corner of his eye as you trail kisses up his spine until you're draped over him, catching his lips in a sloppy kiss while you lube your cock and line yourself up.

He moans into your mouth when the tip of your cock pops into him. "Fuck, yes lovie- just like that. . ." Your name sounds like honey on his tongue as you slide in deeper. His muscles contract and relax with each inch you push into him until he's left panting against the pillow when your balls finally rest against him. He's so hot around you, slick and pliant and trusting, blindly seeking you out for another kiss as you both adjust to the new position.

"Good?" You lazily stroke his cock again, feeling his back muscles ripple against your front as the pleasure washes over his system.

"Perfect." He moans and rolls his hips into your hand, simultaneously fucking himself onto your cock. "Move."

"Yes sir." You grin. You keep the pace slow and loving, a continuous and slow roll of your hips making your cock drag against his prostate. Reaching out to hold his free hand you rock your hips to meet his own movements. Each slow scrape of your cock against his walls has him whimpering, an occasional sharp thrust earning you a pleased moan, the pillow muffling the little breathy 'ah- hah-hm- ah' he makes when you grind your cock as deep as it'll go while rubbing his shaft.

Pleasure continues to build in his body, muscles tensing and relaxing, every single thought melting out of his skull save for your name that he moans like a prayer, your loving movements slowly and steadily turning Simon into a pile of goo. He doesn't even notice when he cums, it rushes through him like lightning striking a tree, pearly cum spurting over your hand as he shouts a loud "Fuck!".

You slow down only for a few seconds, long enough for him to come down from his high and begin grumbling and whining, showing you that he's nowhere near reaches his limit despite his cock softening in your hand. So you indulge his gluttonous side, starting to slowly thrust into him as you stroke his soft shaft. You cum eventually, his hole greedily clenching around you as you shoot your cum inside him and then keep going on fucking him until his voice becomes hoarse from screaming your name.

By the time you two are well and truly done you're both wrung dry, a sizable puddle of cum formed beneath his cock and his hole loose and lax, trying to clench around your cock and the cum you fucked deep inside him.

You use what sense you have in your skull that hadn't melted through your cock to roll you to over on the side so he's not laying in his own cum. Simon grunts when you attempt to pull out, gripping your hand as tightly as his relaxed muscles can until you get the message and lay back down, spooning him with your cock still deep inside him.

And fuck, the buzz of weed and pleasure from sex has him so loose and relaxed you could do anything to him and he wouldn't object. But you don't, simply cuddling up against his back and kissing his sweaty nape.

He loves you for that. He loves that he can trust you. He doesn't know when the last time was when he was this relaxed. A small giggle escapes him and he tilts his head back so you can lay kisses on his neck.

"Love you too Si." He hears you mutter against his ear before he falls asleep. And for the first time since the last time you two did this, does he sleep without the nightmares of a cold grave and a burning home haunting his dreams.

Tag list: @dead-end-stuff

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bucketgetter535 · 1 month ago

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This is not a cry for help (but it might be) PART 2

CW: Swearing/Drinking/Divorce

WC: 3.2k

Notes: I really tried to lean into the pov being like from Paige’s mind on this one so it does look a lil different. Plz send thoughts like anons are my fav part of the day

The morning light in the gym was too bright. Way too bright. Like, offensive. Paige blinked hard, dribbling aimlessly in her warmup shirt while Coach whatever-her-name-was barked at some girl from Arizona about defense.

Her body felt like it was moving underwater. Or in slow motion. Or maybe not at all. Her legs worked, technically. She could still shoot. Could still pass. Could still joke a little bit when someone missed a free throw and she muttered “yikes” under her breath loud enough for them to hear.

But everything felt wrong. Like her skin didn’t fit.

Azzi had tried to get her to eat at breakfast… again.

“You need something,” she’d said, handing Paige a banana like that was going to fix literally anything.

“I’ll eat at lunch,” Paige lied. She always lied about food when she felt like this. Food made things real. Hunger meant something was happening. If you ignored it long enough, it’d go away.

Azzi gave her that look. Not a mean look. Just the look. The “I’m not buying this but I’m too polite to fight you about it in front of the whole world at a buffet” look.

Whatever.

Practice went fine. Ish. Paige got through it without collapsing, so. Victory. She only spaced out twice and only got subbed out once for “looking like she’d seen a ghost,” according to the assistant coach with the intense eyebrows.

She skipped lunch too. Didn’t feel like being around people. Didn’t want anyone to ask if she was okay again. Didn’t wanna answer, didn’t wanna lie, didn’t wanna think.

By dinner, her stomach was doing gymnastics but she still couldn’t bring herself to go to the dining hall. She texted Azzi from bed:

Paige: can u grab me chips or smth

Paige: i don’t wanna go down there

Azzi didn’t answer for a while. Then, like, twenty minutes later, the door opened and Azzi came in with an armful of snacks. Not just chips. Crackers, peanut butter packs, those little pretzel things with cheese inside, even a mini chocolate milk.

Paige blinked at it all from her spot on the bed. “Okay… dramatic.”

Azzi dropped it all on her lap. “You’re not eating,” she said flatly.

“Thanks for the snacks, Mom,” Paige muttered, already popping open a bag of Doritos even though her stomach was like what are you doing.

Azzi sat on the edge of her bed, watching her. Not judging. Just watching.

“We’re friends now, right?” she asked suddenly.

Paige froze. One hand still in the chip bag. “…Sure.”

“So talk to me.”

“Nope,” Paige said immediately. She shoved a chip in her mouth. “Hard pass.”

Azzi didn’t move. “You’ve been weird since yesterday. You haven’t eaten. You’re quiet. You’re—”

“I’ve always been quiet.”

“You bothered me for fun every night for the past week. Now you’re not saying anything. That’s not ‘quiet,’ that’s different.”

Paige swallowed. Stared at the wall. She wanted to say I’m fine but even she was tired of hearing that one.

She opened her mouth to say something else (something dumb and off-topic and Paige-ish) but her phone buzzed.

Dad.

Her throat closed. She stood up way too fast. “Gimme a sec.”

She didn’t wait for Azzi’s reply. She was already out the door.

In the hallway, it was colder. Quieter. She hit accept and held the phone to her ear with fingers that felt kind of floaty.

His voice came through the line. Calm. Too calm. Again.

Something about him and her step-mom taking a break. About how he might move back into the old place for a while. About how he didn’t want her to worry but things were tense.

Paige nodded even though he couldn’t see her. Said “okay” four times in a row. Didn’t say anything else. Just listened and clenched the phone so hard her knuckles hurt.

When she came back into the room, her face was pale. Her eyes weren’t teary but she looked like she’d been hit in the stomach.

Azzi looked up fast. “What happened?”

Paige dropped onto the bed. She didn’t even try to joke. Just looked at the ceiling like it had answers.

Azzi was quiet. Then she said, “My parents are visiting tomorrow. You should hang out with us.”

Paige squinted at her. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to sit here feeling like this by yourself. And because my mom makes cookies.”

Paige snorted, but it sounded like a broken car. “Cool,” she said finally. “Cookies’ll fix my divorced family.”

“They’re chocolate chip,” Azzi added.

And somehow that made Paige feel a little better. Not, like, fixed. Not even close. But like someone had reached into the chaos of her head and held it still for half a second.

She didn’t say yes. But she didn’t say no either.

And Azzi didn’t press.

Which, of course, made Paige want to say yes. Which made no sense.

But what else was new.

–

Paige did actually intend on going with Azzi’s family.

Like, it just kinda… happened. One second she was making fun of Azzi’s outfit (“You look like a Target ad that lost custody of its fashion sense”), and the next, Azzi was elbowing her in the ribs and going, “If you’re gonna be this annoying, you might as well come with us.”

So. Here she was.

In the backseat of Katie and Tim’s SUV, squished next to Azzi, pretending not to notice how normal everything felt.

Which was insane. Because Paige’s life? Was not normal. It was the opposite of normal. It was a trash fire inside a tornado inside a therapy session she wasn’t ready to attend.

But here, Tim was making dumb road trip jokes, and Katie was humming to the radio, and Azzi was side-eyeing Paige like she could feel her trying to smuggle a bag of gummy worms into her hoodie pocket. (Success.)

“You’re gonna get ants,” Azzi muttered, flicking the hood.

“Ants deserve snacks too,” Paige replied.

Tim just laughed and said, “At least share with the driver.”

Which Paige did. Like, she actually did. She opened the bag and passed it forward without any snark, and that’s how she knew her brain was in complete crisis. She was polite. That was never a good sign.

Katie kept looking back at her, smiling gently like Paige was some kind of confused raccoon they were trying to rehabilitate. And Paige didn’t get it. Like, she was being weird and annoying on purpose. That was her whole thing. Why was Katie not sighing or side-eying or lowkey asking Azzi if she was “doing okay with that one”? Why was she being patient?

No one was patient with Paige anymore. Not even Paige.

Her phone buzzed again. She didn’t look at it. Then it buzzed again.

She looked.

Dad

Dad: Hey just checking in

Dad: Can we talk later?

Dad: I know you’re busy but I just wanna explain some stuff

Paige’s stomach dropped.

There was nothing in those messages, technically. But still, she felt sick. Like, full-on body tension, nausea-in-her-neck sick. Why did he need to explain anything? Why did he think that was what she wanted? Why was she here trying to be a person when back home her whole house was probably yelling or sulking or pretending nothing was happening?

She closed her messages. Opened Instagram. Closed it again.

She wanted to throw her phone in the lake they were driving past.

Azzi glanced over. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Paige said, too fast. “Just deciding if I’d survive if I leapt out of this car going 60.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

Azzi rolled her eyes and reached over to fix the hood Paige had pulled halfway over her face. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Thanks. I try.”

Her phone buzzed again.

Not her dad this time.

Stepmom

Stepmom: Paige I’m sorry but your dad is being so unfair. I need you to know this isn’t my fault. He’s making this way worse than it has to be.

Stepmom: Call me?

Paige slammed her phone face-down in her lap and stared straight ahead.

What. The actual. Hell.

Why was she in the middle of this? Why was she suddenly a referee? She was fifteen. She didn’t even have her permit yet. She couldn’t legally drive a car but apparently she was old enough to emotionally process a second imploding marriage in one household.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t even blink.

Katie asked what kind of sandwiches everyone wanted from the place they were headed.

Paige mumbled, “Whatever Azzi gets.”

Azzi didn’t say anything, but her leg pressed against Paige’s for a second longer than necessary.

Paige didn’t move.

She hated how it all just… lived in her now. The tension. The guilt. The weird buzzing between her ears. The feeling that if she opened her mouth the wrong way, a sob might crawl out before she could smash it back down.

