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fanaticsnail · 4 months

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He's in love with you

Masterlist here

Word Count: 1,500+

Synopsis: Benn Beckman can no longer ignore the way he feels about you, and it's eating him alive.

Themes: Benn Beckman x reader, unrequited (requitted) love, idiots in love, teasing, kissing, sfw, fluff, comfort, confessions of love.

Notes: @tiredemomama said she was having a bad time recently, and her love for Becks was one of the things that's keeping her chin up. I thought it'd be nice to reassure you that your fictional hazubando loves you too - so I wrote a little something for you. I hope you don't mind, honey!

Tag List: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @gingernut1314 @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @since-im-already-here @sordidmusings @writingmysanity

Benn Beckman, the second in command to Red-Haired Shanks, is stoic and abrasive most of the time. He keeps his emotions hidden beneath his cool exterior to not give himself up to the pool of emotion swirling within the chasms of his chest. While his grimace never leaves his face, there truly is no hiding how he feels about you.

This gunslinging vice-captain is in love with you. Desperately in love with you.

Always observing from afar, his gaze floats over the margins of the newspaper in his hands. Raking his eyes subtly enough to not draw attention to himself, he wordlessly dotes on you from his position on the deck with his eyes soft and filled with love and devotion. This first mate is absolutely smitten with you, and he hopes his affections are hidden enough to escape notice.

It has not, however, escaped the attention of the Yonko captain you both serve under. Oh, absolutely not.

Shanks clocked that development before he thought Beckman, himself, knew what was growing in his heart. His observation and affections for both you, and his competent first mate, had him positively itching to meddle in the growing affection between you. But he decided to ‘be good,’ and watch the sparks ignite the gunpowder to set ablaze the fireworks show.

It started with little things: Beckman trailing your form when you sauntered into town, throwing himself between you and harms way when engaged in combat, offering to watch your drink for you when you went to bars and taverns. Then it developed into something a little deeper.

Beckman often wrote you little notes, slipping them to you subtly beneath the dining room table in front of the crew when he thinks nobody is watching. The notes would be anything from: ‘do you need anything from town today?’ or ‘you seem down, do you want to talk about it?’ He would only ever do this to ensure you were comfortable, not drawing attention to you if you didn't want to be seen.

Then it got a little more obvious to the crew that he was smitten with you. He would escort you into rooms with his hand on the small of your back, holding open doors for you if you were wandering in beside him, offering to carry your equipment for you because ‘it's just easier that way.’

After a while, the crew all witnessed the obvious favoritism Beckman was gifting you with. The only person who was yet to catch on to his affections was the one person who mattered.

You had absolutely no clue. Although not overly oblivious to the new attention the chainsmoker was giving you, you honestly mistook his friendliness for exactly that.

Friendliness.

You were good friends, close friends. The closest two friends could ever be. Picking out potential couplings in towns for one another was an often happenstance. Pretty men and women were often the topic of conversation, and you had always demonstrated your keen eye with your choices for him. That was until the day he refused them all. There was nobody he would rather spend his time with than you, and he needed to let you know as such.

He couldn't play this little game with you any longer. The heartache that came from neglecting his emotions for too long had him a little more furious and pent up than usual. Every member of the crew, including you, had noticed his attitude switch. You decide to do something about it, changing the roles and becoming the one in your friendship to check in with him first.

Seeking him out after a day out in a rural town, he was leaning over the barricade on the pier and staring out into sea. His gray orbs were narrowed and focussed, and his cigarette hung limply from his lips. You apprehensively press your hand on his shoulder, breaking him away from his thoughts and turning to face you.

His features soften briefly before they return back to his usual grimace. You expect him to shrug off your hand from his shoulder, but his body seems to lean into the gentle touch and hold you there for as long as you give him. Without words, you furrow your brows curiously at him and give his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

Sighing into the touch, he closes his eyes and sizzles out the lessening end of the cigarette on the wooden barricade beside him. After thumbing the filter end into the hard surface, he turns back to you: your hand still pressed firmly on his shoulder. As you go to withdraw your hand from his shoulder, he immediately grips your wrist and hovers your retreating hand above his face.

Slowly and apprehensively, he draws your wrist to his lips and presses them tenderly to the palm of your hand. His eyes search yours for any apprehension or hesitation to his small advance, and upon finding none, he lowers his lips to your wrist and places them over your rapidly beating pulse point.

Your wide eyes go half-lidded the moment he presses his lips to your wrist, looking up at him with nothing but love and adoration. He mirrors your expression, his eyes falling glazed as he bares his eyes intensely into your own.

“Is this why you’ve been acting like an asshole, big guy?” you ask him with a knowing smile growing on your lips. He chuckles down at you while blinking slowly. Leaning his forehead down, he presses it against your own while circling your captured wrist around his neck.

“‘M not actin’ like an asshole, Darlin’,” his smooth baritone gently informed you with a soft hint of mockery, “Just actin’ like a guy who knows what he wants, but doesn’t know what to do about it.” There were two reactions Beckman was expecting from you at this very moment. The first was you leaning in and pressing your lips against his. The other was for you to recoil and turn down his advances.

He was not expecting you to taunt him with a gentle tease.

“Ooh,” you hum up at him, “Oh, you must really like me.” You scrunch your nose up and grin as you pull away from contact against his forehead, “You want to kiss me. You want to hold me. You want to claim me.” You giggled, lulling your head to the side and poking your tongue out at him.

Beckman immediately puffed out his broad chest before stooping down and circling his arms around your waist. You squeaked in shock, eyes again growing wide as he lifted you into his arms. In reaction, you hooked your other arm around his neck and pressed your own chest into his.

“Somethin’ wrong with all that, Darlin’?” he whispered huskily into your face, his lips hovering over yours while he tilted his face into yours, “You don’t want me to?” Your lips part in reaction, quivering gently as he continues to hover his face a whisper’s length away from you.

“Kiss me,” you whisper into his lips, leaning your lips closer to his and waiting for him to close the distance. He pulled his face away with a mischievous grin, his eyes narrowed and looking down his nose at you.

“Ask me nicely,” he retorted cockily back at you. He was so close you could taste his withheld kiss. Wanting nothing more than all you mocked him with, you humbled yourself and did as he asked.

“Kiss me please, Beckman,” you whispered, your eyes focussed entirely on his lips, “I want nothing more than you.” His grin dropped, his eyes darkened, and he immediately heeded your humble request.

A dance of lips and tongues pressed repressed and hidden emotion in a passionate embrace. His rumbled groan fled unbridled and breathily from his lips into yours, as your muffled whimper was claimed behind his mouth. It felt as if the waves of passion had swollen and spilled in a greedy and desperate kiss from your beloved first-mate.

Turning your bodies, he sat you on the railing he was leaning against prior and slotted his hips between your thighs. Rotating your head and angling your chin, you could taste the lingering flavor of his last cigarette on his tongue as it brushed with yours. His stubble scratched at your cheeks as you felt him begin to smile against your lips.

Raking his hands from your back over your thighs, he gripped the muscle and held you firmly in place before breaking his lips away from yours. Placing a few more soft and close-lipped kisses against your lips, he finally withdrew his face from yours.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he uttered breathily while shying his smile away from you, “‘S been a long time comin’. Didn’t wanna frighten you with the intensity too soon.” You collected his cheek with your hand and turned his eyes back to meet with yours.

You offer him nothing more than your smile before leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss against his lips in response.

Watching on from a distance, an exchange of Berry from Yassop, Roux and Limejuice appear in Shanks’ outstretched hand and toothy grin. Beckman had finally admitted his affections for you, and your beloved Captain could not be happier about it. Especially now that the largest wad of Berry from Hongo appeared in his hands.

“Drinks are on me, lads!” he called, turning around and laughing merrily as he reentered the tavern. Neither you nor Beckman heard the exchange, choosing to remain in each other's aura and enjoying the warmth growing in your chests with the sparks of new beginnings.

#one piece #x reader #benn beckman #moots mooting #beckman x reader #benn beckman x reader #one piece x reader #red-hair pirates #beckman #op beckman

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teamatsumu · 11 months

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kinktober 2023 -> day 21

window - suna rintarou x reader

word count: 1601

kinktober masterlist

warnings: usual smut warnings, dub-con (?), semi-public sex

“This is so nice, Rin!” You grinned in excitement, taking in the hotel room around you. The bed was king-sized, made neatly, lamps on either side tables illuminating the room. The lights in the ceiling were subtle too, giving the room an ambience you loved. Across from you were floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the city, showing you exactly how high up you were. You whistled lowly when you walked up to them, looking down at the twinkling lights. When Hinata had excitedly told you about the hotel they were staying at, you thought he was lying when he said it was the tallest building in the city. But he wasn’t. You were miles above anyone else.

Behind you, Suna placed both your luggage beside the door with a soft thud, closing the door behind him and using the key card to lock it. He hummed in approval, sharp eyes looking around until they met you, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I never knew being a pro-athlete for a National Team meant you would get so many perks. If I had, I would’ve started dating you a long time ago.” You teased, making him chuckle as he unzipped his team jacket and took it off, throwing it over a chair next to the wall. You watched him stretch, eyes drawn to the little patch of skin visible under the hem of his shirt. When he caught you looking, evident by the smirk on his face, you turned back to the window abruptly, cheeks reddened in embarrassment.

You and Suna had been friends since high school, when you had managed the volleyball club for three years. With his laid back personality and almost brooding vibe, it was hard to imagine how he was friends with you, always energetic, sometimes anxious and overthinking. You were worlds apart, yet you felt that Suna was just what you needed to hold you together. He filled up any gap in your personality. He made you care less about what others thought of you, just as you made him care more, which was what he needed.

You two were perfect for each other.

It was only a matter of time before you started seeing each other in a more romantic light. And now here you were, years after high school and almost seven months of dating later, you were accompanying Suna to one of his away games for the first time. Despite knowing him for so long and dating for over half a year, you still weren’t used to the intimacy. You loved it, of course, but given your anxious, self-doubting nature, you had yet to accept it wholeheartedly.

Unbeknownst to you, Suna was enamored by your hesitancy. A sick, twisted part of him loved to push you to your limits, knowing you would let him because you trusted him completely. It was like scratching an itch, the doubt in your eyes when he suggested something a little risky, and as he watched your back now, peering out of the open window at the brightly lit city night lights, a new idea formed in his head, and the itch came back.

You almost yelped, startled when you felt Suna at your back, hands finding your waist and chin leaning against your shoulder.

“Geez, Rin, you scared m-” You gasped when his teeth nipped at the skin of your neck, body stiffening and eyes widening at the feeling on your lower back, something hard digging into you. Oh.

You giggled a bit, letting out a breathy moan when Suna grinded his pelvis against you, making his…. problem… more known. His lips were mapping out the skin of your neck, nipping playfully every few seconds and drawing a sigh out of your slightly parted lips.

Your whole body stiffened when one of Suna’s hands traveled low, hiking up the hem of your dress until his fingers had reached your panties, hastily shoving his hand into them and cupping your bare sex. You gasped and jerked, trying to push his body back, but of course, he didn’t budge. You gripped his wrist tight as he started rubbing over your folds, your body jerking forward to try and unlatch him from your back.

“Rin!” You cried, eyes so wide they felt like they would pop out of your head. “What’re you-”

All you got back was a hum from your boyfriend, bordering on a moan as his fingertip dipped teasingly through your folds. You gasped, knees buckling slightly, Suna’s other arm coming up to wrap tightly around your waist. He dug his teeth into your neck more, and you could hear him inhale deeply.

“‘M horny, babe.” He drawled, voice a few octaves lower than usual. You felt yourself clench at the sound. “Be a good girl and take it.”

Oh. He knew exactly what he was doing. Calling you a good girl. And you were too weak when it came to him. You couldn’t resist the pulls and beckons of his body, pressed so solidly and deliciously into you from behind, until you could feel every shift of his muscles. But this time, as you looked down at the busy city below you, your fears were too great.

“H-here?” Your voice trembled, half from anxiety and half from the teasing brush of Suna’s fingers, still barely touching you but doing enough to rile you up. You weighed the options in your head like a pros and cons list, feeling a thrill go through you at the thought of just doing it right here. He hummed.

“Why not?” He answered your question with a question, an annoying habit of his, whilst pushing you to take a step forward until your body was pressed to the glass in front of you. The coldness of it ran like a shock through your body, instinctively moving back from it, which Suna took as you grinding back on him, making him groan into your shoulder. The hand inside your panties pushed down then, rolling the fabric down until it rested at the tops of your thighs. You felt him shuffling around behind you until you felt the press of his bare cock between your asscheeks, gasping when the tip rubbed through your slit.

“R-Rin…” Your voice was barely there, already losing your train of thought. Your mouth dropped when he penetrated you, no prep whatsoever, causing your core to burn as it stretched to accommodate his girth, just the way you liked. You heard his deep groan behind you, sounding so satisfied, as if he had been craving this for so long, and the thought drove a whine out of you, your cheek pressed to the cold glass as you were pushed forward because of Suna’s weight.

Then he started moving, slowly at first and then picking up speed, pulling back enough to push your dress up until it rested on your lower back, your ass on display. Suna bit his lip at the sight, gripping your hips tight and pulling them back, using one hand to push your back down until you were bent to his liking, before he started furiously and speedily pounding into you. You gasped at the change in pace, pressing your hands and forearms into the window for any form of support, eyes rolling shut at the feeling of Suna’s thick cock ramming into your tight, poorly prepped hole.

“Open your eyes, princess,” one of Suna’s hands wound into your hair, tugging your head up. “Look.”

And you did, tears rolling down your face when Suna hit your sweet spot, tip grazing it over and over with every thrust. Your core was tightening, walls already spasming around him, as you watched people move around below you, almost the size of insects, unaware of what was happening some storeys above them. You felt Suna lean forward until his torso was draped over your back, pace not faltering in the slightest but the angle shifting in a way that had you crying out in pleasure.

“Think they know what’s goin’ on?” He rumbled into your ear, referring to the people outside the window. “Think they know you’re getting your pretty little cunt abused by my fucking cock? Bent over and taking it like a good little whore. Fuck. The way you're clenching around me. Dirty girl. You love this, don’t you?”

“N-no.” You whined, your tone of voice contradicting your words.

Suna chucked, racking up the pace even more as if to prove a point.

“No? Don’t lie, princess. You wouldn’t be this wet if you didn’t like it. Makin’ a mess all over me.”

“Rin, I’m cumming.” You choked out suddenly, his words tipping you forward until you were teetering over the edge, clenching desperately around him as your legs shook, whining long and loud when your orgasm hit, core pulsing and sending shockwaves down your system. You gasped and cried through it, eyes nearly crossing at the euphoric feeling, not even registering when Suna finished as well, moaning into the back of your neck and filling you up with his hot cum.

You didn’t move, frozen in place as you panted and tried to stop your vision from swimming. You felt Suna gently pull out, shuffling around a bit before he guided you to straighten up slowly, picking you up and carrying you to the bed. You sighed as you sunk into the soft sheets, cold over your heated skin.

Suna watched as you knocked out almost instantly, smiling softly and pressing a light kiss over your hairline.

His itch had been scratched.

Taglist:

@bxbyyyjocelyn @thisbicc @lazuliquartz @dreamayy @kuroosluthoe @true-form-hoe @akumakitsune21 1 @cham0mil3-and-h0n3y @samisfunky @universal-s1ut @msbyomimi @dohwaesu @leothesquishy @n0tmykays @tsukiran n @reyofsunshinelol @bleach-your-panties @galaneiaeris @leyra-giovanni @erenspersonalwh0re @peachesncats @soapsoftheworld @iwannabecamiloshovel @vintagevict0ria @smithieandy @moonlit-mizukage @snazzyturtles @argwein

A/N: For those whose tags arent working, im sorry! I tried and for some reason, your names wont show up in the mentions :( another way of being notified is to turn on my blog notifs for @teamatsumufics . I only reblog my fics there so it serves almost like being in a taglist!

#suna rintarou #suna rintaro x reader #suna rintarō #suna rintaro x y/n #suna rintaro haikyuu #suna rintaro x you #suna rintaro fic #suna rintaro smut #suna rintarou smut #suna rintaro imagine #suna rintaro fanfiction #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu smut #kinktober

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garlicisgodsbestinvention · 3 months

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perfect dimensions

(Carmy x Designer!Reader)

Summary: The Bear is weeks from opening, and Sugar hires an interior designer to bring the vision to life. Part 1/3.

Warnings: cursing, WILL contain smut later 👀NO use of Y/N because this is the 21st century. Carmy x female!reader, reader is described as having longer hair but that’s it for physical descriptions. NOT EDITED because I’m lazy girl tehe

—————————MINORS DNI——————————

“I hired a designer,” Natalie tells them in passing on Thursday, waving a vague hand when both Syd and Carmy open their mouthes to ask, “She’ll be here in like, twenty minutes.”

“Okay, heard, but we already have a design,” Carmy says, gesturing to the wall covered in layouts.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you had a degree in architecture and engineering. Those are fake dimensions, Bear; we don’t know shit about anything, so someone is going to come in and make sure that we’ve got the right fucking shade of white!” Natalie shouts before the office door slams shut, leaving Syd and Camry to stare after her with equal confusion.

“Pregnancy is making her…” Syd starts to say.

“Mean?”

“Yeah, mean. Definitely a little mean,” Sydney sighs, “She’s right though. Vibe doesn’t get us to opening night.”

And that’s how Carmen finds himself stuttering through an introduction from a now much-more-pleasant Natalie when she shows a woman through the front doors.

Carmen extends his hand to you, clearing his throat, nodding like a fucking idiot when you tell him your name.

“Yeah,” he says, “I’m uh, I’m Carmen.”

“Nice to meet you,” you say, mouth spreading into a smile that makes his heart beat a little faster. “Walk me through?”

Natalie takes the lead while Carmy and Syd hang back. One glance at the look on his partner’s face should have sent Carmy scrambling for something else to do, but he’s not fast enough to remove himself from her presence before a laugh is bubbling from between her closed lips and he’s desperately hoping his face isn’t turning red.

“Im, uh, Carmen,” Syd lowers her voice in a mocking tone.

“Fuck right off,” Carmy shakes his head at her.

“You literally forgot your name!”

“I didn’t forget my fuckin’ name—“

“Like oh my god, a pretty girl with pretty eyes appears and you forget how to talk!”

“Are you done?”

“Absolutely not. I can’t wait for Richie to meet her.”

Carmen wishes the day would never come.

Ten minutes later you appear back in the dining room, Fak following close behind with a shit-eating grin that makes Carmy wish he had never gotten out of bed this morning.

“Carmy! Did you know she likes to bake?”

“No, Fak, we’ve only just met. Would you let her do her job?” Carmen sighs, rubbing his fingers into his eyes to stop an oncoming headache. Syd snorts.

“We’ll chat more later, Neil, I promise,” you say.

“You might have just made yourself a new best friend,” Syd laughs.

Carmy looks away the moment your eyes swivel over to his, trying to disguise that he’s staring as best he can.

“So,” you say, “Natalie said you had drawings. May I see?”

Camry’s fingers itch in a weird way, but he manages a nod before striding over to his backpack to pull out the notebook while you scan the wall of swatches and inspiration photos. You nods your head a little, like you’re concocting an idea.

Carmy wants to twirl a finger through the strand of hair hanging loose out of your updo.

“So, uh, this is what I’ve come up with so far.”

He then spends the next ten minutes walking you through each of the drawings, explaining himself a little too thoroughly, and making random comments about lighting and booth fabric. You look intent the whole time, brow furrowed at the page, occasionally pointing and you don’t even have to say anything—Carmy just starts to over explain immediately following the point of your painted fingernail.

When he’s done, you nod your head slowly, the corner of your mouth twitching up. You’re wearing some sort of lipstick that reminds Carmy of the stain of touching a cherry pit.

“These are amazing,” you say finally, and Carmy feels his face heat. “I like the vibe. I love the vibe, actually. Are you a sensitive person?”

You look up at him and Carmy short-circuits.

Syd says yes, at the exact time he says no.

“Conflicting signals,” you say, “Anyone else to weigh in?”

It takes a second for him to realize that you’re making a joke, and he has to shake himself out of a stupor caused completely by the sight of your smile.

“Uh, no, no I’m good. Gimme feedback,” he says, and you reach out to flip the pages back, landing on the entry.

“Great. I’m going to tell you what we need to fix,” you say, straight to the point. “This entry is too small. Either we need to extend out into the sidewalk, or we need to push the kitchen back by at least five or six feet. The bar is going to create a bottleneck right here, and we need to inset these shelves to give you a little more working room. The lighting here needs to be sconces, and the bathroom doors need to slide to maximize space—this is too small for a swinging door.”

Carmen is fully intent on taking in every word you’re saying, but out of the corner of his eye he can’t help but see Syd’s face transform into something mildly resembling devious.

