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murdockparker · 2 months

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Our Cottage

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: A first anniversary is nearly as important and memorable as the wedding day—if only she had remembered it. Or, at the very least, hoped her husband also forgot. Knowing her husband? Unlikely.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: fluffy fluff!! cheesy as cheese gets I'm afraid, mentions and illusions of sex but no smut (sorry babes maybe next time)

A/N: Another self indulgent fic for me myself and I. You're welcome to read it if you want I guess—I have nothing else to say about it

The room was too fragrant.

Maybe it was her sensitive sense of smell that had awoken her, but something about the near ten bouquets that adorned her bedchambers led her to believe that both could be true.

“What in the world?”

“Good morning, ma’am,” Mrs. Crabtree said, knocking unceremoniously on the door. “I do hate to intrude on your beauty sleep, but I was instructed to beat the drapes and I’m afraid this is the last room I have left to do.”

“No, no,” (Y/N) groaned, sitting up in bed, “I bet it’s time for me to rise anyway. Can’t sleep the day away.”

“You’re much more forgiving than Mr. Bridgerton,” Mrs. Crabtree smiled, entering further into the bedchambers. “As much as I miss the young master’s presence here at the estate, if he found out that I awoke you early,” she laughed quietly, “I reckon the mister and I would be packing our bags before nightfall.”

“Oh please,” (Y/N) peeled the covers off of her body, stretching her legs, “Benedict loves you both dearly—”

“But he loves you more,” the woman points, making good work of taking the drapes off the wall. “Why, do you think Mr. Bridgerton would purchase the same amount of flowers for me?”

She looks closer at the bouquets—all full of a different variety of blooms. Most filled with her favorites, but a handful were a collection of his favorites as well. “Why did Benedict purchase all of these flowers, anyway? It seems excessive…”

Mrs. Crabtree’s smile seemed secretive at first, fading in realization after looking Mrs. Bridgerton in the eyes. “Oh, my dear, you’re serious.”

“Benedict is usually known for romantic gestures,” (Y/N) said indifferently, “I do not recall a time he did something quite like this, though.”

“Well, I can recall a time Mr. Crabtree and I had to clean up a shocking amount of paint and a few precarious handprints across his study…”

She wished she was still in bed, wanting nothing more than to pull the covers over her bright red face. It was one of the many nights of their honeymoon—Benedict had the bright idea to try and paint with their bodies instead of brushes. She thought he had the decency to clean it all up in the morning. She thought, anyhow.

“I-I’m sorry you had to clean up such a mess,” (Y/N) said, praying the apology could transcend lifetimes. “I will be sure to let Benedict know he needs to be more careful with his oils.”

“Oh, your love keeps me young, ma’am,” Mrs. Crabtree said. “But as I was saying—do you really not realize why your husband had purchased so many flowers?”

“Not a clue.”

“Perhaps it isn’t my place,” Mrs. Crabtree said slowly. “But you and the master have been married for a year now.”

“Yes, yes,” (Y/N) waved. “Nearly year of marital bliss—”

“A year ago, today.”

“Today is… surely not…”

Noticing a perfectly placed card in the bouquet on her nightstand, she grabbed it and quickly sped over the looping font.

Dearest,

I hope these blooms find you well, I instructed the Crabtrees to be extra careful in their delivery this morn. As exquisite as the flowers may be, and I insisted on their exquisiteness, they could never hold a candle to you. Light of my life and song of my heart, how pleasantly perfect the last year has been.

Happy anniversary, my love.

Yours forever,

Their anniversary. Their first anniversary, and she had completely forgotten about it.

“Mr. Bridgerton is still visiting Kent until this evening,” Mrs. Crabtree explained, as if the young missus didn’t know. “I’m sure that provides ample time to prepare something for his arrival, at the very least twelve hours give or take.”

“How could I have forgotten?” (Y/N) was beside herself, forgetting her anniversary? Her first anniversary? Surely it wasn’t an omen of some kind. She was holding onto his note rather tightly. “What kind of a wife am I?”

“Not a terrible one,” Mrs. Crabtree said. “Why, I recall forgetting quite a few of my anniversaries as well.”

“Not your first one though, correct?”

“Well, no—”

“We need to go to town,” (Y/N) said determinedly, flinging her closet open, eyes scanning over every sensible dress she owned. “I need to figure out a way to top whatever spectacle my husband has planned for this evening.”

“I’ll call for a carriage,” Mrs. Crabtree sighed, knowing full well that the drapes will not get finished this afternoon.

“If we were in London, why, I’d have hundreds of choices on what to get Benedict,” (Y/N) said, skimming through the few booths at the market. Life out in the country was agreeable, favorable even, but it was moments like these that she truly missed the convenience of living in such a populated place. “I just do not see how I am to make a gift with anything here.”

“Perhaps, ma’am,” Mrs. Crabtree said, carrying a basket full of fresh fruit and veg—taking every opportunity of the market while they’re out, “perhaps you should try gifting something from the heart?”

“What to wives usually get their husbands for the first anniversary?” (Y/N) asked absentmindedly, fingers running over a healthy pile of apples.

“I find that most women in your place have the pleasure of gifting news of an heir right around or before the year mark,” Mrs. Crabtree said, a hint of a smile dancing on her lips. “I don’t suppose you can surprise Mr. Bridgerton with such news?”

Her face went red. “No. Decidedly not.”

“Shame,” Mrs. Crabtree clicked, “I was rather hoping to be doting on a babe sometime soon…”

“What did you give Mr. Crabtree for your anniversary?” (Y/N) tried to change the subject, ignoring the perfect thought of a little baby with Benedict’s eyes. Perhaps they would have her nose? Her smile?

“Well,” the older woman’s face lit up, “our Henry was the best kind of gift—for me or Mr. Crabtree. I wish I could be more help in that regard, dear.”

Defeated, (Y/N) threw a handful of apples into her basket. The apples weren’t even all that good this time of year. Perhaps she could convince Mrs. Crabtree to bake a pie. Either way, a snack for the horses and their hard work this morning.

“Please forgive me for speaking out of turn, ma’am,” Mrs. Crabtree spoke quietly, “but your husband loves you dearly, I am quite sure he would be most content with any gift you give him.”

“Oh I am sure he would be well suited to accept anything I made or purchased,” (Y/N) agreed. “I rather think I could sneeze on a piece of parchment and he’d write to the National Gallery to induct it into their collection.”

“He would,” Mrs. Crabtree agreed, holding back a laugh.

“Why did I marry such a thoughtful man?” (Y/N) groaned, fist clenching tighter on her basket. “I am destined to be in this predicament every year until the day I perish, aren’t I?”

“To be in a happy marriage, ma’am?”

“To have to deal with my inadequacy for gifts,” she corrected. “We are but a competitive match, after all. Chess is a blood sport with us,” (Y/N) laughed, recalling the last time they had played the game. They both were of the same mind, irritating as it were, it was as if they were playing themselves. It usually ended well regardless, with one under the other in the bedroom. “He probably has been planning something since we were wed, I’m sure. How do I ever top such a thing?”

“Might I suggest the baby narrative again?”

“Mrs. Crabtree, I know you mean it in jest, but it really sounds like my only option at this point.”

“I cannot help my need to see perfect little Bridgerton babies around the estate,” Mrs. Crabtree said cleverly. “But I also know when that day comes and you and Mr. Bridgerton do end up having children, it will be the most welcome of presents. Just, not this year, hm?”

“No,” she sighed, “not this year.”

“Very well,” Mrs. Crabtree nodded. “Perhaps we should head back to the estate?”

“I suppose,” (Y/N) sighed again, kicking a stray rock off of the path. “No use in sulking at the market when I can sulk in the comfort of my own home and await my perfect husband’s arrival with his perfect present.”

“Chin up, dear,” Mrs. Crabtree laughed, putting the baskets away in the carriage. “It’s endearing that you care so deeply about Mr. Bridgerton's gift. I’m sure whatever you land on will be just perfect.” A tease of sarcasm, a tease at her young missus.

“You’ve made your point,” (Y/N) grumbled, hopping into the cab. “Perhaps I should just accept defeat.”

“Oh, well now that won’t do,” Mrs. Crabtree admonished playfully, closing the door behind her. The carriage begun moving home. “You yourself said you were a competitive match, and I for one would like to see Mr. Bridgerton bested. All men need to be reminded that the wife is the true head of the house from time to time.”

(Y/N) snorted. How she cared so deeply for the staff here in the country, the Crabtrees were always a breath of fresh air. “He’s well aware.”

“Remind him anyway,” Mrs. Crabtree said absentmindedly.

As if struck by lightning, Mrs. Bridgerton knew exactly what she could gift her husband.

Benedict was exhausted. His family’s bad timing is never lost on him, needing his immediate attention at Aubrey Hall for one reason or another. His mother’s correspondence begged him to come urgently, a matter only meant to be discussed in person rather through letters. With a heavy heart he left his wife behind, knowing he’d only be gone for a handful of days anyway, even if he would be missing the majority of their anniversary day.

Benedict grinned wickedly. They still had plenty of the night, however.

When he originally had purchased My Cottage, he never expected to share the less-than-humble estate with anyone else, but like it was meant to be—and he had a very good reason to believe it was—(Y/N) made it her own and took to the country as well as he thought. She had even made fast friends with the Crabtrees, who, by all regards, Benedict thought of as family.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” Mr. Crabtree greeted, nodding to the young master exiting the carriage. Anthony had sent for him with a family transport—knowing Benedict would not want to leave (Y/N) without—all the more reason for his brother to agree to come to Aubrey Hall. “Welcome home, sir.”

“Crabtree,” Benedict nodded back, jumping down to the dirt path.

“How was your family, sir?”

“Dreadful,” Benedict groaned. “Made even more taxing by the two entire days of travel there and back. Do they not realize how far Wiltshire is to Kent?”

“I am sure the viscount is well aware,” Mr. Crabtree said, treading lightly. “I am also sure that they would not have called upon you for a small matter, either.”

“No,” Benedict sighed, rolling his shoulders. The trip had been a long one, his muscles ached. “It was a good reason for my visit, but it still pained me to be from my wife for so very long, especially today.”

“Ah, well, your missus has not been herself since you left,” Mr. Crabtree said. “I am quite sure that seeing you will be a happy reunion indeed.”

“Please ensure that you and your missus find your lodgings in the cabin, this eve,” Benedict said, as if the thought just occurred to him. Asking his staff to stay at the cabin by the pond became a regular occurance, especially after his marriage. “It is my anniversary, after all.”

Mr. Crabtree smiled. “Already done, sir.”

“Excellent,” Benedict said, trying his best not to grin from ear to ear. “Have a good night.”

“You as well, sir.”

Benedict knew that dinner would be waiting for him inside, Mrs. Crabtree probably having already made his favorites. After his day of travel, he was ravenous—more for food in this very moment than anything else, but he would settle for his wife, too.

“Darling,” Benedict called out, removing his boots by the front entryway. “Your fantastic husband has returned!”

Silence.

“Darling?” He called again, only to be met with the ticking of the grand clock in the foyer. “Playing hard to get, it seems…”

A shimmering of light caught his eye. Candlelight was emitting from his study, his studio, flickering from the crack under the door.

Odd.

“(Y/N)…?”

He opened the door cautiously, only to find his wife hunched over an easel. She had a streak of blue paint on her right cheek, a smidge of green right across the bridge of her nose. Benedict couldn’t recall the last time he saw something so endearing.

“Oh! Benedict!” (Y/N) said, nearly jumping five feet into the air. “You’re home!”

“I am,” he laughed, shutting the door to the study. “What’re you doing in here?”

“Cooking,” she deadpanned, posing with a hand on her hip, painters pallet in the other. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“After all my begging to get you to pick up a brush, you decide to do it whilst I’m away?” He pressed his hand to his chest. “I cannot decide if I am touched or hurt.”

“It was meant to be a surprise!” (Y/N) laughed, setting the pallet down. “A gift for you.”

“A gift?” Benedict mused, walking closer to his wife. “And what did I do to deserve such a gift?”

“You married me,” she said simply, wiping her hands of any wet paint. They were still covered in a kaleidoscope of colors, but all dried down and hardly worth the effort to clean at the present moment. “A year ago today, I gather.”

“Oh yes,” Benedict said knowingly. “That is today, isn’t it?” His wife grinned up at him, looking more beautiful than the day he met her, a day he could have sworn was burned into his mind forever.

“So I’ve been told,” (Y/N) said. “I hate to admit, but I started on this later that I would have liked, only working on it for the last eight hours—”

“You didn’t happen to forget our anniversary, did you?” Benedict crossed his arms, his voice teasing.

“Of course not!” She lied, keeping her voice even. “You are just an impossible person to make a gift for, that is all.”

“Ah,” Benedict clicked. He did not believe her, but forgave her all in the same breath. “I see.”

“So it is not yet finished—”

“May I see it?”

“No, not yet,” (Y/N) said, turning the easel away quickly. He couldn’t have possibly seen what it was from where he was standing, anyway.

“What if…” Benedict crossed the room, carefully opening the closet in the wall. “We showed them together?” He pulled a similar sized canvas from the contents of the closet, covered in a plain white sheet. Of course he painted her something, it seemed only right. She married an artist, after all.

“Yours is going to be much better than mine,” (Y/N) said, nearly melting into the floor. “I will feel inadequate comparing our work.”

“Nonsense,” Benedict scoffed, walking back towards his wife. “They were both made with the same amount of love, I’m sure of it.”

“Perhaps…”

“Come on,” he said, nudging her arm with the corner of his canvas lovingly. “On the count of three?”

She nodded. “One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

She spun the easel around just as Benedict removed the cover from the canvas in his hand.

Laughter filled the room.

“Oh my darling, I could kiss you,” Benedict said, voice full of love, his eyes not straying from her canvas for a moment. “Granted, I have wanted nothing more than to kiss you since I arrived—”

“Out of everything we could have painted,” (Y/N) giggled, brushing hair out of her face. “We picked the same subject?”

On both canvases laid a landscape rendition of My Cottage, one obviously more well-done than the other. Benedict’s gave a sense of perfect imperfection, something worth hanging in a gallery or museum. (Y/N)’s, while being done by the hand of a novice in only a handful of hours, gave it the sense of home, the shared feeling the couple had every day at their estate.

“We share the same mind,” Benedict surmised, setting his work on a neighboring easel, putting both side-by-side. “What a stunning collaboration on our end.”

“You jest,” (Y/N) pushed Benedict playfully. “Yours is far superior to mine. A toddler could have done better work.”

“Nonsense!” Benedict said, pulling his wife into his side, kissing her temple. “You obviously put such care into it, no matter how lopsided the left side of our home may be—”

“Benedict—”

“It’s brilliant, my love,” Benedict sang, turning (Y/N) to look directly at him. “I couldn’t have asked for a better gift.”

“Truly?”

“Well, I fear I am still waiting on my welcome kiss…” Benedict sighed.

“Needy, needy man,” (Y/N) bubbled, rocking on her toes to reach her husband’s face, all but happy to oblige.

After a total of four days apart, the kiss was one that was worth waiting for. Saccharine sweet and slow, it was welcoming, it was home. Much like their first kiss, Benedict idly wondered if (Y/N)’s lips were always meant to be captured in his own—as if they were quite literally made for each other.

“Oh dear,” (Y/N) giggled, pulling away from her husband’s embrace, thumb rubbing soothing circles on his jaw. He needed to shave.

“What? Do I have something on my face?”

“Paint,” she said, swiping her thumb across his cheek. “Entirely my fault. I’m not even sure how I got it on my face to begin with…”

“Hardly the first time,” Benedict quipped, leaning back in to kiss her once more.

“Do you really like it?” (Y/N) asked, resting her head on his shoulder—their attention somehow turned back to the canvases. “Or are you lying to me?”

“I would never lie to you,” Benedict said. She believed him. “But, I do suppose a few more hours would boast well to the quality…”

Another playful slap to his arm.

“Where are we to hang yours?” Her hand grazed his masterpiece. He must have finished it ages ago, hiding it away for just the right moment. “The entryway gets too much sun—”

“What about our bedchambers?” He offered.

“No, I want our guests to admire your work of Our Cottage,” she hummed, focusing her attention to the beautiful wreath he lovingly added to the front door. She loved adorning their door with fresh flowers, a detail he surely could have overlooked, but still included anyway. “Perhaps in the drawing room?”

“Our Cottage…” Benedict mumbled happily. “I think it’s high time we changed the name to that, don’t you agree? Seeing as it is no longer ‘my’ anything, not with you here.”

“Considering it still is not a cottage in the slightest, I have a few disagreements on that alone,” she teased. Their estate was nearly the furthest thing from a cottage, nearly a small mansion. “But yes… Our Cottage seems fitting.”

“And where will we hang your masterpiece?” Benedict pulled her tighter into his side. “Shall we hang them side-by-side? Allow our guests to see just how talented the Bridgertons can be?”

“Oh I am quite alright with stowing this away until forever,” (Y/N) laughed. “No guest needs to see this poor attempt when the true artistry falls onto you.”

“Poppycock!” Benedict dismissed. “My wife worked very hard on this, I refuse to just ‘stow it away’.”

“Well, then where do you suggest we hang it?” She said, trying not to smile, his praise flooding her senses from her head to her toes.

