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ktsumu · 11 months

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WHEN WE WERE THIEVES

pairing: atsumu miya x gn!reader wc: 5.7k

when the case is that your romantic partner was once your literal partner in crime, it’s a fact that it would be shameful if you didn’t know all of their oldest hiding spots. even more shameful is them not expecting you to know, already.

It was the first summer after you turned nine when you met him for the first time, surrounded by cardboard moving boxes and loud trucks.

Actually, you met two of him.

Across the street of your quaint culdesac dream sat a clunky moving truck, close by to a far less clunky car that sat idly in the driveway, doors swung open wide as two boys did literally anything but help unload. They intrigued you from your window—partially because they seemed to fade into each other after they crossed, their matching outfits doing you no favours in telling them apart.

(Eventually, one fell, and you learned the name of the boy who stood victorious was Osamu, by the way the one on the ground wailed.)

The boy on the ground, you found, was Atsumu; at least, it was the name muttered by ‘Osamu’ as he desperately tried to get the former to stop crying before his parents came back outside.

From the comfort of your window, you watched them. By the time they finally stopped playing a twisted version of two-player tag and fell onto the grass, it was dark out, and you were dozing off on your windowsill and pressing your face into the screen that barred you from the outdoors. When your mother came up to make sure you were asleep, she wasn’t mad when she found you awake.

“If you want to play with them, you can just ask,” she suggested. “You don’t just have to watch them.”

You only shrugged, eyes heavy as you listened to them complain about mosquitoes.

“They’re kinda weird.”

With a snorting laugh, your mother had already guided you towards your bed. You only heard one part of her goodnight, your eyes shutting almost immediately after hitting the mattress.

“Huh.” She patted your side, tucking you in tightly. “You’ll fit right in, then.”

And fit in, you did.

The next morning, you had woken up with a new quest: befriend the strangers across the street.

Clumsily, toaster waffles were carefully crafted before being drenched in syrup on a plate; a few steps away from repulsive now, unbelievably attractive then. And then, with your newfound determination and encouragement, you walked across the street when you heard their sneakers scuffing on the pavement.

Naturally, their two-person game of badminton slowed to a stop, the birdie bouncing twice off of the hot asphalt when they saw you coming with your plate. In their direction, no less.

When you reached them and the silence wasn’t seeming to find an end, you huffed.

“Hi. I wanted to bring you waffles and welcome you to the street. I live in the house behind me.”

They stood in shock, so you only extended the plate out in front of you.

“Now,” you begin. “Which one of you is Atsumu, and which one is Osamu?”

The twins only smiled, a mischievous grin being shared between them as they looked at one another, a plot dwelling in the heat of the summer air. For the next two months, Osamu called himself Atsumu.

After the great waffle introduction, you got to know the Miya twins. And shockingly, you could tell them apart after they confessed to swapping identities when you were around just to screw you over. Confessed after much interrogation from you, of course.

In school, they jumped right into your classes, never being allowed to sit next to each other for the first week. Osamu was placed with a boy he’d seemed to befriend, and Atsumu was placed right beside you. And whether that was a blessing or a curse, your little brain couldn’t decide. “Stop copying me!” you hissed under your breath, glancing at the teacher as you nudged his arm. “She’s gonna know you did the same thing as me, idiot!” “Well, what if you copied me?” “I didn’t!” “She ain’t know that, does she?”

With a look of sheer betrayal, you hmph’d, turning back to your own piece of construction paper, layered with other pieces of construction paper. Made from different colours was a shooting star, a bright smile drawn dead in the centre of it. “This is why Osamu’s the nicer twin,” you grumbled, watching his eyes flicker between his paper and your own as he began to replicate the eyes you drew. “He wouldn’t copy me.”

And suddenly, something flashed across Atsumu’s face. “Wh—!? Fine, fine! Stop, don’t worry, watch.”

Side-eyeing his page from where you sat, you watched him grab a marker and draw a massive, obvious frown on his star. Now, yours was smiling, and his star looked mortifyingly sad.