“Heard,” Carmy says, nodding his head as you looks back up. “Let’s rock.”

——————————————————————————

You become a fixture in Carmy’s life in the same way that Sydney or Richie or Nat are, appearing every time he turns the corner and whispering a hello in passing before you start barking orders to the contractors who listen to your every word. Strangely, he can relate. A week ago you told him, Carmen, please decide which side of the bar you want the ice machine on, and do it quickly so I can tell the water guy when he gets here. He’s never made a decision so fast in his life.

Even Nat had popped an eyebrow when he replied, on it, before you’d even really finished your sentence.

Usually, he’s on autopilot—walking in and straight back to the office or the kitchen and hardly ever stopping to notice what’s going on. He’s the first one in and the last one out by design, so he doesn’t even see everyone else arrive until they’re already there.

This morning, though, Carmy walks into the kitchen to see you already there, writing something out in a notebook as Natalie talks, waving her hands wildly.

“Okay, I got you,” you’re saying only glancing up when Carmy’s shoes shuffle too loudly on the floor. “Oh! Good, you’re here. I need you.“

Carmy raises his eyebrows. “Need me?”

“To look at paint swatches,” you say, ushering him into the main dining area. The words ring in his head like bells as he follows you, the scent of your perfume surrounding him as he walks through the crowd of it. You smells so good, and it reminds him of New York City somehow, the faint scent of rain.

He figures that you must have come in even earlier than he and Natalie both, because you’re dressed more casually than usual, and there’s a charm necklace dangling over your tee shirt that he tries to identify when you turn without you realizing he’s staring. He makes out a paintbrush and nothing else.

“Right, so,” you start, gesturing to the wall. There’s a beat of silence with them both staring at the three swatches on the wall, and then Carmy turns towards you.

Your words overlap.

Carmy says, “I hate them.”

At the same moment, you say, “They’re horrible, right?”

Carmy laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, not it.”

“Okay, so hear me out.” You say, leaving his side to pull something from your folder. “Pink.”

“Pink?”

“Like, oyster shell pink. Neutral enough that in the low light it’ll look pale, almost indiscernible from white. And this wall—“ you point to the back where the booths will be and shake your head. “Has to be a mural. It’ll look unfinished if it’s bare.”

Carmy nods along with everything that you say, trying to envision it. “What kind of mural?”

You tilt your head, chewing at your lip. Carmy completely short-circuits for an embarrassingly long second.

“I might have some ideas,” you say in a soft voice, crossing over to the table where you’ve set your things and pulling out a black sketchbook.

“Two artists in residence, huh?” Carmy jokes, his stomach fluttering when you smile.

“Do you draw anything other than food and restaurant interiors?” You ask.

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” you repeat, looking up at him. He knows that you want him to elaborate—he would never admit out loud that he spends the hours he’s not cooking trying to replicate the way your necklace hangs off of your neck and the curve of your wrist.

Occasionally he doesn’t do weird, obsessive, borderline creepy things—sometimes he sketches the buildings outside his window as the sun goes down, or tries to remember what the boat in Copenhagen looked like, or that one place he used to drink coffee at in New York.

Your eyes narrow at him just a little, like you’re trying to read all the things he’s not saying.

He dips his head, half to look at the page you’ve opened the notebook to and half to get out from under the scrutiny of your pretty eyes.

“That’s insane,” Carmy finds himself saying, looking down at the waves of color on the page. “It looks like, almost like wood? Or marble. That’s—fuck, that’s so cool.”

The page is covered in shades of brown and deep green and black, melding together into something that reminds him of tree rings or stained wood panels, muted like an old chinoiserie river painting.

“You could hire someone to change it out seasonally maybe, it’d be cool, but I think something like this would look nice with the color of the wood we picked for the tables—“

“Will you do it?” Carmy asks, fingertips tracing over the edge of the paper and coming away brushed with color—oil pastels. “Could you, I mean, I wouldn’t trust anyone else to do it like this.” He tells you, rubbing the tips of his fingers together and watching the color meld together before meeting your eye.

Your mouth is parted, eyes wide as you look at him, and he gets the urge to flick your bottom lip to see if it’s as soft as it looks.

“I,” you start to say, “Yeah. I can do it. If you want me to.”

“I do,” he says, too quickly. “Want you to. Paint it.”

Because what else would he be asking you to do? He wants to throw his entire brain into the blender on high.

“Okay,” you say, “I’ll start tomorrow.”

He makes a mental note to make sure he’s there all day to peer through the windows and watch you work.

#Syd is Carmy’s biggest fan and also his biggest hater #Carmy see girl and brain go brrrrrrr #Carmy don’t be creepy challenge #carmen berzatto fanfiction #carmy berzatto #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy the bear #the bear hulu #the bear fx #designer au #the bear au

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impishjesters · 11 months

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I have this idea floating around in my brain for a while about a reader who likes to draw and because they have a crush on Jax they draw him. Jax eventually steals their notebook and probably teases them about it lol.

Jax x Crushing!Reader

warning(s): innuendos, bullying/teasing, Jax note(s): Look it's me and Jax, there's gonna be innuendos or some spicy wording and bullying. It's like a packaged deal or something. A/N: If you see me mixing Angel Dust's speech into Jax, no you didn't. If you didn't notice, I don't know how to tease and not be an asshole, so pretty on the brand I guess.

Caine had given you a sketchbook upon request, it was a little different than an actual sketchbook but it did the job regardless. Ever since your arrival, your fingers have been itching to draw, there were so many new sights and so much new inspiration.

There were so many things, so why did it seem like the doodles of Jax ended up on almost every page?

Easy, you had a crush on the apathetic, mischievous jerk named Jax.

Why? Well, now that’s the million-dollar question. He’s not inherently awful, no, that’s a lie, he’s an asshole. You don’t really have a good read on him yet but he’s funny! That’s gotta be redeemable, right? However, his jokes are usually backhanded and often involve being mean at the expense of others.

Okay so he’s a walking red flag but there’s something about him that has you crushing on the purple bastard.

Looking down at the sketchbook on your lap shows another two pages filled with sketches of random things, though most of the page is filled with Jax. You had taken to sketching things back in the real world to remind yourself of home, but eventually, those sketches would involve Jax doing mundane things.

Thing’s like sitting at a table eating real food, though you took creative measures when drawing an open mouth on him, it still looked off but it was serene and domestic. Then there’s the little sketch at the bottom of the page of Jax leaning against a window and staring outside. You’d manage to nab the pose and angle when he was leaning against one of the many random geometrical-shaped things in the main room and later added in a window.

It was embarrassing that almost more than half of the pages in the book involved Jax to some degree. Some pages weren’t even subtle, the whole page taking up a detailed portrait version of the male. Sometimes you even got creative and put him in different clothing.

Thumbing through the pages you saw there weren’t that many empty pages left. You’d need to ask Caine for another one and figure out what to do with this one. It couldn’t be left out in the open, you knew Jax had keys to everyone’s room and wouldn’t put it past him to go snooping. He’d already questioned you about the sketchbook before.

You’d been so focused on the sketchbook that you hadn’t noticed the man of the hour walking up. Jax noticed your intense focus and peeked over to see the infamous sketchbook on your lap, and with practiced ease managed to yoink it right off your lap.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here? You finally showing me what you keep your nose buried into?”

A yelp left you, stumbling to get on your feet you rushed to him and began swatting at the book and of course, he’d keep raising it just out of reach. “You took it! I didn’t say you could look at that!”

“Nah, pretty sure you said I could look at it.” He continued to lower and raise the book as you jumped to grab it. Sure he was curious before, but with a reaction like that? How could he not be even more curious? What kind of seedy shit were you drawing? Or perhaps some spicy nonfamily-friendly content?

Jax ignored your frantic words and opened the book to a random page, he was going to tease you about whatever dumb stuff you drew since you always had your nose in it but all he saw were sketches of himself.

A normal person might get embarrassed and hand the book back, but he’s not a normal person. It’s a little freaky, he won’t lie. A glance downwards shows him you’ve gone silent in front of him, simply staring down while he invades the privacy that was your sketchbook.

Your face is red and you look like you’re going to cry any second.

He’s a jerk, he was going to fuck with you, and he still is, but for the moment he’s taking in all the creative little pieces involving his face. Ya know, he never really thought much about how he’d look in other clothes. Gotta say he looks pretty snazzy in something that isn’t these shitty overalls.

“You know if I didn’t know any better,” his fingers still flip through the pages as he steps closer, circling you. “I’d say you like me.”

“I don’t.”

The reply is rushed and he rolls his eyes at the blatant lie, he’ll humor you this time. “Oh yeah? Does that mean you’ve got sketchbooks for everyone else too? Cause I’m pretty sure this is the only one I’ve seen you with.” He taps a doodle on the cover that gives away it’s the same notebook he always sees you with.

Tears trickled down your cheeks, you knew he was a jerk but this felt like too much. You just wanted your sketchbook back and to run away to your room, maybe pin something in front of the door that would render even the key useless.

His eyes roll the second he sees a tear, he’s not really seeing the problem here. You’ve got a book full of creepy—okay not completely creepy, he’s a good model so good on you for seeing that—sketches of him and he’s truthfully honored. It’s clear that you didn’t do this with everyone, so he’s honored to be your little model. Besides, it’s not like you actually have a crush on him, right?

Minutes tick by of him simply eyeing you, you’re still crying and it’s starting to get a little ugly and snotty, ugh. But you aren’t trying to further deny his little comment about you liking him. He’ll have to have a little talk about that later, what you could possibly see in him because he knows that you aren’t a sadist—oh, are you a masochist? That’d explain a lot.

Jax sighs and closes the book but doesn’t hand it over, simply putting the free hand on his hip. “You know if you wanted to see my face all you gotta do is ask. I’ll gladly show you this handsome face any day toots.”

Of all the things you thought he’d say, that wasn’t it. “H-huh..?” You embarrassingly wipe away the tears and snot before looking up at him.

“You heard me. Ya know I love this face too, very handsome. Maybe we can get Caine to put up some artwork in the tent of yours truly.” Jax wouldn’t consider himself vain, but you did have a way of making him look more, dare he say, attractive.

“I-I don’t… I don’t understand…” Was he still making fun of you?

He rolls his eyes before playfully hitting your head with the book. “Jeez, and here I thought you were smart.” Jax leaned over like he was speaking to a child and pushed the book to your chest. “I’m saying, the next time you wanna draw me I’ll give you a front-row seat. Maybe even take it to the bedroom so we won’t be disturbed.”

You push the book into his face to cover up that growing smirk and blush furiously. “Wh-what?! N-no I-I don’t…!” It’s hard to tell if he’s being serious or not in his offer to model for you, especially with the bedroom comment.

“C’mon, clearly you got taste. I mean that book is filled with sketches of me. I’ll commend you on your immaculate taste.” Jax taps the book before playfully bopping your nose. “At least let me give you the pleasure of seeing me close up. I’ve never been a model before so you might have to get a little hands-on to get me the way you want me.”

As the innuendos continue your face feels like it’s getting impossibly red and warm. Somehow this is worse than him telling you a sketchbook full of his face is creepy, in fact, you’d almost prefer it because your poor little heart can’t take anymore. You let out a yell and it stops his tangent but that stupid smirk of his never disappears.

“Offer still stands. You know where to find me.” Jax turns away but not before throwing a little wink over his shoulder. He still plans on pestering you about what you see in him, but for now, he’ll cut you some slack. You’re about as red as Ragatha’s hair and as much as he loves to see it, he didn’t plan to get this sidetracked when he saw you on your own.

He’s got a sucker to prank.

#tadc #the amazing digital circus #the amazing digital circus x reader #jax #jax x reader #tadc jax

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kaydens-agere · 21 days

Note

caregiver logan little wade headcanons im actually begging

Caregiver Logan Howlett/Wolverine and Regressing Wade Wilson/Deadpool Headcanons!!

Headcanons below the cut!! Thank you so much for the request, I had sm fun writing these :D This does have a bit of swearing so if you're uncomfortable with that, please proceed with caution or don't read!!

⚔️-Wade was surprisingly open about it with him when they first met, he didn't go into too much detail, but he just kinda said "yeah I regress sometimes when bad shit happens." and left it at that. Logan didn't push it because he knows it can be a sensitive topic (as a secret little himself)

❤️-It first happened with Logan after the party after saving their universe. After everyone left, he ended up dropping from the exhaustion. Logan immediately fell into "dad mode" as Wade likes to call it, pampering him constantly and keeping him safe.

⚔️-Logan was very surprised by Wade's... colourful language while he's little. Logan half expected him to act the complete opposite of how he normally does. But no, he's still Wade. And he still has quite the mouth.

❤️-Logan is extremely gentle while Wade is small, often scooping him up and peppering him with kisses. Wade absolutely loves it, it always sends him into a fit of giggles.

⚔️-Logan has an abundance of nicknames he likes using for Wade. Some of them include bub (obviously), kid/kiddo, baby, his kit, etc. Sometimes he'll call him a little shit, but it's said playfully and Wade knows he's joking (that's nothing compared to the insults that Wade can throw at him).

❤️-Wade starts inviting him to his tea parties. They spend a lot of time on the living room floor with his many tea sets, talking about the latest gossip among Wade's plushies. Al will join in when she's home.

⚔️-Heres how the tea parties normally go: "Mary started yelling at Chrissy the other day." "Oh yeah, bub? Whys that?" "Because Chrissy was cheating on her boyfriend!" "Oh, motherfucker. I knew something was up with her."

❤️-Logan often takes Wade to the park, or just big open areas to run around in, he either starts dragging Logan around with him or forces him to play tag. He has a lot of energy that he needs to get out, and it's hard to do that when he's cramped up in the small apartment. They always take Mary Puppins with them.

⚔️-Sometimes Wade will struggle with his scars when he's small, physically and mentally. Sometimes they'll burn and itch and it's a lot harder to deal with when he's tiny, so all he can do is curl up and cry. However, Logan always seems to know what to do, he'll always run him a nice warm bubble bath to ease the pain. If he's struggling mentally, it's usually him thinking that he's too ugly or scary to be loveable. Once again, Logan is there. This time, he'll offer lots of reassurance, cuddles and kisses all over his scars, which will usually make him feel a bit better.

❤️-Wade is an absolute spoiled brat, and Logan definitely feeds into it, no matter how hard he tries not to. If they're at a toy store, Wade will show him a toy he really likes, and if Logan says no, you best believe that Wade will throw a tantrum until he gets it (He always does. Logan's not proud of it, but he hates seeing his baby cry).

⚔️-Wade calls Logan "Papa" whenever he's small. It shocked him when it first happened, he didn't think he was worthy of that title. Logan definitely did not have to have a cry in the bathroom after that. /s

❤️-Logan can have doubts sometimes about whether he's doing a good enough job or whether he's even worthy enough to be trusted that much by someone. Whenever Wade senses this, he'll draw him a bunch of pictures and give him plenty of kisses and tell him that he's the best papa in the world, which makes Logan feel all warm and fuzzy.

⚔️-Logan rubs his head on Wade's a lot, it's his way of "scenting" him. He wants everyone to know that Wade is his baby, no one else's. It's comforting for Wade as well, he likes the sensation of his papa's fluffy cat hair rubbing against his face.

#deadpool #wolverine #deadpool and wolverine #wade wilson #logan howlett #james howlett #deadpool agere #wolverine agere #marvel agere #age regression #agere #sfw agere #fandom agere #agere headcanons #headcanons

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hazbinshusk · 2 months

Text

blitzø x afab!reader. you're holed up at home with a broken leg and blitzø has surprised you by coming by to keep you company. you feel depressed and completely bored stuck in the apartment, so he decides to take your mind off it. for totally noble, selfless reasons, of course. featuring: oral sex (female receiving), masturbation, overstimulation, squirting, and horse drawings of questionable skill. 2.3k. anon request. I hope you're feeling better!

Fucking gravity.

You were a complete badass, both in Hell and on Earth – you’d spent a good long while now building up that particular reputation through your work with I.M.P, and no one was ever going to argue with that. At least, no one smart.

So, if someone could explain to you just how in the ever-loving fuck you’d managed to trip down a flight of stairs and break your goddamned fibula, that would be great. Because right now, you feel like an idiot. A hobbled, immobile idiot.

The cast wrapped snugly around your leg is bulky and irritates your skin, and Blitzø glances up from his place on the floor when you groan, an eyebrow raised. You’re sitting on your couch while a movie you’re only half paying attention to plays in front of you, your injured foot propped up on the coffee table, a pillow tucked under your heel. The other imp is sitting cross-legged between the couch and coffee table in front of you, a marker in hand. He has been happily doodling away at your cast for a while now, his forked tongue poking out as he concentrates on his latest addition to the plaster.

His tongue slips back between his lips as he registers the discomfort in your expression. “You good?”

You sigh. “My leg itches.”

“Which one?”

You give him a pointed look. “Take a wild guess.”

He snorts a laugh, abandoning whatever he’s scribbling – probably his latest (and as always, greatest) horse design – and tosses the marker on the table beside him. The plaster is already covered with his drawings; scribbles of horses all labelled with names like Bumblebee and Octagon, his name in bubble letters and badly designed graffiti, Loona giving everybody the finger. There was even one that looked like the two of you side by side, the lines jerky over the uneven expanse of the cast.

“Where?”

You lean forward long enough to tap your finger over a drawing of a horse that was christened ‘Crayon’, a couple of inches below the top of the cast. You exhale softly in relief as he slips the spade of his tail down into your cast and rubs it over your itch, letting your head fall back against the back of the couch.

“Oh, that’s godly…”

“’Bout fuckin’ time someone else said that about me.”

You chuckle, smirking at the ceiling. “Idiot.”

“Oh, c’mon.” he teases, wiggling his eyebrows at you. “You weren’t exactly fuckin’ shy about callin’ me a ‘god’ the other night…”

“Is that what I was doing?” you reply, even as you feel your cheeks warm. “Maybe I was praying for you to stop.”

“Yeah? And the shakin’ thighs and beggin’ for more?”

“…I’m an incredible actress.”

Blitzø scoffs and leans his arm on the sofa beside you, resting his temple against his hand. He gives you an appraising look as he withdraws his tail, letting the tip of it skim over your knee and over the top of your thigh as he does. You raise a brow at his expression.

“What?”

“Nothin’,” he shrugs, a devious grin curling his lips. “’s jus’ kinda fun seein’ you all helpless like this.”

“You think so?” you say, faux-brightly before letting the fake smile drop and flipping him off. He snickers. You were actually grateful, if not still surprised, that he was here. He turned up a few hours ago and let himself into the apartment – despite him not actually having a key – apparently fine with skipping work in order to keep you company and alleviate some of the boredom. He’d brought shakes and greasy diner food with him, and had been doodling away on your cast for the last hour, as content and as boyish as you’d ever seen him. It was endearing, really, if not still completely weird.

“Just give me my meds, would you?”

“What, you can’t reach ‘em?” he asks, feigning innocence, and you scowl at him. Blitzø grins, but straightens so he can collect your painkillers and your milkshake from the table. You swallow the pills down with the last dregs of the shake, sucking down the mix of chalky pills and chocolate foam noisily.

Blitzø takes the cup from you and sets back on the table, and you wince as he leans his elbows on your leg, his chin resting in his hands mockingly.

“Do you mind?”

“Not really.” he shrugs, his tail switching back and forth behind him in a slow, steady rhythm.

“Asshole.”

“You love it.” You roll your eyes despite your smile, and his widens. He removes one hand from under his chin, tip-toeing two of his fingers teasingly up along your cast and past it, from your ankle to the bare skin of your knee and higher as he speaks. “Y’know what I really love about you bein’ all busted up like this?”

“Vivid imagery?”

Blitzø gives you a sharp, wicked grin, ducking under your leg to plant himself between your thighs. He takes hold of your knees, pressing them wider, leaning in closer to you tauntingly. “You can’t go anywhere.”

A shiver rolls up your spine at the sudden huskiness to his voice, and you flush. Still, you try to push yourself further back onto the couch, away from him. “Blitz, I’m all sweaty and—”

“Not yet, baby, but you’re about to be,” he shoots back without hesitation, his claws squeezing the flesh of your thighs. “C’mon, bitch. You know I can make you feel so good…”

Your breath catches, a soft whimper slipping out of you before you can stop it. His smirk twitches wider, his tail switching back and forth predatorily behind him. He’s watching you with heavily-lidded eyes, and his expression burns into you, excites you in a way that makes you want to squeeze your thighs together to quench it. But his claws are too tight on your legs, and you can’t do it. He feels your muscles tense though, and he growls, low and hungry under his breath.

Blitzø slides his hands further up your thighs slowly, delighting in the way your breathing grows unsteady in response. The sleep shorts you’re wearing are threadbare cotton, and it takes so little once he hooks a claw into the leg of one for the threads start to tear.

“Say you want it, slut,” he urges roughly, eyes still burning into yours. “Say you want me.”