She wanted to be normal for one second. Just one.

But her chest was tight and her stomach was not okay and her stepmom was texting her like they were trauma buddies and—

“Hey.” Azzi’s voice. Soft. Only for her. “You’re scrunching your whole face again.”

“I’m vibing.”

“You look like you’re doing math with your eyebrows.”

Paige barked out a laugh that was 40% real and 60% panic. “Just calculating how many times I can poke you in the arm before you break my finger.”

Azzi deadpanned, “Once.”

Tim chuckled. Katie handed back napkins without asking. Paige took one and clutched it in her fist like it was holding her together.

She didn’t open her messages again.

But she also didn’t get out of the car when they parked. She stayed in her seat for an extra ten seconds, pretending to be very focused on tying her shoe.

Katie didn’t rush her. No one said anything.

Eventually, Paige followed them out. Gummy worms in her pocket. Anxiety in her throat. Azzi next to her, just close enough.

And that was maybe the only thing that didn’t make her want to scream.

–

The thing about girls under sixteen (like actually under sixteen, not those fake-ID-having TikTok girls who look twenty-four and could sue you if you breathed wrong) the thing about real fifteen-year-olds? They’re disasters. Loud, bored, overly confident disasters with scrunchies around their wrists and nothing better to do than play truth or dare in a dorm room they technically weren’t even supposed to be in past lights-out.

Someone brought alcohol.

No one’s saying who, obviously. There were alliances to protect. But suddenly there was this half-empty water bottle being passed around, filled with something that smelled like nail polish remover and made everyone cough on impact. Some of the girls were being dumb about it, like, fake-giggling and falling over like they were in a teen movie and not a national training camp with cameras in the hallways.

Azzi wasn’t drinking.

Of course she wasn’t. Paige could’ve bet her scholarship on that.

And Paige? Paige was drinking. Kinda. In, like, a casual “whatever” way. Not enough to lose her mind or her balance. Just enough to not feel this anymore. This weird gross tight ache in her chest that wouldn’t let go. Just enough to soften it.

It didn’t work.

The bottle came around again. Paige waved it off the third time and wiped her hands on her sweatpants. Everyone else was caught up in some dare about texting crushes and licking pillows and she was just… sitting there. Not tipsy enough to be stupid. Not sober enough to feel anything clearly.

She looked up and saw Azzi leaving.

No word. No announcement. Just standing up and slipping out like she always did. Quiet but confident, like the world would rearrange itself if she needed it to.

Paige followed.

Didn’t think about it. Didn’t check with the group. Just stood up in the middle of someone yelling “Wait are you really gonna text her?” and walked out behind Azzi like a shadow in socks.

Azzi was already down the hallway, near their door. Paige caught up fast because her legs were long and her body had one goal and one goal only: stay near Azzi. Whatever that meant. Wherever that led.

“You left,” Paige said stupidly.

Azzi gave her a look. “So did you.”

“Yeah but I only left ‘cause you did.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow and unlocked their room.

Paige followed her in like it was instinct. Like her feet just did that now. Like they had Azzi GPS installed.

“I didn’t know you were the party-following type,” Azzi said, grabbing her water bottle from the desk.

Paige flopped onto her bed face-first. “I’m not. I’m the Azzi-following type.”

Azzi snorted. “That’s worse.”

“You love it.”

Azzi sat on her own bed and looked at her. Paige peeked up from the mattress.

“Flirting again?” Azzi asked, not quite a smile but not not one either.

Paige flipped onto her back dramatically. “I literally haven’t even started yet.”

Azzi hummed. “You’re better at it tipsy.”

Paige blinked. “Wait. You noticed?”

“I’m not blind.”

“Oh my god.”

Azzi grabbed her blanket and threw it at Paige, who caught it and wrapped herself like a tortilla. “Also,” Azzi said slowly, “don’t flirt with me when I’m drunk.”

Paige blinked. Sat up. “Wait. What?”

Azzi leaned back against her pillow like this was a normal conversation. “I had a couple shots when you were doing that dare where you pretended to marry the shower curtain.”

“…Okay, first of all, I committed to that bit. That was Oscar-worthy.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “Second of all… don’t flirt with me when I’m drunk.”

Paige stared. “Why?”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She just looked at Paige.

Like, looked at her.

Like she was thinking about something she hadn’t decided to say yet. Like she was measuring it against all the other things she could say but didn’t.

And Paige—Paige, who was already warm from cheap vodka and soft lighting and maybe the fact that Azzi’s hair was a little messy and she hadn’t noticed—felt her cheeks go red.

Red.

Like blush red.

Oh my god.

What the fuck, she thought. Why am I blushing. What is this, a movie? Get it together.

Azzi tilted her head, like she’d seen the exact second it hit.

“Dude,” she said.

“I didn’t do anything,” Paige lied, voice three octaves too high.

“You’re blushing.”

“No I’m not.”

“You look like you ran a mile.”

“I have excellent circulation.”

Azzi smiled. It was small. Private. A little amused, a little something else.

Paige buried her face in the blanket and groaned. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

And Paige didn’t say anything because Azzi was right, and she didn’t have the energy to lie about it.

Outside, the hallway buzzed with the leftover chaos of fifteen-year-olds left unsupervised. Inside, the room was quiet.

And Paige was trying not to think about how close her bed was to Azzi’s. Or how her phone buzzed on the desk with probably another text from her dad or worse, her stepmom. Or how she could still kinda taste the vodka even though she only took two shots and hated both.

She pulled the blanket tighter around herself.

“Don’t flirt with me when I’m drunk,” Azzi had said.

Which meant—somewhere in that terrifying calm of hers—Azzi knew.

Azzi knew Paige had been flirting.

Azzi noticed.

And she didn’t say don’t flirt with me at all.

So, Paige did not stop flirting.

Even after Azzi said don’t, even after she admitted she’d had shots, even after Paige turned into an actual tomato in a hoodie. She just… couldn’t stop.

Something about Azzi made it impossible.

And maybe that was the vodka or maybe it was just Paige’s personality spiraling in real time, but either way, she was still at it. Throwing soft teasing jabs from her bed. Dropping stupid lines with fake confidence and hiding under her blanket every time Azzi looked at her for too long. Still saying things like:

“I’m pretty sure I’m your favorite person here, admit it.”

And:

“You liked that compliment. I saw it. You liked it.”

And:

“You think I’m cute, don’t you? It’s okay, it’s very common.”

Azzi just raised an eyebrow. Not annoyed. Just… studying her. Like she was trying to figure out what to do with this very unserious, very tired, mildly buzzed white girl flopped across the bed like a soggy pillow.

Then Azzi said:

“Come over here.”

Paige blinked.

Froze.

Literally froze.

“…What?” she said, like maybe she’d misheard.

Azzi patted the spot next to her on the bed. Calm. Chill. Like this was just a casual hey come over here real quick and sit very closely next to me even though we’re both fifteen and maybe possibly a little in love with each other in a terrifying teenage kind of way.

So Paige got up.

Her legs were weirdly heavy, like her body knew something her brain didn’t yet, but she crossed the room and sat. Next to Azzi. On her bed. Shoulder-to-shoulder close. That kind of close.

They were facing each other.

Which, like… why was that so intimate?

Why did sitting cross-legged, knees kind of brushing, faces only inches apart, feel like suddenly Paige had wandered into a scene from a coming-of-age indie film where the main character is like softly realizing shit?

Azzi was looking at her.

And now it was her turn.

Her turn to flirt.

“You talk a lot for someone who hides under blankets when I stare at her,” Azzi said.

Paige immediately looked down. “I literally don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure.”

“I don’t.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what—”

Azzi reached out and tucked a piece of Paige’s hair behind her ear.

That shut her up.

Because.

That was a thing.

And Paige felt the heat rise so fast in her face she almost got mad at it. Like… seriously? Still blushing? Grow up.

Azzi was still looking at her like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she was testing something. Watching Paige short-circuit in real time.

“I think you’re cute too,” Azzi said softly.

Paige’s heart did something deeply stupid.

Like. Clenched. Or skipped. Or flipped over or something poetic and dramatic and very inconvenient.

Azzi tilted her head.

“Kiss me?” she said.

And it wasn’t really a question. Not in the way people usually asked things.

So she leaned forward.

Not fast. Not perfect. Just clumsy and slow and honest. A little scared. A little thrilled.

And when her lips touched Azzi’s, it wasn’t fireworks or explosions or anything cliché.

It was just warm.

And right.

And soft.

And it made Paige forget—for a second—that her phone had twenty unread texts from two angry adults back home.

It made her forget about court dates and yelling and Drew crying behind his door.

It made her forget how hard everything was supposed to be.

Because Azzi’s hand was on her cheek now.

And Azzi had kissed her back.

And Paige, fifteen and overwhelmed and unsure and everything else, felt like she could breathe.

Like, really breathe.

When they pulled back, Azzi didn’t say anything.

Just smiled. A little.

Paige blinked. “Okay,” she whispered, barely breathing. “That was… not bad.”

Azzi snorted. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Your idiot, though?”

Azzi shoved her lightly. “God.”

But she didn’t say no.

#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi #uconn wbb #uconnwbb #pazzi fics #dallas wings

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teaboot · 1 year ago

Text

OKAY so apparently there is a rare type of migraine called a hemiplegic migraine that displays symptoms similar to a stroke, and after a fun little ambulance ride and CT scan I compiled my notes into a timeline of personal symptoms for fitness and for fun

Sharing because why not

Normal visual snow blurs slightly, making reading difficult

Spotty vision, large 'afterimage' type flashes blocking vision, partial blindness

Gradual descent into disorientation, confusion, "floaty" feeling, decreased cognitive function, slightly decreased fine motor function, slightly decreased gross motor function

Trembling in hands

Cold sweat

Mild abnormal difficulty with speech

Cold, tingling numbness of left arm, left side of face, left side of tongue, and roof of mouth.

Rapid increasing pain in left eye, right side of head that peaks at 1 hour, lasting between 5-7 hours, somewhat alleviated by heat packs, ice packs, direct pressure, and OTC pain medication

Mild to moderate nausea

Return of physical sensation after approximately 20 minutes from onset

Gradual return of vision- full return of vision after approximately 2 hours from onset

Gradual return to full cognitive function after approximately 4 hours from onset, along with full return to normal motor function

Continued mild headache in top right side of head for roughly 4 days following

Abnormal increase in fatigue

Return to full normal function

#I'm fine btw #I like making lists so I started Journaling as soon as I could see again and took exact times from my call history lol

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m4rv3l-girl · 8 months ago

Text

Happens to the Best of Us - Part 5

Bucky x Barnes

Y/N needs help with everything…

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Note: You may notice a change in narrative voice. I just found it quite stifling to write in 2nd person 🫶

Warnings: Smut. Fingering. Oral (f!receiving). Pregnant Reader. Fluffy smut - like the “I’m going to put my fingers in you and show you how loved you are” type of smut.