“I may have a few ideas…”

The wondrous scent of flowers filled their home once more, something that happened more and more frequently in the summer months, when flowers of all sorts were in season. Benedict made sure he outdid himself from last year, adorning each room in their home with at least two bouquets each, rather than just a load in their bedchambers. His reasoning? They only get the once to celebrate their second anniversary, might as well make it special.

“Should we move this one?” (Y/N) asked, holding a rather large assortment in her hand. “I would hate for her to be overwhelmed by the scent…”

“Darling, she’s fine,” Benedict said, grabbing the bouquet from his wife. “But, if you insist, I shall make an exception on this room.”

“She’s a baby,” (Y/N) giggled, watching her husband clumsily run across the hall to place the bouquet in their bedchambers. “I do not think she has the capacity to admire such a thing yet.”

“We want our daughter to be well versed, do we not?” Benedict said, returning to the nursery. “Best we start her on the language of flowers as soon as we can. An educated lady is a respected lady.”

“You’re impossible,” (Y/N) grinned.

“So I’ve been told.”

“God, she’s so perfect,” she said, looking over the crib with a look one could only describe as lovestruck. “How did we manage to make such a beautiful thing?”

“You did most of the work,” Benedict said, suddenly beside her. “I only showed up the once, if I recall.”

“Oh hush,” (Y/N) leaned up against him, feeling the warmth of his body touching her own. “A perfect anniversary present.”

“She’s been quite the gift the last few months, I’ll give you that,” Benedict hummed, his fingers lazily rubbing shapes on the top of her arm. “But I’m afraid that title still falls to the gift from last year.”

Framed perfectly atop the crib of their precious baby girl was the rendition of their home, the one (Y/N) had worked so hard on a year prior. While it had looked a bit more polished after Benedict offered his wife some very well needed advice, it was still lopsided and patchy, but very much full of love. He had hung it two weeks later, after it had completely dried and framed, causing his wife to sob tears of joy on the placement.

Their daughter was born only nine months after.

“Our Cottage,” she sighed happily.

“Our Cottage,” Benedict kissed her temple, looking down at his daughter and back at his beautiful wife. “Happy anniversary, my love.”

#benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton imagines #hi i love b.b and no one can stop me #if anyone wants some wine with a side of this CHEESE come and see me

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lovelybee666 · 4 months

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WHAT THE SMILING CRITTERS LIKE TO DO IN THEIR FREE TIME WITH THEIR S/O

DOGDAY

• Strangely, it was the one that was the most difficult for me to do, but I feel like he could play with you.

"I bet you 5 waffles you don't catch me!"

Dogday was escaping from his S/O while smiling happily, Shortly after, he rested on a tree and felt a hand touch his back.

"AH! S/O HOW DID YOU FIND ME? I SWORE I HAD HIDDEN WELL!"

Spoiler: you found him because you could see his tail moving from side to side

KICKINCHIKEN

• ok I'm having a hard time thinking of something for Kickin but maybe he could play soccer while trying to get your attention.

"S/O, look at this! Look look!"

Kickin tried to throw the ball into the sky to get it on his head and let the ball bounce off his head bounced but he threw it too hard and ended up making his head hurt.

"OW THAT HURT— DON'T LOOK, DON'T LOOK!!!"

BOBBY BEARHUG

• Bobby hugs you while showering you with praise.

"Muak muak I love you for everything you are and everything you will be in the future!"

Bobby gave you small kisses on your cheeks while hugging you

"I love you so much so SO MUCH!!"

HOPPY HOPSCOTCH

• You two start running around, trying to jump as high as you can or play tag.

"Come on S/O, we must jump higher to reach the moon!"

Hoppy said, jumping with you while you seemed to be about to collapse, they had been jumping non-stop for almost an hour and it was already starting to affect you

"After we reach the moon, we'll eat ice cream! How does that sound?"

CRAFTYCORN

• the two of you draw things you see around the place.

"Huh what are you painting, darling?"

Craftycorn turned around to see your painting of what appeared to be a butterfly on a flower

"My oh my, it looks so pretty but...you missed painting these edges...!"

PICKYPIGGY

• You two go out on a picnic to eat while talking

"And after that I told him to pick on someone his size and it turned out we were the same size!"

Picky said with her mouth full of bitten apple pieces.

"So we fought and I won, oh I forgot to tell you that it also turned out that he was the leader of the kindergarten mafia—"

BUBBA BUBAPHANT

• Maybe at home or in the yard studying, why? Because you two we're bored

"So what is two hundred ninety-four divided by one hundred fifty-two?"

Bubba was teaching his S/O math even though his S/O had an expression of agony and suffering.

"...are you going to respond or...?"

I love writing about this little group💕💕

#poppy playtime x reader #poppy playtime #smiling critters x reader #smiling critters #kickinchiken #kickinchiken x reader #dogday #dogday x reader #Catnap #catnap x reader #craftycorn #craftycorn x reader #bobby bearhug x reader #bobby bearhug #pickypiggy x reader #pickypiggy #bubba bubbaphant x reader #bubba bubbaphant

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agoofyannoyancetolaw · 5 months

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Virgin sacrifice

a/n: I got inspo from this post from a fem reader account but I forgot their @! So- if I remember that I’ll credit them- also I know all my writing kinda reads the same this week but I don’t have any interesting ideas sooo :/

minors DNI

cold tiles against his burning against his hurt skin, the sound of buzzing and the door behind him locking shut filling his ears as he scrambled to sit up. The first thing that caught his attention being the large statue of your figure carved into the very marble of the temple, old candles and offerings scattered around with old pelts piled in a corner. He was freezing, the cold atmosphere of the temple biting at his skin under his silk white robes he had been forced into. He was an offering to you, nothing more- a virgin offering was gaz’s fate.

he sat in that coldness of the marble temple for a long time, before a sudden smell of warmth and home enveloped him, your figure standing in front of him and towering over his frame. He was scared out of his fucking mind; standing in front of a god he was given to as a blood sacrifice. But.. you didn’t attack him, nor bite into him or anything he was told to happen, you simply picked him up, and set him down on a bed in a room far below the rest of the old temple. Seasonings and herbs hanging from the walls and offerings of gold and such sorted on shelves next to the bed of fine furs and pelts; his tiredness quickly catching up to him while enveloped in the warmth as he closed his eyes and fell asleep. Unaware of your plans to make him your pretty little bride.

he woke up groggily, almost completely forgotten about where he was until he felt your strong arms held around him and your chest flush against his back, as well as a bulge in your pants right up against him. Your large figure draped over him in a way he couldn’t quite place as anything he expected. He expected to be slaughtered- or murdered and ate by a god such as yourself. But here he sat, stuck tightly against your figure while feeling your member against the soft fabric of his silk sacrificial outfit he had been forced into.

“may I?” You hummed sleepily, your fingers tiredly playing with the fabric of his clothes as he nodded ever so softly and let you slide a slow digit into him

his mouth made such pretty sounds as you prepped him slowly, your large calloused fingers pressing down on his prostate just to hear his pretty whines. He had already gotten addicted to the feeling of your fingers in him. He was your new offering after all! He needed to get comfortable in the luxury of silk and honey and sweets littering your temple and the feeling of you lavishing him.

he swore you had been working him open for hours, his cock hard and twitching as pre-cum dribbled onto his pretty silk, whining and writhing in relief when he finally heard your golden studded robes slide down off of you and tossed off the bed. and the feeling of your length sliding down into him inch by inch.

“taking me like a good offering, hm darling?” You hummed, the feeling of your hot breath against his neck making him squirm even more then he already was, his walls clenching around you like a vice and his body bucking up in search of relief until he was calmed by the feeling of your free hand softly stroking his own length.

“you need to relax- truly. You’re going to make it hurt,” he heard you muttered as you took it slow, rutting into him and earning moan after moan falling from his mouth. His stomach coiling in warmth as if a fire in his stomach was lighting up his nerves and causing smoke to fog his brain.

A sudden thrust from you sent him seeing stars before he could even warn you. His pretty silk stained with his cum. His walls tightened and fluttered around you, making you paint his walls white. Falling blissfully asleep while he cock warmed you- of course his own dreams being warm and fuzzy from his overstimulation

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tsxkkis · 10 months

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# tsukishima kei - unbothered

a/n = ahhh, new account new beginnings (honestly, i haven't written anything in so long idk if it's good at all T-T)

summary = tsukishima accidentally reveals your relationship in front of the karasuno boys.

warnings = yamamoto hitting on you, nothing else i guess?

tsukishima tried to stay composed, but it was so hard.

back at the very beginning of your relationship, which was going strong for the last two months, both of you had agreed upon keeping it a secret from the rest of the team. the reason was simple. tsukishima valued his privacy, and that meant the less his teammates know, the better. if they ever found out he's dating someone, they probably wouldn't let him live; tanaka and nishinoya definitely being the first ones to do so.

especially, if they found out his dating their manager.

you being karasuno's manager definitely came with its perks; the two of you could spend a lot of time without it seeming suspicious, you could watch his games from up close and, aside from all that, you've made some great friends along the way. but there were also some downsides. and one of those was surely being hit on by other volleyball teams.

the nekoma volleyball team arrived around an hour earlier than it was expected for their sparring game. and since that very moment tsukishima had to deal with a certain second year ace shamelessly hitting on his girlfriend.

"she seems quite uncomfortable right now." yamaguchi pointed out, appearing next to tsukishima out of nowhere. the blonde boy was very aware of it, and it drove him crazy. he tried to seem unbothered though, only murmuring a quick 'yeah' as an answer.

you could feel tsukishima's stare burning into yamamoto's back as he tried flirting with you, walking after you around the whole practice room while you tried to do your patch of manager duties. you tried to brush him off, but the guy seemed not to see the signs. from one point of view, it was quite funny; but it wasn't as funny when you realized that meant he would probably hit on you for nekoma's whole stay here. and to your disappointment, the time seemed to fly painfully slow.

tsukishima observed the two of you as you finished preparing water bottles for the team, which meant you've successfully checked off all of the things from your manager to-do list. as you tried walking away from yamamoto, heading to the exit to get some fresh air, the bleached blonde cornered you, making you stuck between him and the wall, his face too close to yours for your liking. it didn't help that no one in the whole gym seemed to notice that something was happening.

no one except tsukishima, of course.

the blonde boy rushed over to you two without a second thought, grabbing yamamoto's arm roughly as he dragged the boy away, an almost angry look painted on his face.

"i would suggest you don't flirt with my girlfriend. ever again." he said, annoyance clear in his voice as he glared at the older boy, making sure to emphasize those two important words.

my girlfriend.

he left the boy standing with a shocked look on her face as he turned to face you, his expression immediately changing to a softer, gentle one.

"you okay, idiot?" he asked, a smile appearing on his face for just a mere second, but still long enough for you to catch it. you gave him a small nod in response.

"i didn't think you'd react at all." you said, tilting your head as you looked at him, a smile appearing on your face. "especially like that. you know all the boys are staring at us right now, right?"

oh. oh.

tsukishima forgot about that. he was too focused on you to remember that they weren't alone.

the entirety of karasuno's volleyball team was here, staring at him with utter shock on their faces from the moment he addressed you as his girlfriend. everything he's been hiding so well for the past two months was not a secret anymore. he did the only thing he could think of at the moment; grab your hand and quickly head out of the gym, his cheeks turning a light shade of pink, much to his annoyance.

once the two of you stood in front of the building, tsukishima tried to seem unbothered by the fact he just unveiled your relationship in the stupidest way possible, but it was clear to you that he was fazed by the whole situation from the tiny details on his face, that were different to his usual expression.

"don't worry about that, tsukki" you said, patting him lightly on the shoulder. "i'm sure they won't be too dramati-"

"I WON THE BET! PAY ME UP, ASAHI!"

the two of you turned your head towards the opened door, the screaming from the inside catching you mid sentence. you immediately recognized it to be tanaka; who was now jumping around his older teammate in excitement.

"or maybe they will be dramatic." you said, a giggle escaping your mouth at the image in front of you. tsukishima let out a sigh, clearly annoyed with the behavior he just witnessed.

"they're acting like five year olds. tsk." he stated, rolling his eyes as nishinoya and hinata joined tanaka on nagging their ace. "i can't believe those idiots are my teammates."

"well, at least now we don't have to be pretending in front of them." you said, a smile on your face as you turned to look at tsukishima again. "give them two weeks, and they'll put their excitement on something else."

tsukishima knew you were right, buy it still wasn't as comforting as he thought it would be.

"this will be the worst two weeks of my life."

#tsxkkis #tsukishima kei #tsukishima x reader #tsukishima kei x reader #karasuno x reader #tsukishima fluff #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff

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argreion · 1 month

Note

"Soft/smutty requests" you say, I can only think about comfort sex.

Putting it in short, reader is having a really bad day, or week, or month, too many thoughts about the future. Leon also is at his limit, back from a mission that lasted two weeks, mf got an injure he can barely stand.

Both exhausted with the head full of shit, not even a word is spoken during dinner, not even to ask why this man walks like he has a stick up to his ass. But when it's time to sleep and the lights off, that's when the heart opens. Cuddle and chatting session to catch up, turning into a slow fuck, full of kisses and the love both starved the time he was gone, of course, careful not to make his wound worse.

May not be a proper request, I've never done one, but feel free to expand the concept!

Sun-kissed

“Words are where most change begins.” — Brandon Sanderson

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 — P in V/Riding, soft loving sex turned into Leon wanting pussy 'cause I said so. Lots of praise and sappy talk. A tiny bit of degradation. BIG hint towards cunnilingus. Talk of Leon's pain (suicide talk, drinking, possibly overdose talk cause I forgot if I kept it in. Alongside tiny blood and gore talk if it counts.) Stupid cringey argument over a table, because tables have FEELINGS.

𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 7.4k

𝑵𝒊𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒆❜𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 — So, uh, hi! UHM, I yapped a lot. I actually really enjoyed this! Uhm, I don't think really counts as comfort sex anymore considering this was an ask from two weeks ago BUTTTTT, I did go a lot into comfort and talking and emotions! Think it balances out! Kind of scared to post this but I know I got my moots love on this! Keeps me going! This MIGHT be shittily written cause lazily edited it so if there are mistakes you didn't see anything.

Please, make Leon wear his back brace and take his medication after he's home (P.S. don’t let Leon know we’ll be going to bingo.) — Ingrid.

Your eyes ran over the pastel yellow note from the bottom of Leon’s pill bottle. Standing in the bathroom with a hand on your hip. Brows furrowed at this peculiar find. That was odd, wondering how the government could sneak notes under pill bottles. First, it was learning who Hunnigan was and then realizing what kind of sneaky woman she could be when needed. Felt good to have her as a friend sometimes, even when it was her being on Leon's case.

That was before Leon arrived back at your front door. His arm pressed against the door frame with the most painful grin ever. Leon's teeth clenched and his breath stunk—doubt he even had mouthwash or toothpaste on hand on a mission. Not to mention the dirtied clothes, reeking of gore, and gunpowder. Your nose wrinkled at the smell and your sinuses hated it.

“You stink.” You stated the observation out loud. Hoping he’d explain, but he didn’t.

“Don’t ask about work.”

Leon brushed past you, stumbling against the wall. The grime on his shirt now taints soft colors on the painted wall. Of course, you helped him—that’s human decency—gently pushing the man to sit on the sofa, squeaking as his weight hit the cushions. Watching the dip on the sofa from his weight.

“Well, Leon," You started, reaching out to help him with his shirt. This had become the norm—the one routine you did every time he came back. Strip, bandage, bath, sleep, followed with food after he woke up. “You don't expect me to be curious when you come home stinking of ass? And you're—"

Your words caught in your throat as Leon helped you remove his shirt. Letting the stained fabric fall onto the floor, revealing many things you didn't wish to see—heaven forbid it came from Leon. Cuts, bruising, and a gunshot wound. Anger filled your body as you stared at the artwork. Is this even art? If so, it's beautifully grotesque.

“Don't ask about work, huh?" You repeated, tilting your head with a raised eyebrow. Won't even talk about work, but he'll make hints about Raccoon City like it's nothing. Nobody even knew what happened to Raccoon City still, but many could guess.

“Don't look like that, you'll get more wrinkles." The man smirked, using his fingers to flick your nose. Laughing at you flinching back and smacking at his arm.

“Dipshit, do you think this is the time for jokes!?” Concern boiled over into rage at his nonchalant attitude. Flicking of a nose, a joke, smirking, did he not value himself? Could a man not value himself but rather his looks? The jokes he makes that rarely hit and often made you cringe at the cheesiness.

Sometimes he didn't, did he? A year ago you remember when Chris pulled you along into a bar in Colorado. Colorado. You remember what Chris said without delving too deep into what was your mind,

“I wouldn't want you here unless it was needed. Please, talk to him."

Sitting there with tired eyes he was. A bottle of ‘Aerial Shot’ in his hand. Worn biker gloves with the stench of sweat and unwashed leather. You'd never seen him look so dead before.

The worst part was meeting his gaze. Awkwardly taking those seemingly quiet steps to sit beside him. What do you say to a man that's dying? Leon should've already been dead at this point. Gunshot wound, infected, surviving things. No wonder he never wanted to watch The Walking Dead. Why'd it take you a year to understand that? Guns and brains set him off, as did drinking too much.