You bite your lip and nod, and that’s all Blitzø needs before he’s leaning up to catch your lips with his in a rough, hungry kiss. His tongue meets yours, his breath hot and sharp as it mingles with yours, and you sigh into the kiss, one hand coming up to cup his cheek. You can feel his smirk still playing on his features, feel his hands take hold of the waistband of your shorts and underwear. There’s the sharp sound of fabric tearing and then his hand is cupping your cunt.

You whimper into his mouth as he slides a finger up between your labia and finds you clit. He kisses you again, his fangs catching your bottom lip before he pulls back. Blitzø waggles his eyebrows at you cockily before he lowers himself back onto his knees between your thighs.

“Look at you, all wet already,” he growls before his mouth is on your clit and you moan, bucking up as best you can without moving your injured leg. Blitzø hums a laugh into your cunt, the vibrations a heady teasing against your clit, and he wraps an arm around your thigh. He hooks your injured leg up over his shoulder, and you grab blindly at the back of the couch with one hand as he smooths his claws up the outside of your thigh. He tugs you further towards the edge of the couch, opening you up further to his tongue. “Fuck, always taste so fuckin’ good…”

He doesn’t know subtlety, and he doesn’t work you up slowly to the sensation of his tongue against your clit. No, Blitzø practically attacks your cunt with his mouth, a groan rolling through him and into your pussy in a way that makes your eyes roll back. When he slips finger up into you, you moan aloud, wrapping a hand around his horn and bracing the other on the couch so you can grind against his tongue.

“Shit, Blitz, fuck…” you can feel yourself already soaking, dripping onto the cushion beneath you whenever he pulls away to tease you with biting kisses to your thighs and hips. He sucks a possessive mark into your hipbone, lathing his tongue over the same spot just as he pushes another finger up into you. “Holy fuck!”

He snickers, flicking his forked tongue tauntingly over your clit again, eyes on your face. “Careful, whore, you’re gettin’ close to callin’ me a ‘god’ again.”

“I’m…” you pant, brow creasing as you screw your eyes shut as though it can help you focus on your words instead of the way he curves his fingers inside you. “…rehearsing. Big role coming up.”

You jerk as he sinks his teeth into your thigh. “Only thing fuckin’ cummin’ here is you.”

“Satan, that’s lame, Blit—” you break off with a loud, keening moan as Blitzø sucks your clit into his mouth and tortures it with his tongue, your eyes rolling back and your hand tightening so much on the couch cushion beneath you that you hear the threads pop. The heat inside you expands, tingling through your limbs and making your back arch, and Blitzø reaches up to grope at your chest, palming your breast through your t-shirt. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck, fuuuuuck…”

That heat clenches inside you and releases and you cum, hips lifting off the couch, your cast balanced against his back. Blitzø moans into your cunt as you soak his face, lapping at your clit relentlessly. He slows only enough to let you catch your breath, keeping you burning on that breathless precipice, too stimulated to come back down, but not enough to keep the orgasm rolling through you.

He releases your breast and you hear his zipper lower. Blitzø groans against you as he wraps a fist around the base of his cock, stroking himself with the same pace he finger-fucks you with. He’s muttering the filthiest sweet nothings into your pussy, each touch of his tongue against your clit sending sparks through you that make your body jerk.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, a thin trail of drool leaking from the corner of your mouth. “Blitz… please…”

“Fuck, that’s it, bitch,” he moans, withdrawing his fingers from your pussy to roll over your clit, his fist quickening around his erection. “Fuckin’ beg me for it, c’mon…”

“Please, baby…” you whine obediently, too far gone to care about how he’ll lord it over you as soon as you’re done. He pushes his tongue into your quivering cunt, eager, hungry for every part of you he can taste. You’re boneless against the couch except for the disjointed jerks of your hips into his face, your body chasing another release even as it finds it too overwhelming to continue. “Please, Blitz… fucking, God, please…”

He presses his fingers down on your clit just as he quickens them further and you cum again, eyes rolling back and your vision going white. Blitzø groans loudly, leaning back on his heels to watch your cunt throb and pulse, his fingers still moving over it ruthlessly. His eyes flicker up from your pussy to your face and he cums too, shouting a string of curses you don’t really understand through the endorphin-fueled haze leaking through your brain.

“Shiiiit…” he lets his head fall against your thigh, and you giggle breathlessly, punch-drunk. His shoulders shudder as he catches his breath, then his head snaps back up as though he were completely unaffected.

He rests his chin on your thigh, raising an eyebrow at you with a small smirk. “Feel better?”

You run a hand through your hair, and Blitzø watches the movement lift your breasts under your shirt. “About being stuck on the couch, or do you think your tongue somehow heals broken bones?”

“Bitch, my tongue is a fuckin’ miracle and you know it,” he shoots back, grinning against your leg as you laugh.

“I do feel more relaxed…” you admit.

“Fuck yeah, you do.”

“…But now the couch is all wet.”

His grin widens lasciviously. “Fuck yeah, it is.”

“Blitz.”

He rolls his eyes, unhooking your injured leg from his shoulder and setting your foot back on the coffee table with surprising care. He stands, making a show of tucking himself back into his jeans, winking at you when he doesn’t do them back up. “Alright, alright. Unclench that ass, sugartits, I’m on it.”

You raise a brow. “You are?”

“Yup.” he says, clapping his hands together before grabbing your crutches from where they’re propped against the coffee table. “You’re gonna take a bath, I’m gonna scrub your cum outta the couch—’

“Ew, Blitz!”

“—and then,” he continues pointedly. “You’re gonna go get all comfy in bed.”

You feel a smile twitch at the edge of your lips, surprised by your thoughtfulness. “Really?”

“Yup.” he says, popping the ‘p’. “And then we’re gonna see just how well you suck dick lyin’ down.”

You snort a laugh, shaking your head. “There it is!”

He grins widely, holding a hand out to help you up off the couch. “Fuckin’ right. Now get your ass up before I decide to make your crippled ass run this fuckin’ bath bullshit by yourself.”

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awkward-halfhug · 3 months

Text

permission | eleventh doctor x reader

summary: you have your first kiss with the Doctor

sequel here

(also on my ao3)

2.1k

He's gone and done something stupid again. Stupid and heroic and brave and you're proud of him and angry at him at the same time.

You had prepared things to say to him. Angry things. But looking at him now, fresh from the fight, planet saved and looking like he's just avoided death by mere inches, all your frustrated words are gone. You still feel something strong, but it's not quite anger. Not mostly.

Now, the feelings you usually shove to the way way back of your subconscious are surging through you with a vengeance. He's standing there in front of you like that and you can't ignore it.

There's a split in his bottom lip, and that's sort of attractive, and it shouldn't be. He's got cuts on his arms and a bit of blood on his face, right by his temple, and that shouldn't be attractive either, but it is. So is the dirt on his clothes, his tie hanging undone around his collar, his shirtsleeves rolled up messily to the elbows. His hair is all over the place and he has this wild look in his eyes that you can't quite decipher.

He's never looked more beautiful.

You swallow, hard. You need to get a hold of herself. You know you do. But you don't want to get a hold of yourself. Your fingers itch to reach out and touch him.

You hold back. Because of the what ifs, because of who you are and who he is and how he deserves more and how very insignificant you are. You hold back like you always do.

Until you don't.

His collar is between your hands before you can talk yourself out of it, yanking him to you. And he's surprised, you can tell by the little yelp he gives, but you hope it's not bad surprised.

Now that he's close, your heart beats faster. Both of his seem to as well, although that could be because you surprised him. You hope that's not why. His eyes seem less wild now, but you still can't read the emotion in them, which does nothing for your confidence in this situation.

You clear your throat.

"Doctor?" You say, much quieter than you meant to.

"Mmm?" He manages.

"May I kiss you?" You rasp out, somehow even quieter than before.

At this, the Doctor's expression clears and morphs into another complicated one. Mild shock, delight(?), and for some reason, amusement. He's got a funny little lopsided smile on his face when he replies after a thoughtful moment.

"Yes, you most certainly may."

You huff out a relieved laugh, before slowly drawing yourself up onto your tiptoes, and placing your palms on either side of his head. Your gaze meets his with shyness, but upon reading...something...in his eyes, you gain the confidence you need. Hesitantly, you close the gap between you and places your lips very gently on his face, right at the edge of his mouth.

You feels his breath catch. You hope that was okay. He said it was, so you'll try not to worry yourself over it.

You keeps your lips pressed there a moment. The Doctor won't have known it, but he is now your very first kiss, and you want to remember this moment for a long time to come.

Eventually though, you pull back, just a little, and move to place your second kiss on his nose. You close your eyes for a second and smile to yourself, because you're sure that must seem silly to him, but you can't help it. You've been wanting to do that for a long time.

You pull back and look in his eyes, belatedly realizing that you had asked for one kiss, but took two. You hope he isn't upset.

But he doesnt look upset. Although you still can't quite tell what it is his eyes are saying at the moment. He looks a little dazed. But you don't see anger. You do see confusion, however. But you did ask him, so why--?

"Doctor?" Your voice is slighter louder than it was before.

"Huh?" His has gotten quieter.

"Is this okay?"

"Ve-" he tries to say, but seems to choke on the word and starts again. "Very." He answers, and he seems sincere.

You should probably leave well enough alone now. He's probably tired. He probably wants to go home to the TARDIS and eat his weight in pastries and then go lose himself in machinery. You should probably let him. Still, you find yourself asking-

"Is...Is it okay if I...kiss you again?"

He looks on the verge of tears now and you have no idea why that is but you feel sorry immediately. You're about to backtrack when he smiles. A tender, genuine smile, full of affection. That, you can identify. And it's aimed at you. Now you want to cry.

He nods and you smile back at him.

You lean in and places your third kiss ever, on the other side of his mouth. Then your fourth ever kiss, on his cheek, right under his left eye. You feel him smile as you do so, and are surprised to find yourself slightly annoyed by that. It's hard enough to reach his face, even with him bending down slightly, and you on your tiptoes. Why must he move his face around like that?

He starts laughing abruptly and you realize you're pouting. You pull back, but when he reaches for you, you stop retreating.

His hands hover over your hips, waiting, as he asks you, "May I?"

You're not sure what he's asking, but you trust him. You nod.

His hands grip your sides firmly, but gently, as he lifts you up and places you on a surface behind you that you weren't even aware was there in the first place. He steps forward into your space and you realize you're now eye level.

"Proceed." He says. His eyes are playful when he says it, but he seems nervous somehow. The Doctor, 6 foot tall Gallifreyan, Oncoming Storm, your best friend the Doctor, nervous? Because of you?

It just doesn't make sense. So you file it away for further analysis at a later time. Right now, you do what he says, and proceed.

You bring your hands back up to his face and take a moment to just brush your fingers across his skin. He closes his eyes. You think that's a good thing. Then you lean in and place your...fifth? Or fourth? You're going to have to stop counting. Seems kind of silly at this point. A wave of giddiness surges through you as you realize you've now had too many kisses to keep track of. And they've all been with the Doctor. Your Doctor. Your best friend.

You place your possibly-fifth kiss right under his other eye. Then another just between his eyebrows. A feather- light kiss on one closed eye, then the other.

His breathing's gotten heavy, and his hands tighten a little on your hips. Your face heats a bit. You'd forgotten his hands were there.

He squeezes his eyes shut tighter and a tear escapes.

You let out an alarmed noise and his eyes open again, but you can't tell if he looks sad or not. You give him a moment to say something. He looks like he wants to.

"Can I kiss you now?" His voice sounds much more stable than the tear would suggest.

His question, while perfectly reasonable, has you floored. You're not sure why, but you hadn't considered that he would want to kiss you. You're aware kissing is usually a mutual thing but...but still.

Truthfully You're a little bit scared. You're not quite sure you're ready for...for the kind of kissing he's probably used to.

Her heart is thudding in your chest by the time you finally work up the courage to answer him.

"If...if you want to?" It came out like a question. Smooth.

One of his hands reaches up to cradle your head, like you did with his. And he brings his lips to your face, just to the side of your mouth, just like you had done to him. You feel herself gasping, just like he had. You get it now.

He takes his time, before bringing his lips to the tip of your nose, then the other side of your mouth, then to just below your eyes, one by one, tracing the same path you made with your lips on his face. It's so tender, and torturous and loving that it makes your chest ache. By the time he's done placing a kiss on each of your closed eyes you can feel yourself crying. Not just one tear, like the Doctor had, but a steady stream of them out of both eyes. You get that now too.

You feel his arms wrap around you, feel him pull you tight against his chest, and you sob. You don't even know what you're sobbing for, you just can't stop now. Your body wracks as the sobbing gets harder and his arms tighten around you, almost crushing you to him.

You're pretty sure this is not how someone's first kiss is supposed to go. Or someone's first several kisses. You were so happy a few moments ago. You're still happy, you're pretty sure of it. So why can't you stop crying? Whatever the emotion is that you're feeling, it's strong.

The Doctor's soothing voice breaks through your confused thoughts. He's saying things like "it's alright" and similar phrases, but amongst them are words in another language you only hear him speak when he thinks he's alone.

That thought distracts you enough to calm you down, and you pull herself together. Wiping your face with your sleeves, you pull back from him slightly. His arms loosen from around you but drop back down to your hips, not willing to release you yet. The thought makes you feel light again.

"Sorry" you say to his chest.

The Doctor hooks a finger under your chin and gently brings your face up to look at him.

Whatever it was you thought you'd see in his face- pity, awkwardness, regret; it's not there. What you see is understanding. Warmth. Affection. He smiles at you and you almost can't take it. Almost starts crying again. You doesn't, but just barely. What is wrong with you today?

"Can I have just one more kiss?" The Doctor whispers, and he looks unsure you'll say yes. You're acting like a crybaby, of course he's afraid you'll burst into tears again. But you do want another kiss, whether the tears give that impression or not.

You look him in the eyes and nod. You brace yourself for another feather light brush to your cheek.

He ducks his head, hesitates, and then his lips capture yours. You gasp. His mouth moves against yours and your brain short circuits. It takes you a few moments but eventually your mouth starts to move against his with unsure movements. He seems encouraged by this and presses his lips firmly into yours.

You can hear a whooshing sound in your head where coherent thought used to be. All you can think now is this is not like the other kisses, and more more more.

You pull back a centimeter from his lips so that you can catch your breath, and then you attache your mouth to his again, a little more forcefully than you had intended. He chuckles a little and you find yourself laughing with him, before he's kissing you again.

You move their mouths together for an eternity, or mere minutes, you have no idea. And then he surprises you again by running his tongue along your top lip. You gasp, again. And then his tongue is in your mouth, and you always thought that kind of thing sounded gross. But it's not. It's just...not. you feel like your body is going to explode and your legs feel like jelly and you're suddenly very glad he put you on this perch.

He pulls back, places several slow, pulling kisses to your lips, and then rest his forehead to yours.

He's breathing hard too, you're gratified to note.

Neither of you say anything for a while. You don't seem to need to.

The cool evening breeze brings you both back to reality when you shiver. The Doctor runs his hands up and down your arms to warm you and you lean into him, wrapping your arms around his torso. You both sigh contentedly together.

Your mind starts to sober as the adrenaline from the kiss wears off. You feel comfortable in his arms, and you want to stay there. Will you ever be able to be held like this by him again? What if he thinks this was a one-off? What if this was just another casual kiss for him? You've seen him kiss strangers before, usually in gratitude and he doesn't seem to think anything of it. Is this like that for him? You feel even colder now, and your shivers become more violent.

"May I hold your hand?" The Doctor's voice rumbles in her ear, causing you to shiver for a different reason.

The Doctor's companion pulls your head back to look at him. You're trying to read him but once again, his expression is unreadable. Yoy give up and focuses on what he said.

The way he says it gives you pause. Like he's asking for more than that. Like the answer to his question would be the start of something. Or like a continuation of things already started. Things you just put in motion. Or maybe they've been in motion for quite a long time, you've both just been ignoring it. Whatever the case, it renews your confidence. This is serious to him, just as it is to you. You know your answer.

"Yes, you most certainly may." You echo his words back to him.

His relief is clear on his face. He doesn't even bother hiding it. Have you not been the only insecure one in this relationship?

"Pastries back in the TARDIS?" The Doctor whispers.

You bury your face into him again and smile into his shoulder. "And cocoa."

"And cocoa. Mustn't forget the cocoa."

"Would be a crime" you nod.

"The worst kind." The Doctor agrees. "Let's go"

The Doctor lifts yoy off your perch and places you back on solid ground. You huddle into his side immediately.

Hand in smaller hand, you walk back to your TARDIS.

♡ thank you for reading! please consider reblogging/commenting if you enjoyed, it means a lot

#eleventh doctor x reader #11th doctor x reader #doctor who #eleventh doctor x y/n #eleventh doctor x you #eleventh doctor x fem!reader #11th doctor x fem!reader #eleventh doctor #11th doctor #the doctor x reader #the doctor x you #eleventh doctor imagine #doctor who imagine #doctor who fanfiction

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idkwhatimdoinghere1655 · 3 months

Text

Nobody Likes A Secret - Max Verstappen

The obsession with him was unhealthy to the point where it was having physical side effects on you. But, it wasn’t the obsession that you used to have over him, no. This was something darker, something vitriol filled. Something hellish.

This kind of obsession was hating him with every fibre of your being to the point where you felt sick with rage every time you thought about him - which was more often than not. Today, however, it was made millions of times worse.

A headline had popped up on your phone while you were eating breakfast titled: ‘Max Verstappen - The Everything Interview’. To say your curiosity was peaked was an understatement. You put your phone down to avoid reading it, but your hand was itching to pick it back up.

After a few minutes, you relented and opened the article. Conveniently, every paragraph was headlined with the question, then Max’s response underneath. some were short answers, some took a few paragraphs for him to answer.

Your eyes skimmed over the more menial questions about racing before the column descended into the more personal queries. Your heart dropped in your chest and you could’ve sworn your heart stopped beating when you read one of the ones near the bottom of the article.

‘So, Max, your relationships have always been something that have been marvelled at by the public for one reason or another. But, the one that people have always been interested in is you and Y/N Y/L/N. What happened there?’

You took a moment to compose yourself, questioning whether reading on was a good idea or not. You allowed your eyes to gloss over the words, hoping that not reading it properly would take away the inevitable sting of what his words would entail.

But this was a bite that would sink deep into your flesh and draw blood. Each syllable you read was like a dagger to your heart, and you couldn’t tell whether the flush you were feeling was embarrassment or pure, unbridled rage.

‘Well you know, it wasn’t a… real relationship. We dated for fun, that’s what she was’.

Dated for fun. Fun.

You would’ve rathered that he had slapped you in the face as hard as he could than read those words. He made it sound like you knew that that was his outlook on his relationship, but you sure as hell didn’t.

He had never expressed that to you ever, and he certainly hadn’t made it out to be fun when he told you he loved you and that you were the only one for him. He was either an absolutely fabulous actor when he was with you, or he was lying through his teeth right now.

But there was no reason to lie. If he had said that it just didn’t work out between the two of you, then no one would have batted an eyelid and it would have been normal. Of course, Max had to do the typical Max thing and blow it way out of proportion.

The paragraph went on, and you refused to read it properly. It was weird, to say the least. Every fear and tiny insecurity was being vocalised by Max’s words. Those tiny moments of doubt that you had felt during your relationship were being brought to life and it was tearing you apart.

He had even told you that you were being silly whenever you brought it up to him, that your relationship was so much more than just intimacy and pleasure. Yet, here he was. The gist of the article was how ‘I never loved her, I was only in it for the sex’.

Only in it for the sex? Seriously? If it was just about the sex, there were hundreds if not thousands of other women who would’ve quite happily taken on the role of the fuck buddy that he apparently thought you were.

If it was just about the sex then he wouldn’t have worshipped the ground you walked on and treated you like you were the light of his life.You wouldn’t have felt like the princess in the castle that he had built, brick-by-brick for you.

If it was just about the sex, he wouldn’t have gotten down on one knee and asked you to marry him. But, no one else knew about that, and it was obviously a detail that needed to be omitted for his story to make sense.

And it would make him look like less of a complete douche. You hadn’t announced it, and you hadn’t gotten chance to with how quickly he had called it quits. It wasn’t even like there was a build up, or a small deterioration over time.

It was a completely random, seemingly spur of the moment thing. One morning, you woke up and he was in the kitchen. He sat you down and talked you through why being together was perhaps not the best idea. You stopped listening after the first few sentences.

And, that was that. You handed the ring back and promptly moved out the following week. That was the end of you and Max. It was clean and simple, but mentally destroying. You fell asleep a fiance, and essentially woke up as a single woman.

At this point, you really didn’t get how he could just say that and be proud of it. You both knew he was in deeper than that, so why the hell did he lie? What was the point in lying? It made you both sound sleazy, so what was the point?