As the early autumn sun drifted through the apartment window, Y/N shifted uncomfortably on the couch, her back aching as she tried to settle in for what felt like the hundredth time.

At eight months pregnant, even sitting seemed like a trial. She sighed, letting her head fall back against the pillows, closing her eyes in mild frustration.

Bucky noticed instantly. “You okay, Doll?” His gentle voice came from the kitchen where he’d been cleaning up from breakfast. He was by her side in moments, his hand warm and steady on her shoulder. The tension in her body eased just a bit at his touch.

Y/N gave him a tired smile, half-lidded eyes meeting his. “I feel like a whale stuck on dry land,” she admitted with a laugh, rubbing at the side of her belly.

He chuckled softly, dropping a kiss on her forehead. “You’re not a whale,” he said, brushing his hand over her bump with a tenderness that still left her feeling fluttery. “But you do look like you could use a break. Or…some help, maybe?”

A smile spread across her lips. “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she teased, though her hand drifted to rest on top of his, tracing her fingers over his knuckles.

Bucky smirked, squeezing her hand lightly. “Maybe I would,” he murmured, tone laced with playful intent. “Can’t help it if I love taking care of you, sweetheart.”

She felt her heart swell, a pleasant warmth blooming as his thumb traced gentle circles against her skin. “You spoil me,” she murmured, leaning into him.

“Someone’s gotta look after you, and I’m pretty happy it gets to be me,” he replied softly, slipping his arm behind her shoulders to help her lean into him. “Now, let’s take care of that ache of yours. It’s been bugging you for days.”

She let out a grateful sigh, her eyes fluttering shut as he began to knead gently at her shoulders. His touch was firm, strong, but never too much, and his thumb pressed into the sore spots just right. She could feel herself melting under his touch, tension dissipating as his hands worked their magic.

“Feels so good,” she whispered, barely able to keep her voice steady as he moved down her back, taking extra care to soothe every knot, every ounce of discomfort. Bucky’s hands moved with practiced ease, his voice gentle in her ear.

“I’d do anything for my best girl,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head. His lips lingered there, and she could feel his smile against her hair. Slowly, he brought his hands around, trailing his touch down her arms, leaving her feeling light and floaty.

She could feel his gaze soften as he looked down at her, his eyes roaming over her, that sweet, adoring look that never failed to make her heart skip a beat. He seemed to hesitate a moment, then he spoke, his voice low. “There’s…something else I can do for you. If you’d like.”

A mischievous glint danced in her eyes as she looked up at him. “Oh? What are you offering, Sergeant Barnes?”

He chuckled, leaning in close, the scent of his cologne washing over her. “You tell me what you need,” he whispered, his tone warm and suggestive, his lips grazing the curve of her ear. “And I’m all yours, Doll.”

With a little shift, she moved to pull him closer, her hand slipping up to trace the back of his neck, fingers grazing his skin. “Well, maybe there is something…” she murmured, trailing off, lips barely an inch from his.

He took her face in his hands, eyes flickering with warmth and just a hint of mischief. “Anything, Kitten,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over her cheek.

In one gentle motion, he pulled her closer, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that was soft and patient, but simmering with a warmth that left her breathless. The rest of the world faded away, and she melted into him, feeling all the weight of her worries slip away.

The two of them paused, Bucky’s lips lingering close to hers, a soft smile on his face as his voice dropped to a murmur. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

Y/N nodded, a shiver of anticipation running through her body. "Please," she whispered against his lips.

Bucky's smile widened, his eyes darkening with desire. He kissed her again, deeper this time, his tongue teasing along the seam of her lips. She opened for him eagerly, sighing into his mouth as his hands began to roam, caressing her sides and the swell of her belly with reverence.

"So beautiful," he murmured, trailing kisses along her jaw and down her neck. "My gorgeous girl."

Y/N tilted her head, giving Bucky better access as he lavished attention on her neck. His metal hand slid under her shirt, cool against her heated skin. She shivered at the contrast, a soft moan escaping her lips.

"That feel good, doll?" Bucky murmured against her skin, his breath hot on her neck.

"Yes," she breathed, her fingers threading through his hair. "Don't stop."

He chuckled low in his throat, the sound sending tingles down her spine. "Wouldn't dream of it, Kitten."

With gentle movements, mindful of her pregnant belly, Bucky helped Y/N lie back on the couch. He hovered over her, his eyes roaming her body with undisguised desire. Slowly, he pushed her shirt up, revealing her swollen stomach.

Bucky's eyes softened as he gazed at her belly, his flesh hand caressing the taut skin reverently. "You're so beautiful like this," he murmured, leaning down to press a tender kiss just above her navel. "Carrying our child."

Y/N's breath hitched as his lips trailed lower, leaving a trail of feather-light kisses across her sensitive skin. Her fingers tightened in his hair as he reached the waistband of her shorts, his metal hand coming up to hook into the elastic.

"May I?" he asked, looking up at her with dark eyes.

She nodded, lifting her hips to help as he slowly slid the shorts down her legs. Bucky's hands caressed her thighs as he settled between them, his breath warm against her center.

"So perfect," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh.

Y/N shivered at the sensation of Bucky's lips on her sensitive skin. He took his time, kissing and nipping gently along her inner thighs, building the anticipation. His metal hand slid up to cup her breast through her shirt, thumb brushing over her hardened nipple.

"Bucky," she breathed, arching into his touch. "Please…"

He looked up at her, a smirk playing on his lips. "Please what, doll? Tell me what you want."

"Your mouth," she whimpered, hips shifting restlessly. "I need your mouth on me."

Bucky's eyes darkened further at her words. "As you wish," he murmured, before finally leaning in to taste her.

Y/N gasped as his tongue flattened against her, licking a long stripe up her center. Her fingers tightened in Bucky's hair as he began to explore her folds with his tongue, alternating between broad strokes and focused flicks against her sensitive bundle of nerves. Her legs trembled as waves of pleasure washed over her.

Bucky groaned against her, the vibrations adding to her mounting pleasure. His flesh hand gripped her thigh, keeping her spread open for him as he devoured her with enthusiasm. His metal hand continued to knead her breast gently, rolling her nipple between his fingers.

"Oh god, Bucky," Y/N moaned, her head falling back against the pillows. Her hips rocked against his face, chasing the building tension coiling low in her belly.

"You taste so sweet," he murmured against her, the vibrations of his voice sending shivers through her body.

Y/N moaned softly as Bucky focused his attention on her sensitive bud, circling it with his tongue before sucking gently. Her hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more of that delicious friction. Bucky's metal arm draped over her hips, holding her steady as he continued his ministrations.

"That's it, doll," he encouraged between licks. "Let go for me. I've got you."

Y/N felt herself getting close, the tension building low in her belly as Bucky worked her with his skilled tongue. Her fingers tightened in his hair, holding him against her as she chased her release.

"Bucky, I'm… I'm so close," she panted, her back arching slightly off the couch.

He hummed in acknowledgment, the vibrations sending another jolt of pleasure through her. His flesh hand came up to gently massage her swollen breast, careful not to apply too much pressure to her sensitive nipples.

The sensation of his mouth on her aching center and his hand on her breast pushed Y/N over the edge. She cried out softly as her orgasm washed over her, her thighs trembling around Bucky's head. He continued to lap at her gently, working her through the aftershocks until she tugged lightly at his hair in overstimulation, signaling him to stop.

Bucky placed one last soft kiss on her inner thigh before moving back up her body, his eyes filled with warmth and adoration. He cupped her face gently, brushing his thumb over her flushed cheek.

"You're so beautiful when you come for me," he murmured, leaning in to kiss her softly. Y/N could taste herself on his lips, and she hummed contentedly into the kiss.

When they parted, she looked up at him with a lazy smile. "That was amazing," she sighed, her hand coming to rest on her belly.

Bucky smiled tenderly, placing his hand over hers on her rounded belly. "Glad I could help, doll," he murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her forehead. "How are you feeling now?"

Y/N sighed contentedly, her body relaxed and pliant beneath his. "Much better," she admitted with a sleepy smile. "Though now I might just fall asleep right here."

Chuckling softly, Bucky brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. "As tempting as that sounds, I think our bed might be more comfortable." His eyes sparkled with mischief as he added, "Plus, I'm not quite done taking care of you yet."

A shiver of anticipation ran through Y/N at his words. "Oh?" she breathed, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. "What else do you have planned, Serge?”

——————————————————————————————————

Ugh, don’t we just love soft Bucky? 😩

Requests Open!

#bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes #bucky fluff #bucky smut #marvel

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fiastomatocheek · 26 days ago

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SNOOPY AND THE SUMMER GIRL

requested: yes | req: dad!luke request plsss. okay, so luke, reader and the other hughes brothers, taking their toddler onto the lake for the first time, and she gets scared when luke falls off while wakeboarding. and because she can't swim that well yet, everyone takes turns letting her sit on their shoulders. maybe also something cute with reader and luke while the boys take care of her??? love your work!!

pair: dad!luke hughes x f!reader

genre: fluff, family, slice of life, domestic.

warnings: none (unless extreme cuteness counts).

summary: every summer, the hughes family gathers at quinn’s lake house and this year is no different, except now lucy, your four-year-old daughter with luke, is old enough to make real memories. when luke falls off the wakeboard during a family day on the boat, luce panics, leading to a cascade moments with her uncles and a tender lakeside moment between you and luke.

fia’s note: okay, here’s another dad!luke hughes fic for you all! in this one, instead of calling jack ‘uncle jack,’ luce gives him the nickname ‘uncle rowdy’ because, of course, she thinks it’s the funniest way to tease him. even if she doesn’t always act super sweet around jack, she still loves her uncle a lot (just… maybe not as much as uncle quinny, sorry jack 🫣). i really hope you all enjoy this one! and if you ever want to yap about dad!luke or any of the players, my inbox is always open!. also to all of my mid/plus-size luke girlies out there, and for anyone who’s looking for more luke x mid/plus-size reader content, i actually opened a separate blog just for that! 🥹 i’ll be posting all my fics for that theme over at @voicemailfromluke-beep, so feel free to check it out.

tagging team fia ! — @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @dancerbailey3 @mashmashi @hopefulsuitcasemoneyzonk @kell9rs @alwaysclassyeagle @nokiaholland @macka @silvenyy

fia’s masterlist | join fia’s taglist | fic discussion | fia's nav.

“Daddy! Snoopy! Guess what!”