“You're probably wondering why I'm here, huh?" You chuckled, staring down at the table. Blessing Chris and Rebecca for the heart-to-heart—one chance to get through to a stubborn man.

No response came from him. Body language said a lot for him instead. Tense, grip tightening on his shot glass. Impregnated silence… Was he that bad at saying a yes or no?

“This is the part where you say yeah, Leon."

He sighed, leaving you alone at the table. Picking the bottle up alongside himself like it's his baby. Did a bottle ever go ‘guu’?

Your hands laced together as you heard the gentle thumps of his boots slowly fading into the background. Chris wasn't happy, you could hear the steam coming from his ears. Wanting to cause a scene because someone was too much of a depressed loner to talk.

No, he just needs something firmer. Strong. Get the damn fucking bastard out and off of his own arse.

You moved out of the chair to follow after Leon. He always disappeared into the bathroom. Hope was something powerful, something you always had for Leon. Hoping he changed slightly, hoping that he could be changed.

Slamming open the bathroom door to reveal that Leon was splashing his face with the sink while washing the ghost that haunted him. Their screams, tearful eyes, the sounds of people eating each other alive. Then there was you coming to lecture him on the right path—something he knew he didn't need.

Your hand grabbed at his shoulder, halting his frantic washing. Overlooking him like his disappointed mother. Brows furrowed like her, too. Made him crumble into shambles as you reminded him so much. Remind him of an angel from the heaven he heard of. Why must you haunt him so?

“Stop avoiding this, Leon."

"You shouldn't be here at all. Chris is an idiot for even bringing you here." He snapped, shrugging your hand off of his shoulder.

He buried his head in his hands, groaning. Alcohol wasn't saving him from this vacation nor the stare of the woman he loved. Where was God when you needed him? Your angel was mean, father, mean for making him realize things.

“Look," you started, moving his hand away from his face. “I'm here on personal matters too, not just because Chris wanted me here."

Your arms encircled him and your chest pressed against his back. Looked like you were a koala on its mama. All snug and warm, despite the smell of a sweaty old man.

“They need you, Leon—I need you." The whisper fell from your mouth and into his ear. How'd animators draw flowing notes of music? Each word hit his heart, especially the last three.

At Leon's core, he was still like he was when he was twenty-one. Human.

Your hands moved over his, holding them. Protecting him from the mental battle in his head. You knew how much it meant to him to have you here. Regardless if it was after a fight, or when he was drinking.

“I know it's probably hard, ok? Killing things, coming home aching, and getting no break. I can't help you because I'm not exactly qualified for what you do, am I?"

The small sounds of you shuffling caught his attention. A small movement and you came into his peripheral vision. Standing there with a kind smile. Please, go away.

"I also know you probably don't want me here either. It hurts to know you can't avoid certain things. You probably couldn't avoid Chris. Just be glad it's me and not him… He's, well, something else with emotions.” You laughed, looking away from him in the mirror. Staring at yourself in the mirror then at him.

Staring at him made you realize a lot. Pain and resentment emanating from him. With each rise and fall of his chest, you could see it more. Even when he met your gaze at the mirror. You wish he got help.

Sometimes the value of man could be seen through gazes, words, and even their hands. Body language said a lot, and so did their responses. You thanked yourself and Chris for helping him become checks today. Well, mostly Chris. Sometimes, you couldn't help but think he needed something normal in his life.

Someone normal.

Something normal to him became jokes like these. Bleeding on a couch and there he was, flicking noses. Kennedy's charm never failed as you were defeated by his nonchalant attitude at home.

“Wrinkles, huh?" You sighed, kissing his forehead gently. Letting your nose rest in his hairline as you thought of what to do.

Ice…? A doctor's visit, too. Guess we're his little booker and Leon's the celebrity. The stunt celebrity who every day seemingly breaks his ass. What a silly comparison you thought of.

“Let's just make sure you're not dying, Leon. And then maybe we can have pasta. Your mother's recipe.”

“Mom's recipe was always good…” He tilted his head up slightly, using his fingers to gently push your head away. Made you flinch as he stood up, excusing himself towards the bathroom. Hearing him yell out towards you,

“And please, stop trying to eat my hair! It's not for sale, and I doubt it ever will be! Not until I'm old and wrinkly, then you can eat it. Scottie's Special Spaghetti!"

Hair spaghetti wasn't the only thing that began to happen. Pills weren't his savior, as were the copious amounts of bandages used. Took an hour for one cut to stop bleeding, and then another started. Drove you to insanity as you stared at another box.

Shuffles across the wooden floor caught your attention. Forgetting the box to opt to peek out the door. Did Leon really not take a doctor's call to rest? Doctor's word was best, and he was too dense to not listen.

There he was, shuffling towards the bathroom where you were. Resting your hand on the door frame, you watched the suffering begin. Annoyed mutters as he finally makes it to the door, giving a smile. Hand on the wall to balance himself.

“You have a stick up your ass walking like that."

Leon huffed, forehead wrinkling at your blunt statement. Spare him a little mercy, he can't sit down. couldn't sit down ever since Spain. He had to help one way or another, didn't sit with him right—Wouldn’t sit with him. “What do you want me to do? I thought we were supposed to help each other." He argued, his grip on the wall faltering. It'd be like Humpty Dumpty. The eggshell wouldn't crack, his back would. Well, probably a lot more than his back, technically.

"Well, Leon, I know you aren't going to sit your bum down and rest. I'm very tempted to force meds down your throat so you take care of yourself.” Your eyebrows were furrowed, pointing towards the living room. Did you need to be here? Explaining to the poor bastard to just relax? If Chris could come home more often than Leon, he was doing something wrong.

What did you say?

It caught Leon's attention, his hand twitching as he leaned up against the wall. There goes his pinky and there goes his thumb. Leaning down despite the rising pain inside my back. Exploding like pop rocks. A warzone at his lower back.

“Force meds down my throat?" The word rolled off his tongue. Followed by frustration, and that you even had the gall to say that. A bad taste settled in as words died in his throat. Being held back by his rationality. No one wanted the pretty guy to be an ass. He doesn't want to be, but what people say the least… exotic. No, exotic was a nice term to him. Peculiar, very-fuckin'-peculiar.

“Fine… I'll rest. If I hear a damsel or damoiseau in distress, busting my sticked-up ass for them.”

His white flag was accepted as he gave a kiss to your forehead. Dry crusty lips that needed that lip balm he loved. First, it was collecting guns. Then a record from the 1950s exploded into what was the wall of wonder. Wondering what deranged person decided to put records on the wall. Wish he didn't try to keep up with the times. Seeing Pinterest girls with records on their walls. Restaurants in New Orleans—a city of jazz and comfort food—follow the same deal. Now it's lip balm, lips soft and sweet. Something he adored by giving kisses. Sweet strawberry, benevolent blueberry, wonderful watermelon. Seriously, he needed to stop naming lip balms… His lips were already sweet enough without them.

With the parting of lips to a forehead, he bid adieu. Pushing himself back into the living room with the TV a bit too loud for your liking. He's already losing some his hearing, poor guy. Made you smile at him being logical, returning to check on things in the bathroom.

Why were you buying yourself time till dinner? It was a good time to ponder what'd you make. What was near itGive? Was he near his date? What, why'd that come into your head?

To be frank, it was only a day since Leon came home. One day since he got to rest. How long could he keep this up? Were you a good lover for doubting him? Doubting someone you trust felt wrong. It was wrong, wasn't it? Watching a man come home more broken than before. The cracking of the perfect man in some ways. Leon always screamed the guy with the suburban house and wonderful wife.

Cracks weren't good for what he was. Every day, he seemed to grow another falling apart. Leon couldn't have known. He didn't genuinely know anything aside from killing. Didn't know what normal life in some ways felt like. Was his nine-to-five killing? It was like the records he collected. They're dated, like him. Spinning again with a needle to them. Instead, there was a bullet threatening to put a hole through his head.

“Why do I wonder about this theory…” Leon muttered into the air. Fading into the sounds of the TV. Letting out a heavy sigh as he let himself stare into the TV. Drowning out his thoughts.

He just couldn't, though.

Why would you shove drugs into his throat? Was he such an old man to you? 'Here you go, gramps, your medicine.’ Taken daily and gulped down with water.

The very thought of that sent him spiraling. Why was he always babied? He's not an idiot just because he has a perfect face. What was the count of proving people with his skill? Four? Three? Fuck, he lost count. His own lover? Made him pissed off at himself if he couldn't at least prove to you he's perfectly capable of taking care of himself. In his mentation, he slammed his fist on the table. Thoughts like these made him resent his parents for good genetics; he didn't want good genetics, he wanted to be treated decently.

The sound echoed through the apartment, causing you to jump. Almost dropping whatever was in your hand. Shoving it onto the sink as you feared the worst.

What if he fell?

“...Leon?" Your voice was soft, as if scared. Looked around the corner to just see a closed fist on the wood. Observing it raise to reveal a crack in the wood.

"LEON!?”

His neck snapped at the sound of your voice. Watching the frenzied grabbing of a coffee table. Looking at it like it was a baby. People and their grandparents' furniture… Ironic, giving his alcoholism still. The baby he couldn't give up.

“W-why did you do that!?"

A sharp slap against Leon's cheek from you sent him overboard. On instinct twisting your arm. Pain sprouting through it, Indian burns hurt. Hated when kids at school did it too. All for laughs when someone's in pain.

You yanked your arm out of his grasp. Rubbing the irritated skin as you spat incensed words.

“You know how important that table is to me! How am I supposed to show my parents it's cracked? Are you dumb!? Did being shot in the back make you stupid? Or did it miss to hit your brain!?”

Words gushed out without thought. Leon is staring at you like a hurt puppy. You wanted his head blown off? Why would you say that over a table?

“You wanted me to die?" He asked calmly, gripping the couch arm as he sat up. Swinging his legs over the side. “Or did it miss to hit your brain?"

“N-no!? I know I said it but, of course not! I-I just… I don't know!?”

Hands were thrown as you went into a frenzy. Tears wanted to fall out of your eyes as you freaked out over a table. He didn't know the importance of a table because he didn't have his parents.

Those words you said… What the fuck?

“Look, I may not be the most amazing person ever, but wanting me to be shot in the head is where the line is, ok? Why don't you cool off? There's the gas station, and the—”

"Why don't you fucking cool off the gun!? When are you going to stop your little job!?”

You were switching tactics. Want to draw him out so you feel better. Learning that during training wasn't fun, only in his early twenties. “You know what? If you want to play this game, I'll play it too.” He sighed, rubbing his face. How many times has he now? Did it at work with training rookies, with Hunnigan, friends when he rarely went out, and you, too.

“You're wishing I was dead over a table, what's the logic? Look, I know it's important but dead? Dead? I thought you were better than wanting someone dead! Besides, it's only a crack, not a smashed leg." His thumb rubbed over the crack from earlier. A gentle apology to an inanimate object.

Logic against emotions never mixed well. Always end up with one storming out—that one is you. First, it was Leon who waved his white flag a year ago, now it was your turn. Hands raised as you responded to his reason,

“Fine, fine, I'll admit maybe it sometimes. That still doesn't help the fact you cracked the table. The fact we went and got it from my parent's place?” Your hands moved on their own, motioning between the two of you to change your point. You two, a duo, couple, buddies, lovers, WE.

“Who slams their hand on a table in the first place? How is your hand even that strong to do that? Are you doing drugs?”

Drugs? Drugs? Accusatory. Did your eyes fail you? He knew you barely left the house nowadays. He recently found a study on his phone that said eyeballs needed sunlight to grow, and you lacked it. Lacked the past sunshine he knew, bright and sweet. Why'd all relationships end like this? Turning red from anger, exploding like dwarf stars as a relationship's lifetime. Exploding…

You excused yourself, going into the kitchen to prepare dinner anyway. Waving your hands as you excused. Fussy little thing you were. Leon watched you, face full of concern over your emotions and what was said earlier. He knew you didn't mean it, but if you said it, meant you thought it. If you thought it, it meant you doubted. If you doubted then he… He didn't know.

Something felt off during dinner, it could've been Leon going suddenly quiet or the thoughts in your head. The scrapes of metal against porcelain filling thick silence. Thick like mustard gas that choked Leon of his voice and made his tears fall.

“I'll take care of cleaning up, you go get ready for bed. You'll probably shower anyway." You muttered, taking your leave from the table. Collecting plates as you went, lingering on Leon as he paused. Frozen like those Greek statues—perfect even in mental agony.

Still, he didn't want to speak, words not wanting to come out. He didn't need his voice to convey his pain from earlier, the regret he had. Your answer was received through his subconscious responses and body language.

Stealing his plate away from him to bring it back to its home. You started on the obvious: cleaning up after eating. Using the same sponge you had for months alongside dish soap. Didn't understand the ads about how certain dish soaps were unique—it’s just soap.

Soap that cleaned, soap that was washed away. Just like your thoughts circling down that very drain. The fight from hours ago was still reasonably in your mind. Fuzzy as you dried your, hands off. Moving to retreat to your safe space of sorts.

Bedrooms did wonders in many ways. Offered comfort, love, passion, and the chance of reconciliation. You chose right with the sheets, cottony fabric. Was it basic? Perhaps. But it felt right for an ‘American’ home.

Tearing casual wear off for something more flowy. Nobody wanted to be hot when they slept—except the maniac Leon was. Your clothes drop to the floor, leaving you bare to the choices in their closet. Rummaging through it as the man of the day finally made it to the bedroom. Slipping on something comfortable for the night.

Now it was his turn to change his clothes, well, more like stripping from them.

Courteousness could've helped to mend what seemed like the bridge between the two.

“Do you need help?" A question you asked, reaching out towards the male to tug at his shirt. The silent hand between each other's minds. The sorry neither of you wanted to say but had to learn.

Leon thought for a moment, chuckling as he looked up at you, “Sure, if you wouldn't mind?” His smile was soft yet confused, wondering if this was your way of apologizing. Did you think it was an apology? He could've guessed to accept it.

With a drop of a head, you couldn't help but let a smile show through. Huffing at his confused answer. Letting your fingers already help with the stubborn fabric. Pulling it over his head to reveal a canvas full of dark purples and reds. Pretty together and alone, but this canvas was… Unique. Showing the pain one has endured will bring pride. With the main fellow of the show being the fresh gunshot wound on his side.

“Are you staring at my muscles or the bruises?" Leon asked, quirking an eyebrow. Moving to sit on his side of the bed. Working on his pants to reveal Calvin Klein boxers—dark like his soul. (That's what he always said, you ball of depressing sunshine.)

“The bruises that cover the muscles?" You queryed, moving to sit beside him. Hands clutching the edges of the bed as you glanced over at him. Observing his actions as he went on with his night.

“How long are they keeping you from work?" It was a good question to ask. He never said, Leon never wanted to speak about work in his home. It felt forbidden to him like he wasn't keeping you safe from a part of him.

“A week," he simply responded, finally shrugging his pants off. Moved his elbows on his knees as he met your gaze. “Wish it was less sometimes."

“Why less? Wouldn't you want more? It's a break, Leon. Do you not like coming home?"

If he had to mentally delve into his memories, he would've fallen off that building long ago. Floors high with a bioweapon charging for him. He couldn't leave Chris with Rebecca, couldn't leave you alone with guilt and regret. Pretty tears like yours made him feel regret.

Breaks in a sense were bad. He knew the fact he wouldn't escape the government or their work. The work pulled him away from his tear-stained pillow and favorite pair of sweats. Gave him holes in the body and sweet blots of color on his skin. Fuck him and his brain, wanting to save everyone.

“Complicated, real complicated.”

Well, complicated isn't exactly the most honest answer. It just was used as a general term with him. A cover-up.

"If it's about earlier… I was stupid, ok? Who wouldn't be? It's just a table, I know. Just that table means a lot to my family, despite how ridiculous that sounds.” Gesticulating as you talked, Leon couldn't help but notice the clear unease to admit you were wrong—oddly finding it adorable. Resting his chin in his palm as you spoke your truth.

“There's a lot I want to say to you, Leon. Mostly just… Why all this? This job, it's killing you, literally. Your back is worse than a grandma's, you're becoming a dopehead at this point, too. I get antidepressants, but then all these pain medications and others amongst them. I'm not trying to be the person who says drugs don't help problems, but too many hurts you. I'm happy that you're seemingly happy with them, I am.”

Words were bubbling up as you poured emotions out. A waterfall that never ceased and honestly could've made you gag. Those clowns that pull fabrics from their mouths, how? Each fabric you pulled made you want to cry from the emotions. The guilt, pain, resentment, love, all in each pull.

Each fabric you pulled from your mouth to Leon felt like a prodding. Slowly turning into a stab that leaked oil. Catching aflame with certain words and making him recall painful memories. He wasn't a dopehead, he didn't want to be. No one wanted to stare at the six bottles of pills he tried to take daily.

"I want you to take care of yourself, to just take a fucking break.”

Breaks… How many vacation days did he have? Time paid off? Er, he'd have to check. Tapping his finger on his cheek as he tried to recall.

“Could try, but it'll cost you a little somethin'."

Leon leaned close, kissing your temple before resting his head on yours. Chuckling to himself as his hands reacted on their own. Interlacing with yours as he smiled to himself.

“Debt paid, guess I will take a break." This statement made you breathe a mental sigh of relief, even after countless talks of his well-being. “I do actually hear you, though.”