All you could possibly think of was that it was straight denial. If he said he didn’t love you and he never had, maybe he’d believe it after all. Maybe he’d make himself believe something that wasn’t true. He could gaslight his way into a veracity that didn’t hurt as much as the one as he was currently facing.

Nobody likes a damn liar, that’s for sure. How he’d kept a straight face while he’d said it was beyond you. Well, you hadn’t seen the interview, you’d read the transcripts, but there was nothing on social media about him appearing to be lying, so you assumed he had said it as nonchalantly as possible.

You had always been able to sniff out a lie from Max from miles away, but your senses weren’t as fine tuned as they used to be.

At the end of the day, it had almost been a year now. A year since he had broken your heart, and now a year since you had started to come to terms with it all. But even after all that, it was apparently just about the sex.

Now your mind was in limbo. You had always been his, you had been fiercely loyal while you were together. You had always been his. But now you didn’t know what for. For vehement love or just a reliever of his pent up stresses. Or something in between.

You didn’t know, and it was as if all of your fears and insecurities had been brought up to the surface with an acrimonious bite. It was like he wanted to hurt you. And maybe he had, just as a way for him to make you hurt like he was.

The pain he was hiding under the surface, kept as a secret. A nugget of information that tore him apart, piece by piece until he laid it bare in front of him. Then they’d see the pain and the anguish, the hurt and the cracks, the lies and the deceit.

Nobody likes a secret, and it was your damn mission to make sure Max Verstappen’s were aired out like dirty laundry on a summer’s day.

A/N - I've missed this, truly. And next week? Silverstone mfs! I can't bloody wait for a weekend out with my gal @lipringlrh

|masterlist|five seconds flat|

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parkerslatte · 11 months

Text

Not Fated

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: light smut (grinding). insecure az.

Summary: Azriel hopes that Y/N is his mate. Except that Y/N’s mate died nearly two centuries ago and Azriel struggles with this new information.

A Court of Thorns and Roses Masterlist

•••

For the first time in his life Azriel was truly happy. His smiles were brighter and he held himself with a sense of content. Whenever he saw the rest of the Inner Circle, he greeted them in a way no one had ever expected before. He was more open and welcoming. No one was used to it.

Azriel’s leg bounced up and down as he waited for the meeting with Rhys to finish. He was desperate to get to Y/N. For two weeks he had been on a mission and it was the longest he had been away from her since he met her seven months ago. He craved to be close to her. He needed to hold her in his arms again.

For the eight months Azriel had been with Y/N, he was waiting for the damn bond to snap. He was sure that she was his mate. Y/N understood him the way no one else had before. He never felt as if he had to hide any part of himself when he was in her presence. Azriel hoped that she was his mate.

“Azriel!” Rhys exclaimed, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Hmm?” Azriel mumbled, snapping his gaze up to meet his brothers.

“I said you can go,” Rhys said, his eyes holding a sense of amusement.

Azriel shot to his feet and was out of Rhys’s office as soon as he possibly could. His heart reached out toward Y/N as he unconsciously made his way to her. Azriel practically ran to Y/N’s house on the outskirts of Velaris.

His heart nearly beat out of his chest as he drew closer. The streets of Velaris were practically deserted and the moon was high in the sky. He had returned to Velaris when the sun still shone brightly and he had been itching to return to Y/N all day.

Azriel knocked on her front door and waited. His heart was beating out of his chest as he heard her footsteps. The door swung open and Y/N stood in the threshold, looking as beautiful as ever.

Y/N smiled before throwing her arms around Azriel’s neck and hugged him with so much force that Azriel stumbled back. His arms wrapped tightly around her waist, lifting her from the ground.

“I missed you,” Azriel mumbled into her neck, fingers threading in her hair.

“I don’t want you to ever go away again,” Y/N replied.

“I won’t if I can help it,” Azriel responded, placing her back down on her feet.

The two stood just outside of Y/N’s house simply holding one another. The feeling of her body pressed against his was a feeling Azriel wished he could experience all day, every day. He had never felt this way about anyone else before and he hoped that Y/N felt the same.

“Let’s go inside,” Y/N muttered, pulling back from the hug a little. “It’s cold out here.”

Azriel allowed Y/N to pull him within the house and into the living room. As soon as they were within the warmth of the fire, he pressed his lips against hers hungrily. He had been two weeks without her and now he was desperate for her. He needed to feel her wrapped around him as she panted and moaned in his ear. He needed to feel the gentle caress of his wings that made him go mad.

Y/N pushed him back until he sat down on the couch and straddled his hips. Azriel wrapped his strong arms around her waist, keeping her body close. He claimed her entire body as his own.

“I need you out of these clothes,” Azriel growled, tugging on her shirt.

Y/N pulled away. “Not so fast. I want to take care of you tonight. I want to draw out your pleasure.” Y/N dragged her lips across his skin until they met his ear. She whispered. “Because you deserve it.”

A shiver racked through Azriel’s body as he immediately gave all control to Y/N. The grip on her waist slackened as he caressed her thighs. Her lips kissed a path from his ear, to his lips, across his jaw and eventually to his neck.

As Y/N softly kissed his neck, Azriel shut his eyes, letting out a content sigh. Before Y/N, he had never allowed anyone to kiss or even touch his neck. To him, it was intimate and he hadn’t trusted anyone enough to kiss him there. With Y/N’s kisses he took pleasure from it, he tilted his head to give her better access. He was sure that she could kiss her neck all night and he would be happy.

Azriel’s hands cupped her hips, not tightly but enough for her to get the hint and begin to move. Y/N groaned as she bit down on his neck causing a shiver to go through Azriel’s spine. He could feel his erection growing. Azriel moaned softly as Y/N ground her hips against him once more. He panted in her ear as she pressed soft kisses back up his neck and across his jaw before hovering above his lips.

With his head tilted up to look at Y/N, he smiled. She looked radiant. Azriel couldn’t believe how lucky he was. All he needed was for the bond to snap. He was sure it would happen any time soon.

“What are you thinking about?” Y/N whispered, her lips brushing against his.

Azriel gently pecked her lips. “Just how beautiful you look.” He brought one of his hands up and tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “You always look beautiful.”

Y/N smiled and pressed her lips against his, her hips rocking one more. Azriel groaned into her mouth. He missed this for the weeks he had been away. He missed the closeness and intimate moments they would share. He missed the small sounds that would slip between her lips. He just missed her.

“Have you ever thought about the mating bond?” Azriel questioned.

Y/N pulled back slightly, eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Aren’t you curious why the bond hasn’t snapped yet?” Azriel asked, his hand cupping her waist. “I feel drawn to you and I believe that you are my mate.”

Y/N let out a shaky sigh. “Az, my love. You aren’t my mate.”

Azriel chuckled. “What do you mean? I have to be.”

Y/N rested her hands on his chest feeling his heart rate increase. She shook her head. “Az, my mate died two centuries ago.”

Azriel looked stunned and felt as if someone had slapped him across the face. “You- you had a mate?”

“I did,” Y/N confessed.

“But you told me that you had never been in a relationship before.” Azriel felt his body get hot.

“That’s because I wasn’t,” Y/N said. “My mate was my best friend, we were never in a relationship and we never even accepted the bond.”

“You had a mate,” Azriel said, his gaze shifting to the floor.

Y/N slid from his lap and sat down beside him. She placed her hand on his bicep but he flinched away.

“You never thought to tell me?” Azriel questioned.

“It wasn’t important,” Y/N replied. “He died two hundred years ago.”

“It makes a difference Y/N,” Azriel snapped.

“Why?” Y/N asked, her voice losing its usual kindness. “Is the only reason you are in a relationship with me is because you thought I was your mate?”

Azriel knew that it wasn’t true but he couldn’t find the right words to communicate that. However Y/N took his silence as an answer.

“Wow,” she said, rising to her feet. “And here I am thinking that you love me for me.”

“Of course I do,” Azriel said, rising to his feet. “I am in love with you.”

Y/N laughed humorously. “Yet you say that me having a mate that died two centuries ago makes a difference to our relationship? Azriel, not everyone is going to end up with a mate! Mates are rare and I was lucky to have one and I was damn lucky that it was my best friend. But having a mate doesn’t mean that you need to love them, you can love whoever you want. The Cauldron shouldn’t decide that for you!”

“Y/N, please,” Azriel pleaded.

Y/N shook her head. “No, Azriel. This whole time I thought that you fell in love with me. I thought you loved me but the only reason you did was because you thought you and I were mates?”

“Y/N, please listen to me…” Azriel whispered, tears brimming his eyes.

Y/N looked away from him, her gaze cast down to the floor. “I think you should go.”

Azriel’s heart broke and he regretted everything he had said. Of course it didn’t matter that she wasn’t his mate, he was stupid to think it did. And it was stupid of him to lash out on her for having a mate. His palms sweat as he took a step toward Y/N.

“No,” he said firmly. “I’m not leaving until you listen to me.”

“Azriel, don’t make this any more difficult than it needs to be,” Y/N begged, sitting down on the couch.

He didn’t listen as he sat down next to her. “I was stupid. It was wrong of me to say that it made a difference.”

“Yes it was,” Y/N agreed, still avoiding his gaze.

“But I had my reasons for saying that.” Azriel hand twitched in his lap, he wanted to pull her over to his side and never let her go. “I love you like I have never loved anyone else. I love everything about you. I love that you don’t shy away from me and that you aren’t scared of me or what I do. I love that you don’t get uncomfortable when my shadows swirl around you. I love how caring you are, how compassionate. I love your smile and laugh. I love the way you wrap me in your arms whenever I’m feeling down. I love that you love every part of me. I love you.”

Azriel sighed and inched his hand closer to hers. His pinky finger brushed Y/N’s, she didn’t pull away.

“I genuinely thought that you were my mate, Y/N,” Azriel admitted. “If you were my mate, I thought that it would be the reason you weren’t afraid of me or pitied me. I thought that there was no probable way that someone like you could ever love someone like me.”

Y/N finally shifted her gaze to Azriel and the look on her face hurt his heart. He was the cause of her tears and he hated himself for it. He had hurt her and by hurting her, he had hurt himself too.

“I have never loved someone so much,” Azriel said, linking his fingers with hers. “I adore you, Y/N and it shouldn’t matter that you aren’t my mate. It doesn’t matter. No one could ever compare to you.”

“Why- why would you think that I wouldn’t love you if we weren’t mates?” Y/N asked, her voice quiet.

With his other hand, Azriel caressed her cheek and Y/N lent into his touch. “I never thought you could love me because you are everything that is good in the world and I am everything that is bad.”

Y/N squeezed his hand. “Don’t you ever say that about yourself again, Azriel. You are not everything that is bad, you deserve love and you deserve kindness.”

Azriel closed his eyes as he drew himself closer until his forehead pressed against hers. “I don’t deserve you. I hurt you.”

“You did not hurt me, Azriel,” Y/N said. “I understand your hope that we were mates, you have told me about your brothers and how they have each found their mates. And deep down within me I knew you hoped for something like that as well and I couldn’t fulfil that.”

“It doesn’t matter that you can’t fulfil it,” Azriel said. “If I have a mate, I don’t care. I don’t want them, all I want is you.”

“All I want is you as well,” Y/N replied. “I have been in love with you from the moment I met you.”

“I am so utterly in love with you, Y/N,” Azriel said, his lips brushing hers. “I can’t live without you in my life. I wouldn’t know how.”

Y/N pressed her lips to his. “I don’t want you to ever leave my side, Az. You are the one I choose and you are the one I will always choose. And now I am going to show you how much I love you.”

As soon as Y/N pressed her lips to his, Azriel melted and let the tears fall. He was loved.

#azriel angst #azriel fluff #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel x reader #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #acotar x reader

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madamechrissy · 2 months

Text

But it's Better if You Do

ৎ୭ Pairings ৎ୭ Nanami Kento x Fem Reader

ৎ୭ Warnings ৎ୭ MDNI- Lap dance, teasing, fingering, more explicit as we go. <3

ৎ୭ Word Count ৎ୭ 5,968

ৎ୭ Summary ৎ୭ Every weekday for a year, Nanami Kento comes into the coffee shop you work at, and he orders the same damn thing. You have it bad but are too nervous to do more than doodle on his cups. You have a double life, because you're also 'Foxy' a featured dancer at a strip club once a week. A bachelor party for Satoru Gojo has you dancing, and he's there. Nanami fucking Kento. You end up both in a VIP room, awkward, nervous, but then... it's your chance. He doesn't know it's you, right? What harm can a lap dance do? Surely won't be awkward the next day...

Masterlist

ৎ୭Chapter 1

The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans was your sanctuary in an odd way. It was a world away from the smoky haze and thumping bass of the club you danced at once a week, away from dance lessons you still took though they led to nothing. A world where you were just you, the barista, not 'Foxy' the dancer.

You were exhausted, concealer working overtime to hide the bags under your eyes, yawning a bit as you mix up an espresso for yourself. It was early and typically not many people came just yet, a little loll where you could peek at your phone, sip on that dark espresso… but one person always came first thing.

The bell jingles above the door, and you feel yourself flush. He was here. Nanami Kento, the man who had been a regular for months and months now. Damn near a year, and always ordered the same thing, sometimes getting another for his coworkers, but never anything different for himself.

He was so handsome, but so uptight that it made your mind wander as to what the man did for fun, or if he knew how to have any. You knew he’d be ordering his usual Americano, and he gave you a small little half smile, so charming it made you falter for some fucking reason.

He was in a tan suit, baby blue dress shirt, those fancy expensive glasses resting on his eyes, eyes you’d have died to see if you were being honest. His tie today was some cow print, yesterday had been leopard, the day before Zebra, perhaps a walking contradiction to his personality.

“Good morning, Nanami.” You say, and he nods, hands in his pants pockets, blonde hair slicked back but a small bit hung forward. Your fingers itched to push it back, and you clenched your teeth at the thought.

“Good morning.” He said your name so softly, it made you into a whole mess, as it had been for months now. God knows how you could dance on a pole once a week in lingerie, but couldn’t just fucking hit on him.

It was the ongoing joke of the café at this point.

“Hmm, perhaps a pumpkin spice latte?” You tease, as he shook his head with a little sigh.

“The usual. Make it strong.” His voice, even in this mundane setting, sent a shiver down your spine. You tried to ignore the way his eyes, usually so sharp and focused, seemed to linger on you for a moment too long behind the green glasses.

“Coming right up.” You tilt your head side to side as you turn away, brewing his coffee for him.

“Not sleeping well?” He asked softly, you turned in surprise, instantly insecure, touching your face.

“The concealer isn’t working huh?”

Two little lines creased between his brows, lips turning down. “Concealer?”

“Yeah I’m trying to hide the dark circles. Ugh. Do I look like shit?”

He was frowning now, leaning forward, hands gripping the counter, and you studied them, the veins popping out, and your mind went fucking awry. You lick your lips nervously, turning, snatching up his coffee and then popping a lid on it, drawing a little heart with a sharpie. Every day was a new stupid little shape, and he never commented about them.

“You could never look ‘like shit’ as you put it.” You damn near dropped the coffee, gasping, turning back around to see him, so tall and imposing, leaning over the counter toward you.

You wanted to grab that tie and yank him to you.

Fuck.

How’d a guy that said ten words to you a day have you so fucked?

“I… here.” You gently hand him the cup, and your fingertips brush, his hand lingering as yours did, before gently pulling away. “I don’t look like shit then?”

He smirked a bit, shaking his head, and you could feel the gaze on you, making you heat up, nervous. “You have never looked bad. Any day I’ve been in here.”

“You need better glasses.” You mumble. He laughed a bit, and the sound was foreign, it made him more… human.

“I don’t lie.” You believed him. You felt your cheeks flushing pink, looking down just a bit.

“Thank you, Nanami. That makes me feel better.”

“You’re… you’re welcome.” He cleared his throat. “I asked if you were tired because of how you were stretching your neck, and rolling your shoulders. You also were covering a yawn.”

You tense, gaze back at his eyes in those green glasses, wondering their color. You picked up a fresh almond croissant then that you'd just made, handing it to him. He smiled, and handed you cash then, far too much, as he tended to tip you every morning.

“You’re very observant.” You murmured, and he shrugged a broad shoulder. Dude was built like a whole action star, aching to break from that suit. It addled your brain more and more.

“I do notice things. Do you work outside of this?”

Your whole body is flushed now, he rarely tried to make conversation. You could never ever admit that you stripped once a week, danced on a goddamn pole. You made more doing that than all week here at the shop. You couldn’t imagine what proper, uptight Nanami might think of such a thing.

You were a show girl more than anything, you didn’t do dances or VIP rooms, because of your skill at dance and performance, you were instead a feature at various places. Once upon a dream you’d thought you’d make it as an actual dancer, but foolish dream that had turned to be. You still tried, even now, even exhausted, auditioning for little things, but it wasn't enough money.

Would that seem pathetic to such a wealthy businessman?

You clear your throat. “I do dance… I also take dance classes. I guess that does tire me out.”

“That’s impressive.” He surprised you, and you smiled at it.

“Thank you but no, not at all. Just an amateur hobby.”

“Well… I hope you have a good day. Thank you.” He held up his cup, peering at the heart doodle, and the raised brows and amused look on that chiseled face made you catch your breath.

“You’re welcome, you too! See you Monday!” He gave you a little wave, sauntering out. You watched him like a lovesick fool.

Oof.

“Why don’t you just ask him out?” The voice made you jump, and you looked to your co worker, Nobara. She was a gorgeous strawberry blond with a hell of an attitude that you loved.

“I… don’t think he’d be interested in someone like me.”

“Someone like you? Hot? Can dance on a pole?”

“Shh!” You two giggled, and you sighed sadly. She was sucking on a lollipop, tilting her head, short hair swinging as she studied you with soft brown eyes.

“You should just say how you feel. It’s been almost a year watching you pine for him. It's literally making me wanna scream.”

“I know…” You sigh, sipping your espresso and needing another. “I have this bachelor party at the club I have to dance an extra night for it because I mean shit… good money. I’m tired.”

“I know. You’re saving a lot though. Not much longer.” Nobara brushed your hair behind your ear, smiling. You were trying your best to save for an elite dance school. Every bit you made went to bills and that.

“That makes me feel better, Kugasaki. Thank you.” You peck a little kiss on her cheek.

“Should have him watch you dance, ooh, then he’d love you. You sure are a talented bitch up on that pole.”

“Ah, stop. Him in a strip club? No way.”

“The strictest ones are the most freaky.”

You two giggle, then a customer came in, and soon the throng approached, and you and Nobara killed it along with the help of your other coworker and friend, Yuuji, working in perfect sync.

Imagine Nanami Kento in your club on that one night a week you were there, you’d die of embarrassment. Some things were best left unsaid, and your ridiculous crush would remain one of them for sure. You just hope you’ll be able to get a nap before you go in tonight.

***

The scent of stale cigarette smoke and cheap perfume filled the air as you danced that night, dressed in a bright pink wig and slinky lace and sequined two piece costume. You gripped the pole of the stage as men gathered around you, the soft red lighting illuminated your body, your requested music blared by the DJ, slow and sensual. You had money thrown on the stage, men coming close.

The worst part was interacting. You wished you could just dance. You climb up the pole then, using your core strength and thighs, spinning, focusing on the moves versus everyone and everything around you. You flip your body, upside down, to the gasps of the crowd, even your fellow strippers and women there, that’s what you were here for, the showmanship.

You slide around on nothing but your thighs, thick and muscular, not as slender and ladylike as you may have desired, but they had power. You had power. Your hair falls down in silky waves as you spin, eyes closed, perfecting every twist and turn just so. You finally open them, feeling yourself close to the ground, stopping yourself with your arm.

The group of the bachelor party poured in, and instead of being raucous and wild, they actually all were attentive, studying you.

Ah, a show.

You smirk, and flip down, standing, bending forward with your ass in the air, clad in fishnets and little lacy panties. More money was thrown, more men sitting around you, but you climb back up the pole, pulling yourself up, and your legs spread wide as you spin back down, in tantalizing circles, head leaning back, until you’re on the ground, elbows and knees.

The sequined costume hugged your curves in all the right places, catching glinting light. You’re bent over in front of everyone. It did not feel the best. You were better just on the pole. But, you took your time, crawling towards the crowd. Each man tipped you, sliding them in your garters that sat on your upper thighs, some trying to be too bold, too touchy, but as you neared the bachelor party, you froze.

Amongst the honestly all gorgeous men, looking like pure money, there he was, Nanami fucking Kento. Looking awkward, uncomfortable, arms crossed, donned in a gray button down dress shirt and black slacks. He didn’t have on those sunglasses, and your eyes caught him in the dark.

He was captivated by you.

You fall from your position, and decide to make it look like you meant to fall to the floor, on your tummy, your ass in the air, popping back up, trying to make yourself breathe and stay calm. You looked nothing like you, he wouldn’t know, and you could literally live part of that fantasy you had, dancing for him.