“There,” he mumbled. “Now yours is the only one that’s smilin.’ Is that better?”

When you lifted your head from where it sat bowed, quitting your pouting for just a moment, you couldn’t help but smile, covering your mouth as you let out a blithe, immature giggle.

And Atsumu smiled.

When the art exhibit came around at the end of that month, both of your paintings were hung up side-by-side, and the teacher only mentioned the uncanny similarity once before it became history. For the rest of the year, all of your projects looked the exact same; one was smiling, and one wasn’t. They didn’t need names on them to tell whose was whose.

After the great copycat debacle, you and Atsumu discovered that the two of you could get away with a lot more than just snubbing your art teacher.

By the beginning of middle school, test answers were hidden in crinkled gum wrappers, scraped onto desks with a coin for the three of you to pull off. A holy trinity had been formed with Osamu for the sole purpose of selling premade lunches for inflated prices, the money going to popsicles at the convenience store down the street. And when they didn’t have volleyball practice, all three of you would go looking for the mythical and elaborate ‘candy stash’ the Twins’ parents didn’t want them to know about.

“How are you even sure there is one?” you would ask, following them sheepishly through a door you didn’t know existed in their home.

And they’d cough, swatting dust out of their hair and sharing a look you couldn’t get in on.

“Trust me, we know,” they’d say.

The house would get scoured — the highs, through a creaky attic door which Osamu would throw open. The twins would bicker as they searched the entire attic, and you’d lie and tell them a car just pulled into the driveway when you thought you saw a spider crawl out into the house.

And the lows of the basement, where you would hold the flashlight, leading them into the darkest corners with a proud smile as you heard them murmuring behind you. Of course, this search would always turn up nothing. Because, in hindsight, none of you think their parents were up for venturing into uncomfortable places like the three of you were.

But it was an adventure for the day, and almost always ended up with you sleeping over in one of their beds as they took the floor.

“Is it because your mom told you to?” you’d deadpan, smiling lopsidedly as they’d scoff.

“No,” Atsumu would say defensively, “it’s ‘cause I’m a gentleman.”

“We both are, stupid.”

“Yeah, but who’s the one sleeping on the floor? Mm.”

That night, you were woken up by a fervent and rough shaking of the arm, and you cracked an eye open with an annoyed groan. You lifted your hands and rubbed your eyes as a hand clasped over your mouth, causing you to shoot up in bed.

“Wh—!” you yelled into his palm, shoving him off of you when you realized who it was. “What is wrong with you!?” you whisper-yelled. “Shhh!” he shushed, “I found it!”

“Huh? Found what?”

“The stash!” Atsumu’s face was bright, his straight smile wide and full of pure, unadulterated happiness. When you’re thirteen, it’s the little things that make you feel tall. “Come on, wanna show you.” You grabbed his arm to keep him from leaving. “Shouldn’t we wake up ‘Samu?”

Atsumu really should’ve, but he shook his head. “His feet are too loud, he’ll wake up our parents.”

“But you’re even louder—“

“Quit yappin’ and just follow me, will ya?” he pleaded, his smug grin returning after you swung your feet over the side of the bed.

Because even if Atsumu was louder, and that the concept of his parents finding you two awake this late was terrifying, you’d follow him off of a cliff blind. He knew it, too.

He guided you through the hallway, checking corners like his own home was booby-trapped after dark. His hand gripping yours, you made it to the kitchen, and a chair was already placed awkwardly in front of the counter.

“Get up,” he told you.

“Are you crazy? No! I’ll fall!”

“No you won’t,” Atsumu guaranteed you, shaking his head as he held out his hands again. “I’ll make sure of it. C’mon, get up!”

And, as you always did, you believed him, taking his hands as he helped you up onto the kitchen counter.

From the granite countertops, you felt like you were on top of the house—Atsumu looked small as ever, and he was considered kinda tall for his age.

“Hurry up,” he beckons, “check the far left cupboard over the fridge.”