His voice took a serious turn, as thoughtful-sounding as he could be. Reflection on what he could improve on, which was being vocal.

“Soon, I promise. I think I may be getting towards the end of work. Losing the Kennedy spark and all I have is a title.” Leon recalled Helena, or Patrick. The title of being the savior of Ashley Graham. The other being one of the first and best of the D.S.O. "Got a tummy to show for protecting a shitty country as well.” He laughed at his own self-deprecation—the walking circus he was. “Had that talk with Chris during last year, actually. When you were at the bar with him, after you left?”

He glanced over at you with fond eyes, “I talked with him during that. Helped me a lot, you did too." The man paused, stiffly rubbing his neck. "Chris also… Said hi."

Classic Chris, felt like a family friend now. Alongside Leon's unique bunch of friends that he called colleagues, but you knew better. Every aging man needed their little circle of buddies. Made you giggle at Leon's annoyed expression.

“Chris and his hellos… Loves popping his head in when you're home. Do you two even still talk?”

"Rarely,” Leon replied. "He likes to go out for drinks sometimes, quite nice. Sometimes he's one the only guy who gets me.” He gave a forced smile. Earning a gentle punch in the arm. One he brushed off with a push.

“At least you have fun with him, he's a clown once you get past the sternness."

This felt odd. Welcoming. Just a simple conversation with your lover. Backs falling against the bed and limbs tangling themselves as you spoke about life. Two little squids comforted in the presence of their mate. Losing yourselves in a everyday conversation. Pretending that earlier had never happened.

As the two became comfortable, so did your words. Reaching out to stroke his cheek. Over the faint line on it from years ago he said. Doubt he'd ever tell you it was from a old mentor. Thumb slowly moving down to his lips, a kiss being put on the pad.

“I'm still sorry for earlier, ok?" You whispered. Guilt had set in earlier at your emotional outburst. Telling him to die but you meant it in a caring way. Putting a hurt animal to rest with a bullet. If it was him, you'd give him that mercy. Let him finally rest as blood oozed from his corpse.

“You’re getting too old for this job. It's too physically straining on you. Drugs won't save you everytime and the hospital isn't either. How many names and faces do you know from there, huh?”

"Probably around fifteen, maybe twenty. Same doctor but different nurses.”

"See?” Your argument was valid in your mind. If he could remember faces, he'd visited it too much. It hurt you as much as it hurt him to dislocate a shoulder or get a bullet in the back.

"I love you Leon Kennedy, I really do.” A whisper you meant, feeling solemn. Leaning over to capture his lips against yours. Fondness and desire in one simple action. Feeling his hand curling up on the back of your scalp. Leon's eyes fluttering shut as he allowed it.

Your lips left his, breathless as you stared down at him. Watching him smile and the slight crinkle on the corner of his eyes.

“Love you more.”

"More, huh?” You jested, pressing your noses together with a giggle. Gently kissing him again as your hips straddled him. Keeping him pinned at the waist down. Hands moving to the hem of his shirt to pull it off.

“Can I…?”

“Can you…” Leon trailed off, looking at you expectantly. Before letting himself take off his shirt. Revealing little wisps of chest hair and a gunshot wound on his shoulder that's faded from time. Now just a light patch of skin with a ring in the center. It's younger cousin on his side, bright red and certainly angry.

With such gentle touches, Leon smiled—such care and caution. Made him aroused at the love. Made the back of his mind also angry he was getting aroused at something so simple. Trying to make him say something or pry you off with the excuse of pain, but no.

Your eyes wandered the pretty little canvas of bruises and scars his chest was. Even with the new gunshot wound. At least it was beginning to heal. You'd be gagging if you saw it before he left the hospital. Bleeding and the inside of human muscle and flesh.

“I don't know what to say right now," you mumbled, giggling at his stare at the awkward silence pervading the room.

The awkward silence felt right, comforting as you stare at each other. Payback for whenever Leon watched you.

“A little friend does." He whispered, watching your face burn at what he meant from friend. His hands grasped your hips, pulling your pelvis in to rub against his bulge. Situating it perfectly to where he could grind against your pussy. Seeing him so entranced watching his bulge rub against your underwear. Breath caught in his throat as he loved it.

“Gentle, Leon,” you remind, shifting your leg to not brush against his wound. A little uncomfortable with the way your muscles felt but if it made him not hiss in pain, worth it. “You don't like thinking about these things, huh?"

“You don't get to think about many things in my line of work. I only think about getting ready to be back in your arms—where I belong."

Sweetheart he was with those words, made you all giddy and embarrassed. Waving your hand like those shit Lifetime movies towards the Jock with a pea-sized brain. All this grinding and loving talk made you mush. Should’ve been a housewife at this point if you fell for such suave.

“You jest too much,” you scoff, rolling your shoulders back as you prepared for a smooth ride. Grinding sexes against each other while seducing the other with half-lidded yearning eyes. Running your hands up his chest to his throat. Wrapping your hands around the muscle to give a gentle squeeze, earning a soft moan.

“Babygirl, you know what a little squeeze does to a guy like me.” Leon purred, his words becoming husky. Rubbing his hands up and down your thighs and hips. Resting his head back on his pillow. “Pull those panties aside, gotta see my babygirl’s little pussy.”

Giggles erupted from your lips as you shuffled back a little. Instead of embarrassment, arousal was coursing through you. Simple acts could set someone aflame so fast. Dirty talk was one of them if paired with the right voice and man.

Instead of pulling it aside, you pulled them off. Albeit a bit awkwardly due to your pose, but still could be done. Dangling it in front of his face for the alluring factor before throwing them at the wall.

With your underwear out of the way, Leon got a good show of your cunt. Looking at the slick that made him groan involuntarily. Imagining the scene that would play out alongside you. Being lost in his world made his body react for him, making him grind into the warmth you brought. Rocking you back and forth against him.

“There she is! Good girl, baby, just like that.” He rasped, glancing up at you. Noticing you were entranced as well, the way he handled himself.

Leon chuckled, reaching out with his free hand to grab your chin. Snapping you out of the trance as you meet his gaze. So mesmerized by a simple movement. “Eyes on me, Miele. You're doing so good for me.”

His hand left your chin to return back to it's resting place; your hip. Guiding you to grind against his bulge.

“You're unfair if I have to be bare and you get to keep your boxers on." You huffed, impatiently yanking his boxers down. Watching it hit his abdomen with a small slap against his skin. Leaking precum onto the skin, made you let a appreciative hum. “Better, I don't wanna be lonely." You chuckled, mimicking an earlier Kennedy wink.

Why were you two chuckling or laughing so much? You felt like the two of you were having your virginities taken. The awkward sex, shuffling of sheets, and being embarrassed. To be honest, it had been a while considering Leon left home so often. Leaving you without any genuine love-making.

“How about you lie on me? It'll be easier, promise.” Leon motioned with his hands towards his chest. Free and open like the two of you. Sweet smile on his face that revealed those dimples you loved.

Taking the offer, you moved to lay on him. Ear pressed to his chest as was his cock against your opening. Your arms wrapped around his chest as you sunk down. Letting out a soft moan at the insertion.

He rubbed your back, comforting you as you grew accustomed to him again. Murmuring soft words of praise,

“Good girl, just like that.”

His fingers went up and down your back. Languidly thrusting his cock up into you. “Missed this, missed you," he moans, bucking his hips up into you on accident. Squeezing him like a vice as his cock head pressed up into that sweet spot. “Missed that face you make when taking my fat cock."

“Missed you too," your hands go to stroke his chest. Propping your head up on his chest with your chin. Face in a faux pout as you blink slowly. Letting out a small gasp every few thrusts. “We haven't done this in a while, Leon."

“Yeah, we really haven't." Leon sighed, letting his head rest back against his pillow. “Look, I'm still sorry for not being here for you."

He looked back at you, eyes somber as he added more, “It's hard. I know you want to know but I can't tell you. I'm afraid of what'll happen if I tell you. The government is terrifying powerful. I don't want you to die because of me."

It was obvious the government was terrifying, seeing how it reacted to certain things. Police brutality, shitty presidents, probably running some bioweapon deal underneath it. Power hungry just like everyone else. Those who denied being power-hungry were always the ones who were most. They just knew when to not say they were—they were smart.

“I could see that, Leon. I know what you do, ok? Bioweapons? Fight them? You and the government aren't exactly ‘low-key’. I'm sure a lot of the public knows.” You answered, feeling odd while talking about the government with Leon during sex. Such a turn-on.

Of course you'd know, even if he didn't want to go into details—mostly because it invalidates his contract and have himself and you be shot; he knew you weren't dumb. Worst part it was during something so vulnerable.

"Yeah, that's the bad part." He muttered, letting his hands grab your cheek. Giving it a small pinch as he gave a smile. “You look so pretty when you're taking my dick.”

“Turn off?" In truth, it only did a little. Knowing it would've gotten you a harsh thrust into your core. “I love you, but geez… You are something else with certain words.”

"Ah, losing my charm now, hm?” Leon thought to himself, pursing his lips as his eyes seemingly ran after some cleverly thought up phrase that made girls wet. "Ah, I think I got one.”

He drew closer, tipping his head forward so your noses touched. Knowing the smile on his face as he purred out sultry words, “Been thinking about this all day, especially when you made dinner. Wanted to take you over the dishwasher and fuck that tight little pussy into being mine.” His hands grabbed at your hips, moving you up and down on his cock faster. Fucking you with a purpose. The feeling made your eyes flutter, biting your lip to stop yourself from moaning.

“Leon…” You moaned out, hearing the slap of skin behind you. "Y-you're ‘pposed to be gentle!"

A loud whine came from your throat, followed by a smack to your ass. Your shoulders jumping at the sudden harsh smack. Fingers digging into Leon's chest as he fucked you himself.

“Mmmm, I know, baby," he groaned, “But this pussy’s too perfect for me to not fuck.”

Leon laughed, eyes crinkled. All the while his dick kept curling up your walls to hit you again and again in that sweet, gooey spot. Making you leak down his cock to his balls.

Noticing his effect, he adjusted his hand to where he could rub lazy circles into your clit. Making your thigh quiver at too much stimulation. Hips tried to avoid his stubborn hand as he grew relentless in the stimulation.

You leaned forward to kiss him, before pushing his bangs back. Shutting yourself up so you wouldn't get a noise complaint from your next-door neighbors. They didn't need to hear more of Leon fucking you right. Felt amazing to finally be able to feel him again. His hands on your hips, dick curling up inside of you, lips against yours. Made a girl almost cry at the luck.

“Stop being so tight, gonna choke my dick out of oxygen and blood." Leon chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He ran his hands up and down your back, moving to your neck. Pressing your foreheads together so he could gaze at you.

“I love you…” Leon murmured, pulling you back in for another kiss you eagerly accepted. Hands curled up into his hair and pulled it. Pulling away from the kiss to pull his head back. Delivering kisses from his jaw to his throat. Nipping at the skin that made him moan. Making him roll his hips up into you quicker. How'd that angel a year ago become such a succubus in his arms?

"Love you too.” You responded, burying your head in his neck as you began to moan. Biting down on the skin that'll leave a bruise.

With such love came passion, each thrust carrying it. Each touch of Leon's fingers on your skin lighting it afire. The nails scratched the vulnerable flesh as he started huffing. Reaching its peak, as does every man that ages.

“I got you, don't worry." His hands tightened around you. Pulling you tight against his chest as he rushed to climax. Balls slapping against your pussy and hearing the vibrations of his voice in his throat. Rumbling with each thrust. Almost seemed pathetic with how he was acting.

“That's it baby, you're doing so good f'me. Taking me so well. Just let go, squeeze my cock. Wanna feel you gush around me.”

Oh, sweet fuck those words sent you over the edge. Drenching his cock with more slick. Whining at the overstimulation with his quick thrusts. Crying as he pulls you from his neck to give you a sloppy kiss. Muffling his last groan he released himself inside of you. Hips slowly came to a halt as he panted.

“That’s my girl" Leon whispered, giving one last sweet kiss before resting his head back against his pillow. Letting his arms fall from your body to rest beside him.

Taking it as a sign to get off of him, you scooted off. Almost pulling him out of you before he stopped you with his hand being lazily raised.

“Wanna stay in my pussy a little bit longer. Too lazy to pull out.”

You groaned, brows furrowed but relenting as you pulled him into his side into a spooning position. Moving to where your back pressed against his. Arm wrapped around your waist and stubble rubbing against your neck. Leon already rubbing himself into the crook of your neck. Resting his forehead in the crook with an appreciative hum.

“Such a good girl you were." Leon praised, kissing your shoulder. Giving both your shoulder and neck small ‘good job’ kisses. “Kinda hurting, though…” He mumbled, groaning as he pushed his weight into your back.

“I did say while getting my brains fucked out you're supposed to be gentle. La mia brava ragazza.” Your hands squeezed his forearms. Sighing as you came down from your high. Tired from the dick in you and dreading having to wake up with dried cum on your thighs.

“I’ll get out in a few minutes, need to shower anyway.” Leon chuckled warmly, finally catching his breath. His hands come to hold your chest, giving a small squeeze. Not sexual in any way, just something comforting he did.

“Count me in…”

“When I wanted to come shower with you, I didn’t say eat me the hell out, Leon.” You hissed, swatting him with a towel as you stumbled out of the shower. Second orgasm within the hour and you're shaking like a little lamb. Already watching Leon drying his hair off with a shake and towel. Glancing over at you with a cheeky smile. You paused, before shrugging, ok, maybe it was good. Too good with his stubble rubbing up against you. Sucking on your clit like a lollipop.

“You expect a man like me not to take this opportunity?” He asked incredulously, a hand on his chest as he raised an eyebrow towards you. Almost as if offended you didn’t know who he was despite being his lover. “You hurt me, amore mio.”

As expected, he couldn’t help but jest at you. Watching you shake your head and pinch the brow of your nose. Offering a temple kiss in kind of his attempt to make you smile. “I’ll stop for tonight, don’t worry.”

“You should.” To keep yourself from losing another brain cell at your smitten lover, you dried off. Leaving him to his own devices while you dried your hair and body.

Leon smiled, before noticing the pill bottle on the bathroom sink. Taking it as his medication for the week is another opportunity for conversation. “So, this is what they gave me?”

He held the bottle in his hands, giving it a small shake with an estimate of how many pills were in it. Before moving to read the label and daily amount. Reading the daily amount, he hummed, before noticing the sticky note.

“You’re going to bingo without me?” It shattered his heart as he said it out loud, glancing over at you. Watching your eyes widen at the word ‘bingo’. Bingo? What’d he know about bingo? He only knew where everyone went for bingo.

“Bingo? What about bingo?” You asked, confused as you looked up to see the pill bottle in his hand.

“Oh…”

Someone’s getting an angry phone call later.

𝑻𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 — @rigorwhoring, @xoxostarlet, @leqonsluv3r

If you wanna be apart of my taglist just send a DM or ask! I don't mind! Tomorrow I'll be dropping two bots! Then you will see me a week or so later! Love you guys! <3

#leon kennedy x reader #resident evil x reader #leon s kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x you #leon kennedy smut #resident evil smut #𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒔

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colormepurplex2 · 5 months

Text

Falling In Love At A Coffee Shop | MYG

▻ Falling In Love At A Coffee Shop ↳ ArtProfessor!Yoongi x Artist/CoffeeShopOwner!f.Reader ⤜ Strangers to Lovers, Cozy Romance ⤜ Coffee Shop/Art AU | fluff, smut ⤜ Rating: MA ⤜ WC: 8,028 ⤜ Summary: It’s like clockwork; you receive the same online order every weekday morning at eight o’clock: large decaf iced Americano, picked up promptly shortly after. His face has become familiar, as a part of your routine as the hiss of the espresso machine. Until, one day, that routine takes an unexpected turn, and you find yourself getting familiar with more than just his face. ⚠️ Very mild language, panic over student/teacher potential date (reader is a student, but she's the same age as Yoongi, just taking classes later in life than most), oral m receiving, fingering, kissing, mild dirty talk, cum swallowing, confessions of the heart

A/N: This is part of my 'Heartbeat Melodies' mini-series, where I write fics that are inspired by songs. If you'd like to hear the song that inspired this, you can find it here! A special thank you to @downbad4yoongi & @moonleeai for their amazing beta services!

Can also be found on: Ao3 | Wattpad

“Large decaf iced Americano,” you call out, barely glancing up from behind the counter.

A deep, familiar drawl pulls your attention, “That would be mine.” It’s only familiar for the fact you’ve heard that voice nearly every day for the last six months.

Your eyes snap up from the tablet, where the next online order has come through, to meet warm brown ones. “I should have known,” you reply before you can think better to bite your tongue. Heat suffuses your cheeks. You pull your lips between your teeth to stifle the groan of embarrassment that begs to be released.

The man chuckles, absently using a knuckle to push up the hornrimmed glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know if I should be offended or honored by that comment. But, I guess I do come here a lot.”

Nearly every day for the last six months, at least. That’s how often he comes here—to your coffee shop. It’s tiny, barely big enough for a handful of small tables and chairs. But it’s yours, and you’re proud of it.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to seem…” you trail off. Not sure how to finish that thought because you’re not entirely sure how you meant it or why you said it other than the fact you’re a bit frazzled this morning and apparently forgot your mouth filter at home. It was a late night last night for you. It's not an excuse, but still.