You peer and there’s a couple men you recognize from the coffee shop, Nanami’s co workers, a tall handsome white haired man that you think his name was Gojo, was the groom to be. Clearly. He wore a whole sash that said ‘Bride to be’ and a shit eating grin, like the happiest man in the world. He was so pretty he was hard to look at, you’d thought before.

“Bride to be huh?” You tease, fingernails scratching on the little silk sash. Gojo laughs, poking at his cell phone over the music.

“I am! Satoru Gojo.”

“Foxy.” You smirk, and he rolls his eyes, smirking too.

“Sure you are. This is my wife as of tomorrow.” He scrolled through pictures, showing you a picture of a gorgeous woman that looked familiar as well, you’d served her coffee many many times, she was always super sweet. You were enamored, she was breathtaking in them, laughing and happy, usually more serious when you saw her.

“She’s so beautiful.” You flush when he gets to a nude, and he was pulling it back quickly with a wiggle of his brows.

“She is, though. I can’t wait to get her fucking pregnant. She’s finally down for it.”

“Oh god.” You purse your lips, and he seemed to give no fucks, clearly obsessed. He is sliding you a large tip respectfully into your hand. “She was okay with all this?”

“Yeah, she said don’t do anything dumb, but she’s the only one for me anyway. I just figured fuck it, let’s get the boys having fun. Though I will say, you’re one hell of a dancer. Imma have to bring her to see you.” His bright blue eyes glimmered in the light, and you laughed a bit.

“I’d love to meet her…”

“Oh fuck yeah. I need to see you give her a dance.”

“I don’t do dances, I’m more of a show girl here. But I'd absolutely make an exception!”

“Oooh, listen, can you make an exception for me?”

You frown. “What?”

“Not me. I’m a bride!” You giggle, he was unlike any bachelor you’d seen at any party before. “My friend.”

“I don’t know… I just do the pole.” You ease back, hands on your thighs, Gojo respectfully staring at your face the entire time.

“It’s for my buddy and I’ll pay out the ass. But give me a few, I need to know he’ll go for it.” Gojo tipped you again, and you sigh.

“We’ll see.” He smiles and nudges his head, as you slide over to the man next to him, just as tall as Gojo, long dark hair, tan and broad shouldered. God this office was attractive, but you personally felt Nanami took the cake.

“Beautiful dance.” The man said, who Gojo just called Geto, smiling and tipping you generously, sliding it in your waistband slowly. You flush.

“Thank you so much.” You’re on to the next, a man they called Sukuna. He was tanned and broad and devilish with his smirk, tattoos attractively running down his neck. His light brown eyes devoured your entire body, completely unlike Geto’s tease and Gojo’s respect.

“Gorgeous.” He winked at you, and you leaned forward when he put his large tip in between his teeth, grabbing it with your breasts, which were popping out from the top of the lingerie now. You tended to only go topless, versus doing any more, luckily the club was very good with everyone and their comfort.

“Thank you…” You say softly, then feel his gaze on you… Nanami.

He’d been studying you this entire time, respectfully, but full of admiration, to the point where when your eyes met it startled you. You had never even seen them, they were slanted up like cat’s eyes, sensual as fuck. In the dim club they appeared to be dark brown, nearly black, and when they moved lower, to your collarbone, it was as if he was caressing your skin.

You licked your lips nervously, wishing you could find the courage to speak. But instead, you focused on the way his gaze traveled over your body, the way he seemed to drink in every inch of you. It was intoxicating, exhilarating. In this moment, you felt beautiful and confident, despite the butterflies in your stomach.

How could you be so shy when you were dancing on a pole? Your tits were half out… and gorgeous men surrounded you. But Nanami's intense gaze became your undoing. You blushed, tucking your hair behind your ear, trying to act casual as he took out a large tip in his big hands.

“You're very talented.” His voice was husky, you tremble, smiling.

“Thank you.” You scooch to where he's between your thighs in his seat right by the stage, watching him tense with a hitch in his breath. You feel far too bold. He doesn't know it's you and he's here looking…

You slide a hand down your chest, to your nearly exposed breasts, gently tugging the material so a hint of your nipples showed. You watched his Adam's apple bob up and down as you held out the fabric, leaning forward, his hands were steady but his eyes were like a hawk on your lush breasts.

He slid the money into the strap of your bra, and the brush of his rough fingers makes you tremble. He notices, pulling back and catching your eyes. Fuck would he recognize them? You lower your lashes and attempt to look flirtatious and not like some weird shy stripper. You kind of fail.

You slide back up with a smile, but he halts you, another tip, sliding this one in one of your garters. His friends tease him mercilessly, and there's a little pink on his cheeks, on Nanami fucking Kento’s perfect damn cheekbones. A blush. You felt one form on your face too, your gazes locked, the hand barely brushing your thigh doing fucked things to your psyche.

“Ahem… thank you so much.” You say with a smile, turning and kneeling, ass in full view along with the curve of your back as you gather some wits, going down to pick up the numerous tips. Enough to where you could probably stop for the night.

After you've cleaned the pole, headed down off the stage to probably call it a night, Gojo stops you with a hand on your shoulder. You peer up at the tall pretty boy curiously.

“Would you do a VIP with Nanami over there?” Your heart stops as you both look at him. He is leaned in a chair, sipping whiskey, eyes burning into you. “He's always hated strip clubs and usually sits in a corner miserable. But he's clearly eye fucking the shit out of you. This is weird for him.”

You feel your skin heat up. “I really only dance here once a week, I get uncomfortable even taking tips close… I…”

“You're a shy stripper! So weird.” He teased you. You roll your eyes with a self deprecating laugh.

“I just do it for money and because I like to pole dance. Not exactly a regular stripper. There are plenty of beautiful girls here though that gladly will!” You gesture to the pretty ladies around you, fawning over the men. He shakes his head.

“Nope. Gotta be you. He hasn't even checked another girl out here. Pretty please?” He shoots his pretty blue eyes at you with a pout. You sigh. You can't do that… you can't…

“I mean… I could try to do a lap dance?”

“He'll get too nervous in front of us. He's uptight as fuck.” Gojo puts on his charm, winking at you with a grin. “I'll pay a fuck ton.”

“Oh gosh…”

“He's super respectful, he'd never touch you… shit even if you wanted him to, he’d probably be too shy.” Your heart falters. You know that. “You clearly like him, you can't take your eyes off the business boy.”

“I… well I…” You drop to a whisper. “I kinda know him.”

“Oooh!” He snapped his fingers with a devious look. “Even better. I love some good drama!”

“You're sort of a dick. No offense.” Gojo threw his head back with laughter at your glare.

“My fiance will love you for sure. She agrees! Listen, just do it for me. I'm the bride to be!” He bats white spiky eyelashes.

You find yourself growing more nervous, anticipation eating away at you. It's what you'd wanted forever wasn't it?

But it wasn't really you…

“Fuck it. Okay.” Gojo's grin is infectious. “I'm not the best at lap dances like I am on the pole though.”

“He won't notice. He's never had one. Okay let me work this magic on him.” He winks and heads to Nanami and your heart is thudding in your ears now.

Fuck.

You watched Gojo’s lithe figure walk over to Nanami, and you wanted to fall into the Earth, sure you were as red as the lights in the club, which luckily concealed the blush. You were a mess from his presence, a shy stripper as Gojo had put it, completely accurate. Nanami is in a serious conversation with him, Gojo’s hand on his chest, speaking into his ear.

Nanami's eyes hit you from across the bar tables, and he and Gojo ignored the other girls that walked by, aside from the shot girls. Gojo shot them all smiles but you could tell he was deep in love with the bride-to-be, and something in it made you wistful, longing… you were alone aside from your cat, Sebastian, who surely was angry you were out late tonight.

He’d probably scratch some shit up.

Nanami ends up walking back towards you with Gojo by his side, hands in his pockets, hair falling in front of his brow, eyes averted. Gojo pushed him towards you, then slid you forward with a sure hand on your back, making you two brush against each other a bit. You tense, and so does he.

“Dear God, you’re at a strip club, you two.” Gojo sighed, rolling his eyes. “So ‘Foxy’ here doesn’t do VIP or lap dances, she’s more the star of the show.” He shoots you a wink, and you clear your throat, thighs shifting when Nanami looks back at you.

“I wouldn’t say that, but yes, I don’t.”

“She’s making an exception. So, you two go on in there.” He smacks at both of your asses, and you both scowl at him, his grin wide and ridiculous. “Come on, come on, you two crazy kids. Have fun!”

Gojo shoves you two in the VIP room, and you and Nanami are there, alone, where it’s more quiet as you’re away from the booming music. It’s intimate… you run your fingers nervously through your wig, nearly pulling the synthetic hairs out, before taking a steady breath, peering around. You’d not even been in the little room, with the velvet plush couch, and disco lighting.

The couch was large and fancy, but somehow trashy at the same time, as strip clubs went this was the nicest, but still, something felt so off. All your fantasies of the stiff business man, who was literally being forced by his quite annoying friend into being in here with you.

“We don’t have to… like we can just talk if you’re uncomfortable.” You finally manage to say, feeling as if he truly did not want to be here. He brushes a hand against your shoulder then, bringing your gaze to his.

“I’m the one that’s supposed to say that.” He smirked, and fuck it was charming, as was his eyes and how they studied you. “You really aren’t a normal stripper, huh?”

“Well I make plenty dancing so I don’t sell things.”

“Do you want to do this?”

Your teeth bite your lower lip, and it’s on the tip of your tongue to say who you were, what you felt… but what would that bring? Confusion? Embarrassment?

If he’d found you attractive at work he’d have responded to one of your countless doodles or something by now right? You’d even asked who you now knew was Gojo’s fiancé for his number, and he’d come the next day and said nothing. You’d sort of given up at that point.

Was this your chance? To get a taste of him?

Unwinding… casual… letting go.

You take his hand, yours is swallowed by his, and he was so tall that even in platform heels you had to tilt your head back to look at him. His fingers grip your hand in response, and then you turn, leading him to the giant couch, gently pushing him to have a seat. You bend down, and you take his long sleeves and unbutton them, rolling them up to reveal his arms a bit.

You watched the muscles in his arms tense, showing how fucking built he was under there. Veins popping out. He allowed it, just studying your face still. “Are you blushing?”

You felt yourself heat up more, realizing the lighting here didn’t hide it. “Maybe I am a bit.”

“Overheated?”

“Sure.” You were a shit liar for someone who lived a whole double existence, you mused, finishing your job. “I wanted you a little loosened up.”

“Do you.” His voice was husky, deep, and it alone did things to you, wicked fucking things. You brush fingers along the veins of his forearms, watching a hand close into a fist in response. You lean closer, popping a couple of his buttons, to reveal just a hint of the ripped chest, drinking the sight in greedily.

“Much better.” You muse, and half expect him to take off your bra, but he remains still, watching, waiting. You slide your hands around his neck and press your body against his, and his familiar scent envelops your senses. “Everything okay?”

“It’s perfect.” You froze at that.

You know. There was no turning back now.

Your hands glided up and down his hard chest, teasing him, thumbs barely brushing bare skin, enjoying the little hitch in his breath. You push forward over him until your breasts are against his face, drawing his attention to them like a hawk. Your lips parted as his breath was hot against them, unable to hide your aching desire was mortifying.

You slid down his body now, bending low, between his legs teasingly, hands braced on his muscular thighs, eyes catching the growing arousal beneath his pants and shooting want through you. With each movement, you could sense him becoming more and more entranced, his breathing growing heavier and more ragged. Just like you.

His expression was a mix of surprise and desire, and you couldn't help but smile shyly up at him before you turned, rolling your hips, ass now rubbing against his hard body. It was so quiet, he did not speak, and neither did you, as you lean back into it, and his hands tentatively wrap around your waist, his first contact so far, and it was making your head fuzzy with pleasure.

You could feel the anticipation building between you, the air thick with tension when his grip tightened, his small sexy fucking sigh. You turn back around and glanced down, taking in his broad shoulders, toned arms, his lips parted. You reached out, bracing your hands as you straddle him now, the sensation hitting you so hard you struggled to stay still.

"Am I doing okay?" You ask, it came out teasing, but you were actually nervous as fuck.

He gave a nervous laugh, a fucking laugh! Nanami Kento could laugh… his gaze flickers down to the floor before meeting yours again. "You're doing beautifully." He murmured.

It was the first time he'd ever spoken to you like this, and you didn't know what to say in response. It was as if all the air had been sucked out of your lungs, world far away, leaving only the two of you.

Nanami reached out, tracing a finger down your cheek as you grind on him now, and you couldn't help but close your eyes and lean into his touch. “Is this okay?” He asks softly. You nod eagerly.

As his fingertip trailed lower, tracing the line of your jaw and then down your neck, you felt a shudder run through you, making it a struggle to continue confidently moving against where you were now growing wetter by the second. It was as if his touch was making every nerve ending tingle with desire. It was intoxicating..

You closed your eyes, savoring the sensation of the lightest caress, still respectful despite the wicked things your body was doing against him, an intriguing contradiction that messed with your brain. The music seemed to fade into the background.

You could feel the rhythm of it still as you continued to give him the best lap dance you could, swaying your hips and rubbing against his hardness through your lacy underwear. He's so respectful, never once making you feel uncomfortable or objectified. Instead, he watches you with such intensity that it takes your breath away.

His hands are touching you but nowhere inappropriate, the waist or your hips, though you sure wanted him to touch more, fuck. Imagining those big hands squishing your soft breasts, or gripping your ass… or…

As you continue to dance for him, you lose yourself in the movement, feeling the heat rising in your body, the blood pulsing through your veins. You're aware of every inch of his body as it presses against you, the way his hands grip your hips tighter and he raises his lap up and moans a bit is just…

The music changes, another song, you’d lost count how many, and you match your movements to the beat. You feel yourself growing wetter, and hot. He hisses then, suddenly, tensing against you, as if he could tell, halting your movements. His brown eyes shoot up to yours and you freeze, embarrassed. You flush, overheated from dancing and your mixture of horny and nervous.

“I'm… I… don't really do this. I just do the pole. Am I fucking up?” You murmur. He pauses your movements again, hands firm, licking his lower lip.

“No. Not at all. You don't have to do anything else, though, you've done amazing. I know Gojo put you up to this…”

“I want to do it.” Your words make you both quiet.

“You've done plenty if you want to stop.” He was so sweet it hurt your heart.

His eyes were dark with desire though, something you'd die for every day if it were you, truly you, and not just for ‘Foxy’.

“I want to kiss you, too. That's pretty fucked up of me huh.” You mumble out of nowhere before you could shut yourself up. Nanami pauses, and now you’re not dancing, you’re just pressed against his hardness, breath making your breasts rise and fall, your wetness fucking embarrassing at this point.

“That’s not fucked up.” His hand trembled a bit as he cupped your face, gently, making you feel so tiny with those big hands and broad shoulders as you leaned in, a ghost of a kiss just hovering between your mouths.

“Do you want me to?” Your whisper brings your lips closer. Nanami nods, thumbs brushing along your lower lip, and then his lips find yours in a soft, gentle kiss.

Everything stops, every worry has vanished from your head as his firm lips press into yours, pulling away, eyes catching yours. You see little flecks of green in them. You both just breathe, your hands gripping his shoulders, his still so tender on your face it made you ache. It felt like literal sparks shot through you when his lips pressed again, firmer this time, a little gasp making them part.

The kiss deepens, his hot tongue slipping in, and it ignites a sharp burn in your tummy. You moan into his mouth, arching your back as he kisses you harder, his tongue dancing with yours. Your hands entwined in his silky blonde locks, his firm grip now sliding down to your ribcage. His thumbs brushing under the cups of your lingerie. You wanted them on your breasts so bad your nipples strain against lace.

You can feel Nanami grow even harder against the apex of your thighs, and you wonder what it would feel like to have him inside you for an insane moment.

From a kiss?

Fuck.

Tongues are entwining, pressing against each other, losing yourselves in desire, but then he breaks the kiss suddenly, panting heavily, and those eyes look into your gaze. They're filled with desire, but also something else, something you've never seen before from anyone and couldn't put into words.

"I'm sorry," He says, voice rough with emotion. You frown.

“Shit, was it that bad?” You touch your lips, eyes shooting down, mortified. He laughs quietly, shaking his head. You fall for his laugh, fall hard.

“No. Not at all. I just don't want to be disrespectful… and I'm going to have a hard time stopping if we keep on.” Nanami's voice was hoarse, as affected as you, those hands sliding up further. Your eyes went wide, feeling the power he had suddenly, how tense he was, holding back… he…

You lean back in, wanting to say fuck it, to just give your pussy what she's been aching for a whole goddamn year, pressing back onto his hard body. Nanami moans into your lips, and before you know it he's on top of you, pressing you gently into the couch, and he is kissing you, his fingers finding your wetness quick, so hot for him, over your lacy panties.

You gasp at the contact, with only the panties as your barrier, which you’d fucking soaked, and are trembling when he pulls back, his lips parted, shimmering from your kiss. Your hands grip at his dress shirt, clenching just like your fucking cunt wanted to around his cock.

You had never expected this, even having just kissed him, how he just took control… consumed you. It was possibly the sexiest thing you’d experienced. No, it was the sexiest thing. Nanami slid a long finger under your panties then, twisting them and pulling them to the side, and a cry rips from your throat.

He could now fully feel your pussy. He is sighing and lowering his body as his fingertip grazes your aching cunt, up your slit, so slow and tantalizing.

“So fucking wet.” He murmured, and you nearly fucking died as the fingetip slid against your clit, nearly doing you in, rubbing in a gentle little circle, your hips buck up, and you’re gasping.

Then you really died as he pulled his finger away for too fucking soon, licking your desire off, sucking it while shutting his eyes and groaning. He just… Your mouth drops, and your pussy throbs around nothing again, literally hurting from it. He leans back down, his hand inching up your inner thigh, lips kissing up your jaw. You shift, dying for more of his caress, of his kisses…

You're about to just beg him to fuck you at this point, uncaring of whatever that would even mean, how unlike you it was, when the bachelor party rolls in the room, drunk, raucous, and Nanami quickly sits, pulling you up with him. He adjusts your top so you’re covered, as if you weren’t stripping earlier, so gentlemanly… but then he’d just tasted you…

They all start fucking with him, yanking him away, and his eyes catch yours across the room.

Gojo comes to you with a smirk, handing you far too much money. You didn't want it. You shove it back at him, but he pushes it into your garter instead.

“It's your job, ‘Foxy’. Make the money.”

“I had way too much fun…” You whispered, and he seemed far too pleased about it. “Yeah that wasn't even work… I’m…”

“Oh fuck. You're in deep for Kento, aren’t you?” You nod, and Gojo seems to oddly understand, hand gentle on your arm. “I'm looking forward to him finding out who you are.”

“I'm sure not! I’ll die.”

He laughed, and they dragged Nanami away, leaving you two alone for a moment. “I believe in you. ‘Foxy’. Be brave.” You laugh breathlessly.

“Congrats on the wedding tomorrow, Gojo.”

He grinned, shooting you a peace sign. “I’ll be almost as pretty of a bride as her!”

You collapse on the sofa, so many thoughts fucking whirling.

You'd kissed Nanami.

He'd touched you… fuck he tasted you!

How would you face him Monday, serving him with his dumb almond croissant and black coffee?

You…

You were in deep.

Chapter 2

(Finished fic on Ao3, I'll be posting chaps on here too though)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56003029/chapters/142230640

#jjk smut #jjk x reader #nanami kento #nanami x reader #jjk nanami #jujutsu nanami #nanami smut #nanami x you #nanami x y/n #kento x reader #kento x y/n #kento x you #kento nanami x you #kento smut #nanamin #nanami fluff #nanami fanfic

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shadowcitrine · 4 months

Text

Sunbathing

Before the outbreak there's a girl who keeps teasing Daryl.

Daryl's pov. Angry Daryl. Daryl and named OC. Kind of dirty.

18+ You're responsible for the content you consume.

First post nerves.

Of course she was here! She was everywhere he fuckin’ went. It was like she knew when he needed space and had some sick twisted need to devour what little time he carved out for himself. That stupid fuckin’ Mather's girly is just laying out by the river bank, arms beneath her head like she owns the whole god damned river and the sun is shining down on her over the tree tops like it agrees with her.

Picking up the fishing pole, Daryl's fist tightened around it, his face screwing up in anger makin’ his whole head hurt twice as much. He lets everyone walk all over him, but not anymore, not today. Especially not stupid Mercy who parades around in her dumb tiny shorts and ugly cut off shirts.

Taking the pole over to a shady spot he throws himself down, landing with a grunt. Digging through the little box of feathers he keeps in a tin till he finds a few small ones to tie on. If Mercy is watching him behind those dark glasses of hers he can't tell, not that he was lookin’ anyway. Not that he cares.