Lucy’s came running on socked feet, nearly slipping on the hardwood in Quinn’s lake house kitchen as she skidded to a stop in front of Luke. You were pouring juice into her pink thermos with a smiling Snoopy sticker on it, while Luke bent down, catching her mid-jump into his arms.

“What, baby?”

Luke asked, grinning as he tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

“I saw a fishy outside! It went like zoom!” She flung her arm out dramatically,

“And I think it was tryin’ to talk to me, Snoopy. Maybe it said hi.”

“Really? A talking fish? You’re special, Luce?” he replied, raising his eyebrows.

“I am very special,” she nodded, dead serious, poking his nose.

“And I need you to be very brave today, Daddy. ‘Cause I’m gonna watch you do the fly board thing.”

“Wakeboard,”

You corrected gently, laughing under your breath as you handed Lucy her thermos.

“Yeah! Wakeboard! But no fallin’, ‘kay? ’Cause I’m little and I don’t like when you fall.”

Her voice dropped, suddenly serious as her little brows furrowed.

Luke scooped her up, kissing her cheek.

“I promise I’ll be super careful for you, Luce.”

It was a tradition now, every summer at Quinn’s lake house.

The first time you came, you were newly married. The second, you were pregnant. The third, Lucy was just learning to walk. Now, four summers in, your daughter had her own bedroom in the house with hand-drawn ‘Peanuts’ characters on the walls (a surprise Quinn had organized with a local artist after Lucy’s first birthday.)

Quinn, Jack, Luke, and you had packed the boat that morning, snacks, sunscreen, floaties, towels, and of course, Lucy’s pink life jacket with sparkly hearts. It barely fit her anymore, but she refused to wear anything else.

You got her into her swimsuit early, layering a t-shirt over it just in case the wind picked up on the water. She was practically vibrating with excitement, hopping up and down on the deck while the boys prepped the wakeboard gear.

“Careful, Luce,” you warned playfully.

“You bounce any harder and you’ll launch off the dock.”

She stopped to point dramatically at her father, who was already climbing into the water.

“Look! Snoopy’s gonna do his slidey dance!”

Luke stood on the board, grinning back at her.

“Slidey dance, huh?”

Lucy nodded solemnly, arms crossed. “Just don’t fall, ‘kay? I don’t like when you fall.”

It was all going great… until, of course, Luke did fall.

You felt it instantly. The shift in your daughter’s joy. One second she was squealing with delight, sitting backwards on your lap with her arms wrapped around your neck, and the next the moment Luke hit the water with a splash, and she stiffened.

Her face turned into your shoulder, her little voice muffled.

“Snoopy fell. Mommy, he fell!”

“It’s okay, baby,” you cooed softly, rocking her.

“He always falls. That’s part of the fun.”

But she sniffled, and you heard it, very small, building cry of someone overwhelmed by love and fear.

“I don’t like it when Snoopy’s gone under. What if he doesn’t come up?”

“He’s already up,”

You murmured, turning her head gently toward the sound of Luke’s voice as he climbed back on the boat.

“Look, he’s waving.”

“Luce, I’m okay!” Luke called.

“Promise. Wanna come swim with me and uncles?”

She hesitated, eyes still glistening, until you crouched to zip up her life jacket.

“Daddy’s in the water now, and guess what? Uncle Jack and Uncle Quinn are going down there too. If you go in, you’ll have all your silly boys in one place.”

Lucy wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“Can I go on Uncle Quinny’s shoulders?”

“Of course.”

You handed her down to Luke, who whispered something to her that made her giggle mid-sniffle, and then she was splashing around between all three Hughes boys, each taking turns letting her sit on their shoulders like royalty. Jack tried to do flips with her, but she screamed everytime and clung to Quinn like a koala.

Meanwhile, on the boat…

Luke flopped down beside you, shirtless, damp, exhausted, and grinning.

“I survived,” he said, leaning over to kiss your temple.

“Barely.”

“She was really scared,” you murmured.

“I know,” he replied.

“That’s why I let her be with them for a bit. Give her a chance to feel brave with her uncles.”

You smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder.

“And you wanted an excuse to cuddle me.”

“Also true.”

Luke pulled out his phone, the two of you squishing your heads together for a salty, sunlit selfie.

“By the way,” he said casually.

“I was thinking… Paris. For your birthday.”

You blinked. “Paris-Paris?”

Luke’s smirk curled. “Actually, without Lucy.”

“Without?”

“I miss just us. Don’t get me wrong, I love our girl more than anything. You know we sneak away. Just you and me.”

“…A proper couple’s trip. I love her more than life, but I miss us. I want to drink wine with you on a balcony and maybe…”

His hand gently rubbed over your belly.

“Make Lucy a sibling.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re trying to seduce me with the Eiffel Tower?”

“It’s working, isn’t it?”

“Gosh, Luke Hughes, you’re so funny.”

When the sun was down and the boat docked, Lucy was already snuggled in a towel in Quinn’s arms, licking a watermelon ice cream cone.

“Thank you, Uncle Quinny,” she said sweetly, then turned to Jack.

“You can’t have a lick. You made fun of my Snoopy.”

“Oh—I’m sorry,” Jack pouted.

“Nope,” she said with a shrug.

“You not sorry enough, Uncle Rowdy.”

Ellen and Jim met you at the dock, having just arrived. Lucy bolted into their arms the moment her feet hit land.

“Nana! Papa!” she squealed.

“My little Luce!” Ellen cried. “Did you have fun?”

Lucy nodded, launching into a chaotic, breathless retelling.

“Snoopy fell! It was scary! But Uncle Quinny gave me ice cream, and I didn’t cry a lot, just a little, and then I was brave and then I got on Uncle Rowdy head but I ‘accidentally’ pulled his hair, Nana, but he teased my Snoopy so it was fair.”

You, Luke, and the brothers stood nearby, watching her perform like a little storyteller on a stage, and Luke’s hand found yours.

“She’s turning into the best parts of both of us,” he murmured.

You smiled, threading your fingers with his.

“No,” you said.

“She’s turning into herself. We’re just the lucky ones who get to love her.”

319 notes · View notes

wandamaximoffsbadgirl · 1 month ago

Text

Where Softness Lives

Step mom!Wanda x step daughter!reader

Word count: 3K

Summary: You grew up with an abusive mother and a cold father, mother’s day used to mean broken dishes and bruised feelings. Now, it’s different. Wanda shows you what unconditional love really looks like. Gentle hands, lullabies, and whispered affirmations when the tears come back. This year, you planned Mama & Me Day down to the glitter stickers and muffins... but when old trauma hits hard that morning, Wanda meets you with warmth instead of expectations.

Warnings: childhood abuse (emotional/verbal/neglectful), a toxic mother, and an emotionally distant father. It touches on trauma responses, including a mild panic attack, and explores internalized guilt and fear surrounding Mother’s Day. Themes of healing, reparenting, found family, comfort and emotional safety

Authors notes: I'm sorry to any others who had neglectful parents and how hard these days can be <3

You remember the sounds of dishes breaking and yelling. Of pleading as your toys got shoved into black garbage bags.

“I'm sorry Mommy! I didn't mean it! Please! I'll be good! I'll be a good girl!” You plead and plead until your voice is raw, until you're curled up on just a mattress, shaking from the lack of blanket.

You wouldn't get your stuff back for another week when you proved you were good.

You sat across from your step-mom, Wanda, your dad had remarried less than a month after your mom passed. What you did not understand was what Wanda saw in your dad. He was older; much older. In his eighties, Wanda was closer to you in age, her being thirty-five and you being twenty-seven.

A scowl was covering your face, arms crossed. Your father is standing above Wanda, hand on her shoulder. He was almost as sharp as your mom. People used to, well probably do still think he is or was in the mob. A thick accent that never left him,

“Mother's day is next month and I'll be away on a trip unfortunately. I know things have been rocky, but–” you dont let him finish your defenses coming up like walls, your voice carrying until it hits the walls with how loud it was.

“SHE'S NOT MY MOM! I DON'T WANT A MOM! MOM WAS TERRIBLE AND I HATED HER AND I DON'T WANT TO CELEBRATE ANYTHING!” Your fists slammed the table. Then a slap to the face. It stung but you were used to it. Wanda gasped it wasn't the first time he'd smacked you, wouldn't be the last.

You leave the table, holding your cheek, heading out the door with nothing.

You came back hours later, cold, soaked to the bone because it had started to pour on your way back. As soon as you walked through the door Wanda was there. Towel wrapping around you before you could blink. Her hand gently cupping your cheek. The cheek your father hit. You felt like you weren't there. You weren't real as Wanda gently took you to the bathroom.

A hot bath running as she helped you out of the clothes stuck to your body. You felt like a little doll, her doll, no maybe not a doll, a baby…hers.

She helps you into the tub, kneeling next to it and gently washing your skin, she's using her body wash, cherry blossoms, it's grounding. You slowly look at her and she smiles gently. You try and give one back, but you can tell it's not right.

“It's okay baby don't force it. It'll happen naturally.” Her voice is so soft and sweet. You aren't sure what to do with it. No one besides Wanda has ever treated you with this kindness. It doesn't feel real. You want to lash out again, but your energy is gone.

She helps you out, puts you in an oversized night shirt. It reminds you of being a kid, but in a good way. It makes you feel small, childlike. Your head was already a bit floaty before, but she takes you to your bed, gently brushes through the damp hair, softly sings a Sokovian lullaby, and hands you a teddy bear.

You brush your hands over the soft fur, everything about her movements and actions help ground you back from your episode. You lean back into her.

“I'm sorry mama…” It comes out softly and she kisses the top of your head.

“It’s okay Milaya I understand why you did it.” You feel tears in your eyes at her words. She was always so understanding of every lash out you had. From the very beginning when you were expecting a slap or harsh words back they never came.

It had only been a few weeks since the funeral. Since the house stopped smelling like your mom’s perfume and started smelling like lavender and coffee. Wanda had started staying over not long after—your father didn't believe in waiting, and you didn't believe in him anymore.

You came home from a miserable day at work to find a gift bag sitting on your bed. Pale pink with gold tissue paper and a tag that said:

Just because. –W

You stared at it like it was a threat.

Your chest tightened as you reached inside and pulled out a soft cardigan, light gray, your favorite color. Beneath it, a little enamel pin shaped like a cat with a book in its paws. The kind of thing someone only picks out if they’ve been paying attention.

That made it worse.

You stormed out of the room and into the kitchen where Wanda stood, humming as she stirred something on the stove. She turned with a warm smile—one that melted the second she saw your face.

“What is this?” you snapped, holding the cardigan out like it was burning your hands.