He waves a large hand in the air, dismissing your apology. “Please, it’s quite alright. I’ll take it as flattery; could use a little boost to my confidence anyhow.”

That almost makes you sputter in disbelief. There’s absolutely no way this man needs any flattery. Surely, he comes by it in droves. Because, well, he’s honestly so gorgeous it should be criminal.

His hair is fluffy, somewhere between charcoal grey and black, though the warm lighting of your cafe gives it a golden honey halo effect. The eyes behind his black-rimmed glasses are dark swirls of espresso that match his coffee order—a straight nose sitting above soft, pink lips that have a light glossy sheen to them.

As usual, he’s wearing a pressed slack and jacket combo, a cream-colored collared shirt underneath with a bold print tie. His choice of ties is what drew you to him in the first place, and made you pay a little closer attention to the mysterious man behind the large decaf iced Americano.

You clear your throat, daring to be bold, while it seems you’ve no filter to stop you. “Well, if you ever need further flattery, you know where to find me.” It’s clear that you give him an assessing once over, his eyes locked onto yours as you do so.

“Do you paint?”

The question throws you off, nearly making you drop the tablet in your hands. Your fingers flex against the case, your thumb brushing along the glass screen. Busying yourself with reviewing the next order on the screen, you turn, giving him your back as you decide how to answer his random question. You’ve never actually had a conversation with him; this man that you feel like you know yet is a complete stranger.

“Why do you ask?” you deflect as you go through the motions of scooping grinds and swapping out the portafilter for a freshly filled one. However, you know it’s not always polite to answer a question with a question; you’re just not sure how to decipher his curiosity or where it came from to begin with.

The bell above the door rings, and you wince as the espresso machine gurgles and hisses loudly as you mechanically pop a cup in the machine and hit the brew button. The noise fills the quiet space of the coffee shop. It’s not until the cup is filled, you’ve added two lumps of sugar, and you’re grabbing a lid that the man responds.

“There’s paint under your fingernails. Or, at least, what I would guess is paint.”

Glancing down at the cup in your hand, you take in the colorful myriad of flecks coating your skin. The colors fill the grooves of your knuckles and hug around the bed of your nails.

“Double espresso with two sugars,” you announce, ripping your gaze from your hand to the interior space of your cafe. A woman steps around the man, giving you a hurried smile as she holds out her hand to receive the cup. You hand it off. “Have a good day.”

Giving the cafe's inside a quick glance, you ensure all the customers within are taken care of. A college student is busy pounding away at their laptop keyboard in the corner, utilizing your free wifi. A half-empty cup of hot cocoa sits cold and abandoned beside them. A trio of friends sit at your only table big enough to seat more than two people, laughing softly and sipping hot lattes and teas. No one seems to need your attention; except the man still standing there, large decaf iced Americano in hand.

You lick your lips, a nervous habit you picked up after endless stressful nights pouring your heart, soul, blood, sweat, and tears into opening the small cafe. Most believed it would flop; others rallied to your side and helped your dream come true.

“Look, sorry if I’ve overstepped somehow,” he begins, but you shake your head, letting him know he’s not.

Gesturing at the wall behind the man, you finally answer, “In my spare time.”

He glances over his shoulder, eyes zigzagging across the giant unfinished mural covering the windowless back wall of the cafe.

“That?” he asks. “You’re painting that?”

It’s hard to decipher if that’s disbelief or awe coloring his voice.

“I am,” you answer a bit hesitantly.

“Wow!” he exclaims, a giant grin spreading across his face, crinkling his eyes at the corners. “I’ve been meaning to ask after the artist every time I come in and see something new added, I just uh,” he brings his free hand up and rubs it across the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the floor under his feet, “well, could never bring myself to.” It’s pretty, the way his cheeks take on a flush of color as his eyes cut to you from over the frame of his glasses. “It’s wonderful work.”

“Thank you.” You can’t help your own flush of shyness at his praise.

“So, uh,” he lifts his cup and gives it a swirl, the ice sloshing around inside, before taking a small sip through the straw, “I know you probably see it on the order, but for the sake of propriety, my name’s Yoongi.”

Min Yoongi, to be more precise, you know. It’s a name you’ve read so many times it’s ingrained in your mind. However, it’s still nice for him to offer it to you. Willingly establishing your connection one step further than his coffee order.

You feel so silly tapping the name tag on the front of your apron, but you do it before you can think better of it, mumbling your name as if he can’t read it for himself after you brought direct attention to it. “Sorry, I’m not normally so weird,” you give a shaky laugh, willing yourself to shut up before you chase him off from how awkward you’re being.

Something changes in his demeanor, his eyes taking on a light twinkle that sits somewhere between mischief and wonder. “I like weird,” he offers casually as if that doesn’t make your stomach swoop and your heart beat a little harder. “Maybe we can talk more about your art sometime. Maybe over dinner? Or lunch if dinner is too forward.”

If you were a cartoon, you’re confident your tongue would actually be tied into a jumbled knot right now with you frantically trying to talk around it, a comical scene for sure. Yet, there is no knot, just a thick feeling that you have to swallow past. “Um, yeah, sure. That would be great. Dinner…or uh, lunch. Both. Either one. Though, dinner might be better considering my hours.”

Yoongi glances at the vinyl hours printed on the front window by the door. They’re backward from his vantage point, but you assume he has no issue reading them, considering he turns back to you and asks, “How does seven work for you?”

“Tonight?” The beating of your heart lurches again, and you can barely hear him over the rushing in your ears.

“Yeah, if that’s not too soon. Perhaps next week, if that’s better? I don’t want to come on too strong. Or well, rather, what I mean to say is, don’t feel pressured.” You can tell he’s feeling hesitant now, trying to backtrack and offer you a way to politely decline his offer for dinner tonight. You didn’t mean to come off sounding so put out. You just weren’t expecting his request to be for tonight.

Mentally, you dig through your schedule. You’re not closing today. Marvin comes in at noon to help with the lunch rush, and then you leave at four to make it to your five o’clock class. It would be today of all days that your new art class starts. It’s the beginning of the fall semester at the local university, and you just so happened to decide to take a few art classes they were offering, the first of which starts tonight.

The class should only be around an hour long, with plenty of time to get home and change before the date. Is it a date? Or just strangers getting together to talk about art? Isn’t that what a date is anyway, though?

“Seven. Tonight. That would be great.”

“Okay, perfect. Can I pick you up? Or we can meet here if that works better.”

It’s endearing he’d offer, both picking you up and meeting in a familiar place. Considering you live above the coffee shop, though, it makes no difference. Though, he doesn’t necessarily know that.

“Here is fine.”

“Wonderful. Have you tried that steak house on the corner yet?”

“The new one that opened last week?” He nods. “I haven’t, no.”

“Perfect.” Yoongi smiles. “Here, at seven. Consider it a date.” His smile falters, and his brows pinch, forming a line between them. “Not that I…well, it’s not that…it doesn’t have to be…if you don’t want this to be a date, that’s—”

“It’s a date,” you confirm, giving him what you hope to be a warm smile to ease his mild panic. “I’ll see you then, Yoongi.”

“See you then,” he responds, tacking your name on at the end in his deep drawl. The way it sounds coming from his mouth should be added to one of those spicy erotica audiobooks you may or may not have downloaded on your phone.

Just as Yoongi is leaving, it’s like the world finally takes a breath, and the exhalation that follows brings with it a rush of early morning commuters seeking their morning fix. The everyday bustle and hubbub of the day filter back in, and you’re soon lost to the sway of the shop, coffee, tea, and cocoa. It all comes alive beneath your nimble fingers, much reminiscent of the way holding a brush makes you feel: a thrill of the soul with each pour.

☕☕☕

Yoongi

In all Yoongi’s years of teaching, he’s never been late to a class, especially on the first day of the semester. Yet, he’s nearly fifteen minutes late getting into his classroom this morning. Students are already filled in and scattered around the theatre-style seating. No one says anything. It’s far too early in the morning for smart mouths and snarky remarks about his tardiness. Not that he would expect that from any of the students anyway.

“Good morning, welcome to Art 320. I’m Professor Min.” He drops his bag and coffee off on his podium at the front of the classroom. Turning to the large chalkboard behind it, he scrawls his name to the side and then begins to write directions. “We will begin with Chapter 1, ‘Mediums and Forms’, in your textbook. Please read quietly, and I’ll be with you all in a moment.”

The day goes on, class after class, and the familiar monotony of it brings Yoongi a sense of peace. This is familiar territory; he’s in his element, not like this morning in the coffee shop. He felt totally out of control and swept up in the swirl of uncertainties and possibilities.

To say he’s relieved you agreed to go to dinner with him would be an understatement. From the moment he decided to change up his routine to check out the cafe Namjoon wouldn’t shut up about, he’s been hooked not only on the impeccable decaf iced Americano, nor the beautifully decorated and painted interior but on the smiling face behind the counter.

Yoongi feels a bit self-conscious thinking about how much he thinks about you. He’s always been too intimidated by the idea of speaking more than a few passing words to you. It’s like every time he gathered up the courage, it would abandon him at the last moment. Namjoon calls it a crush, Yoongi calls it frustrating.

The whole conversation this morning is a bit of a blur to him. Yoongi swears once he opened his mouth it was nearly impossible to stop the word vomit from gushing out…and the next thing he knew, you were agreeing to a date with him tonight.

The day's last class rolls around, and Yoongi feels much lighter as he steps out of his adjoining office and into the classroom to welcome the new students. A few offer him quiet hello’s, some he’s seen from other art classes he’s monitored across the entire department and fine arts program.

Turning his back as the last few students filter in, he makes the same spiel he has at the beginning of every class. “Good morning, welcome to Art 320. I’m Professor Min…”

And so it begins, the beautiful dance of teaching and introducing fresh minds to the concept of forms and mediums. Yoongi is sure he could recite the entirety of Chapter 1 from memory now, with as many times as he’s gone over it today.

“What if you decide you don’t like your form or medium halfway through the project?” a student from the front row asks after Yoongi explains the medium and forms requisite for the final project for this class.

“We’re going to spend plenty of time during the first part of the semester testing out different mediums to know which best suits each of your individual tastes and needs. Regarding the form, I recommend choosing something you most likely won’t tire of. Something that means something to you but also isn’t so complex that you frustrate yourself and burn out before you can complete the project. You’re welcome to, at any time, bring me an idea of the form you’re considering, and we can talk about the intricacies and any potential issues that might arise with using it.”

Another question comes from somewhere in the middle, “Can we choose people, too?”

“A form can be anything that inspires you. If that happens to be a person, then of course. However, note that portraiture isn’t covered until Art 322, but I’ll do my best to help if that’s what you choose.” Yoongi glances at the clock, noticing there are only a few minutes left of class. “Let’s take the last few minutes to wind down, pack your things. If you have any further questions concerning your final project forms and mediums, please don’t hesitate to email me. Also, my office hours are open Tuesdays and Thursdays from two to six.”

As Yoongi turns to begin putting his things away from his podium, his eyes slide across the faces of his last class students, trying to cram them into his mind for the sake of remembering. He always likes to be as personable and approachable to his students as possible; knowing names and faces is always a good place to start.

He has to do a double take as his eyes flick over the very top row. The shock is felt throughout his entire body. It’s not that he’s surprised to see a face he already knows. It’s just that he wasn’t expecting it…wasn’t expecting to see you. Mild panic makes him jerk around, hands gripping at the papers on his podium, shuffling them mechanically.

The first thought that crosses his mind is he can’t possibly be going on a date with one of his students. Surely you’re just here to…to what? He turns over one of the papers, quickly scanning his roster that he hadn’t bothered to check yet. It doesn’t take long for his eyes to snag on your name.

Unease settles across his shoulders. He hates to cancel the date, as he was really looking forward to it, but it’s just…not right, right? There’s a line he shouldn’t cross with his students, even one who he is sure is his age and not the typical college freshman. Yoongi knows this because maybe, perhaps, he might have spent his lunch hour googling you and the cafe. You’re in your early thirties, given the birth year that was viewable on one of your social media pages, and own the coffee shop, have for several years now…a full-ass grown adult—the perfect person to date.

Except now you’re his student. There’s some moral code there somewhere, something about the skewed power dynamic. The thought of going on this date should have red flags flashing in his mind. Yet…yet, no matter how much he tells himself to cancel, he honestly doesn’t want to. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt that much, right? A harmless date.

That’s what he’s still telling himself as he dismisses the class a few minutes later. He intentionally avoided looking in your direction, unsure if you’d be comfortable with him acknowledging you as one of his students or not.

Much to his surprise, as the bubble of sound dissipates, a soft voice reaches his ears from a few feet behind him, “Fancy meeting you here.”

Yoongi has been so consumed with his own feelings about going on a date with a student that he hasn’t even thought about how you might feel. Are you about to cancel on him? Does he try to convince you not to?

He slowly turns, the stack of papers clutched in his hands, glasses slipping down his nose, yet he doesn’t want to pry his fingers from the bundle to fix them. “Look, I understand if you’d rather not—”

“I’m fine as long as you are.”

He’s relieved for your interruption, for keeping him from saying those words out loud. “Are you sure? If I had known this morning that you’d be one of my students…” he trails off, because he’s not so sure that would have stopped him after all. Considering he’s wanted to ask you out for at least the last four months.

“I’m glad you asked me. Student or not. I promise not to make it weird if you don’t.” You give him a brilliant smile, coy and full of mirth but light enough to make his heart jerk inside his chest.

“No weirdness, got it,” he agrees, unable to help his own teasing smile.

“So, I’ll see you then?” you ask, hefting your canvas bag on your shoulder. His eyes flick to it, noting the splashes and swirls of fabric paint that cover the outside. Yoongi wonders if you painted it yourself.

He nods, letting his eyes drink you in one last time before you turn to go. You’re still wearing the same jeans and thin cable knit sweater from the coffee shop this morning. Even in such casual clothes, you are stunning. A work of art all your own. He doesn’t stop staring until the door to his classroom shuts behind you.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath. It’s not out of irritation or anger, just an acknowledgement of how truly and utterly he’s got it down bad for you.

☕☕☕

Seven can’t come soon enough. It only took you thirty minutes to get ready, putting on a simple black dress and flats. It’s not too fancy, but it makes you feel far more put together than just jeans and a t-shirt.

At five til, you make your way down into the coffee shop from your upstairs apartment. All of the main overhead lights are off, leaving only the warm accent lights that line the menu board and the display case lights on. Even now, the space smells delightedly of coffee.

It’s kind of funny, the fact that you’re not a coffee drinker. Everyone finds it odd that someone who doesn’t drink coffee would aspire to open a coffee shop. What they fail to realize is you love the smell of coffee. The warm, roasted, mildly sweet notes are what you thrive on, better than any shot of espresso in your mind.

There is a street lamp right outside your shop, flooding the sidewalk with a pool of yellow light. Standing just within the glow is Yoongi, his back to the shop door. You watch as his head swivels, looking down both directions of the sidewalk, completely unaware that you’ll be coming from behind him instead.

The sound of the lock turning over startles him. He jerks around and laughs softly, taking a step back, hand to his chest, as you pull the door open. “Can’t say I expected you to come from inside the cafe.”

“I would have been down sooner had I known you would be a bit early,” you say, locking the door behind you. “I probably should have given you my number or something.”

Yoongi eyes you, his gaze sliding up and down your body like he’s drinking you in. You hope he likes what he sees. “I think I was so excited about the date that I forgot even to ask,” he admits, giving you a sheepish smile when his eyes finally land back on yours. “You look,” —he gives you another quick once over, shaking his head and sinking his teeth into his bottom lip— “gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” you preen under his praise. “You look quite handsome, yourself.”

You’re not just saying that to return the compliment, either. Yoongi is wearing the same thing he was this morning, except the tie is loosened, and the top button of his shirt is undone, giving you the slightest peek at his prominent jugular notch.

“Shall we?” he asks, offering you his arm.

You slip your hand into the bend of his elbow, falling into step beside him. The walk to the steak house is short, just enough for pleasant exchanges. He asks how your day at the coffee shop went, and you ask after his first day of classes. Neither of you bring up the fact that you were part of one of those classes.

“I’ve been meaning to check this place out. I’ve heard excellent things.”

Yoongi hums, nodding his head at your words. “I’ve also heard good things, though it might perhaps be biased considering all the praise I’ve heard has come from the owner himself.”

“You’ve spoken with the owner?”

“He’s one of my best friends, actually. This will be the first time I try it out. I kept telling him I’d stop by, but it always got away from me.”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up. “I can’t believe you know Seokjin.”

“Wait, you know Seokjin?” Yoongi asks, surprised.

“I’d say know is a relative term. We get deliveries from the same produce truck. He tried to take my apples one time. I had to set him straight.” That makes Yoongi laugh along with you. “We chat sometimes, mostly about the quality of produce and the best places to get ingredients. I had no idea he was your friend.”

“Small world,” Yoongi says. His smile is warm and inviting. You’re sure you could get lost in it if he’d let you. It makes you wonder what his lips taste like. They have a slight sheen to them like they did this morning. Cherry chapstick? Maybe mint? A nice subtle vanilla?

You’re not sure the last time you laughed so hard you had tears in your eyes. But Yoongi has your sides in stitches and your cheeks aching from smiling and laughing so much during dinner.