He cast the line, sticking the pole in the ground to light a cigarette and wait. She hasn't said a word and it's so unlike her that he thinks she has to be asleep. It's the only time she ain't asking him a million questions or trying to order him around. He stamps out the first butt and lights another. Takes him nearly all of the second one before he can hear the water trickling by beyond the anger pounding around in his head. Takes him even longer to realize his line has too much slack. The reel clicks quietly, a familiar lullaby that usually helps empty his head but not this time, not today.

Mercy still ain't talking. It's the longest they've ever been around each other without her at least sayin’ hi and now it's bothering him. He came out here for peace and now her silence is eating him alive. Not like bein’ around her does him any good. Never has, not even when they were kids. Just to try and take his mind off of her he starts reeling in the line, puffing on the smoke between his teeth but the harder he tries not to think about her the more he does.

That girl sighs and it draws his attention away from his half hearted attempt at fishing. She's still just layin’ there, knees now bent. Her shorts are digging into the upper parts of her thighs making little dips there that make his fingers itch to touch. She's just some annoying girl that he doesn't even like.

Then she moves again, rolling to her knees in the dirt, dead grass clinging to her back she's digging in a small cooler. Picking out some red white and blue ice pop she stuffs the wrapper inside before flopping back down on the ground. Still, not a single word out of her. She sick? High?

The more he looks at her painting her lips with the cherry end of the ice cream the more he's bothered by her silence because he can't help but see something else in his head. The way her tongue swipes across her bottom lip collecting the sticky sweetness there makes him tense in a way he shouldn't be around her but can't seem to help.

“Why ain't you sayin’ nothin’?” He asks. It just sort of bubbled up.

She takes her time answering sucking on the end of it making a soft lewd noise that makes his dick twitch. “Thought I talked too much Dixon?” there isn't even any anger in it. She's acting like she isn't even bothered by him being there watching her suck half the ice cream in to her mouth like she suckin’ cock.

“You do.” He drops the spent butt on the ground, his fishing pole forgotten.

She hums again around her snack, lips making a slurping noise around it like they do on titty channels that come on late at night. “Want me to ask you how you got that shiner?” She turns her head to look at him and if she notices him move his leg to hide his half chub she doesn't say.

Mercy runs a tongue along the underside of it catching drops of it before it can land on her tits and he's silently hoping she misses just one. Then his dick is coming alive thinking of her swearing the melted sugar water across them, swirling the red end over a nipple until it's rock hard. He don't need to be thinking about her like that but he can't look away.

She sits up holding in her mouth, cheeks hollowing around it and he swears she's doing it on purpose. No, she knows what she's doing and this–this tease is secretly eating up the attention. Mercy grabs the bottom of her shirt, pulling it over her head. She isn't wearing a bra or even one of her bright colored biking tops, no, she isn't wearing anything at all now ‘cept them frayed shorts of hers.

“Put your shirt back on Mercy!”

She lickin on the end for a moment, watching him watch her. He can't not think about how her ice cream is smaller than his dick. “Stop actin’ all mad.” She drops her head back.

Stop actin’ mad? Stop actin’ mad! She's doing this to fuck with him cause he doesn't wanna talk to her. He can see it in the way she smiles at him before biting off the last of the cherry flavor. Knows it when she leans back on her elbows to push her tits out on full display. She does all this shit just to fuck with him and he can't even figure out why! She treats him like he's nothin’! Tryin’ to push all his god damned buttons! Fuck her and fuck this!

He has to readjust himself as subtly as he can just to stand up. Even being mad at her doesn't stop his cock from throbbing, doesn't stop the ache. Then he's mad all over again because this is Mercy he's thinking about. Bitchy, awful, needy Mercy who comes over and smokes pot with Merle. The same girl who laughs whenever his brother calls him some stupid girl's name. This same girl who tries to lay against him on the couch when Merle leaves to go get more beer because she's lonely.

He's shaking his head. “I ain't in the mood for your shit. ‘M goin’ home.” He hates her. Hates the pink strip of colored hair that falls over her shoulder. Hates the way his brain has already memorized the trail of blue melt that's dripping on the swell of her breast and racing for her dusky nipple.

“If you stay–” she shouts loud enough for him to hear. “I'll let you touch em'.”

He even hates himself at this moment because now his feet are planted in the ground. Needing a distraction he lights a cigarette he doesn't even smoke. “The fuck you think I wanna touch your tits for?”

Mercy shrugs. “You keep staring.”

He snorts a breath of air through his nose. None of it even means anything to her, she's just messing with him. Always messing with him and he was tired of being nice. “You're the one who whipped em’ out to get me to look. What did you expect?”

Her face twists up. “I'm sun bathing asshole! I was the one who was here first!”

“And you ain't pretending to give the world's shittiest blow job with that thing?” He takes a hit off his cigarette nodding to the sweet melting in her hand. Her face is turning red, the tips of her ears are burning in embarrassment. He's turned the tables on her, called her out on her little game and she can't take it. Some distant part of him feels an inkling of pride at that. Her lip curls and he's moving towards her one slow step at a time.

“I changed my mind. Get fucked!” She throws down her ice cream in the grass.

Letting out a soundless laugh he's next to her now. Daryl's looking down his nose at her, the blue melt finally falling off the tip of her breast. “You wanna suck cock? Here it is.” Then he's grabbing himself through his jeans.

He blames the fact that there's no blood left in his head for why he's acting like this. That he needs her good and pissed off and disgusted all so she'd quit trying to get on his nerves all the damn time. He wants her to hate him as much as he hates her. Only, she ain't pushing him away. No, she's licking her sticky lips as she looks up at him behind those big ugly glasses.

“What? Can't figure out how a belt works?” He asks her. He's goading her to yell at him, but she hasn't yet. He sticks the smoke in his lips bending down to grab her hand. He pushes her fingers against the buckle when he stands back up. “C'mon! You want it so bad you're going to have to take it out yourself.”

Mercy bites her bottom lip as she twists to sit on her knees in front of him. His heart stutters in his chest when she begins to tug on the strap and he nearly laughs. She was so desperate she was actually going to suck him off. She's silent for probably the second time in her whole life as she undoes his belt.

#daryl dixon #twd #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dix pov #daryl x oc #the walking dead #firstpost nerves #i'm working on it #kinda dirty #daryl pov #short

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starryevermore · 3 months

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you said you were gonna come find me ✧ cardan greenbriar

angst city™ library | send in a request (consult request faqs first)

pairing: cardan greenbriar x fae!fem!reader

request: part 2 of the cardan fic?? - anon

summary: and you didn't wanna hang around. she said it was just goodbye for now. he said he was gonna grow up, then he would come find you.

word count: 1,728

warnings?: dual povs, a little angst with a happy ending, not proofread

PART ONE | PART THREE

The local children were convinced you were a witch. Part of you wanted to tell them that you were worse than a witch—that you could turn them into animal of your choosing, that you could make them do things and think they liked it, that you could ruin their lives by virtue of existing. Perhaps that was the heartache talking, so you instead shouted “boo!” when you caught them staring for too long. You supposed, though, you fed into the rumors of your being a witch. You came into this town out of nowhere, lived far away from the rest of its people, and only interacted with them when you went into town for food or a new library book. No one knew who you were or where you came from. At first, you reveled in the solace.

Now, you were only painfully are of how lonely you were.

When you left Faerie, you went as far as you could from your former home. Traveled up to the mountains, found an abandoned cabin you could hole up in. There were few faeries in this area, mostly solitary fae that you would encounter while on walks in the woods, which had been the draw. Months later, you found yourself wishing you had set yourself up in one of the communities of fae who lived in the mortal lands. Would you be admitting defeat to leave the cabin now and join them?

It wasn’t all horrible in your little cabin. Being away from court and all of its expectations was nice. You didn’t have to worry about carefully mincing your words so as not to offend anyone. You weren’t dragged into dances you would rather avoid. And you certainly did have to let your heart break over and over again as Jude at Cardan’s side. No, instead, you could read and write poetry and tend to the little garden you had started. You could find your happiness, even if it was without the one person you truly wanted by your side.

You wondered how Cardan was doing. Had he even noticed you were gone? Did he care? He had seemed to miss seeing you when you danced with him on your last night in Faerie. But he had also not made any prior efforts to seek you out. Fae couldn’t lie, but they could manipulate. They could twist the truth to serve their interests. Few were better at doing so than Cardan.

“When I learned you left Faerie, this was not the sort of place I expected you to be.”

You stiffened as you rounded the corner. The basket you’d been using to carry the herbs you foraged nearly fell from your grip. You squared your shoulders, looked down your nose at the woman seated at your dining room table. “I did not come here under the expectation to be found.”

Jude considered the room. The dirty dishes in the sink, the wilted flowers in the center of the table, the open storybook at the chair askew in front of her. “So it seems. It was not easy to find you.”

“You should have taken that as a sign to leave me be,” you said. You crossed the dining room and went into the kitchen. Jude’s chair scratched against the floor as she followed you. You ignored her as you began to unload the herbs from your basket. “I left Faerie for a reason.”

Though you were avoiding looking at her, you knew Jude’s eyes did not leave you. If you didn’t know better, you might have thought Jude was fae herself. The predatory glint in her eyes, the way her fingers itched to grab at her sword. She was not still like fae, nor was she unnaturally beautiful like fae, but she carried herself in such a way that you could be convinced otherwise. By human standards, she would have been the most beautiful of all. It was easy to understand why Cardan would choose her. Gorgeous but lethal—the exact sort of woman he would pursue. First Nicasia, now Jude. It was just as easy to see that you did not fit into the picture.

“You ran in the middle of the night,” Jude said. You looked over your shoulder. Her brows were pinched together as she scrutinized you.

“Have you come here to chastise me for leaving without a goodbye?”

She shook her head. “I have come because you were invited to breakfast.”

It was hard not to laugh. Was that why she came all the way to mountains to find you? Because you didn’t come to breakfast? It was so ridiculous. Of all the reasons to seek you out, it was the silliest of them all. Your heart ached all the same, though. No one came because you were a friend. No one came because you were missed. Would Cardan have even known you were gone if he hadn’t extended the invitation the very evening you fled?

“If I have offended the King, then I extend my apologies.”

Jude lifted her chin. “Tell him yourself.”

Your jaw clenched and unclenched. No. You would not go to him. You would not drag yourself back to that palace and let yourself be reminded why you had to go. You refused to break your heart all over again. “I have no desire to return to Faerie.”

“You don’t have to.”

Cardan stood in your bedroom. It was different than your one in Faerie. The one there had been full of extravagant things—the finest things he could gift you. It was full of gold and pearl and opal, glittering as if it all needed to be housed in a vault. But this bedroom, it had been stitched together out of nothing. Threadbare blankets, smooshed pillows, books that looked like they would fall apart with one wrong look. Cardan listened to your conversation as your voice floated down the hall. Would you really choose all of this over being with him? Was he truly so terrible?

The floor creaked under his feet as he stepped out and walked down the hall. Cardan could only see the back of your head, but you still looked just as beautiful as he remembered. His fingers twitched at his side as he fought the urge to run up behind you, take you in his arms, and whisk you away to Faerie. When had you taken so much control over him? When had he given it to you so willingly? When had you decided you didn’t want it anymore?

“I believe I am owed an apology?”

You turned slowly on your heel. Your eyes narrowed, but Cardan did not miss the flash of surprise. Your tongue swiped over your teeth. Would it be wrong to take that tongue in his mouth? Did it matter if it was? “I apologize.”

“My, that was heartfelt.”

Your eyes fell to the tail that swished around Cardan’s legs. It was still unfamiliar for him to have it out, still hard to control it from revealing his base emotions. He tried to will it to stop, but it continued to wave around as his excitement of seeing you bubbled in his chest. “Would you prefer I fall to my knees and weep for your forgiveness? Kiss your feet until you are pleased?”

“Oh, there are few things that would please me more than you on your knees for me, but I would prefer to not have an audience for that.”

Your gaze flitted from Cardan to Jude, who was inspecting your collection of kitchen knives. Were you debating sending her away? He would enjoy that. He would like to get on his own knees and remind you why he cared for you so. He misliked the distance you were putting between him. Maybe if he begged prettily enough, you would forgive him for whatever cruel thing he did that sent you running.

“What are you doing here?”

“I don’t appreciate learning that you fled in the middle of the night after inviting you to breakfast. Is my company so awful that you would rather leave your home than spend a moment with me?”

A scoff escaped your lips. “I didn’t expect you to care.”

Cardan stared. Didn’t care…? He was so sure he had been clear with his intentions. He sent you gifts—he sent you a ring! The ring…Cardan reached over to his littlest finger and slipped it off. Ignoring your noise of protest, he closed the distance, grabbed your hand, and slipped the ring back on the finger it belonged. His heart slowed to a normal beat.

“Why would I give you this ring if I didn’t care?”

You stared at the ring. “You have gifted me many things.”

Jude stepped toward you. Your head snapped over to look at her, as if you had forgotten she was there. She tapped on the glittering gem on the ring’s center. “Allow me—Cardan is not good at professions of love, it seems. I told him of how humans would gift a ring as a promise of love. He wished to do that for you. Usually, there are confessions of how one wants to stay with their partner for all of their lives, but it seems he forgot that part.”

Cardan’s face burned as you looked back to him. “Is that true?” you asked.

“Do I need to get on my knees for you to believe it?” He ignored Jude’s remark that that, too, was part of the human tradition.

You straightened your spine. “I will not be a lover to the king.”

Of course you wouldn’t be. You deserved more than that. Cardan was willing to offer you more than that. All you had to do was give him the word. Without a thought, Cardan sank to his knees, captured your hands in his. “Then be my Queen.”

Your breath hitched.

“Come back to Faerie and rule by my side. Allow me to love you as I have tried for all these years. I missed you.” He lifted one of your hands to lips, then the other. “I begged Jude to help me find you and bring you home. I begged her to help me come here. Please, don’t let it all be for not.”

All you could manage was a single nod, and that was enough.

PART THREE

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jolapeno · 2 years

Text

it's you. it's me.

simon ghost riley x f!reader (reader!helen) wordcount: 5.3k (i have zero self-control) summary: he never wanted to get married. he’s not sure when you became the exception. an: mention of loss, blood. smut. emotions. angst. fluff (usual jo-shit)

simon ghost riley masterlist

He never wanted to get married. Marriage meant paperwork. Paperwork meant leads. Leads led to death. Not just for him, but for the poor soul he’d chain to him. The one who he’d rather not have than know their life was ended because of him. Because he’s supposed to be dead. He’s not sure when you became the exception. Unsure when you buried yourself so deep into his veins he needs you more than blood, oxygen and bullets.

Shit hit the fan.

Some missions were worse than others. Some leave more than scars and nightmares.

Today was bad. Even he knew that.

Alpha 0-3 lay on the floor, unconscious proof of it.

Half the soldiers they’d gone with—dead, KIA.

His jaw is tight, almost cracking as he stares at Johnny—unsure how they’ve walked away from it. How they’re both here, surrounded by silence as the few who have survived try to process.

He almost says something, spits it out. But then he hears it—your orders.

They’re piercing and direct. Coming over the radio as the blades overhead slow, guiding them down to the ground. He feels it—the itch to get to you. To bury his hands in your hair and pull your face to him.

Ghost makes do with meeting your eyes when the rear opens, your eyes scanning him, the briefest mist of relief over your lips, cheeks and eyes before you nod.

“Later?” Later.

He responds in the same silence, puncturing it with a nod.

The two of you had your own spoken language—something he’d mastered quicker than he had any other language. But then, speaking Helen had more pros than cons. More benefits than listening to enemies talk shit about him and his mask.

All he could do was watch as you followed the carried body.

Unsure what version of you he’d find later—what fragments of you he’d have to scoop up. If there would even be pieces left where they were supposed to be.

Secretly, and selfishly, he just hopes the pieces of him match with the pieces of you. Praying they slot together until the two of you can both return to some semblance of a whole.

It’s then he has to remind himself it’s a luxury having you. War takes so much—the darkness takes so much more.

It’s a reward to pull you close to him after a shit show like this; it’ll be a gift to feel your breath on his chest. Even more so for your fingers to draw those bloody shapes on his side—dancing over healed scars and your needle stitching.

“C’mon, Johnny,” he snaps, filling the air with something other than failings, disappointment and held breath. “Briefing. Now.”

You crumble.

Lost it. Lost them.

Losing is part of the war, part of the battle. But, it doesn’t sting any less, doesn’t make it easier to swallow.

Call it. But— I said call it.

Your gloved hands clenching and unclenching. Desperately clinging, digging your toes into your boots as you try to not unravel. You could do it alone. When they’d left. When the room was emptied and there was only you and your failure on the table.

They moved to leave. Quickly. Announcing they’d check the others—the ones who had wounds but still had air in their lungs. Your eyes blinking, the machines turning off, their boots squeaking before the door to the theatre squeals.

That’s when you look at their backs, firing a quick, but soft thank you. Something those above you didn’t do when you were in their position—when you were them, head hung down, feeling the weight of another loss.

Both of them meet your eyes, and you reward them with a smile, one which tells them it’s not on them—a smile which says you can’t win them all. Something you don’t believe, have never believed but can understand why it’s a comfort.

They nod, and they leave.

Not knowing you’re ticking, that you’re a bomb. Emotions bubbling, fizzing and hissing. Time ticks as you wait. For what you’re unsure.

Silence? The moment to snap?

It would have needed a miracle. The damage was extensive—you knew that, you’d already calculated it before you’d begun. A life, was a life. A person had people.

You stare at the corpse—the one which had a beating heart minutes ago, the one which had the slimmest chance, but a chance all the same.

You could feel it crushing you. The weight of loss. The failure pecking at your bones—good soldiers lost. Gone.

Because your fucking hands weren’t quick enough.

You’re not in your office.

Not in the infirmary or the utility cupboard you often hide in.

The one he’s somehow crammed himself into when you’ve needed a minute—hands grasping at his belt buckle.

He’d counted the bodies hooked up to machines.

Realised quickly, but not quickly enough. The soles of his feet hammer down, and it dawns on him how shit shit was.

He’d felt the thrum in his chest earlier. The knot of something undoing—his gut telling, screaming and kicking that something was wrong. Now he knows what.

Because he knows you. It’s why he cuts down corridors and passes soldiers who almost flatten themselves to the wall as he passes.

Doing so until he finds you, and finds you he does.

If someone told him he grasped his chest at the sight of you, he’d have crushed their windpipe with his palm. But, as he stepped through his open door, spotting you pressed into the corner of his room, he unclenches his hand from his jacket.

You’ve been broken. A shattered raft out at sea, lost and delirious in grief.

But this is worse.

His foot closes the door, waiting for a reaction—finding none. Nothing. Not an arch of your brow, not a snort.

Your knees remain bent, elbows hanging over them. There’s a distant, empty look in your eyes. Both of them almost glazed over, like the light in them has been snuffed out.

Exactly how Johnny had described them to him when he’d come looking for him, having passed you…

But, it’s that plus the fact your bloody apron is still on, your blue gloves crumbled before you—boots removed, white sock-covered feet flat on his floor.

The only way he can even tell you’re alive and awake is from the slow rise and fall of your chest—the occasional blink here and there.

He knows how often you’ve taken care of him. You’ve stitched him. Stapled him.

You’ve listened and you’ve sat as he had shouted.

Most of all, you have looked for him—found him. You’ve saved him from falling into a hole. Even going as far as to find him behind the mess, cold ebbing at him as your fingers snake under his mask—not to remove it, but to touch the back of his neck.

I’ve got you. Ghost, I have you. Simon. Simon, I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.

Your eyes staring into his, saying those words over and over until he can blink a little easier—he can move your hand under the mask to his lips so he can kiss them.

And he knows it’s his turn now.

He crouches, sliding a glove from his hand, brushing his finger over your cheek, watching your eyes flicker—registering him, acknowledging.

“Helen.”

Your lips twitch.

The name usually does that. The one he uses more than your own. At this point, he’s unsure if you truly hate it or just hate that you love it. He prefers it, personally. Not because he dislikes your name, but because he’s the only one who calls you this. The only one who gets that glint in your eye, that twitch of your lips.

His fingers trace down your cheek, running to clutch your chin. You’re cold, so impossibly cold, watching your teeth nip at your lip, watching for the tremble, the quiver he knows is due to come. Not taking his eyes from you as they stare back at him, all sunken and sad, but still somehow more beautiful than any fucking sunrise he’s ever seen.

He whispers your name—your real name, stroking the skin under your chin as he feels you swallow against his little finger.

“Y’know why Price likes you?”

He wraps his other hand around your arm, feeling you move with him—allowing him to lift you to your feet. Your plastic apron is crinkling, feet shuffling until he can lift you with ease.

“Cause I’m cheap for saying I’m good with a scalpel and a PC?”

Ghost shakes his head, wanting to chastise you—but he assumes you’re doing that enough to yourself for the two of them.