“Jesus, ‘Tsumu, how’d you even manage that one?” you whispered, opening the door as he asked. And, sure enough, the search had come to an end right then and there. Boxes of leftover Halloween candy lined the cabinet—far more than you were expecting.

“See? It exists,” he gloated.

You grinned down at him, looking down at the hands that steadied you by the legs. “Yeah, it does,” you admitted. “And it was just in the kitchen.”

Atsumu shrugged. “Sometimes, the best place to hide treasure is where most would think to look.”

“That’s kinda smart of you to stay.”

“Imma pretend you didn’t just insult me for no reason. Grab a box and let’s get outta here!”

“Grab a box?” you asked, half hissing. “Would that not make us thieves? That’s a punishable thing.”

Atsumu’s crooked smile gleamed back up at you, bathed in the stream of moonlight that came through the wall of windows in the living room.

“So let’s be thieves. We’re already cheats, y’know.”

So you were. You grabbed (stole) the biggest box of Twix you’ve ever seen to date, and gripped his arms as he helped you down to meet him back on the floor. You gave him a grin that he’d never quite seen before — it was carefree and exhilarating, it sent a surge through his veins — and he would be the only one to see it.

That night, the two of you became thieves. More importantly, you became something much more to Atsumu.

When the three of you neighbourhood kids hit high school, the attention the twins got was a different kind of absurd.

The summer between your final year of junior high and your first year of high school was a rather lonely one — you saw Osamu more than you did Atsumu, and even then you barely saw the guy. Osamu found a troupe of new friends, and Atsumu’s talent as a setter landed him in a new camp every month, so it seemed.

You still texted him a lot, sent pictures from your bedroom window taunting him about his absence, but he and his brother were a rare sight; it was even rarer to see them together.

But when school rolled around, you could at least see what the craze was about. Not that you were included in that.

A lot had changed in three months. For starters, they came back tan and with arms like no other guys in the class had. Osamu had been working on their grandfather’s farm all summer, and Atsumu had been training nonstop. It was safe to say he knew his work paid off, too, judging by the way he’d shamelessly flirt with every person who looked in his general direction.

And they grew, too. They’d always been a little bit taller than you, but now you could see it from a distance. It almost made you glad that Atsumu wasn’t around, because you knew for sure you’d never hear the end of it the second he noticed you were a little bit shorter than him and ‘Samu, even more so than before.

Just like you were in elementary school again, the three of you took the same classes. Different levels, of course—but the content was similar enough to meet up at lunch to complain about them.

It was a war and a half to drag Atsumu and Osamu away from their designated seat at the table of kings (also known as: the volleyball team’s table), but it didn’t take long after you reminded them that getting behind on their grades could take them off the team.

“Why are we even here?” Atsumu whined, groaning as he rested his chin in his hand.

“Uh, to make sure you pass English?” you reminded him with a scoff. “Why? Sad you can’t tend to your fifteen girlfriends?”

“Ha? Fifteen?” he asked in amazement. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re just jealous.”

“Jealous?”

“Shaddup,” Osamu drawled. “You’re both annoying.”

“Says you, dickhead,” Atsumu grit, which earned a smack to the back of his head.

Watching them both act just like they always had despite the way things were changing made you laugh, shaking your head as you looked down at your textbook, flipping open your notebook.

“You two haven’t changed that much at all,” you said, mostly to yourself.

But Atsumu looked up, a small smile growing on his face just from seeing yours alone, his eyes focused on the way your eyelashes brushed against your cheeks when you glanced back down.

And Osamu watched his brother, eyes narrowing as he watched him fall.

Truthfully, though, the boys weren’t the only ones who came back from summer looking different. You did, too.

You’d grown into yourself — your clothes that you bought the summer before fit you better, your eyes were brighter. And the twins weren’t the only ones who had attracted wandering eyes; in fact, people had even gone up and asked the twins if you were talking to anybody, to which Osamu told them to ask you themselves. Atsumu told them to fuck off.