“Oh gosh,” you wheeze between fits of giggling, clutching your stomach. “Ow, ow. Don’t make me laugh again. I can’t take it.” It just makes you laugh even more, the huffs trailing off as Yoongi reaches across the table toward you.

You pry your hands from your abdomen and slide them into his. His fingers are warm against yours, his thumbs rubbing across the backs of your knuckles. It’s a gesture he’s done several times tonight, silently asking for your hands any chance he could.

“Sorry, you just have such a beautiful laugh,” he says. “I could listen to it all day.”

His flattery hasn’t stopped. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think the two glasses of wine he had with dinner were going to his head. But, he speaks so assuredly and looks in your eyes like you’re truly something special.

Feeling so intimately connected with someone you barely know might be absurd. Yet, you can’t help but feel drawn to him. If you’re being honest, the attraction started long ago, and tonight has just made it blossom into something so much more.

Yoongi has been the perfect gentleman. He’s not tried to railroad the conversation or make decisions for you like other guys you’ve gone on dates with. Whenever a server approached the table, he would defer to you and your needs before his.

“You’ve been so wonderful to me tonight. Please let me repay you with coffee and dessert. If you’re up for it.”

Yoongi squeezes both your hands before letting them go and sitting back in his chair. “There is no need to ��repay’ me,” he says, emphasizing the word repay. “But, I wouldn’t say no to a date after this date, say in fifteen minutes, coffee and dessert?”

“Fifteen minutes? Coffee and dessert?” You give him a thoughtful look, tapping your fingers against your chin. “Hmm. I think I’m available.” You both break into more fits of soft laughter, contrasting so highly to the high energy from before; it’s intimate, if laughing can be such a thing.

It’s easy being with Yoongi; he’s attentive and curious. “What made you want to open a coffee shop?” he asks as you unlock the door to the cafe.

“I liked the idea of having a space that could cater to people from all walks of life. Businessmen in a hurry? Get it to go. Students needing a place to study? I have a quiet corner for that. College professor looking for his daily decaf Americao fix? Would you look at that? I got that covered, too.” You usher him inside, closing and locking the door behind you. “It also doubles as a great place to have a private coffee and dessert date after a lovely dinner date.”

You watch as Yoongi looks around the cozy space, his attention ending on the mural wall. “What’s your favorite kind of coffee?”

“Would it be weird if I said I don’t like coffee?” you ask.

He glances at you from over his shoulder. “Really?”

You shrug. “I love the way it smells, though.”

“Acrylic?” Yoongi asks, nodding toward the mural.

“Good eye,” you assess, stepping behind the counter to start making the coffee. You grab two pecan cinnamon twirls from the dry storage where you keep extra treats to take up to your apartment at the end of each shift and pop them into the small convection oven along the back wall. “You teach art, but it might be presumptuous of me to assume you also create. So, do you?”

“Not nearly as much as I’d like to. Pastels and charcoal are my favorites to work with. I like the mildly messy, chaotic feel of them. There are few things better than the feeling of taking something so uncontrolled and turning it into a thing of beauty.”

“Charcoal, huh?” Your mind instantly goes to the framed collection of pieces you have in your apartment upstairs. “I can appreciate that.”

“Maybe I can show you sometime.” Yoongi turns from his appreciation of your mural to watch you work behind the counter. He gestures to a few frames hung up on either side of the giant menu on the wall. “Arfé, right?”

You glance up, moving with automated motions to load the portafilter into the espresso machine. “Oh,” you laugh. “Yeah. An experiment. I wanted to try something new and needed some new decor. I thought it was appropriately on theme.”

The half-dozen pieces are all made with swirls of various shades in brown and tan and depict a mix of cups, mugs, bags of grinds, lumps of sugar, and piles of roasted coffee beans.

“Very appropriate. They’re lovely. You’re an exceptional artist.” You’ve lost count of the amount of compliments Yoongi has paid you tonight. You might have been the one flattering him this morning, but it seems he’s making up for that now.

“Thank you. Truly. That means a lot coming from you.” The hiss of the brew machine fills the air, and the soft gurgle of espresso trickling into the small mug follows. “One decaf Americano for one of my best customers,” you say, carefully carrying the steaming cup over to a table beside Yoongi. “Please, sit.”

Yoongi settles at the table, bringing the cup of coffee up to his nose and giving it an appreciative sniff. “Wonderful,” he murmurs before taking a tentative sip. “Thank you, that hits the spot.”

“If you think the Americano is good, wait until you try this,” you say, scooping the twirls out of the oven and onto a plate. They’re perfectly warm and gooey. “You’ve never tried any of our pastries, have you?”

You sit across from him. The table is small enough that you could reach out and cup his cheek if you wanted, and set the plate on the table before Yoongi. He whistles low, “Wow, these do look amazing. Maybe I’ll become a pecan twirl and coffee guy every morning instead.”

Your eyes track his movements, watching as his fingers pinch and slightly sink into the edges of one of the twirls. Some of the warm glaze and cinnamon sugar filling squishes from between the layers.

Yoongi’s lips part and the tip of his tongue peaks over his bottom teeth as he brings the pastry up to take a bite. The moan he lets out surprises you both. His eyes flutter before landing on you and going wide. He chews methodically, his gaze not leaving yours. His tongue darts out, swiping over his lips before he swallows.

“Well?” you ask, settling your elbows on the table and leaning into him, expectant.

The smile that tugs at his lips is coy. “Might be one of the best things I’ve ever put in my mouth.” There is a heat in his gaze as his eyes search yours. “What other surprises do you have up your proverbial sleeve for me?”

“Now, if I told you, they wouldn’t be surprises anymore, would they?”

That makes him laugh. “Fair point. You know,” he glances around the coffee shop, “I never knew just what it was about this coffee shop I loved so much, but I think I’ve figured it out.”

“Yeah?” you say, feeling positively giddy.

“Mhm. So,” he mirrors your pose across the table, his elbows nearly touching your own, fingers toying with yours where they’re folded in the air in front of your face, “is it too soon to ask you on a second date?”

“I thought this was our second date.” You raise a teasing eyebrow, a smile quirking on your lips.

“A third then,” he offers, eyes hopeful.

Of course, you want to say yes. And in the spirit of trying to be coy and playful, you lean in with the full intent of showing him instead of telling him how much you want to go on another date.

Yoongi’s eyes flicker to your lips, watching as you deliberately lick them as you lean in a bit closer. Acceptance lies within their dark depths, a flash of hunger at the impending response that’s only a breath away.

As you advance, your elbows slide on the table, accidentally knocking the coffee cup. Liquid goes everywhere; it floods over the table and pours off the side…right into Yoongi’s lap.

“Oh fuck!” you yell, jumping up from the table and rushing around to his side. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay? Do I need to call an ambulance? Does it burn?”

Yoongi pushes back from the table, holding his arms up off his lap as he assesses the mess. “No harm done. It was already cooled off. It's just a bit of a mess, that’s all. I’m fine,” he laughs. “Truly, I promise. Do you have any towels or anything?”

“Oh god, your shirt, it’s going to stain,” you lament, staring at the dark splotch soaking through above his trousers. “Towels? Yes. Yes. Okay. And some baking soda. Come on, let’s hurry. Again, I’m so sorry!”

“Should we clean this up first?” he asks, motioning at the coffee-covered floor.

“I can mop in the morning. Please,” you fret, guilt making you a bit frantic and flustered.

Yoongi lets you lead him up the stairs in the back that go to your apartment. “You live here?” he questions. “No wonder you were coming out of the coffee shop earlier. That’s very cool.”

You make a noncommittal sound. “It’s cool if you like the smell of coffee and don’t mind rising early every day to open shop.”

It’s so hard to think right now, your mind solely focused on cleaning up the mess you’ve made of Yoongi’s clothes. That’s what you get for trying to be sly and answer his date question with a kiss. You’ll be lucky if he still wants that date now, surely.

The bathroom is barely big enough for the two of you. You insist Yoongi sit on the lip of the tub while you dig under the sink for the baking soda that you use for cleaning and removing your own coffee stains.

“Hey,” Yoongi says softly, grabbing your attention. You glance at him over your shoulder, bottom lip clamped between your teeth in an effort not to fall apart entirely. “I promise it’s okay, alright? You don’t have to stress over it. It’s just an accident. It's a pretty funny one if you ask me. If I’d have known we were getting wet on the first—I mean, second date, I would have planned accordingly.”

His words hang between you, full of static and charged with intention. He’s trying to lighten the mood…and it’s working. It’s also making you feel a certain kind of way. Words shouldn’t have the power to do that. Yet, here you are, flustered for a whole different reason now.

“Date’s not over yet,” you respond, unsure where the bold attitude came from, but you’ll take it. His eyes flicker with something like surprise mixed with desire, though it’s gone before you can really be sure. “Do you mind?” You gesture to his shirt. “It’ll be easier if I can soak it in the sink.”

Slowly, Yoongi undoes the buttons on his shirt, starting at the top and working his way down. Somehow, you weren’t expecting him to be naked underneath, but every open button reveals another swath of flesh. He shrugs out of the shirt, revealing a toned chest and taut belly. His nipples are hard, dark chips, standing out in contrast to his smooth, creamy skin. Yoongi is absolutely breathtaking.

In fact, you have to remind yourself to breathe, taking in a large lungful of air that’s so much it makes your chest ache. He holds the shirt out to you in offering. Your fingers tremble lightly as you take it, quickly turning back to the sink and the distraction of scrubbing at the stain.

Reading over the garment tag quickly, you make sure what you’re about to do is okay. You can feel Yoongi’s eyes on your back, like heated dagger points pricking beneath your skin. You turn on the water, letting the tap run until it’s hot, before quickly swishing the area of the shirt covered in coffee under it. The hot water alone makes a world of difference, the dark liquid swirling away down the drain.

“Do you want my pants, too?” Yoongi asks, startling you.

Your eyes flick up to the mirror, looking at him through the reflection. He’s talking to you, but his attention is zeroed in on your backside. Suddenly, you’re intimately aware that your dress has ridden up dangerously high. You can feel the cool air of the bathroom kissing the crease between your thigh and asscheek.

Turning off the water, you slowly turn to face him. Your chest rises and falls as you try to take deep, even breaths, but with the way your heart is revving inside, it’s impossible to do so. “Let’s see the damage,” you say lightly, raising an eyebrow in question, giving him a chance to call you off.

When he doesn’t comment further, you close the distance to where he’s sitting and ease down onto your knees. You mentally tell yourself it’s so you can get a better look at the coffee that’s saturating the dark fabric, but you know better than that.

Being so close to him, you can feel the heat of his body. His chest rises and falls as rapidly as yours, and when you look up and meet his gaze, there is no mistaking the fire that you see blazing there. “Don’t think I forgot you still haven’t answered my question,” he murmurs, lips barely moving as he watches you.

You lift a hand, hooking your index finger under his chin and using it to angle his face toward yours. “I’d love that,” you respond, your lips brushing over his with every syllable.

He kisses you. Or maybe you kiss him. It’ll be something you tease each other over for many years to come. You open yourself to him, welcoming the glide of his tongue against yours. The kiss tastes mildly of coffee, yet for the first time in your life, you don’t mind the flavor.

“For me to take my pants off, or the date?” he teases, alternating between nipping and consuming kisses. Yoongi’s hands frame your face, holding you to him as he continues to ravage your mouth.

“Mm, both,” you manage to get out. “Definitely both.” Sliding your hands down his torso, you marvel at the softness of his skin and the already very prominent bulge that your fingers dance over as you try to get a grip on the button to his slacks.

Yoongi breaks away from the kiss long enough to help you with his pants, standing up from the edge of the tub and bringing you up with him. He toes off his shoes, leaving his pants puddled on top of them. “Good answer,” he chuckles.

You let out a tiny squeal as he wraps his hands around the backs of your thighs and hauls you up, your legs automatically winding around his waist. Thick erection pressed right against your panty-covered pussy, he slowly walks you out of the bathroom and into your adjoining room. You land on the bed with a soft oomph, Yoongi following you down. His weight is a comfort, settled over your body in a warm, hedonistic embrace.

“I’ll change classes,” you pant, flexing your hips against his. “As long as our next date is to an art gallery.”

“Is it weird for that to turn me on?” he responds, groaning as you roll your hips against him again. “The art part, not the dropping classes part. You don’t have to do that if it’s too much trouble. I know your schedule must be pretty set with the cafe.”

You press your hands against his chest, giving him a gentle push until he’s rolling over and you’re hovering over him. “I’ll make it work. I want to make it work. Everything tonight,” you pause and sit back on your heels, dragging your hands along his torso as you do, “I want more. You’re driving me crazy in the best of ways.”

“Says the woman who’s been running through my thoughts for the last several months now.” Yoongi’s lips part in a gasp, turning his last word into a breathly plea as you trace the tips of your fingers over his straining erection. The fabric of his grey boxer briefs is slightly sticky when you brush your thumb over the head.

“It reminds me of making art,” you casually say, curling your fingers over the waistband of his underwear and tugging until he lifts his hips and lets you drag them down. You toss them to the side, marveling at the glory now resting against his belly. Yoongi’s cock is a gentle upward curve, all smooth steel and thick veins. It throbs, bouncing against his stomach, leaving behind a thick smear of precum. “The way you make me feel.”

“Art?” he asks, breathless. His eyes flutter behind his glasses, his chest hollowing as he sucks in ragged breaths.

“Being with you gives me the same feeling as viewing a Duncanson or a Matisse, calm and full of joy. Though, you can also make me feel the chaos of a Kandinsky when you touch me.” To emphasize your words, you wrap your fingers around his girth, angling it up, watching the emotions on his face. The tip of his tongue works at the corner of his mouth, lips parted with every pant and soft moan. “Is this okay?” you ask, leaning down and gently blowing over the leaking tip before tentatively giving it a kitten lick.

“More than,” Yoongi moans. His eye slide closed as you wrap your lips around the head and suck. The flavor of him bursts across your tongue. You can’t help but moan yourself at the idea you’ve made him like this, hard and leaking.

Working as much of his cock into your mouth as you can, you delight in the shuddering convulses you can feel from his body as he loses himself in the sensations you’re bringing him. Yoongi always seems like such a collected individual. He still appeared so well-kept even when he stuttered over his words asking you on the date this morning. Now, though, he’s unraveling into a puddle of debauchery.

It’s a satisfying feeling, similar to when you get into a perfect rhythm when working on a project, bringing him to the edge. You work your mouth and hand in tandem, never leaving an inch of his cock free of your touch.

“Mmm,” you moan, the head of his cock resting in the back of your throat. Yoongi jerks under you, half raising onto his elbows, his eyes zeroing in on where you’re wrapped around him.

His fingers twist into the duvet, bottom lip puffy and flushed as he worries it with his teeth. “I’m going to cum,” he grunts, throwing his head back and moaning his pleasures, deep and throaty.

You quicken your pace, hollowing your cheeks as you suck in earnest. Yoongi cries out a second before liquid warmth floods your mouth. It’s greedy, the way you swallow and continue to lave your tongue over him, eliciting tiny tremors and more moans.

“Just like art,” you whisper, finally letting his cock slip from between your lips. You’re riding your own high, wet and throbbing between your thighs. You can feel the ache in your clit, begging to be touched. All it would take is a few seconds, a few well-placed swirls of your fingers, and you know you’d be floating in orgasmic bliss.

Before you can even think of bringing your hand between your thighs to find relief, Yoongi is sitting up and urging you backward. Your back hits the mattress, and he settles on his side beside you. Somewhere between there and here, he pulled off his glasses. Despite having just found his release, his eyes are still so full of hunger and desire.

“May I?” he asks, pressing a hand against your inner thigh. You nod, eyes locked with his as he slowly trails his hand upward until his fingers brush over the soaked fabric of your panties. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers, leaning in to capture your mouth in a languid kiss. Your lids flutter closed, consumed as you are by his touch.

Yoongi takes his time, toying with the edge of your panties before tugging them down past your knees. They pool around your ankles as he pushes your thighs apart, exposing your weeping pussy to the air of the bedroom.

“Yoongi.” His name is half moan, half curse as he brings his hand back up and cups your heat. The meat of his palm rests against your clit, right where you need to be touched, but the pressure isn’t enough to satisfy.

“An exquisite work of art.” His lips strum against yours, plucking and teasing just the way his fingers do through your wetness. The tips of his fingers briefly kiss your clit, dancing away before returning; a slow build of decadent pleasure.

It’s not above you to beg. “Please. Yoongi, please!”

“Open your eyes, look at me. Let me watch you fall apart so I can brand it into my memory.”

You snap open your eyes the exact moment he slides two slender fingers into your pussy, thumb finally giving the needed pressure to your clit. You’re so worked up that your body pulses around the intrusion, a tiny fluttering orgasm rippling through you.

“Fuck,” you whimper.

Yoongi gives you a wicked, knowing smile. “It’s not over yet, beautiful,” he assures you in a whispered promise.

His fingers are long, able to reach the perfect, special place inside you. As he strokes his fingertips, moving them in an undulating wave, his thumb swirls in a circle around your clit.

The next orgasm is less surprising, building to a heightened peak that has you crying out as you careen over the edge, entirely at Yoongi’s mercy. “Yoongi, fuck!” you babble, your whole body alive with sensations of pleasure.