Instead, he forces his fingers to lift your chin. “Because you give a shit, Helen.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I know.”

Your hands gently clutching his mask-covered cheeks, staring into his eyes as you silently stare. Not saying anything with your lips, but plenty with your eyes.

“What do you want, hmm?”

You. I want you.

His hands take your wrists, holding you, not letting go.

“I don’t want to think. Just… make me forget, help me not give a shit, Simon.”

And he knows what you need, what you’re too afraid to ask for. Fuck me like a whore, Ghost. Fuck me until I'm whimpering and begging cause I can't take anymore.

You have said those words once. Albeit drunk, confidence propped up with vodka and fruit juice. But, if you had that same confidence now, he imagines it’s what you’d ask for. And who is he to say no? How could he?

You’ve looked up at him from your place between his thighs, knees on stone and dirt as your hand wrapped around the base of him. Let your tongue swirl over his tip, tasting him, hollowing your cheek, sucking, teeth grazing down his shaft when he needed it the most. When he needed something so similar.

Some drink to forget the bad days.

The two of you fuck until your raw, till you’re both full of something other than regret and sadness.

He’s aware he shouldn’t, not this time.

Ghost should hold your cheeks, stare into those pretty eyes he’d happily burn the world for, and take you for a shower, washing the day from your skin and bones. Because you’re crumbling, the parts of your confidence withering—hoping and needing to feel good, to be good.

And he can prove that to you without fucking you senseless. He can name an infinite amount of fucking things that prove you’re good, that you’re kind, and that you can do what you can do.

Because you’re you.

You've wormed your way inside of him, flooded the darkest parts of him with light and made a slither of him think he deserved you.

Your hand presses to his chest, cold and timidly. All of sudden so aware of how delicate and thin your fingers are, how small and delicate it is next to his scarred, worn skin.

“Please, Simon.”

And he hooks his fingers into the elastic of your scrubs at the whisper of his name—feeling you hold his shoulders as you kick them into some distant corner.

You silently thank him when he rips the disposable apron, balling it before tossing it. Letting your fingers, those soft, slightly calloused, healing fingers slide under his top—run over his skin, over the places you’ve stitched.

He doesn’t move, even if he wants to. Letting you brush over the hair on his stomach, run your nails over the lines of his muscles. Letting you read him as if his scars are Braille, allowing yourself the reminder of the times you’ve saved and healed.

And then he pulls your chin up.

“‘You sure you want this?”

Ghost is rarely gentle, but Simon sometimes is.

The man you have in front of you is some hybrid of the two—masked up, but with the eyes of Simon. All blue, like the ocean, willing to drag you down.

Sometimes they’re like the water you’d expect to be licking a sandy beach, and sometimes they’re so dark you’d fear what breathed under the watery depths.

Sometimes, it’s hard to breathe when he looks at you. When his eyes—all swirls of blue surrounded by charcoal black—curl into you. He’s big, broad and tall, and so much more than you could have ever known you’d have.

He makes heat pool between your legs with one look, and makes you feel safe by just being close. Even if he doesn’t see it—doesn’t fathom it at all—you’d throw away all your values and beliefs of saving people, and rip them apart with your hands to get to him.

You feel his thumb flutter over your scar, the one on your hip from a bullet meant for him. He hates it, and yet always strokes it. A memory forever embedded into your skin he can’t help but press play on, even if he knows how it ends.

You shouldn’ have done that, Helen. I’d do it again. Stupid, woman. You’re a fuckin’ idiot. Only for you, Ghost. Only for you.

Your hands move to his belt, undoing it—the clang of metal piercing the air.

“Helen?”

You look at him, meet him in those beautiful blue eyes. Don’t ask me to talk, Simon. Your lungs are tightening, aching, as if each emotion you’re holding in is made from molten ash.

You crack his belt like a whip with the speed of releasing it from his hooks, eyes holding his more firmly, blinking away the weakness—the emotions, the fucking audacity of the day.

“Be my reason,” you say.

To breathe. To keep fighting. To get up.

For his sins, he’s gentle.

Both in the way he lays your naked frame on his bed and the way he runs his fingers over the inside of your thigh.

He wants to devour you, plunge his tongue into your cunt and taste everything you’ll give him. He almost does—instead he breathes over you, watching your hips try to wiggle, his other hand holding you in place.

He lifts his head, watching, earning the sights he’s about to behold as he eases two fingers inside of you. You’re wet, warm—but it’s the way your lips fall that makes his hip roll against his mattress.

With each movement, he watches for your reaction. Like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen, and you are.

You whimper. You moan. Your eyelashes flutter, and your mouth falls open. And it’s all for him.

With each rise of your chest, breath hitches, and he runs his mask down your abdomen. Feeling how slick you are against his fingers, how you whimper, both pleading and breathless. Even through the mask, he can smell your arousal, how you want him to take you apart—practically taste it all in the air.

He curls his fingers, watching as your hand grasps his forearm. More, Simon. More. Your other knotting his sheets in between your fingers, a root, something to grip until space, time and life crashes into you and makes your throat sore as you moan his name around his room.

He wants it too. He wants to earn his name, coax it from your beautiful pink, swollen lips and wear it with pride.

But, Ghost also wants something else.

Normally, he’d give you everything you want, and more. From the feral look in your eye, you want to be turned away from him, for him to be rough—and normally, fuck he’d want that too.

He’d want to split you apart, know that you’ll be thinking—feeling—him for the next fucking three days.

He admittedly also likes the sight.

Something about getting to see your arse while holding your tits, and having the ability to suck red and purple welts on your neck. The best, though, is when you try to wiggle to see him—catch sight of him. Your eyes pressed into the corner of your sockets, hands gripping nothing as he takes you apart with his cock.

Ghost likes fucking you like that—likes fucking you when you have nowhere to go. Pinning you. Locking you in place.

Not that you ever want to go, he knows you don’t.

You’re so fucking big, Simon.

You clench around him like you never want him to stop filling you. A vice on him that he never wants to rid of either.

Because Helen likes to be pinned, to be smothered by his body. You like him looming over you, dwarfing you; like him lifting you and fucking you against walls, doors and even fucking windows.

He suspects it’s because you like to surrender control, like for it to be taken from her. So used to being in control, needing to be, and people depending on it. to be taken away from her.

Your thighs quiver, soft protests as he slides another finger inside of you. Stretching you.

“Fuck… Simon, fuck.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know.”

He doesn’t lessen, listening to each whimper and moan, lifting his mask so he can kiss your skin—teeth grazing as he curls his fingers, thumb swiping over your swollen clit as your hips try to cant against his hand.

The sensation of your fingers in his hair, makes him groan as he captures your lips. All teeth, tongue and messy, both pushing your legs wider and pulling your hips to him all in one movement.

Needy. Desperate. Hungry.

And then you're clenching, hips tensing before a hand grips his mask—and then you come, hips spasming, thighs shaking.

Often, you let him leave the mask on—partly.

You like to kiss him, like to bury your moans against his mouth. You’ve seen him, know him. You know the shape of his cheekbones and the silver scars.

“Your eyes are enough for me. Never take them from me.” “Never.”

He's being a tease.

Sliding inch by inch of himself into you. His tongue in your mouth, your focus on the fiery stretch he provides as he buried himself to the hilt.

He rears his hips back until he fills you all over again, faster, sharper, more purposeful. And it’s sinful. It’s fucking bliss and a high you don’t even deserve. Not as you begin to meet his thrusts with a squeeze, a clench. Hearing his hiss, watching him place his mask-covered forehead against yours.

Because he’s deep. So fucking deep.

Sheathed inside of you at an angle you’ve not known before. Almost unsure what your body has had to adjust to accommodate him. Not that you care, you never fucking care.

You want him to claim you, mould himself inside of you. Because the sting passes, the size of him is something you never prepare for. Your nails are in the back of his hair, your lips almost meeting him as he ruts into you. Your eyes gazing down, watching where the two of you meet, and you’re not sure you’ll ever tire of it—of him.

You imagine each muscle of his, tightening and flexing—especially as he rocks into you at alternating speeds, your eyelashes fluttering, feeling beads of sweat build at your brow.

He’s everything.

He’s fucking fire and ice, both dusk and dawn and everything in between. Your eyes blink open, seeing his own truth—seeing it as he grunts and his hand tightens on your hip as he seats himself deeply into you.

The words are like licks of fire up your spine, mixing and blending with searing pleasure.

I love you. I love you.

You know.

Fuck you know.

Your lips crash and swallow the words he hasn’t yet said. Feeling him shake, as your toes curl, red-hot pleasure desperate to smother every inch of you and spread along every single nerve.

His hips losing their rhythm, hammering the head of his cock against that spot which makes the sound of him filling you so damn deplorable.

You whine for him.

Biting down on his lip as it slams into you, snapping you, tears spilling down your eyes as his name storms past your lips as he holds you in place.

Fucking you through it.

Holding you, pinning you—until he fills you, his hips shuddering, fingers bruising until they slowly unclench from your hip.

If someone cracked his head open, they’d see that one of his favourite things is holding you.

He won’t admit it.

Not even under the worst of tortures.

But it is. It’s simple. Homely. Something he knows he doesn’t fucking deserve, and yet, has all the same.

“You wanna talk?”

“No.”

You’re quick. The short, sharp no filling the small space between his face and yours. Mask gone, the lamp on his desk smothering the room in soft light.

But he knows you do want to talk. So he gives it a minute.

He lets his fingers draw shapes on your ribs, waiting, letting you settle against him, hearing your mind begin to turn and churn.

And then you talk, as he suspects you will.

Because he knows it’s what you need. Even if you beg him to fuck you into his mattress, even if you tell him to fuck off, you need to talk. The thoughts building otherwise, stealing your confidence, your belief, your fucking hope.

He needs silence, and sometimes needs to be alone. Sometimes, he needs both.

You need to be touched, to be rooted, and to talk it out. Let the thoughts run from your tongue and meet the air—even if you repeat yourself, even if the same thought comes up time and time again. He will just listen.

You’re rambling, talking about the clinical-ness before you move into how there was nothing you could do. So much blood. Too many bullets. You’re good. Not that good. You lost one, and then the other.

On another day it can be more, your hands not good enough today, but will they be tomorrow?

“Simon…”

He doesn’t breathe. Feeling, watching your eyes lift up from your place on his chest, scorching into his. “…They didn’t have a person, Simon. Not one. No Ghost. No Helen. Not this… Not that we’re each other's person. Not like how I mean.”

“How do y’mean?”

Your eyes tilt down, and he wonders if you can hear his pulse.

“I have no one to alert that they’re dead. Not a wife. Not a husband. No children. A parent, yes. But… not a person. They died without…”

You lift up, his fingers falling to your chin, feeling your lip quiver. Tears in your eyes, making them shimmer—a single tear hanging from your lash, dangling, waiting to drop.

“It’ll be the same when I die… no one to legally inform. No one to...”

Then it drops. The tear.

Falling and cascading down your cheek before it lands on his chest. It bleeds out, mixing with the dried sweat and forgotten kisses you’d left before.

And then, like all downpours, more follow suit. Dancing down your skin, too many for him to catch even if he tries.

He’s ashamed it takes him a minute.

Wondering what the hell you even mean until he realises—no one knows. Not officially. Not even fucking unofficially. A secret, one which flickers inside of him and inside of you. Something shared in quick looks and private moments, but never where else.

You shake your head, lifting up from your position on his chest, wiping your cheeks as you try to put on a smile. “I’m… ignore me. Just being daft.”

You’re not.

But he doesn’t say that.

He says nothing, eyes falling to his vest in the corner before landing back on you, watching you shimmy and shift to the end of his bed.

“I should shower,” you mumble, hand brushing hair from your face as you stand.

His hand wants to lift, to take your wrist and pull you back to him—to kiss you, to tell you so many things. But his throat goes dry, silence filling the space his voice should be.

It’s odd, what the two of you have.

Far more than a situation, and way more than convenience.

It’s trouble, difficult—often the hardest thing you could have chosen to do, and you stitch wounded soldiers for a living.

But it makes sense.

He didn’t seduce you. Wasn’t the best out of a bad situation.

He was dry and dark humour and had beautiful fucking eyes that you’d suspected were meant to strike some fear in you, but you’d weathered worse storms than him. You’d first kissed him because you had to—a niggling feeling inside of you that had to know if his lips were soft or whether they just looked it. You’d kissed him again because he stopped you from thinking, from crumbling.

Simon made you feel like you were falling, happily.

His hand taps on your door, clicking your pen as you look up at him. He’s all casual, a sight to fucking behold. Dark grey joggers and a long-sleeve tee—and from the look in his eyes he’s on his way to training which only sparks more sinful thoughts in your hectic mind.

Initially, way back when, it had been about sex.

About providing to yourself you could take him, having felt him, having felt how heavy, thick and long he fucking was. Then, it wasn’t.

Now it’s something big—bigger than his cock. It’s feelings and need, it’s desperation and imissyous wrapped in something you’re not sure you can live without. Now it’s about everything else, it’s about the small things and the fact you can feel yourself wanting to smile just because he’s here.

“Lieutenant, what a surprise! How can I help you?”

You wonder how often he smiles behind the mask.

His reputation of being cold, difficult and sometimes an arsehole—depending on who you ask—is widely known. But you know a different person. One who washes your hair when you’re too tired to stand, one who brings you the milkiest tea on cold mornings, ‘Because you’re fuckin’ bitch without a tea in y’, Helen.”

It still surprises you when he holds it up. It shimmers, sparkles and gleams between a bare thumb and his index finger.

“For this situation, I think you should be callin’ me Simon.”

You narrow your eyes, even if your heart is already pounding. Panic. Dread. Your mind racing, unsure what you’ve done—half-worrying if you’d lost one, even if you never wear jewellery. Not here. Not on base. Suddenly questioning whether you’d drunkenly told Soap to buy you something again, a dare gone wrong.

You hum.

Hiding as best as you can that you’re lost, and confused.

“Are you going to call me by my name?”

“No.”

Snorting, you fold your arms. “Didn’t think so. You going to explain why you’re holding a ring?”

“I think you know.”

“Humour me.”

Because my brain is running away from me.

He’s not romantic in terms of red roses and sweeping you off your feet. He’s romantic in ways like tapping your arm twice, letting you know he’s missed you. Letting his eyes land on you across briefing rooms, nodding—you got this, Helen. You can do this.

Ghost is sweet in ways others don’t see. His hand on your lower back when he can tell you want to leave somewhere, a silent offering to walk you back; bringing you a thicker pair of socks when snow is landing on the sill of your office, knowing you hate being cold.

So, this… him standing holding a ring, could mean many things.

“C’mon, Helen.”

You pull a face, shrugging.

“Be my person.”

Your brows furrow, eyes frowning.

Your mind explodes with a sea of things, darting, trying to remember, thinking of that exact phrasing. It takes a second, and then…

His eyes have that shimmer, that fucking obnoxious twinkle. Likely having watched you come to the same realisation—letting you take your time, proudly standing in your smile and glittering eyes.

“You want me… to be your person, person?”

“Be the one they tell. Yeah.”

It would be easy to get ahead of yourself.

It could be a formality, something small. A gesture but not the actual question.

“I know you liked what I did with my tongue last night, but I didn’t know I was that good at giving head—“

“Helen.”

It comes out warningly.

It makes your lips clamp shut, looking down before meeting his gaze—his fiery, intense fucking stare.

“Look, I know I was upset, but you didn’t need to go steal a ring for me.”

“I didn’t steal it. I had it made.”

“What?”

He shrugs.

He fucking shrugs.

“When?”

It comes out high-pitched. The tone surprises you. So much so, you clear your throat. Repeating it, in a more normal and appropriate volume as you stand, gesturing to close the door behind him as you look at him.

“Does it matter?”

“I think it fucking does.”

“Last time I went home, home.”

You glare.

Wishing you could see his smirk, already imagining it there all the same.

Your fingers take it from him, looking over it as you admire it, feeling how warm it is. He’s been holding it, likely pressed into his palm on the walk over here. Your fingers turn it, feeling the ridges of it.

Mostly, you’re trying to recall when he went home.

The last time, you two had both been released home at the same time. Having half-joked that you’d combust without his cock, that he’d have to visit you, come ruin the countryside with you—only for him to offer to come with you. Come home. See your place—ensure you didn’t die from lack of being fucked senseless.

Your fingers won’t do shit, Helen. Not now, anyway. You’re a cocky shit, Riley. And you’re a whore for my cock.

His hands are buried in his jogger's pockets, questioningly staring at him as you hold it. This little thing, that means something big.

“It’s made from a bullet. One you took out of me.”

Your lips part.

“Not sure if you remember? You told me to keep it as a reminder of what good hands feel like.”

“I remember…” you lick your lips, unable to stifle the way your heart hammers into your ribs—pretty sure he can hear it, the entire base for that fact. “I also remember you showing me how good yours were.”

“Enough.”

You silently apologise, looking at it again before meeting his eyes. “You’ve really had this the whole time?”

“In my vest.”

He says it so plainly like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

As if your mouth shouldn’t be falling open in surprise again, that you shouldn’t be staring up at him in the way you are.

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised. It’s you and me, Helen. Sometimes we’re the only thing that makes any fuckin’ sense.”

“You know what giving me this means, right?”

He nods—fucking formally at that.

“Ghost—“

“Simon.”

You smile, lips tight. “Simon. Does this mean what I think it means?”

“If you think it means that it needs to go on your finger on your left hand, then yes.”

He’s looking at you, pleadingly.

“I think you should ask.”

“I just fuckin’ did!”

You laugh, watching his large chest rise and fall in annoyance.

“Fuckin’ hell, you’re a pain in my arse—“

You say your name.

Sharp, but sweet. Watching the parts of the mask around his nose flex in and out as he snarls and sighs.

“Simon… out there, I’m Helen, I know. But, here… holding this, I think you should say my name too,” you whisper, more fragile, quieter than he’s likely known you to be for a while.

And then he nods.

Taking the ring from your palm, sliding it over your fingernail, on that hand, on that finger—hovering it close to the knuckle.

And he asks—using your name. Will you be my person?

#simon ghost riley #simon 'ghost' riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost riley #ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader smut #simon ghost riley x f!reader #ghost cod #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost riley x you #cod ghost x reader #cod ghost x reader smut #cod ghost x you #ghost x helen #simon x helen #ghost helen world

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katsu28 · 2 years

Text

to be alone together

pairing: Steve Harrington x reader

summary: steve has to work on valentine’s day, but maybe it’s not as bad as he thought it would be

warnings: none, 1.8k

a/n: u know i had to do a lil something for my steve girlies too <3 went for a more steve centric pov bc he is the definition of pining simp

navigation

(gif credits to @harringtondaily)

“Kinda sucks that you gotta work tonight.” Robin’s voice through the phone pressed to Steve’s ear was staticky, but still provided a good distraction from the empty video store around him.

It was Valentine’s Day and Steve had been at Family Video since opening, watching couple after couple come in to pretty much clear the romcom shelves, and yeah, he was a little bummed about it, but there was no point moping around about it any longer than he already had been.

“It’s whatever, honestly. Not like I had any plans to begin with.” He sighed, shifting the receiver so it was wedged between his cheek and shoulder as his fingers drifted down to fiddle with the pen on the counter absentmindedly.

“Steve, that’s sad.” Robin replied. Steve wrinkled his nose, a slightly offended noise escaping the back of his throat. “No! I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant that you should be out and about, having a good time.”

“You know what’s actually sad? You talking to me instead of paying attention to your date.” He shot back, only half serious. “Where’s Nance?”

“Oh she’s right here. Say hi, Nance.”

Steve heard a faint ‘hi Steve’ in the background and he returned the greeting. “What are you guys doing tonight?”

“She made this really fancy pasta thing for dinner, we’re just waiting on the chicken to finish in the oven and I thought I’d see what was going on with you.” Robin sounded casual, but he knew this was her way of checking up on him since he was the only one on shift all day and she knew how he felt about today.

“Rob, I don’t know how many times I gotta tell you, but I’m fine. It’s really not a big deal.”

“Why don’t you just close up early, come join us for dinner? We have more than enough food.”

“You’re seriously inviting me to crash your romantic dinner date with your girlfriend?” He snorted, rolling his eyes playfully. “What does Nancy think of that?”

There was some shuffling on the other end, a bout of silence, then Robin was back on the line. “She’s giving me a weird look, nevermind. Now that I think about it, it wasn’t my best idea.”

“I love you both, but you know I can’t.”

The bell above the door jingled softly, drawing Steve’s attention away from his phone call and to whoever just walked in.

Shit. It was you.

You were dressed like you were supposed to be on your date, not here, hair and makeup done up all pretty, floaty dress in his favorite color swishing around your knees as you made your way into the store. It made him wonder if you chose that color on purpose, but he knew that you didn’t. You couldn’t have known you’d be seeing him tonight. Wishful thinking on his end though.