And if you had noticed how the twins changed? Atsumu had noticed how you did tenfold.

“You’re such a shithead,” Osamu complained, slugging his bag onto the ground when they got home. “That’s our best friend, freak. Did ya like them when they slept over every night, too?”

“I don’t like them!” Atsumu protested, shoving past Osamu as he grabbed a drink from the fridge. “What even makes ya say that?”

Osamu blinked, dumbfounded. “Oh, I dunno. Maybe the fact that I was trying to do my goddamn bio homework, but couldn’t, because I was too busy gaggin’ at the sight of your goo-goo eyes!”

“My eyes are normal!”

“Not when you’re around them, they aren’t.”

Atsumu grunted in frustration, crossing his arms as he sat at the counter. “So what? Even if I did like them—which I don’t—what’s the issue?”

“You’re a child,” Osamu insulted. “And they're leagues ahead of ya. Besides, you’ve got girls hangin’ off your damn arms, pick one of them and move on.”

Atsumu stuck out his tongue, obviously not above childish cruelty even at sixteen.

Osamu was right; Atsumu was one of the few that had all of their classmates’ attention. But the problem was, he didn’t need ten pairs of eyes on him — he only ever wanted one.

By second year, it was decided unanimously by all of Atsumu’s friends (including Osamu) that there was no chance of him ever getting over you.

Between classes, he was at your hip. During lunch, he was at your hip, asking if you wanted to come sit with the team with him and Osamu. When he walked by your classes with a hall pass, he’d walk extra slow, hoping that maybe you’d spare a passing glance and notice him there; just a glance was enough.

And after careful deliberation with the lunch table, it was officially decided that you were totally off-limits to your high school’s class.

“Stop,” Atsumu would groan, covering his face as Suna snickered under his breath. “I don’t like them!”

“No, you don’t. You love them.”

“I do not!”

Suna just scoffed, turning to Osamu with a nudge. “Watch this—Kita!”

Their team captain turned from his spot walking by, offering a gentle smile as he set his tray down on the table and sat. He nodded to them all, picking up his chopsticks as Suna folded his hands in front of him.

“What is it?” he asked.

“You know about the ban on Y/N in our class, right?”

“Oh. Yeah,” he answered, making Osamu and Suna laugh as Atsumu’s jaw fell open. “Aran told me.”

“See? Everyone knows,” Osamu told his brother, beginning to eat his homemade lunch. “I mean, it ain’t like you try to hide it.”

Atsumu’s brows furrowed. If he was gonna be honest with himself, it’d been a couple of years since he started thinking you could maybe be more than just his best friend. But more importantly, why was it just then people were thinking he was so ‘obvious’ about it?

Instead of fighting, Atsumu lowered his head, insulting his brother and pest of a friend under his breath as he picked at his onigiri.

But as soon as he felt familiar hands rest on his shoulders, he perked right up.

“Hey!” you greeted, peeking over his shoulder. “You look like someone just killed your dog.”

“Me? ‘Course not!” he reassured, turning halfway to face you as his mood did a one-eighty. “You’re comin’ to our game tonight, right?”

“Of course!” you told him, smiling at the rest of the table as they watched you with…unusually eager eyes. “Wouldn’t miss it. Oh! I was also gonna ask if you wanted to review for math afterwards? Your place?”

“I—yeah! For sure!”

“Great!” you chimed. “Cya later. Bye guys!”

The table synced with Atsumu in a collective and oddly dainty ‘goodbye’, watching you leave before erupting with snorts and boyish laughs.

“‘For sure!’” Suna mimicked, making doe eyes at Osamu as they began to jokingly make kissy lips at each other, gripping each other’s arms.

And when Atsumu turned to Kita to ask for help, he was chuckling, too.

The first time you kissed Atsumu Miya, it was your first year of university and it had no witnesses; not even the two of you.

Getting out of high school didn’t mean that you got out of the pitiful drinking games that it entailed, and you didn’t fully grasp this until you went to your first party, only to get called over to a circle of people on sofas by—the one and only—Atsumu himself.