“That’s it,” he coaxes. “So beautiful.”

Your body shudders around his hand, his fingers slowing down their rhythm until you finally recover. The slide of his fingers along your walls as he withdraws makes you wish he’d put them back in…or maybe something else. The bereft feeling lasts only a moment before Yoongi gathers you into his arms. He’s completely naked, and you’re still wearing your dress, but you feel just as exposed as he is…only, it’s your soul on display for him instead of your body.

You wait for the feeling of vulnerability to filter in, that broken feeling of uncertainty. But, it doesn’t come. The only thing you feel is complete and utter content. It’s not even the post-orgasmic bliss that’s clouding it, either. No, there’s plenty of that, but it feels different; he feels different.

“Yoongi,” you begin, resting your cheek on his chest. You want to confess to him, but the words get choked in your throat. Is it too soon? Are you completely crazy? What if he doesn’t feel the same way? Fuck. Here goes nothing. “This feels good, really good. Is it too soon to say…?”

“Too soon to say?” he prompts.

You absently trace haphazard swirls and lines across his chest, trying to think of how to word it. “I, well…”

“Too soon to say that I think possibly, maybe, I’m falling for you?” You look up at him, surprised by his words. Yoongi looks at you with so much warmth and affection in his eyes. “Because that’s exactly how I feel, too.”

#min yoongi #yoongi x reader #yoongi smut #yoongi imagines #coffeeshop au #yoongi fanfic #yoongi fanfiction #bts yoongi #professor yoongi #bts fanfic #bts smut #bts angst #bts imagines #micdropnet #bangtanwhq

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redstarwriting · 1 year

Text

the clash | iv. london calling

hobie brown x goth!reader

word count: 2.8k

genre: enemies to lovers

warnings: language, insults, hobie hating you, you hating hobie, smoking weed, alcohol, mentions of a gwen canon event, mentions of death, lil angst

a/n: nother long one! i can’t wait to make it crazy angsty bc when i tell u i have THOUGHTS 👀 thank you to everyone who’s reading, i’m trying to update it every day, so hopefully i can stick with that schedule! enjoy this chapter, friends :)

now reading: iv. london calling

previous chapter: iii. black planet

next chapter: v. ever fallen in love

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He fixes his watch to open a portal to his world. Gwen, Miles, and Pavitr basically run to get to it. He motions for you to go ahead, and you walk through. Immediately when you step into his room, you’re hit with the smell of weed and incense. You’d be lying if you said you hated it. You glance around. You see drums, another electric and acoustic guitar, empty spray paint cans, spray paint on the walls, stacks of newspapers (all defaced in some way)… it feels very Hobie to say the least. “Now this. This is a livin’ area,” he says, appearing behind you. You shake your head. “So loud, both figuratively and literally. How do you ever get anything done?”

“By being louder than everyone else, obviously,” he responds, and you roll your eyes. “What a way to live,” you remark. “Better than that quiet, dark, and gloomy, way,” he retorts, and you shrug. “If you say so.”

“Hey, Hobie, do you still have the roof all decorated?” Gwen asks and he nods. “Course I do. I own the place, head on up,” he jerks his head upwards, and Gwen turns to Miles and Pavitr with a smirk. “Race ya!”

“Hey no fair! You have been here so many times!” Pavitr yells as Gwen takes off. “Come on, Miles!” you hear her yell. Miles smiles gently and shakes his head before going after the two of them. “He’s so obsessed with her it’s making me sick,” you mumble, and Hobie snorts. “What? Miles and Gwen’s relationship too much for you? You hate love?”

“Love has never done anything but cause me pain. And not the good kind,” you glance at him with a frown, and he raises his eyebrow. Suddenly his eyes get wide. “Oh shit… you had a Gwen canon event.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you respond, and he frowns. “You know, actually talkin’ about that kinda shit is a good way to not sit on it and let it build. You could face some serious problems if you keep doin’ that.”

“Who said I gave a fuck what you think? I didn’t ask for the unneeded advice, alright?” you say, and he narrows his eyes at you. “Oh, right. Forgot I was dealing with a bloody doughnut,” he mumbles and point to the window. “Care to go to the roof and get out of my sight?”

“Sound like the best thing you’ve said since I got here,” you say, leaping out of his window and climbing up the side of the building. While clinging to the wall, you glance out at Hobie’s world. His city looks almost exactly like Night of Yore City, except for the fact that there are a shit ton of fires burning, over half of the buildings look abandoned, the sky is a reddish-orangish hue, and it is so much louder. The name is also vastly different, as his version of NYC is New London. Universal differences get weird and confusing. Nonetheless, you’re intrigued, you turn around, putting your back against the wall and supporting yourself with your hands and feet. The graffitied buildings are a nice touch, you must admit. You snort to yourself when you see a mural of Hobie. If only they knew the asshole behind the mask.

“Now why the hell aren’t you up there with everyone else?” you hear his voice pull you out of your thoughts as he crawls up next to you. You shrug. “I’m a sucker for views, I guess.”

“Well, believe it or not, view is a lot better from the top of the buildin’,” he says, and you roll your eyes. “Can I please just be secluded and observe in peace?”

“Absolutely fuckin’ not. Come on,” he says, starting to walk up the wall. You sigh and lazily roll backwards and up the wall to come to standing and follow him up. When you get to the top of the roof, you see a boombox (blaring punk music, of course) and blankets surrounding a barrel with a fire going in it. Multiple coolers decorate the roof which all look stockpiled full of different beers. “Hey, Hobie, you know that they’re all kids, right?”

“New universe, new rules, love. Drinking age is 16 and up ‘round here, not that I’d give a fuck if it wasn’t anyway. So, sit down, shut up, and drink a damn beer. Maybe you’ll loosen up,” he says, tossing you a random bottle. You roll your eyes and sit down but put the beer to the side.

“Hey, Hobie, do you have any of that–” Miles gets cut off by Hobie tossing him another bottle. “Nice. Thanks, dude,” he says excitedly, cracking the top and taking a drink. Gwen gets her beer of choice, and Pavitr does the same. Hobie, you notice, doesn’t drink anything. “So, what were you guys talking about?” Gwen asks, pointing between the two of you with her bottle. “What?” you ask, and she shrugs. “You guys were alone in Hobie’s for a while and no one died, soooo did you guys finally talk about something you could agree on?”

“We can’t agree on nothin’, Gwen. They were just bein’ their usual self and annoyin’ the shit out of me at any chance they could get,” Hobie says, and you shake your head. “Good to know it worked, mate”

“Stop imitatin’ me, poser.”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

“I’ll make you.”

“Try me, Hobart.”

“Alright, that’s enough of that. What were you guys talking about?” Miles asks, and you and Hobie look at each other. “Just asked where the bathroom was,” you say, and he nods. “Yeah. That’s it.”

You weren’t necessarily ready to reveal you faced the Gwen canon event. Especially not to another Gwen. At least Hobie isn’t enough of a dick to bring it up in front of them. “Oh, yeah, you did change into your everyday clothes. Don’t know how I didn’t notice that,” Gwen states, taking another swig of her beer. You had changed in your apartment after cleaning your wound, but you don’t say anything. Hobie nods at you, and you nod back.

“Why aren’t you drinking anything (Y/n)? Here, try this it’s so good,” Pavitr pushes his bottle toward you, and you shake your head. “I don’t want to drink, but thanks Pavitr,” you say, and he frowns. “Awww.” You smile slightly at how disappointed he sounds. “Well, I want to remember everything you all tell me without it being fuzzy because I was hoping you could let me know a little bit more about all the spider people in Spider Society. I’m still new, you four, Peter B. Parker, and Miguel are the only ones I’ve really met.”

With that, Gwen, Miles, and Pavitr start telling you everything they know. You learn about Jessica Drew, Spider-Man Noir, Peni Parker, and so many more. Gwen, Miles, and Pavitr talk for hours, and since they’re kids, they do not know when to stop drinking. Eventually, the three of them are passed out. Miles is cradling Gwen’s side with his head on her chest as she wraps one of her arms around him, and Pavitr is laying straight on his back, lightly snoring. You giggle softly at the sight. Suddenly the punk music you’ve been listening to for the past however many hours gets softer. You glance over to where it is and see Hobie bent over and turning it down. “Don’t wanna wake ‘em,” he mumbles, walking over to you. The volume of the city has decreased quite a bit, and with the low hum of music coming from the boombox now, his world is actually kind of enjoyable. Though you’d never tell him that. He motions to the skyline, and you turn and look. He was right, as much as you hate to admit it. The view is a lot better from up here.

“Why didn’t you drink anythin’?” he asks, and you shrug. “Didn’t feel like it. Why didn’t you drink anything?” He shrugs and pulls out a rolled cigarette from his vest pocket. “Got somethin’ better.”

“And you didn’t offer any to them?”

“Hey, they can drink here, they don’t need to mess with this shit. ‘Sides I knew they’d be pissed. Gonna have a god-awful hangover tomorrow,” he says, pulling out a lighter. You shake your head. “They can’t mess with your shit, but I can?”

“The two of us are the same age. We’re ‘adults’ or whatever the fuck that means. Are you too stuck up to be ‘round some grass or somethin’?”

“No, Hobie, I don’t give a fuck if you smoke weed. Building manager might, though.”

“Love, I am the building manager. This place is abandoned, so it belongs to me. And you’re not tellin’ me I’m supposed to smoke this myself?” he asks with a sly smirk on his face. You raise your eyebrow at him. “Actually I am.” He groans, putting the joint to his lips and lighting the end of it.

“Do you know how to have any fun?”

“Do you know how to have any–” Before you can finish, he puts his finger over your mouth, and raises the joint to his lips again. He takes a deep breath in, blowing out the excess smoke and glancing at you. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“Don’t care. The answer is no.”

“Have you ever actually tried listening to anything anyone says?” “Nah. I don’t listen to no one. I’m me, and if people don’t like that, good,” he says, taking another drag. He glances over at you and holds the joint out. “Y’sure you don’t want some?”

“You actually want to share with me?”

“I want you to not be as much as a ragin’ fuckwit, so yes,” he blows smoke in your face, and you glare at him. “If I take one hit, will you shut the fuck up about it?”

“Probably not, but it would sure make me happier.” You roll your eyes, and take the joint from him, taking a drag. He watches you. He’d never admit it, but he wishes you weren’t such an asshole. The way you look doing that in the moonlight? Stunning. You pass the joint back to him, some of the smoke coming out of your nose. “Stop staring at me.”

“Just makin’ sure you did it right and didn’t waste my shit,” he says, taking another drag. “I know how to hit a joint, Hobie.”

“Really? Never would have guessed you’d do anything remotely excitin’.”

“Oh, please. You barely know me,” you say, angrier than you probably should be. “Then tell me about yourself, love.”

“Hard pass,” you say, and he groans. “I get the desire to stay anonymous and mysterious, obviously, but come on. Chances are we’re gonna be seein’ each other more than either of us wants to, so just open up a bit,” he says, and you frown. “There’s nothing you need to know.”

“Bullshit.”

“Oh yeah? Then tell me something about you.”

“I killed Norman Osborn with my guitar after defeatin’ him and all of his V.E.N.O.M. forces and successfully led a rebellion against fascism,” he says smugly, “Until those other fuckin’ Nazis showed up, but one day I promise you this world? Will be capitalist and fascist free.”

“No, it won’t. Am I supposed to be impressed?” you ask with a deadpan face. He scoffs. “Damn, you’re a wanker. I’d like to see you try and defeat the V.E.N.O.M. forces. From what I seen your world’s villains are rubbish,” he says and to his surprise, and yours, you laugh. A hint of a smile plays on his features, but you shake your head. “Green Goblin is, you’re right, but... there are others who are much worse. And what the fuck is a venom force? You’re saying that like I should just know what it is.”

“It was a symbiote that– wait, you sayin’ you don’t know what venom is? That’s something every spider-person deals with at some point,” he says, and you shrug. “Guess I haven’t dealt with it yet.”

“Yeah, well, when you do, call me cause you’ll need my help,” he says and you roll your eyes. “I’d rather die than get help from you.”

“I helped you today, love.”

“I could have done that myself,” you retort, and he shakes his head, taking another drag. “I guess I should thank you though.”

“Hmm?”

“For not telling them what we were really talking about,” you say, and he hums. “What they won’t know won’t kill ‘em. But just so you know I was being so serious. Not talkin’ about that shit is more harmful than good,” he says, and you frown. “I’m not much of a talker.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

“Do you ever shut the fuck up,” you groan, and he laughs. He loves pissing you off, might be his favorite thing to do now. But the conversation might actually need to get serious. He may hate you, but he’s Spider-Punk for the people, and you’re apart of that people. He’s there to help, so he may as well try with you.

“Why not?”

“What?”

“Why not? Why won’t you talk about it?” he asks, and you huff. “Because it was my fault, and I don’t want to think about it.”

“Nah, I bet it wasn’t your fault,” he mumbles, taking another drag. You glare at him. “Oh, right, I forgot you were there when their neck snapped after I tried to save them,” you spit, and he glances at you. You can feel that hit starting to affect you, that’s the only reason you said anything about… the incident. Of course, Hobie has good shit, why wouldn’t he. “What were you trying to save them from?” he asks, his voice oddly calm. “The Prowler,” you reply, “He’s the worst of the worst in my universe.” He hums and nods. “Well then, reckon it’s the Prowler’s fault then, innit?”

“What? But I’m the one who couldn’t get to them in time after he–”

“He did it, (Y/n). You did your best, but it ain’t your fault what happened there. That’s what they want you to think. Try and get that through your thick skull, would you?” he says, and you scoff, “They?”

He nods, and you go quiet. He glances over at you as you just sit and stare out at the city. “Stop doin’ ‘at.”

“Doing what?”

“Blamin’ yourself,” he says, taking another long drag. You sigh. “I can’t help it,” you mumble, and he shakes his head. “You can. Just takes time,” he responds. You scoff, “You’d think three years would be enough time.” You look out at his city. It’s so different from yours, but you can still see the beauty in it. And you can see the stars. None of the constellations of your world are here, but the sky is still beautiful. “If you need a place to crash, my couch is very comfortable and has your name written all over it,” Hobie says, and you shake your head. “I should probably just go back to my universe–”

“No way. No dimension hopping under the influence,” he says, and you roll your eyes. “I had one hit,” you say, and he shrugs. “And one hit is enough for you to think you’re goin’ home only to end up in Peter Porker’s shower. You’re stayin’ here tonight.” You roll your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m insufferable for watchin’ out for your well-bein’? Okay, sure.”

“I don’t need you to watch out for me. I don’t need anyone,” you hiss, and he scoffs. “Of course you don’t. Too good for everyone else.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“It was implied.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“Like you wouldn’t say the same thing,” you say, and he shrugs. “You’re right. I would say I don’t need anyone, because I don’t. Especially not a miserable thing like you,” he says, and you frown. “Good.”

“Great.”

“Fuck you.”

The two of you just glare at each other for a bit before he flicks the butt of his joint off the building. “Goin’ to bed. See you tomorrow.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Shut up and follow me back to my place,” he says, getting up and walking down the building. You follow, yawning as you realize just how tired you are. When you get back inside Hobie’s place, he points at the couch. “Lay there, and don’t move until mornin’, got it?”

“I’ll do what I want.”

“Amazin’. Just don’t wake me up, and I won’t give a fuck,” he says, walking into his bedroom and kicking his door shut. You roll your eyes and lay down on his couch. It’s actually surprisingly comfortable, and you find yourself actually dozing off faster than you anticipated. Hobie walks out of his room to get a drink of water and ready to fight you verbally again, only to see you passed out on his couch with literally no blanket or pillow.

He sighs, grabbing a throw blanket off his bed and gently placing it on top of you. In the morning, you wake up before everyone else. You notice the blanket, and know only one person could have done that, but you don’t feel like sticking around to say anything. You just go home. But before you do, you leave a little note saying, ‘didn’t need your sympathy, thanks but no thanks,’ and draw a little middle finger.

He’ll get the hint you appreciated it.

───────────────────────────────

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mysticmunson · 2 years

Text

Late Bloomer

eddie munson x reader

prompt: eddie befriends a cheerleader who’s a bit of a ‘late bloomer’ part one, part two, part three

warnings: cussing, smut, virginity (minors go away)

word count: 4k

Late Bloomer.

That’s what the other girls in your cheer squad said about your romantic life, “Oh don’t worry about it babe, it’ll happen eventually, you’re just a late bloomer.” It drove you insane that no matter how strongly you yearned for a boyfriend, it never happened. You found almost all the men in Hawkins gross, not in a mean way, but if they ever advanced on you, you shied away. You hated that you couldn’t just swallow your insecurity and pounce on one of the annoying football players, desperate for a fairytale where they married their high school sweetheart who was a cheerleader. What added to the sting is you were older than them, already 19 in senior year due to being held back a grade in elementary school for not grasping reading. This was a common fact as it seemed everyone knew everyone's business in this town, another reason to not want to sleep with the first guy available.