She blinked. “It’s… for you. I thought it looked soft. I know you get cold in the mornings sometimes.”

You threw it on the floor. “I didn’t ask for this! I don’t need your pity presents! You’re not my mom, so stop pretending you care!”

The words came out louder than you intended. Sharper. But you didn’t stop. Your fists were clenched, your voice shaking. “Just stop trying! You don’t know anything about me! You can’t fix me with a sweater and some dumb little pin!”

And then… silence.

You stood there, braced for it—your pulse pounding in your ears. Waiting for her to yell. To slap. To throw something. Your body tensed like it knew what was supposed to happen next.

But Wanda just stepped forward.

Slowly. Carefully.

You flinched as she approached, but she only lifted her arms. Gently. She wrapped them around your trembling shoulders and pulled you into her chest.

You froze.

No one had ever hugged you after something like that.

Her fingers moved softly through your hair as she rested her chin on top of your head. Her voice came low, warm like honey. “You’re okay,” she whispered. “You’re safe. It’s okay to have big feelings.”

Your body shook as the dam inside cracked wide open.

All the anger, the grief, the guilt—it spilled out in quiet sobs against her shirt. You didn’t even notice when your hands curled into her back, holding on like you were drowning.

“I didn’t mean to yell,” you choked out, barely audible.

“I know,” she murmured, swaying you gently. “You’ve been carrying so much. But you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

You turn in her arms, burying your head in her chest, you hear the soft chuckle as her fingers comb through your hair. “It's all okay baby Mama's here. I'm not upset or angry, not one bit. I know why you said it to him. I understand. We'll celebrate in our own way won't we, pretty girl?” She tilts your chin up to meet her soft gaze. You get lost in them for a moment.

“Mhmm I have the day planned out!” You reach over to your notebook and flip through the pages, opening it to a beautifully designed page with times and bullet points. The title at the top of the page made Wanda smile; Mama and me day!

“Oh look at you sweetheart planning everything out for us!” She leaned down to kiss your cheek, but you turned your head, your lips met and you melted. It was unexpected, but not the first time. You reach up to cup her cheek and deepen the kiss.

It was late.

The kind of late where the world outside the windows had gone completely quiet. Just you and Wanda on the couch, wrapped in the soft glow of the fairy lights she’d insisted on hanging around the living room, “for ambiance,” she said. You’d rolled your eyes, but secretly… you loved them.

You’d had a hard day—one of those where everything felt too loud, where the weight of grief and history pressed on your chest like wet blankets. You hadn’t spoken much all evening, just let Wanda pull you into her side, her hand running slow and steady up and down your back.

Her touch grounded you, always. And she never asked you to explain. She never demanded your pain to be pretty or palatable.

You weren’t even sure when your head ended up on her lap, or when her fingers started gently combing through your hair. But they had, and her voice had eventually started humming something soft and unfamiliar. Sokovian, maybe.

“I wish…” you whispered into the quiet.

Wanda looked down. “What do you wish, baby?”

You looked up at her, heart in your throat. “I wish I’d had someone like you… back then. When I was little. When it all started falling apart.”

She smiled, bittersweet and full of something unspoken. “You have me now,” she said, fingers brushing a piece of hair from your face. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Something about the way she said it made your chest ache. You sat up, blinking back tears, looking at her like you were seeing her for the first time. All of her: soft and strong and steady. A lighthouse in the middle of the storm.

“Can I…?” you started, but didn’t finish. Your voice barely above a breath.

But she understood. Of course she did.

She leaned in slowly, her hand rising to cradle your jaw. There was no rush. No urgency. Just patience and quiet tenderness.

When your lips met, it wasn’t fireworks. It was safety. It was breath. It was the kind of kiss that stitched something back together inside of you.

And when you pulled back, Wanda didn’t say anything at first. She just rested her forehead against yours, her eyes closed.

Then softly, like a promise: “We go slow. As slow as you need.”

You nodded, the ghost of a smile forming as you whispered back, “Okay, Mama.”

You had it all planned.

The notebook still sat open on your desk, filled with scribbled hearts and bullet points written in your best handwriting. “Mama and Me Day!” it said in pink gel pen, with glittery stickers pressed carefully into the margins. Breakfast in bed. A walk in the park. Her favorite tea shop. A movie night with a blanket fort.

You even prepped everything the night before. Her favorite muffins were ready to bake. The card you spent three days making was tucked into the kitchen drawer. You went to sleep smiling.

But when you opened your eyes that morning, something felt wrong.

Heavy.

Like a shadow was sitting on your chest.

You lay still, staring at the ceiling. The excitement you’d felt for days was gone—replaced by a hollow ache in your stomach. The kind of ache that made you want to disappear beneath the covers and never come back out.

Your chest tightened. Tears welled up, uninvited.

You weren’t even sure why. It was supposed to be a happy day. Your day with her. Something you’d chosen—something she deserved.

But your body remembered other Mother’s Days. The ones filled with broken dishes, raised voices, the pressure to smile and say thank you when you were already in survival mode. The guilt. The confusion. The cold silence that followed if you didn’t do it perfectly.

You’d been up before the sun.

Tiptoeing around the kitchen, careful not to make too much noise, even though your small hands fumbled with the toaster and the eggs. You’d seen people do it in movies—Mother’s Day breakfast in bed. That’s what good kids did, right?

The toast was a little too brown. The eggs stuck to the pan a bit, and you’d spilled orange juice when you tried to pour it into her favorite glass.

But you were proud.

You’d even made her a card—cut out of folded construction paper, covered in glitter glue and crayon hearts. “To the best mom in the world!” it said, surrounded by crooked smiley faces and a drawing of the two of you holding hands.

And the bracelet—you’d spent all week secretly stringing beads in your room. Purple and silver, her favorite colors.

You carefully arranged everything on a tray and crept into her room, beaming.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” you said softly, your smile stretching wide.

She sat up groggily, eyes narrowing as she looked down at the tray. Her face changed quickly.

“What the hell is this mess?”

You blinked, smile faltering.

“The kitchen better not look like a tornado hit it,” she snapped. She picked up a piece of toast, sniffed it, and threw it back down on the tray. “It’s burnt. The eggs are rubber. Did you think this was good enough?”

You shrank back.

“I-I just wanted to surprise you…”

She scoffed and reached for the card. Her eyes scanned it for a second before she barked a laugh.

“This? You couldn’t even be bothered to write neatly. You think this is sweet? This is sloppy. You’re too old to draw like this.”

Your cheeks burned. Your heart pounded.

“And where’s my real present?” she demanded, like you owed her something grand. “Mother’s Day is my day. This is about me, not whatever crap you put together.”

You scrambled, hands fumbling in your hoodie pocket.

“I made you something,” you said quickly, pulling out the beaded bracelet and holding it out like a peace offering. “I wanted it to match your earrings—”

She took one glance, snatched it from your hand, and without a word walked over to the trash can and dropped it in.

“That’s not a real present,” she said flatly. “Jesus. You really know how to ruin a day.”

You just stood there, frozen.

And after a moment, she turned back to her bed, pulling the blankets up.

“Close the door on your way out.”

So you did.

You returned to the kitchen in silence, cleaned everything up on shaky legs, and sat at the table with your glitter-stained fingers, staring at the trash can where your bracelet disappeared.

And you promised yourself that next year… you wouldn’t try.

That it was safer not to.

A small sob caught in your throat. You pressed your palms to your eyes, trying to stop it before it spilled over.

Then—soft footsteps.

The door creaked open gently, and Wanda peeked in.

She was still in her robe, a sleepy smile on her face—until she saw you curled up, stiff and shaking.

“Oh, baby…” she crossed the room in an instant, crawling onto the bed beside you. Her arms wrapped around you from behind, warm and steady.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I had everything ready, I wanted today to be perfect, I swear—”

Wanda gently hushed you, one hand combing through your hair, the other rubbing slow circles into your arm.

“Hey… look at me, sweetheart.” You hesitated, but turned slowly. Her eyes were soft, full of knowing. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be perfect for me. Not today. Not ever.”

You sniffled, burying your face in her neck.

“But I wanted to make you happy,” you mumbled.

She pulled you closer. “You do. Every day. Even when you're hurting. Especially when you let me be here for you like this.”

You clung to her, shaking.

And after a while, she whispered, “How about we start the day right here, just like this? My favorite girl in my arms, where she’s safe and loved. No schedule. No pressure. Just us.”

You nodded slowly, breathing her in, letting her words settle over your skin like a blanket.

Wanda didn’t let go of you for a long time—not until your breathing evened out and your hands stopped trembling against her robe. You stayed tangled together beneath the blankets, your head tucked under her chin, her arms strong around you like armor.

Eventually, she kissed your forehead. “I’m going to go start some tea, okay?” she murmured. “You stay right here. I’ll be back in just a minute.”

You nodded wordlessly, reluctant to let go, but trusting her to return.

She always did.

When she came back, it was with a tray balanced in her hands—your favorite mug, one of her muffins warmed and sliced, a small bowl of strawberries. She set it on the nightstand and climbed back into bed beside you, pulling the blankets up again like you were in your own little world. Safe. Sealed off.

You sat up slowly and she handed you the tea, careful to wrap your fingers around the warm mug like she always did when your hands were shaky.

“You remembered,” you whispered.

“Of course I did.” She brushed her thumb gently across your knuckles. “You matter to me, baby. All of you. Even the messy mornings.”

A few moments passed, quiet but not empty.

Then you reached over, picking up the envelope you’d almost left in the drawer. You held it out with trembling fingers.

“I wrote you something,” you murmured. “A letter. I wasn’t sure if I could read it out loud, but…”

Wanda took it gently, eyes soft. “Would it be okay if I read it now?”

You nodded.

She carefully unfolded it, smoothing the page out in her lap. Her eyes moved over your handwriting, and you watched her face shift with every word—tender, proud, tearful.

When she looked back at you, there were tears in her eyes, but she was smiling.

“I’m going to keep this forever,” she said, voice thick. “I’m going to keep it somewhere safe, so that any time I doubt myself, I’ll remember that I’ve been the kind of Mama you deserve.”

That cracked something open in you.

You launched forward, wrapping your arms around her middle. “You’re everything I ever wanted,” you choked. “Even when I didn’t know how to say it. Even when I was mean. You never stopped being soft.”

She held you tightly. “Because you deserved softness, even when you couldn’t ask for it.”

You stayed like that for hours.

The rest of the day wasn’t about plans or gifts or outings.

It was spent in the warmth of the blanket fort Wanda built on the couch, watching old cartoons, sharing quiet laughs, her hand stroking your back whenever your body tensed. You dozed in and out on her chest, a teddy bear cradled to your side and her heartbeat in your ear.