“Hey!” he called. “You came!”

He was surrounded by people you didn’t know, probably from his classes, and all you could do was offer a laugh. “I almost didn’t.”

“That’s lame.”

“You’re lame. What’s new?”

“Agh, you suck.”

Atsumu stood up from where he sat, heading over to you and extending a hand. “Come, sit. We’re gonna play ‘Seven Minutes with the Bottle’.”

Your brows raised. “I can only imagine what that game is.”

“It’s seven minutes in heaven mixed with spin the bottle,” Atsumu explained, as if you weren’t being sarcastic in the first place. You didn’t chastise him for it, you just smiled and cursed yourself when your chest went warm at his honest and eager grin. “Come play!”

“I’m not sure.”

“Please? It’s fun, I promise—one round, ‘kay?”

You don’t wanna say you felt some pressure, but you sort of did; Atsumu has the type of eyes that beg you no matter what he’s thinking, slightly squinted at the corners and a gleaming brown. You caved quicker than you’d like to admit.

(Atsumu says today that he was begging you, because he had hoped that damn bottle would land on you every time he spun it, and he hoped you had a lucky hand.)

“Okay,” you said, relenting as you sat down in his old seat; he took the arm of the couch. “Sure.”

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”

The game started fast, with each person taking a spin. It went around clockwise, each person twice as eager as the one before, amused by middle school games. Atsumu kept looking at you the whole time, kept stealing glances; you thought it was chance.

“My turn?” Atsumu asked, acting like he hadn’t just spent the last half hour counting down the seconds until it was his time to go. “Well, if ya insist.”

Atsumu reached out in the middle of the circle, taking the body of the bottle and spinning it, his lips pursing in anticipation. You didn’t even realize that the nose was pointing at you, you were so focused on the way every joint, muscle and vein waved beneath his skin. Golden skin.

“Oh,” he breathed, looking up to meet your eyes. He was pink under the Christmas lights that were strung across the room. “You.”

“Oh,” you mimicked. “We don’t have to.”

“Screw that!” the person beside you said. “Play the game, guys.”

“We’re just friends, though—“

“Are you related?”

“What? Christ, no, do we look related—?”

“Get in the closet, Atsumu.”

You rest a hand on his arm, which Atsumu thought would be the end of him for sure, but you told him something far more dangerous: “It’s okay, let’s just do it.”

Atsumu wasn’t sure you knew what you were doing, which was confirmed when the two of you found your way into the dark, humid closet and shut the door, a phone with a timer sitting in between you; you told him you two could talk.

“Yes,” he said as a cover, nodding as if he wasn’t just thinking about how close you sounded — he hated that he couldn’t really see you, he told you a year later. He wanted to see you. “We should. We can.”

“Okay.”

“…Do you like the party?”

“I can’t talk,” he admitted.

Silence filled the small space, the dim glow of the screen telling you it’d only been thirty seconds. It felt more like thirty minutes—you could hear Atsumu breathing.

You cleared your throat. “You…can’t?”

“What if we just — what if we tried? To kiss, I mean. Just so we don’t walk out like pussies, y’know? Like, just to say we did it. Or we could say we did—“

“Or we can tell them it’s none of their business what we did.”

You remember muffling the laughter under your breath when you heard him begin to backtrack, almost able to watch him nod. “Oh, for sure. Duh. Let’s do that.”

“Atsumu,”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s do it.”

“Kiss?”

“Yeah,” you told him. “We’ll make fun of ourselves later. Let’s just—“

And suddenly, you were not just you, but you were you and him.

He was in front of you, like he crawled to get there, a hand holding him up and the other on the back of your neck. You knew that Atsumu was a ‘good kisser’, some of your old classmates could attest to that — but nothing beats when it’s real.

You knew his hands, the lines of his palms, the rough pads of his fingers; but you didn’t know them when he threaded his fingers through your hair, inching closer to you. You knew his lips (he never shut up, he still doesn’t) but not when he kissed you like he did — you’d never seen him willingly stay silent until that point.