“Rob, I gotta go,” He blurted, straightening up behind the counter.

“Wait, what—”

“I gotta go, she’s—someone’s here, I gotta help her.”

“She? Oh my god, wait! Is it—”

“Have a nice date, tell Nance I said bye!” With that, Steve hung up, slamming the receiver onto the base with enough force to send it skittering a few inches. “Hey, Y/N.”

“Steve!” Your previously downturned lips lifted into a smile, one that had Steve’s heart thudding a little faster in his chest. It always did. “I didn’t know you were working tonight.”

See, you were also part of the reason he decided to take the extra shift today, but through no fault of your own. You’d mentioned earlier in the week while you were hanging out with him and Robin that someone had asked you out for tonight, and Steve didn’t really know how to feel about it.

You were friends, but had Steve been harboring a crush on you since pretty much the first day you met? Yes.

Did he feel an itching sense of jealousy that you were going on a date with someone that wasn’t him? Also yes.

Would he do anything about it? Probably not.

Okay, so maybe he knew exactly how he felt about it. Hell, he’d picked up an extra shift to distract himself from it.

“Yeah, I got called in last minute." A lie. "Aren’t you supposed to be on a date right now?” A casual, not at all hoping that it crashed and burned question. That would be mean. (But also a little gratifying for him.)

You chuckled, a tad bitter as you leaned forward, propping your elbows on the counter, the action sending a whiff of your perfume his way. Steve’s knees almost gave out. “Supposed to, yeah. But the guy never showed up.”

Steve had to fight a noise of surprise. What kind of dumbass would skip out on a date with you? “Really? That’s—that sucks, I’m sorry.”

“S’okay. Wasn’t really looking forward to it anyways.”

“Oh?”

“I didn’t really know him that well, honestly. He was a friend of a friend, asked me out in front of a bunch of people, and I didn’t really wanna turn him down and make it awkward.”

“You’re way too nice, Y/N. And he’s an idiot for standing you up.”

“Thanks, Steve.” You smiled warmly at him, patting his hand. Steve had to pretend his pulse wasn’t racing right now. “What about you? Why’re you here and not out with anyone?”

“I, uh—I didn’t really feel like going out tonight. Don’t think I’d be a very good date anyways.”

“Oh, you’re just being modest. What girl wouldn’t wanna spend Valentine’s Day with Steve Harrington?”

The one girl he wanted to spend this day with, he thought. You.

“You’d be surprised.” He muttered.

“Well then they’re idiots too.”

A small smile quirked his lips. “Thanks.”

“Hey, I just came to pick up some movies and spend the rest of my night shoveling down ice cream, but since we’re both here now and alone, d’you wanna…be alone together? Grab a bite to eat or do something?”

Steve’s shoulders slumped defeatedly. “I’d love to, but I—I can’t. I gotta stay here til the end of my shift, Keith’s been on my ass about taking off early and as much as I hate the guy, I don’t wanna get fired.”

“Oh, okay. Don’t worry about it, I’m, uh—it’s cool.” Was he hallucinating, or did you look disappointed?

“Would you maybe wanna, I dunno, stay here? We can watch whatever you want and I know where Robin keeps her work snack stash. That way we can be alone together and I don’t get chewed out again?” Steve blurted hopefully. He was honestly expecting you to say no. Why would you wanna spend the rest of your already shitty night with him in a dingy video store? But then your face split into the biggest smile and you nodded, rocking forward on the balls of your feet earnestly. “Go pick something out, I’ll grab the snacks.”

You scurried off to browse the near bare shelves, leaving Steve shaking his head amusedly in your wake as he watched you skim the tapes with a look of utmost concentration. He slipped into the back room to grab Robin’s last unopened bag of chips, making a mental note to buy more before tomorrow’s shift before returning to the video area.

He skimmed the store, spotting you in the romcom section, and when he made his way over, you were contemplating the last two tapes on the shelf.

You beamed at him upon spotting him. “Pretty in Pink or Sixteen Candles?”

“Am I allowed to say neither?”

“You said whatever I want, Steve.” You said pointedly, propping your hands on your hips.

“I did, didn’t I?” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. You let out a hum of pleasure, sliding your chosen movie off the shelf and wandering towards the TV in the corner. Steve hurried after you quickly, plucking the tape from between your fingertips and running away, not unlike a child would.

“Steve!” You huffed, whirling on your heel. He grinned mischievously at you, waving it in the air like a taunt. You caught up with him within seconds, lunging for the tape that he held up above his head and away from your outstretched hand. Your body was pressed against his as you reached for it, as you leaned against him in a fruitless attempt to overpower him. “Steve, gimme the tape!”

“No!” He laughed, but that laughter very soon trickled off as soon as he realized your proximity. You were so close, he could see the color of your eyes clear as day, looking right back at him. You’d fallen quiet too, as if you’d come to the same realization.

You were nose to nose, faces a hair’s breadth away from each other, the stolen tape in Steve’s hands long forgotten. Every fiber in his body was telling him to pull away, because the longer he stayed here the weirder it would be when he finally did manage to retreat, but no matter how hard he willed himself to move, he couldn’t. Instead, his eyes flicked down to your lips. Your breath hitched almost imperceptibly.

“Steve?” You whispered, gaze darting around his own face.

“Yeah?”

“Kiss me.”

You didn’t have to tell him twice.

Steve dropped the tape immediately, closing the gap between you and pressing his lips against yours. His hands came up to cup your face, holding you firm but kissing you soft, like he was preparing himself to pull away if you did. But from the way you were returning his kiss, how your hands clutched at the front of his vest to keep him this close, it didn’t feel like you’d be pulling away anytime soon, and that spurred him on even more.

One hand slid down to settle at your waist, the other curling around the back of your neck as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss just a little bit.

Steve’s lips felt tingly when he pulled away, tasted of your cherry lip gloss when his tongue darted out to lick them. He was sure to have a little bit on his mouth now, but it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Not by a long shot. Cherry might’ve just become his new favorite flavor.

“I really like you.” He breathed, chest heaving against yours. Your lips curved into a soft smile—the same smile that nearly sent Steve’s brain short circuiting every time it was aimed his way.

“After that kiss, I’d sure hope so,” You replied, smoothing out his wrinkled shirt as best you could. “I like you too, just so you know. Part of the reason I was so okay with my date ditching me. He wasn’t you.”

Steve could only beam at you, going in for another kiss. In his excitement, he missed his mark, hitting the corner of your mouth instead, but he didn’t care. The girl he wanted all along actually liked him back, and it only took one failed date and an extra shift to find out.

Maybe working on Valentine’s Day wasn’t so bad after all.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington fic #stranger things #joe keery #if u saw me say goodnight earlier don't look at me #what is it with me and posting when i should be sleeping #is anyone awake #does anyone even read tags anymore tho #anyways if you've gotten this far hi thank u for reading i love u #MWAH #ok im actually going to bed now #goodnight <3 #happy valentine's day besties

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kechiwrites · 10 months

Text

tepid

nanami kento x reader! kinktober countdown day 7 (b d s m)

synopsis: “I’m looking for someone to give me control.” He expects his statement to draw some sort of response out of you, but your face remains placid and cool, the only hint that he’s said anything, the gentle upcurve at the corner of your lips. Kento finds himself wanting to muss up your curated exterior, wants to crush that tepid facade under the rough surface of his fingers.

wc: 2.8k

cw: fem + afab!reader but no gendered language, bdsm + D/s dynamics, sex worker!reader, salary man!kento, angst, potentially unrequited love, mentions of unprotected sex, begging, oral sex (m!receiving), jealousy, bondage, brat-taming, toys, mdni.

author's note: FINALLY DONE. JESUS. writing/doing research for medic reader x ghost, then touched starved konig, really impressed on me how powerful saying a man’s name can be. they love that shit. thank you to kitten for proofing and to ketsl + kee for helping originate this story and giving me tiktoks as fuel.

The waitress places a teacup in front of you, plain white, with a matching saucer. The steam of which coils upwards and dissipates before it can graze your chin. Your posture is upright, but not rigid and Kento finds himself correcting his slouch to mirror you. Your ‘thank you’ to her is accompanied with a blindingly bright smile, visibly jarring the waitress, who must face the gruff, deep terseness of truckers all day. She smiles back, turning and retreating with a lighter step than when she came.

Your grin tapers down to a lukewarm smile when you face him again, and it makes Kento ache, though for what, he’s not quite sure. “I think we should start with what you’re looking for, Nanami.”

Your words from the week before ring in his mind;

He brought his champagne flute to yours, eyes twinkling under the ballroom’s low lighting. The blue of your dress is nearly black, and it wraps your figure perfectly, cresting over hip and thigh as though it was made for you. Hell, with the average tax bracket of the guests surrounding the two of you, it could’ve been.

“And what is it you do?” his question seems to startle you for a moment, and your eyes swing to the side of him, looking for your date, he presumes. Quickly, however, you school your features into a warm kind of indifference.

“There are people who need to cede their control, to relax. And people who want control ceded to them by someone. I’m that someone.” You bring your glass to your bottom lip, drinking deeply, to avoid further explanation, or to buy yourself time, Kento isn’t sure. Still, the realization of what you mean, what your career is, and potentially why you’re here, sends a tingle down his spine, curls warm and heavy in his stomach. Urges him to take your business card when it’s offered, and make the arrangements to meet with you a week later.

“I’m looking for someone to give me control.” He expects his statement to draw some sort of response out of you, but your face remains placid and cool, the only hint that he’s said anything, the gentle upcurve at the corner of your lips. Kento finds himself wanting to muss up your curated exterior, wants to crush that tepid facade under the rough surface of his fingers.

“I’m sure I can help you with that.”

He settles for tearing at the napkin under his coffee mug.

✧

When you meet again, it’s to discuss your terms. Time with you costs a pretty penny and if Kento was so dead set on what he had pitched in the diner, he was looking at a very extended payment plan.

He drags his spoon across the bottom of his coffee cup, stirring at the remaining sugar, unmelted at the bottom. He’d added it too late. He hates that.

“How long will you need me, Kento?” You ask. You keep saying his name, over and over.

“Do you frequent this place often, Kento?”

“Have you done this before, Kento?”

“Do you know what you want, Kento?”

It drives him crazy, gives him this frantic itch at the back of his knee so bad that it makes him jostle the limb, like he’s a dog, eager for a treat. For attention.

It’s that itch that keeps him from saying “forever”. From insisting on something he just knows you can’t give.

“Three months. I want three months. Not everyday, just-”

“Regularly.“ you cut him off. “I understand, Kento.” Your smile is so sweet. Unmelted crystals of sugar, smeared between your nose and chin.

“No one else.” He mutters, chin tucked to his chest, gaze snagged on the candy red linoleum, where he rereads the same scratched in message.

‘thee hotties were here.’

It forces an exhale out of his nose, and when he can finally bring himself to stare at you, he’s relieved to see the smile you gave the waitress. But this time, it’s for him.

“No one else.” You agree. And Kento feels like he’s breathing for the first time since he sat down.

✧

“So…” Kento tests one of the straps holding your limbs in place. It’s thick, dark, leather, the expensive kind you have to order from a specialty shop in Amsterdam.

“So…” you respond, and you’re on your knees, nearly naked, at the foot of the lush, grand hotel bed (neutral ground, you’d said) and Kento is above you, standing, not naked. But you have the power here, you’re the one with experience, with stories, with the do’s and the don’t’s, and the not ever’s, not even once.

It’s not quite what he envisioned, and it’s nothing like the porn he watched. But you with that wide belt around your waist? With matching cuffs attached, cuffs that he helped you put your ankles into, that he secured the buckles for? It’s better. Better than the wet dreams and the research and the tight fist around the base of his cock the day after you first spoke in the diner.

He crosses his arms and just stares, eating up the visual.

“What?” You ask, wetting your bottom lip with your tongue. “You don’t like attitude?”

And he doesn’t know what he likes. But he knows he wants to learn.

You start slow, taking him through the motions, explaining what exactly you have experience with, what both of your limits are, what his safe word should be, what he wants out of this.

And then, after all the discussion is said and done, he fucks your throat on and off for an hour.

After session one, you and Kento decide on twice a week.

✧

It turns out, Kento does not like “attitude”. But he does like reform. Likes for you to start sessions with a foul mouth, with rolling eyes and put upon sighs and ribs about him being an old man. Then he likes to fuck it out of you. Overwork your body until the only thing you can do is tremble underneath his palms. He likes to use his knee to press a wand to your clit until you soak the thigh of his dress pants, then he likes to up the setting from two to four and watch your chest cave in on itself.

He likes to guide your limbs into a spreader bar and slide his tongue from the cleft of your ass to your clit. Adores watching you count the strokes of his dick inside you when your bent in half so he can fuck you in a mating press.

Kento likes the way your skin looks against shiny black leather and pristine white bed sheets. He likes how you look in lacey lilac lingerie with his favourite tie stuffed in your mouth.

But above all, Kento loves how you look with his hands on you, on your throat, across your back, guiding your head down, or your hips up. His fingers inside you, his palm wrapped around your wrists, his forearms holding up your thighs.

You make the dwindling amount in his savings worth it.

You make his nights seem less lonely.

You give him something to look forward to.

✧

It’s nearly a month into your arrangement. Nine sessions, nine nights in the same hotel room, or one that looks exactly like it. Nine meetings in the lobby, nine instances of you looping your arm around Kento’s and walking together to the front desk, then to the elevators. Nine times Kento has peered over your shoulder and into the large leather purse you bring with you every time, eager to see what you’ve planned for him today. It’s always a surprise, unless he’s looked something up and texted it to you, or gotten something express shipped.

But this time, the tenth time, things are different. This time he meets you at the station by his apartment, at 6 PM on the dot. This time when you walk arm in arm, he gets eight glorious minutes of it. This time, he doesn’t have to check in with the front desk receptionist with the icy eyes and disingenuous smile who always seems to be working when Kento rents a room.

This time, you've both taken adequate measures, sharing clear bills of health and a firm set of boundaries, everything in place for Kento to forgo condoms for the first time. The hotel you regularly use for your sessions just didn’t seem concrete enough, felt hopelessly sterile, anonymous. And Kento likes to think you like him just a little bit more than your average hotel room client.

He has to think that way, or he’d never have the courage to see you again.

So at his behest, you’re in his space, in his drab beige and white apartment and he can hardly believe it. You drape your jacket over the back of one of his unremarkable dining chairs, and the sleek brown leather simultaneously blends in and stands out, he eyeballs it, while you look around, hears you comment on the amount of books he has everywhere, but he can’t respond, can’t part his gaze from the indelible foreignness of your things in his home. And when you catch him staring at the coat before he can casually look away, you fret aloud.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Kento. Should I have hung it up?” He watches you frown, your eyebrows coming together, separated by a miniscule wrinkle. He’s never seen that expression on you before.

He shakes his head, head already in a daze. You’re a worrier. You wring your hands.

He hadn’t known that.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he gets closer, tears his eyes from your clothing and approaches. Instead of assuring you he doesn’t mind, could not care less, the salaryman puts his hands on you, watches you sink into familiar territory, watches your eyes darken and your lips part and Kento Nanami nearly preens when you shiver.

“I’ll feed you.” He speaks softly, and he kisses you. Then quickly amends; “After.”

And it might be too much. Too intimate, to share a meal after you let him smack you across the face, and wrap his hand around your throat, and press his thumb over your tongue and fuck you unprotected.

But he doesn’t care.

And neither, it seems, do you.

“After.” You repeat. “Sounds good.”

And you smile.

✧

Three days after his tenth session with you, he sees you, outside, in regular clothing, not a ball gown or lingerie or nothing at all, but in a black t-shirt and baggy, soft looking jeans, and you’re blinking and smiling and laughing with some man. You’re in a coffee shop across from his workplace, and he can see you from his office’s window. (They’re small time, only on the second floor of a mega-corporation building, and up until that very moment, he had liked being able to see other people from his cubicle).

The man gets up, and Kento hopes he stumbles into the street and gets hit by a car, not hard enough to kill him, but hard enough that he can’t leave the hospital for a few days.

He returns shortly, with a drink for you, in a large white to-go cup. You don’t ask him anything. Don’t check the cup for details, you just take a sip and smile, slow and satisfied.

Kento blows out a large breath, turns to his desk and fishes out a small, amber pill bottle boasting the illegible, worn-down name of a medication ending in -loft or -pril or -pene. He tips it directly into his mouth, crunching down on two pills before he chucks the bottle across the room.

Kento doesn’t know how you take your coffee. If you even drink it at all. You had tea at the diner, and he was so busy with his own drink, with his own neurosis, he doesn’t remember what you added.

He calls you. Watches you pick up the phone and excuse yourself to the street outside.

Now, you meet four times a week. He starts doing overtime again.

✧

“Say it.” All the lights are off in your bedroom, save a salt lamp glowing pink on your end table in the corner. It hadn’t stopped Kento from eating up every detail of how you lived with his eyes. He saw the few pieces of underwear you’d shoved under your bed. The one pot of soup? Pasta sauce? You’d left unwashed on your stovetop. The framed picture of you and your mother or aunt or older cousin on your overstuffed dresser.

It had to be one of those. The resemblance was undeniable.

“Please.” You gasp, and wrench up off your bed, trying in vain to fight against the thick leather restraints keeping you spread eagle before him. The rabbit vibrator inside is blush pink and vibrating at full speed so deep inside you, twisted so it won’t touch your clit.

“You’re better than that, you beg better than that. Don’t make me drag it out of you. Beg. Me.” Kento can hear himself, can hear just how untethered, frayed he sounds. Every downward strike of his hand against your inner thighs is accompanied by a flash of you sipping from that godforsaken off-white coffee cup and smiling like the man from the coffee shop understands you, warm, comfortable.

Does he know who the woman in the photo with you is?

“Ken, Sir. Please, please let me come. I’m sorry for being a brat. Please.”

“Who gives you what you need?” He crouches down, sliding a finger along the straining line of your throat. Your lips are slick with your own spit, he’d enjoyed the gag for a bit, but your voice desperately warbling his name would always be better than the visual stimulation. Tear tracks have dried at the corners of your eyes, remnants of the first orgasm he’d ruined for you.

You are so goddamn pretty.

“You do.” You hiss, body arched and shaking, as if you could move the vibrator yourself if you fidgeted enough. He could hear how wet you were, could see beads of sweat pearl on your heated skin,

“Always?”

“Always.”

✧

Meals after, sometimes before, become a regular occurrence. Usually Kento cooks for you. Sometimes you cook for him. Once, and never again, you got to his place before him, hefting a paper bag of groceries he insisted on compensating you for. When you called him, he had only a few minutes left at work, and the station was so close. So he told you where he kept his extra key. Told you to let yourself in. And you had.

And when Kento got home, bone tired and overworked and wanting nothing more than to press his mouth to yours for hours, you welcomed him home. Eyes bright, smile hot and melting and so sincere.

And you had made dinner. For the both of you.

✧

“It was a pleasure serving you Kento.” You’re huddled in a winter coat, and briefly, Kento thinks about how fast the weather turned, how you chatted and teased and charmed a man that wasn’t him in a t-shirt two months ago, and now your arrangement with him is ending and you needed a scarf, and gloves.

“Mm. I enjoyed our time together.” He feels like a liar, feels like the pills he took before this weren’t enough, He can hear his blood roar in his ears. Cold bites through his coat. His nose is probably red. He hates that, reminds him of being a child, small and out of control and sniffling with a fever, at home, missing school.

Unmelted sugar in cooling barley tea.

“I…” You peter off, and frown. You stick your hands in your pocket and shrug. “Do you want to hug? I think we should…” You don’t finish that sentence either, you just open your arms at him and approach. Wrap your arms around him and squeeze. And Kento doesn’t like PDA, finds it uncomfortable and embarrassing, but he thinks if the two of you stayed on the sidewalk, hugging forever, that would be fine too. He wonders if the people sidestepping around you on the sidewalk think you’re a couple. Think you’re married.

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

He can smell your hair.

When you finally pull back, you stare at him, eyes wide, mouth tense. So he kisses your lips, and it’s obviously not the first time, he can kiss you whenever he wants, tilt your head back and slide his tongue into your eager, panting mouth when he fucking feels like it. Because he pays for it.

But he didn’t pay for this one. He drinks from your mouth again, once, twice, three times. Sucks and bites at the surface of your bottom lip and he would chew and swallow every bit of expensive Dutch leather you own to do it for the rest of his life.

✧

“Three more months,” he says, when you answer the phone two weeks later, and he can hear his own heartbeat when you don’t immediately respond.

“I-if you’re sure.” You answer, and it’s the first time you’ve deferred to him outside of play. Gave him an out. No sugar crystal smile in tepid coffee.

He wishes he could see your face.

“I’m sure.”

so...how are we holding up? :) find the rest of the masterlist here.

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