Mother’s Day didn’t need to be perfect.

It just needed to be yours.

253 notes · View notes

nizhspo · 2 months ago

Text

genre: haikyuu imagine, fluff, suggestive

pairing: atsumu miya x fem!reader

summary: late night drive w/ a stranger

notes: i am very proud of this and i love this nigga atsumu so fucking much

may 25th – 8:38 p.m.

lsu campus, baton rouge

you didn’t plan to leave your dorm tonight.

you were supposed to watch boondocks reruns on your laptop with a sheet mask half-melted to your chin, bask in your edible glow, and fall asleep with your fan on medium.

instead, you’re digging through the bottom of your half-empty drawer, ripping through loose socks, a tangled charger, and a half-torn syllabus from february, cursing every decision you’ve made this semester.

FLO: your period may start in 2 days!

you blinked at the screen like it betrayed you.

you had three tampons left. maybe two if the box is lying.

and the vending machine in the dorm lobby? broken. and even when it worked, it only ever stocked off-brand pads that felt like diapers.

“god,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. the edible has you all floaty and warm, but it’s no match for the rising dread of that first cramp creeping up when you’re unprepared.

you sit back on your bed, hoodie sliding off one shoulder, and pull open your floor groupchat.

you: anyone driving off campus tonight? i’ll buy you food

you: i just need to hit target real fast

you: please i’m desperate i will venmo you five dollars and my soul

nothing. just the “delivered” tag mocking you.

you sigh. stretch out on your mattress and stare at the ceiling fan. the air is thick. sticky. the edible is kicking in more now; your limbs feel slow, sunkissed. your mouth tastes like the cherry lollipop you popped earlier just to have something sweet.

then:

atsumu: i gotta drop smth off to my brother

atsumu: store on the way. u good w that?

you stare at his name for a second.

atsumu miya.

that boy from your psych class. two rows back. always lounging like the seat owes him something. black t-shirts. cocky grin. never takes notes but always manages to answer questions out loud like he already knew.

you’ve never actually spoken to him—maybe once, passing each other in the student union. maybe not even then.

but he knows your name. you know his.

you shoot back:

you: that’s perfect, thank uuuu i’ll meet you outside in like 5?

atsumu: bet

atsumu: i’ll be parked near the quad. black honda. lights on.

you hop up. tug on your purple and gold lsu sweats—the ones with the cracked logo at the thigh, and throw on a tank top. you debate a bra.

decide against it. too hot. too much effort. and it’s just a ride.

you grab your phone, keys, and a mini wallet and step out into the hallway.

outside, the air clings to your skin like honey. thick, warm, slow.

it’s not fully dark yet, but the sky’s sliding toward purple, soft strokes of peach and navy bleeding out behind the buildings. the year’s bleeding out too, really. campus feels like a half-finished thought. windows dark. dorm doors cracked but silent. the echo of summer just beginning to stretch her arms.

you’re standing on the curb and your tank top’s sticking to your back where it meets skin, the fabric of your shirt brushing your chest every time you move. your nipples perked the second you hit the hallway air, and now they’re brushing against the fabric with every breath. every step. your arms are crossed tight.

your phone buzzes in your palm.

atsumu: you see me?

the bass from his car gives him away long before the headlights do: low and rolling, some beat-heavy loop bleeding through the speaker system. not obnoxious, just… lived in. the kind of car that’s seen late-night drives before. fast food bags in the backseat. dusty sports duffels. a hoodie curled in the passenger side footwell like someone tossed it off mid-drive.

you spot him through the windshield, one arm hooked out the driver’s side, fingers tapping against the glass, phone glowing in his lap. he’s got on a black tee, soft and worn, that clings to his chest and shoulders like a second skin. his sweatpants are gray and low-slung. thick thighs spread in the seat. blonde strands blow with the breeze.

you pull the door open and climb in, closing it behind you with a soft thunk.

and immediately—

air-conditioning hits you like a gust. cold and hard and perfect. it’s blasting full speed from the dash vents, and your skin tightens under it. a visible shiver runs down your arms, across your chest.

“seatbelt,” he says, not looking.

you buckle up.

he does glance over then, just once, and the look in his eyes lingers. not in a gross way, just… aware.

he clocked it. your shirt. the way you crossed your arms. the sudden alertness in your posture. you look back at him with a little raise of your brow, daring him to say something.

he doesn’t. just turns the music down and rests one hand on the wheel.

“you good?”

his voice is low and easy, eyes flicking to yours just briefly before returning to the road. he doesn’t sound worried, just tuned in like he’s been watching your body language the whole time. his hand shifts slightly on the wheel, thumb tapping once against the leather grip.

“yeah,” you say. “just cold.” your arms tighten a little over your chest. your tank’s thin, and the AC’s been hitting the same spot on your collarbone for the last five minutes.

you tuck your chin slightly into your shoulder, trying not to look like you’re reacting too much, but your voice still comes out a little breathier than you meant.

“mhm. i can turn it down.”

his hand is already reaching for the dial, fingers brushing the silver knob, but he doesn’t move it until you answer.

“no, it’s fine. feels good.” you glance at him as you say it, your tone soft. honest. something about the cold air feels grounding. like it’s keeping you sharp even as everything else starts to feel slow and warm and easy.

a beat. the kind that hums thick with unsaid things.

“you high?” he asks, casual.

his mouth curves just slightly, like he already knows the answer. he keeps his eyes on the road, but his posture shifts, more relaxed now. like this version of you makes sense to him.

you snort. “a little.”

the confession slips out with a grin, half-embarrassed and half not. your voice lifts on the end, playful.

his mouth twitches. “thought so. your eyes are red.” he finally looks at you again. it’s quick, but his gaze lingers just a second longer than before. not judging. not teasing. just noticing. and the way he says it? like it’s a detail he’s been sitting on since you climbed in.

you glance at the mirror. they are. not bright-red, just rimmed pink, soft around the edges. like your bones have finally exhaled.

“edible,” you say. “i earned it.”

he nods. “finals?”

“last one on tuesday. stats. i hate it.”

“but you studied.”

you shrug. “enough to pass. figured i’d celebrate a little.”

“respect.” he taps the wheel. rolls the window down two inches.

and the music’s back, some local r&b station, static under the beat, bass rumbling low. the kind of song you don’t know the name of but already like. you hum without thinking, tapping your fingers on your knee.

he turns onto a side road, past the edge of campus. the lights thin out. you smell grill smoke in the distance—maybe someone barbecuing near the dorms. maybe a food truck tucked near the rec center. it’s the kind of night where everything feels close and far at the same time. stretched. golden. soft around the edges.

“you always ride like this?” you ask.

“like what?”

“music up. windows down. driving aimless.”

“you callin’ me aimless?”

“i’m callin’ you vibey.”

he laughs under his breath, glancing at you again.

“nah. i usually ride alone. but this ain’t bad.”

you sink into the seat more. let your head rest against the window. the glass is warm from earlier sun. the car smells like pine and something sweeter. his cologne, maybe. maybe lotion. you glance at his hands on the wheel. veiny. strong. knuckles dark from sun.

“where you from?” you ask.

“hyogo,” he says, grinning. “nah, i’m playin’. nola. me and my brother samu both.”

“so you stayed close.”

“scholarship made it worth it. and i like it here. feels familiar.”

“i get that.”

a pause. the kind that doesn’t need to be filled.

“you got any family out here?” he asks.

“my cousin. she’s in grad school up the road.”

“you like it here?”

“i like the food. i like the heat when it’s not suffocating.”

“but?”

“but it’s hard sometimes. feel like everyone here already knows each other, y’know?”

“yeah,” he says, after a moment. “i felt that way too, at first.”

you look at him. he looks at the road. the lines on his face are soft in the passing lights. like he’s thinking more than he’s saying.

you ride like that for a while. quiet. just the wind through the crack in the window and the occasional cough of static from the radio.

you pass target without realizing it.

he doesn’t turn in.

“wait—”

“i’mma hit samu’s first,” he says. “if that’s cool.”

you blink. “you were supposed to go after—”

“yeah, but i figured you weren’t in a rush. and i need to drop this off now before he leaves. won’t be long. five minutes max. you can stay in the car. i’ll leave the air running.”

you hesitate. you’re warm now. skin soft under the buzz.

he just nods, one hand loose on the wheel, his other fingers toying with the car’s AC dial like muscle memory.

the ride settles quiet again, not heavy, just full. full of the kind of silence that swells around two people still orbiting one another. you shift your weight slightly, arms crossed over your chest, chilly from the vent’s cold air but not asking to turn it down.

you pass gas stations and streetlights and the occasional beat-up sedan with no headlights on. the further you get from campus, the more the world softens: less concrete, more trees. more overgrown grass climbing fences. more sky above you, bruising deep with night.

you keep glancing at him in the low light.

the radio’s humming a 90s r&b loop now, a song you halfway know. his fingers drum on the wheel, a lazy rhythm, wrist flexing just enough to catch the veins on his arm. his nails are clean, cut short. the smell of him curls warm in your nose, faint cologne with a sharper edge of deodorant and skin.

not like he sprayed himself up, just like this is what he smells like after a day.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t fill space for the sake of it. just drives like he always does this. like driving late into southern dusk with a soft-eyed girl riding shotgun is routine.

“you sure your brother’s home?” you ask after a minute, eyes tracing the power lines out the window.

“yeah,” he says. “told me to bring his charger. left it in my room again.”

you smile. “he does that often?”

“every damn week.”

you laugh, then sigh, pressing your shoulder to the window.

he turns off the main road and coasts into a quiet neighborhood with narrow streets, older houses, cars parked half-up on lawns. porch lights glow dim gold. a sprinkler clicks on somewhere behind a fence.

when he finally pulls into a gravel driveway, you can hear it crunch under the tires.

“you can come in,” he says again, shifting into park. “or stay out here with the AC. i’ll leave the car on.”

you nod. “i’ll come in. i gotta pee anyway.”

his lips twitch up. “figured.”

you both climb out. the heat clings to you instantly, humid, heavy, like breath on your skin. the night smells like cut grass, faint barbecue, and the lingering burn of car rubber from someone doing too much up the street earlier.

he leads the way up the steps. knocks once, then turns the knob.

you walk in behind him, and the smell of the house hits you first. not bad, just lived in. clean floors, slightly burned incense, maybe a faint trace of jambalaya cooked earlier. you hear a tv on in another room, the sound low. footsteps.

“yo,” atsumu calls, voice deeper now.

a man appears around the corner, similar build, darker hair, towel slung around his neck like he just wiped off sweat, like he either just finished cooking or bench-pressing something in the living room.

he stops when he sees you.

dark eyes flick from you to atsumu, then back.

his expression doesn’t change much, but his eyebrow lifts. subtle. like he’s trying to figure out what exactly this is.