It all came to a tipping point at the annual cheer sleepover, held every year at the head cheerleaders house, the night before the first game of the season. It started innocently enough, all the things you’d imagine cheerleaders did during a night in. Facials, eating popcorn, painting nails, and then someone had to open their damn mouth. “So someone over here had a fling with Joeee.” Penelope sang, pointing her thumb at Rachel who began blushing profusely as the other girls gasped, including yourself. Joe was the ‘hottest’ guy in school, being athletic, kind, and rich, he was bound to get with someone from the squad, but not Rachel. She was beautiful, so it shouldn’t have been a shock, but what you did know was something slightly more selfish, she was the only other virgin on the varsity team.

“Get outta here! Did you go to his house?” Chrissy, the head cheerleader, whispered as Rachel nodded followed by not subtle shrieking. What really caused the blow up was when she pulled her oversized t-shirt up to her lower bust, exposing her stomach of hickies. “I told him not on my neck because of the game, so he got creative.” Rachel smiled, letting her shirt fall down as the girls pestered her about the details, making sure she used protection, and if it was official. You hated that this made you jealous, but you couldn’t help it, especially when a comment was made about how “It was about time you got laid! Took you long enough.” Penelope’s eyes flickered to you, indicating she was the one who let the sharp words tumble out, “Shit, I’m sorry, I totally forgot-” But you cut her off, “Hey! It’s okay, I’m a late bloomer, that’s all.” You wanted to punch yourself in the face. A gentle hand touched your thigh when the attention left you, glancing at Anne, the quietest girl in the room.

“I have to run an errand, wanna come?” She asked, standing to grab her varsity sweater as you followed, knowing you needed fresh air. Both of you slipped out with not much protest as they felt bad at unintentionally singling you out, which you knew the girls meant well and that they weren’t the vicious stereotype they were painted to be. You walked down the street in silence, making your way through a field as a shortcut. “Do you smoke?” Anne broke your daze, looking up at her face that only glanced briefly at yours before looking to where they were heading.

“Sometimes, more socially. Also where are we going?” You asked as you made your way into the forest behind your school, the breeze becoming more steady, reminding you that you only wore shorts and a sweater. With chills coming up your spine and before Anne could say where they were going, a voice boomed to your side.

“If it isn’t my favorite client.”

Eddie Munson sat on the edge of the wooden picnic table in the center of the woods, black pail in hand with a cigarette in the other. Anne waved, approaching him as you froze in place. You had nothing against Eddie, only having classes with him occasionally where you mainly kept to yourself. Being at a drug deal was pretty risque for a cheerleader, especially the night before the first game of the season, except you weren’t a snitch.

“I don’t bite, sweetheart.” He said, making you laugh as you approached them, finding a seat at the picnic table. Anne was already working on rolling a joint, shockingly good at it before sealing it. She placed it between her lips, fishing her lighter out of her shorts pocket and lighting it, smoke flooding out. “Damn Anne, you’ve done this before, huh?” You smiled as she laughed, even Eddie butted in, “Yeah, she's seen me more than once.”

The three of you passed around the dope, becoming more relaxed than you had felt in months. Eddie asked what you two were up to tonight, Anne, stoned out of her mind, had words that didn’t slow due to her sublime state, “Cheerleader sleepover, this one got embarrassed for being the only one to not do the devil's tango-” “Anne!” You shrieked, covering your face as she realized her words, “Oh my God, I didn’t mean to say that, ignore what you just heard, Munson.”

Eddie, always the charmer, looked around at the vast dark space of the woods, “What do you hear something?” He stated, tumbling to an upward position as he looked through the bushes, shuffling through the brown and green leaves. Giggles abrupt from your lips, feeling less embarrassed about the ordeal, taking the final hit of the shared joint and putting it out. He jumped around various plants before sauntering over to you both, sitting on the opposing bench, “Now that the coast is clear, how much are you buying, sweetheart?”

While the name wasn’t directed at you, the title made you blush with Anne casually stating how much she’d need to make it through another exam week. You watched as his ring clad fingers fumbled with the bud, looking at the various baggies with small weights written on them. You knew he played guitar, having heard his band play at a few bars in town and he was a talented guitarist. You could almost hear the song he covered playing in the background of your mind. Once the transaction was finished, he realized you two were walking back, “Do you guys want a ride back? It’s pretty dark? I can even drop you off down the street so they don’t see my van” You thanked him, following Anne into his car that smelled even stronger of hemp than the actual drug did. Anne began going off about how she didn’t want to go back to the sleepover since the other girls were probably in bed right now, “It’s so stupid that they do this every year and go to sleep by 10:30! I get not doing an all-nighter, we don't need anyone falling during the pyramid, but still! Can you just drop me off at home? I’ll just say I didn’t feel well.”

As her complaints persisted from the front seat, you noticed Eddie’s eyes occasionally flickering to yours in the mirror, thinking it was just in your head until he winked at you. You focused your attention on the landscape outside, realizing you were on Anne’s quiet street and that he had actually been listening to her thoroughly. She said a quick thank you, leaning to the backseat to do a mutual cheek kiss before walking down the dim lit road.

“Alright, so where to?” He asked, tapping his fingers mindlessly to the beat of the song quietly playing from the radio. “Thanks for the ride, I can walk from here.” But this just made him turn in his chair, eyebrow raised, “I mean, call me a gentleman, but I don’t feel great making a girl walk home by herself in the middle of the night. Hop in the front.” For some reason, you obeyed, exiting the back to the front, telling him your address that was a few miles away. You rode in awkward silence, which you didn’t think was possible for a man with his comedic timing. Your thoughts drifted to earlier that night when the girls found out about Rachel and Joe, the way they lit up at the juicy details. Your skin crawled at Chrissy’s sad eyes meeting yours, mouthing “It’s okay.” While said out of love, it made you feel smaller than before, like you weren’t reaching your full potential, which you knew deep down was bullshit.

“Eddie, what would you rate me from 1 to 10?” You asked abruptly as he jumped slightly at the sudden voice, but also the question. “I am not answering that, no fuckin’ way.” He said, eyes going wider than you thought possible as he gripped the steering wheel. You whined, crossing your arms as you shifted in your seat to face him.

“C’mon Eddie, please! I need a guy's input and from one that doesn’t annoy me everytime he speaks.” His laugh filled the van as he stopped on the backroad, surrounded by trees. You were high enough to release some inhibitions, but not high enough to not mean what you were saying. He faced towards you, resting his face on his fist, making a thinking sound, “What am I exactly rating you on, princess?”

“I don’t know! Anything? Do you like my smile? My personality? Hell, even my tits? Just something!” You gasped, a devious smile resting on his lips with his blush not going unnoticed, feeling a bit thrown off from your outburst. “Well I’ll just say to start off, all are great, some things more than others,” He winked as you rolled your eyes, “But I’m not rating you, though your desperation is cute.” You sighed at his words, cupping your face in your hands, palms digging to your eyes.

“I’m-Ugh I’m not desperate, I’m just over being a virgin! Why does everyone in this town suck!” You expressed, flailing your arms beside you, “I mean, some swallow, if that makes you feel better?” Which made you laugh, glancing over at him as he rubbed his hands on his jean clad thighs. “In all seriousness, if you want it, just go for it. Most of the guys suck, especially the ones who go out for football, but you’re pretty and smart and worthy of having a nice first time, okay? So I’m not rating you and if any guy says he will, punch them.” He concluded, staring in your eyes seriously, not knowing he practically soaked your panties from the amount of respect he had for you. He didn’t belittle your needs, didn’t try to convince you the guys didn’t suck and you just needed to open up more. No, he heard you, he actually listened and understood. You cupped your hands around his jaw, “Can I kiss you, please?” The words falling from your lips softer than intended, but Eddie could tell you were serious and he didn’t want to pull away either. He cupped your face and gently kissed your lips, allowing your hands to fall in your lap. His lips felt like pillows with his teeth capturing your bottom lip, a moan coming from you to grant him more access.

You thought Eddie was always cute and respectful, a bit of a freak in the best way, and you just couldn’t believe it was him who you’d feel comfortable enough with first. Most guys would’ve started hitting on you the moment you mentioned sex, but he didn’t, you even knew that this kiss wouldn’t have happened unless you had initiated it. Eddie was slowly taking control as his lips moved hasiter against yours, only pulling away in a sharp breath as he realized your location.

“You wanna come to my place?”

----

You had never been more grateful that your parents were out of town for the week as Eddie pulled into your driveway. The ride there wasn’t as tense as you thought, mainly just banter about miscellaneous topics, which helped keep your nerves at bay, and making sure he didn’t get lost.

You grabbed your keys and walked to the front door, Eddie hot on your tail after locking the van. You turned on a light or two, greeting your small black cat, Luna. She scurried away after the initial greeting as you walked Eddie into your kitchen, grabbing a water to soothe your burning throat from the weed and nerves. You offered him a drink, but he took his time observing the scenery, “We can go up to my room if you want?”

He followed you quietly, taking time to notice all the details of your messy room, before you sat on the bed, looking up at him. He glided over, cupping your face once more to kiss you deeply before pulling off his signature Hellfire shirt. You stared at his decorated skin, wanting to trace the ink engraved to his body as you laid down beneath him. He worked his way down your neck, finding a soft spot on your collarbone that made you moan, feeling him smile against the delicate skin. You were getting impatient, grabbing your sweater and slipping it off to reveal your plain bra, quickly flinging that away too. His eyes scanned your chest, tongue sticking out as he saw your nipples, scooping down to suck on them.

“Fuck Eddie.” You whimpered, feeling his hands trail down your naval, shivering at his cold rings. He stood up, yanking his pants down to expose his black boxers, his cock already alert. You swallowed harshly as he gripped the sides of your panties and shorts, “Hey. Look at me.” Your eyes flickered to his, containing an emotion you couldn’t make out just yet.

“I need you to be honest with me, okay? Do you want this?” You nodded, “If at any time you want to stop, tell me. Even if it's on the brink of no return, we’ll stop, it’s never too late to change your mind. I won’t be mad.” He said in a low whisper, your profuse nodding not being enough, you had to be vocal. “I want this, Eddie, there’s no one else I’d rather do this with.”

With that, he yanked your last articles of clothing off, spreading your legs to see your soaking center, “Fuck me.” He mumbled, kneeling on the floor to put his face in front of your most vulnerable area, squirming when he had yet to touch you. “Sh, all in good time, just want to look.” His finger brushed your lips, spreading to find your clit and kissing it, your other hand gripping your waist to hold you still. Your weepy hole was glistening in the shining moonlight, he wished he could hang it in a personal art museum. He was barely touching you and had you falling apart.

“You look so pretty like this, all spread out for me.” He breathed, working his other fingers inside of you, the sudden intrusion making you clench and grab the hand that held your hip. He laced his fingers in yours, still pressing it against where it had been previously for stability. His tongue flicked the bundle of nerves that ached to be attended to, his slender hands finding your g-spot within seconds. He quickened his pace as he realized you were reaching your climax, not wanting to tease you your first time finishing with company. He swapped his mouth and fingers, sucking on your hole to catch the sweet release that flowed out shortly after accompanied by your moans. He glanced up at your blissed face cumming and decided it was the 8th wonder of the world. He climbed on top of you, resting his weight on his arm with his other occupied with your laced fingers.

“That felt good, sweet girl?” Your eyes still clenched as you nodded, finally opening them to look at him. His chin was glistening with your release which could’ve made you come all over again in itself, but you crashed your lips into his, wasting no time to build intensity. He quickly took control of the tempo, grunting as you sunk deeper into the bed, legs wrapping around his clothed waist. You used your feet to push them off, making him pull away with a smile, “Someone’s resourceful!”

He sat up to reach for his pants, pulling out his wallet to grab the spare condom he kept for backup, despite not getting any in over a year. It was hard to keep his composure as he slid the latex over himself, stroking while biting his lip. He would’ve laughed if someone told him he’d be fucking a cheerleader by the end of the night, not only that, but one he always thought stood out. He always noticed you when he was forced to attend a rally or game, finding you exuded energy he couldn’t pinpoint. His eyes lingered on you when he walked down the hall or saw you outside of school, not even entertaining the thought of doing anything, but now that he was here. You laid in front of him, waiting for him to do anything to you to help soothe the need you had. He wishes he would’ve done it sooner.

“Alright, this can happen two ways tonight, princess. Do you want to be on top or on the bottom?” He gritted, containing his shaking voice, as your eyes stared in his. You shrugged, adjusting to close your legs as he stood, “Uh uh, words.” His command made you want to do whatever he wanted, whether it left you in bliss or tears. But you wanted to be a good partner, deciding starting on top might be more beneficial for him, though he was grateful for any position.

“I’ll go on top” Stuttering as you sat up, giving him room to lay beneath you, his upper half resting against pillows as he helped you get your shaking hips over his. His cock was pink and leaking, resting against his stomach in front of you, letting your finger trace the vein that guided all the way to the tip. He knew he wouldn’t last long, you were ruining him and you hadn’t even done anything yet.

“Spit.” He instructed, his ring clad hand that had just been deep in your pussy, shoved in front of your mouth as you followed his directions. He began stroking himself more as you lifted yourself, shuffling over where he ached. He glided his tip across your folds, letting his eyes flutter shut at the silk like feeling before getting stopped by your hole. He looked into your eyes as both your mouths fell open as you slowly fell down. A cry left your lips with your hands grabbing at his chest, making it half way before ceasing, tears falling down your cheeks.

“It’s okay, pretty girl, let it out.” He guided your chest against his, keeping eye contact that you kept attempting to break from shyness. He grabbed your hips, rocking you gently and hushing gently as you whimpered. “You’re doing so good, you’re taking me so well.” He cooed, making sure to be as gentle as possible, which didn’t go unnoticed. Your need surpassed your awareness, shoving yourself all the way with a shriek, feeling so full you began to shake.

“Hey! Hey, easy.” He scolded, lifting your hips towards the top, only keeping his tip in. He wiped the tears beneath your eyes, taking in your face that was a mix of pleasure and pain. “Are you okay?” You nodded, remembering what he said as you gumbled out an “I’m okay.” He nodded, sliding you off as you let out a pathetic noise that you wished never came out, but he didn’t flinch, just placing you on your back. His mouth found its way to your neck as he slid in again. He found your sensitive spot, sucking on it to distract from the unpleasant ache between your legs. He used his hands to push your knees up, taking a moment to raise upwards to look at you fall apart. "Fuck, you're so pretty."

You embraced the feeling of him thrusting inside you, mesmerized by the way the same veins you stroked moments ago were inside you, causing pleasure throughout your body. Eddie found himself pulling you down all the way and holding you there as you mewled. Fresh tears released from your eyes as you fondled your own breast, shaking. His eyes darkened, replacing your hands with his as he began to fondle your tits and picking up his pace. This didn’t last long before you pulled him against you, missing the weight of him and his lips on yours.

“Thank you. Thank you, Eddie, please. Oh my God.” You whimpered, continuing the mantra of gratitude as you found yourself nearing the end. He moaned so loud you were almost positive the neighbors heard, but you didn’t care. He never considered himself a man with a praise kink, but when a girl is not only begging for you, but thank you for fucking her? There’s only so much a man can take, especially when he felt you starving off your orgasm.

“Let it out, baby, come on. You feel so good, sweetheart, I’m right behind ya.” He growled, mouth pressed against the shell of your ear, nibbling. You weren’t strong enough to hold off any longer, falling apart in his arms as he finished in sync, thrusts shallowing out as he felt you constrict. The praises left your lips without hesitation, gripping onto his chest tightly with his arms returning just as tight. Your whimpers continued for a moment before a loud shaky breath, “I’m sorry for crying, that's so embarrassing.” You groaned, shifting beneath him as he pulled away from your neck, “Don’t you dare. That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.” He stated, eyes boring into yours before pulling out and discarding his protection. He grabbed his boxers, pulling them on and grabbing his tee, handing it to you with raised eyebrows, making you blushed.

“Really, that’s what makes you flustered?” He teased, laying back down with your faces across from each other. Sitting in silence, you both studied each other, almost as if you looked long enough, you’d find out every emotion you just endured. He stroked your cheek affectionately, nudging into his broad palm, nipping at it playfully. As you came down from euphoria, your worries seeped through. What did this mean? Would this be a regular thing? Would he ever speak to you again? So many thoughts ruminated that it spread across your face, his eyebrows pinched with worry when you acknowledged your surroundings.

“Did you enjoy tonight?” You inquired as he made a shocked face before smiling, “Let’s just say that if you asked me to rate this, I’d break the fucking scale.” He chuckled, moving his hand to tickle your side, making you squeal and fling your body against him. “You’re such an asshole for that, Munson.” Silence filled the room as he held you against his chest, your bodies fitting like puzzle pieces beneath your sheets. “Can we do this again sometime?” Trailing off as you traced his various tattoos, hypnotized by his body and what it encapsulated. “Hell yeah, I’m always horny.” He joked, “But seriously, yes, we can do this whenever you want, princess.”

You didn’t expect yourself to have your first time with the guy you always admired from afar, but tonight you were engulfed in his arms, feeling safe and happy for once. As you jogged out on the field the next day, ignoring the soreness between your thighs, you spotted him in the stands where he never would have been previously. With a quick wink, he stood up and hollered as you couldn't contain your laughter. You could get used to this.

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hi! thank you for reading, eddie's my muse atm so please send in requests! feedback is always appreciated. have a great day!

#eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fic #eddie munson #stranger things fic #stranger things #stranger things x y/n #steve stranger things #stranger things season four #writing #elora writes #female reader #joe keery #joseph quinn

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