“this her?” he says, dry, low, like the words are exhaled more than spoken.

atsumu exhales a sharp breath, dramatic. “bro—she needed a ride to target.”

“mm.” osamu’s gaze lingers on you, not in a creepy way. just observant. assessing. he’s got that quiet, oldest-brother energy, like he’s already weighed three versions of this situation in his head and picked the chillest one to go with.

“bathroom’s down the hall,” he adds, eyes flicking away. “second door on the left.”

“thanks,” you say, stepping past.

the hallway’s narrow, the kind where your shoulders almost brush the walls. hardwood creaks a little under your feet. the air smells like clean laundry and whatever seasoning was left behind in the kitchen pan. you breathe in slow, skin prickling with the quiet intimacy of being in someone else’s home for the first time—barefoot echo of your steps, the soft hum of a fridge, low voices floating from the kitchen behind you.

you find the bathroom. close the door.

it’s small, but not cramped. blue towels, a little air freshener on the counter, toothpaste smeared near the sink like someone rushed out in the morning. you take a beat. wash your hands. splash water on your cheeks and look at yourself in the mirror.

your face is warm. cheeks a little pink. there’s a softness in your eyes, half from the edible, half from this night slowly unfolding like something out of a song you didn’t know you remembered.

you dry your hands on the towel, slow and quiet.

outside the door, you hear atsumu’s voice, low and smooth—then osamu again, louder this time.

“so… target?”

atsumu laughs. “she ran outta tampons, man. i’m bein’ a good samaritan.”

“that what we call it now?”

you stifle a grin, cheeks hotter now, and flush the toilet just so they know you heard. when you open the door, atsumu’s already near the front again, keys in hand, twirling them lazily around one finger. he glances over when you step into view.

“you ready?” he asks.

his voice is easy. nothing forced about it. he doesn’t ask why you took your time. doesn’t comment on the fact that you definitely heard his brother grilling him. just looks at you like you’re still in the middle of something. like the night’s only just started.

you nod. “yeah.”

he opens the door for you. steps out first.

the air outside has shifted. it’s still warm, still thick, but there’s a breeze now. soft and slow, brushing through the trees. you inhale deep. smell the moisture in it, the faint scent of something blooming. the sky’s ink-dark, scattered with stars above the treetops. somewhere in the distance, you hear a boom—low and muffled.

a firework going off early, maybe. or a backfiring truck. it doesn’t matter. it feels like summer.

you both climb back in the car, the seat warm from where you left it. the dashboard clock flashes 9:27. he shifts the car into reverse, rolls back down the driveway smooth as ever.

the silence that settles in the car this time isn’t awkward. it’s the kind that makes you want to fill it with a song. and like he’s reading your mind, atsumu leans forward, taps the radio.

“let’s see if this thing’s still got a good station…”

static. flip. flip.

then, something slow. smooth. bass-heavy.

break from toronto.

the beat creeps in like syrup, warm and low, just barely pushing at the edge of the speakers. the vocals hum through the air, wrapping around the cabin like a weighted blanket.

you smile. “you like this song?”

“who doesn’t?” he grins, one hand sliding across the wheel.

“valid.”

you glance out the window. the lights of baton rouge blur by in long, melted strokes. everything outside the car feels far away now—like the city’s paused for the night and let you have your own little pocket of air.

“you hungry?” he asks, voice still low.

you blink. turn to him. “kinda.”

“you want mcdonald’s or actual food?”

“damn. you just called mcdonald’s fake?”

“i called it what it is,” he smirks.

you snort, then shrug. “i could do actual food. if you’re down.”

“i know a spot. open late. drive-thru’s always fast.”

you nod.

he doesn’t ask if you’re in a rush. you don’t ask if he is either.

you reach target ten minutes later.

not the campus one that one’s always packed and picked over by five p.m.—but the quieter location off college drive, tucked behind an old smoothie king and a gym that never closes.

the lot’s mostly empty, just a few stray carts tilted sideways near the corral and a flickering overhead light buzzing above a cracked parking space. the red glow of the target sign reflects in the hood of his car when he pulls in and parks a little crooked, two spots from the front.

he leaves the engine running.

“i’ll come in,” he says, already pulling his keys from the ignition.

“you don’t have to.”

“i know.”

he slams the door shut with his hip and meets you on your side.

inside, the air hits colder than before, grocery store cold, all artificial chill and soft overhead music. your skin tightens again under your tank, goosebumps rising like clockwork. you cross your arms as you walk, hugging yourself loosely, your steps echoing faint on the polished tile.

“what aisle is it?” he asks.

“ten,” you say automatically, even though you could find it blindfolded.

he trails a little behind you, pushing one of those hand baskets even though you told him you didn’t need it. his sweats swish quiet with every step. you pass a woman in pajama pants and a bonnet, a couple holding hands in the cereal aisle, and a manager restocking the travel-size body washes near checkout.

when you reach the aisle, you pause at the end—just a second too long—and he clocks it.

you turn to him. “i’ll be quick.”

he shrugs. “take your time.”

he doesn’t say it weird. doesn’t make a face. just backs up a few steps and turns to browse whatever’s next to the shelf—vitamins, maybe. chapstick. you breathe in slow, trying to shake the self-conscious edge prickling up your spine.

you grab a box. the purple kind you like. stare at it for a beat. then grab another, because last time you ran out too fast.

“you good?” he calls over his shoulder.

“yeah.”

when you turn back, he’s got something in his hand—cherry lip balm, and he’s squinting at the ingredients like he’s reading for class.

“you putting that in the basket?”

“nah,” he says. “my lips are soft.”

you blink. smirk. “okay…”

he grins. “feel free to confirm later.”

you roll your eyes, but your smile’s creeping in too.

you make a quick loop, all of your items small enough to finish before you’re off campus for the semester: travel-sized face wash, trail mix, a pack of gum, and he follows you, basket swinging from two fingers. the radio in the store starts playing “love galore,” and you catch him nodding a little to the beat, mouthing words like it’s muscle memory.

something in your chest loosens. the buzz is still sitting behind your eyes, soft and sweet.

at checkout, he throws in a bottle of gatorade and a king-size twix bar.

“you want anything?” he asks.

you eye the impulse shelf. grab a mini bag of sour patch kids. he hums like it tells him something.

he pays without blinking.

you don’t argue. just thank him under your breath as you head back to the car.

outside, the air’s even heavier now. summer pressing down like a hand on the back of your neck. it smells like pavement and distant water. sprinklers, maybe, or the bayou miles off catching breeze.

the sky’s darker, but not starless. somewhere far, another firework cracks.

he unlocks the car. you both get in.

this time, you peel the seal on your sour patch before the AC even hits your face. he takes a swig of his gatorade, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and glances over.

“still hungry?” he asks.

you nod. “you said you knew a place.”

“yeah. it’s a little hood, but the food’s fire.”

you grin. “good.”

he puts the car in reverse. pulls out slow. flicks his blinker, even though there’s nobody around.

you reach the restaurant a few minutes later.

drive-thru only, tiny neon sign above the window that just says WINGS & THINGS. a guy in a tank top and durag leans out the pickup window with a cracked phone in one hand and a bored look on his face.

“they got the best lemon pepper in the city,” atsumu says.

you order honey hot and seasoned fries. he gets lemon pepper, extra crispy.

when the food’s ready, he pulls into a half-abandoned lot across the street, just enough light to see your hands, not enough to see your reflection in the rearview. the windows are halfway down. cicadas buzz. your thighs are sticking to the seat a little now, sweat blooming beneath your knees.

he opens your box for you. passes it over. his fingers graze yours.

you eat in silence for a minute. licking sauce from your knuckle. the sound of chewing, the smell of fried food, the slow exhale of r&b through the car’s speakers. his head leans back on the seat, jaw working, the muscles in his arm flexing every time he reaches for a fry.

you glance at him. catch him looking at you already.

he doesn’t look away.

the food’s gone. wrappers crumpled, boxes empty but oily at the edges, tossed into the bag and folded neatly under your seat.

your fingers are sticky, and your lips are warm from spice, and your body? your body feels lazy and loose and alive in that particular way you only get when the night’s turned golden and you don’t know when it happened.

the radio hasn’t been touched since “break from toronto.” it’s playing something slower now—brent faiyaz, maybe, or tinashe. you’re not even sure. it’s just bass and breath and melody curling up against your thigh.

“you wanna stay out a little longer?” atsumu asks, voice barely above the hum of the AC.

you turn your head. blink slow.

“what’d you have in mind?”

he lifts a shoulder, eyes on the windshield. “fireworks show up by the levee.”

you blink again. “those weren’t just random ones?”

he shakes his head. “nah. they do a lil unofficial memorial day thing. nothin’ major. just people pull up, park, and watch.”

your stomach flickers.

your lips part before you can overthink it. “yeah. i’m down.”

he nods. puts the car in drive.

you roll the window down farther this time. let the wind rush in, let it ripple through your tank, lift your baby hairs. the air’s warm again, still sticky, but not in a way that makes you want to run from it. more like it’s wrapping around you, holding you in place. the breeze smells like wet grass and river water. and smoke. distant smoke.

you look at atsumu. his jaw is clean-shaven. his hands steady on the wheel. there’s a sliver of sauce at the corner of his mouth.

you lick your thumb. lean in and wipe it away without thinking.

he stills.

just a beat.

then exhales, slow and shallow.

“thanks,” he says, voice tighter.

“you’re welcome.”

the music keeps playing. you keep looking out the window.

when he pulls up to the levee, you don’t expect the view.

the sky is open here. wide. it yawns above you in deep navy, dotted with low, scattered clouds and stars that actually show. there are maybe four other cars parked nearby, spaced out. people sitting on tailgates, folding chairs, hoods. someone has a speaker playing old drake a few spots over, and you hear the fizz of someone cracking a beer.

atsumu parks near the edge and turns off the engine. leaves the radio on.

and then?

he hops out. opens your door.

“you good up there?” he asks, nodding toward the hood.

you climb out. stretch.

“yeah. lemme just—”

“here.” he shrugs off his hoodie, the one he’d tossed in the back earlier, and hands it to you without hesitation. “it’s getting cold out here.”

you blink at him. then take it.

it’s warm in your hands, still holding the heat of his body, the weight of it heavier than you expected. you slip it over your head slow, the fabric soft against your arms, the neck wide enough to drape loose at the collar.

it smells like him. clean and sharp and familiar now, and the sleeves fall past your wrists.

you pull your knees up slightly, climb onto the hood, and lean back on your palms. the metal underneath is warm from the earlier drive, and the night air feels softer now, hugging your body through the layers.

you look out at the sky.

he climbs up beside you. not too close. just close enough.

for a while, nothing happens.

just the sound of crickets. muffled bass. the rustle of trees behind you.

and then a firework pops.

it’s not huge. not coordinated. but it cuts through the night sky in pink and gold and green, crackling above the trees. you both watch it rise. then another. a few kids cheer in the distance. someone whistles.

you laugh under your breath.

“it is kinda ghetto.”

“yeah,” he says, grinning. “but it’s kinda perfect.”

you look at him.

his leg is brushing yours now.

you don’t know who shifted. you don’t care.

another firework blooms overhead, blue this time, long trails behind it like brushstrokes on velvet sky.

you both look up, breath caught somewhere between chest and throat. you feel the boom in your ribs more than your ears. the kind of sound that sinks into you, low and grounding. it lights up his face in flashes: blue, then gold, then green again.

and god, he looks good like this. quiet. soft-eyed. like he’s letting the night wrap around him just like you are.

you don’t speak. neither of you do.

not for the whole show.

you just sit there on the hood of his car, knees brushing, fingers occasionally twitching toward each other like they forgot how to hold still. the fireworks crackle and whistle and bloom above you in every color. people cheer. a dog barks. someone blasts “march madness” from a bluetooth speaker two cars down. but it all feels far away. like it’s happening through a layer of cotton.

your buzz has mellowed now. everything’s warm. slow. syrupy.

your lips part without meaning to.

you stand, slow and stretching, arms overhead as the last firework sizzles out above the treeline. your hoodie rides up a little, tank clinging underneath, the hem of your sweats resting soft on your hips. the sky’s quieter now, and your chest feels full with the kind of silence that makes you want to keep moving.

“i could go for something sweet,” you say, voice quiet.

atsumu turns, eyebrows raised. “you still hungry?”

you shrug, sheepish. “not food-hungry. just like… dessert hungry.”

he huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “girl, you’ve been hungry all night.”

you grin. “i’m a growing girl.”

“uh-huh.”

his eyes dip, slow and obvious, lingering at the curve of your hips as you shift your weight. his voice drops, smooth as syrup. “yeah, somethin’ back there definitely been growin’.”

you blink at him, laughing once through your nose, heat curling up your neck.

he smirks, already turning toward the car. “c’mon. i know a spot.”

he drives you down a road that doesn’t look like it leads anywhere, trees on both sides, no real lights, gravel crunching under the tires like bones. your phone has no bars. the GPS would’ve given up two turns ago. and then, just when you’re thinking he’s made a wrong turn—a single neon sign flickers to life up ahead.

mr. spoon’s shakes & sundaes.

the building’s barely bigger than a shed. there’s a sliding order window, a laminated menu, and one fluorescent light buzzing hard above the roof. it smells like waffle cones and summer air and cheap cleaning spray. the kind of place you can only find if someone shows it to you.

atsumu pulls up and parks close. shuts off the engine.

the girl at the window looks half-asleep, nails long and red, hair in a puffed-up bun. her eyes flick over you both, unimpressed, and she slides the window halfway open.

“hey. how can i help y’all tonight?”

you lean forward to read the menu, eyes trailing over names like banana bonanza and strawberry lightning bolt and death by chocolate. but the words are swimming a little.

your high’s not loud anymore, but it’s still there, curling around your brain like cotton. you tilt your head. squint.

atsumu watches you for a second.

then turns to the girl.

“we’ll take a double swirl, chocolate and vanilla. extra whipped cream. with the waffle stick.”

she raises a brow. “you sure?”

he nods. “positive.”

she disappears inside and you blink at him.

“you ordered for me?”

he grins. “yes. because you were standing there like the menu was written in spanish.”

“it was blurry!”

“mhm. and you were moving like that girl wasn’t gonna fight you if you didn’t pick in five seconds.”

you cover your mouth, laughing. “she did look mad.”

“she was mad. i saw her grip the edge of the counter.”

the girl returns with your milkshake—if you can even call it that. the cup is massive. layered with thick swirls of chocolate and vanilla ice cream, piled high with whipped cream, fudge drizzle, crushed cookies, and a single crooked waffle cone sticking out the top like a flag. there’s one long spoon and a straw stabbed right in the middle.

“y’all got five minutes. we closin’ now,” she says, already sliding the window shut again.

“appreciate you,” atsumu calls, handing her a bill. she doesn’t answer.

you both climb back onto the hood of the car, this time settling closer without thinking. he balances the shake between you, and you take the first bite, ice cream already melting down the sides, sticky sweet on your lips.

“god, this is good.”

“let me try,” he says.

you nod, holding the cup toward him. but when you go to pull off the lid, he stops you.

“what?” you ask.

“what—you got cooties or something?”

you blink. then scoff. “no.”

“then gimme the straw.”

you hesitate. something in your chest tightens—not nervous, not embarrassed. just… aware. the straw’s slick. your gloss is still on it. your breath, your taste. he leans in and sips slow, eyes on you the whole time.

your thighs press together instinctively.

he pulls back, licking whipped cream off his lip.

“damn,” he murmurs. “that is good.”

you’re not sure he’s talking about the milkshake.

the silence returns, but it’s different now. thicker. your knees are touching. your hip’s leaning into his. and when you glance down, his hand is resting near yours again. closer this time. deliberate.

you look at him and he’s already watching.

and when he finally leans in, you don’t stop him.

the kiss starts soft. softer than you expect. just lips, brushing. then again. then again, deeper.

his hand finds your waist. yours curls behind his neck.

and when he tilts his head, breath sliding hot against your mouth, you open up for him without thinking, tongue brushing his, slow and sweet. like the shake you’re both ignoring now. like the fireworks that lit the night but couldn’t touch this.

he kisses like he’s learning you. like he’s waited the whole night to taste what you’d pick if you had to choose between chocolate and vanilla.

and from the way he groans into your mouth, you’re guessing he’d pick you.

his lips are warm, soft but certain, like he knows exactly how close to hold you without crowding. your fingers are curled in the front of his shirt now, tugging just enough to keep him there, and he’s letting you—leaning into it, mouth moving against yours like it’s instinct. like it’s gravity.

you shift a little, thighs spreading just to anchor yourself to the hood. the milkshake is still balanced between you, but it’s sweating now, melting faster than either of you are keeping track of. your left hand presses to the side of his neck, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. he kisses you deeper for it.

and then—

plip.

cold drips onto the back of his hand. thick and sticky.

you both flinch.

you glance down.

a long stripe of whipped cream and vanilla is sliding down his knuckle, slow like honey. it’s glistening in the soft light, pooling near the curve of his wrist. your eyes trail it. so do his. and for a second, neither of you moves.

then your gaze flicks up. you lean in. slow. you don’t even think— you just part your lips and drag your tongue up the stripe of cream, a clean, warm swipe from wrist to knuckle. his breath hitches. sharp. the muscle in his jaw flexes, and his fingers twitch like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

your mouth lifts off his hand, slow. a faint pop of suction in the quiet air.

you swallow, eyes half-lidded, and tilt your head just slightly.

he looks stunned. then he laughs once—low and hoarse, and grabs the cup with one hand, sets it down hard on the pavement without even checking if it’s upright.

his other hand’s still slick when it slides to your thigh.

and now? he doesn’t sit back down.

he drops off the hood in one smooth step and steps between your legs, close enough for the heat off him to roll straight into your skin. his hands come up, bracing your thighs, holding you open just wide enough. the air sticks to your neck. your breath’s already shallow.

“you got a habit of lickin’ things that don’t belong to you?” he asks, voice rough, eyes fixed on your mouth.

“i didn’t hear you complain,” you murmur.

he grins.

“i’m not complainin’.”

and then he kisses you again, deep this time, hotter than before. his hands drag slow up your sweats, thumbs stroking the insides like he’s marking territory. your whole body arches forward. your hands grab fistfuls of his shirt. his mouth opens against yours and you taste sugar and skin and something feral rising between your ribs.

he licks into your mouth like he’s chasing the last of the whipped cream.

the metal beneath you is warm through your sweats. the air smells like sugar and pavement and the sweat sitting in the bend of your elbow.

he looks up at you for a beat—really looks. lips pink, mouth slightly parted, pupils blown wide.

and then he leans in again.

his mouth catches yours hungrily, like the dam’s cracked. his hands continue to slide further up your thighs, gripping—not rough, just intentional. his thumbs brush the inside, higher and higher, like he’s testing what he can get away with. you shiver. briefly regret wearing sweatpants.

he kisses like he’s tasting something rich, slow licks into your mouth, tongue brushing yours, teeth just barely grazing your bottom lip. your hips roll without meaning to, just once, right against where he’s standing between your legs.

his breath catches. he presses in closer.

the heel of his hand lands against the hood on either side of your thigh now, boxing you in. your legs tighten around him instinctively. your tank shifts higher beneath his sweatshirt. you can feel your pulse in your neck.

he pulls back for a split second, and then mouths along your jaw, down to your neck. kisses there, slower. firmer. like he wants to memorize the curve of it. his breath fans hot over your skin.

“it’s so damn hot,” you murmur, voice breathy.

he huffs a grin against your collarbone. “so are you.”

your head tilts back when he finds the spot just under your ear—sucks there, gentle but deep. your fingers tighten in his shirt again. your thighs flex around him.

his hand slides up again. this time, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your hoodie. resting there. not rushing. not asking.

just waiting.

you press your mouth to his again before you can think better of it.

he groans—low, ragged. his hands slide up your waist now, warm palms beneath your hoodie, fingertips grazing the bare skin of your sides. you gasp into his mouth. he eats the sound.

his body is all heat, all pressure. his thigh brushes right between yours again and lingers. not grinding, not humping, just there. like a placeholder. like a promise.

he pulls back, just slightly, lips still grazing yours.

“you good?” he murmurs, voice rough.

you nod, dazed. “yeah.”

his hands pause. “you sure?”

your eyes open. you find his. something in your chest tightens. not with nerves, just with want.

“i’m sure.”

he kisses you again. slower now. deeper. your arms loop around his neck. your whole body is arching into him. he shifts closer, one hand bracing your lower back, the other cupping your jaw. he kisses like you’re a song he just discovered, like he wants to learn every note by heart.

and when he pulls back again, finally—finally, you’re both breathing hard. faces close. noses brushing. your lip’s kissed pink. your pulse is skipping.

“that milkshake,” he murmurs, eyes still locked on your mouth, “didn’t stand a chance.”

you giggle, quiet.

he smiles. not cocky. not smug. just soft.

and then he kisses the corner of your mouth— once, gentle.

like he wants this to keep going long after tonight ends.

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