(To this day, Atsumu brags about how he swept you away with your first kiss. You deny it every time.)

Atsumu moved closer, enough to stay in front of you without the support of his hand, and he moved it to your hip. His thumb smoothed over your skin, staying right where it was, content with just breathing you in until—

The phone on the ground went off, a shitty ringtone blaring through the closet as Atsumu pulled back, giving you your space back as he scrambled to shut it off. And once it was, it was just the two of you again, breathing somehow.

Atsumu spoke first. “So.”

“So.”

“What—how was it? Like, was that bad? I didn’t think it was bad, well—it wasn’t awful.”

You were glad that it was dark, because he wasn’t able to see how flushed you were. He was glad you couldn’t see him, either.

“Yeah, it was alright.”

“Yeah, totally.”

It was unreal. So unreal that, even after leaving the party and that stupid game, you and Atsumu kept doing it. Because friends can sometimes make good kisses, you guess.

(“How was that?” the guy from earlier, the one who sat beside you asked, his brows raised. You sat down beside Atsumu again.

“We just talked.”

“Yeah, we just talked.”

“Okay…lame. Who’s next?”)

You and Atsumu have been together for five years now.

A week after the party, Atsumu banged on your dorm room door and kissed you so hard that it knocked the wind out of you. Two weeks later, he went home and told his friends that he did it — he finally asked you out, and the years of their pestering had finally done something.

(“Jesus, ‘Tsumu, way to drag it out.”

“Is that all ya have to say?”

“Well? You’re slow.”)

Regardless, life has been better since the party. You kept your best friend, but you unlocked new benefits — and the benefits just keep getting better.

But, your real favourite part about being Atsumu’s girlfriend, is having a guaranteed invite to the annual Miya's Thanksgiving dinner — where you get their mom’s signature dishes and snack onigiri made from a professional.

Laying in Atsumu’s bed, the one he used to give you when you were twelve, you sit with your laptop perched on his nightstand, watching a movie as you wait patiently for him and Osamu to get back from the store. He begged you to go with them, but there was no way you were going out in the cold of November if you had the option to stay swaddled up in one of his blankets.

Plus, Osamu teased him so he stopped.

(“Wow, you can’t be separated for more than twenty minutes. How nauseating.”

“Wh—? Okay, fine. Bye! See ya in a bit, doll!”)

The movie’s about halfway done, people walk their dogs along the sidewalk outdoors. Your parents don’t live across the street anymore, but the house hasn’t changed — the paint is still the same and you can see the subtle chip in the doorframe. It brings memories back, ones you can hardly believe because of where you’re at now.

To think that your now-boyfriend (boyfriend, what a crazy word) was the boy that you offered a waffle to when you were kids feels surreal. Atsumu once was the boy you’d ignore and when you were mad until he showed up knocking at your window; now, he is the one you kiss before you go to sleep. You share a bed. You picked your side first.

The movie begins to lag and you groan, hurriedly clicking your space bar and cursing it when it doesn’t do anything. You shut the laptop, instead just heading to the kitchen.

Because if you can’t watch a movie, you might as well steal some of the food prep Osamu made, knowing he made extra because he knew you’d steal some.

When you get there, you check through the fridge first — most of the food there is for Thanksgiving, the things you wouldn’t dare eat yet. Normally Osamu has food prep going, yes, but you also forgot that the whole reason he and Atsumu went out is because he had nothing to make the said prep with.

So, you sigh, defeated.

Shutting the fridge, you pause, pursing your lips and looking up to the far left cabinet over where you stand. Few people in the world know what glory lies behind that door; you are one of them.

Much taller and much more sure of yourself, you climb up onto the kitchen counter, reaching up to the cabinet and opening the door. Nothing has changed since you were young, so it seems, because there are still boxes on boxes of chocolate hidden over the fridge, even is no longer anyone to hide it from.

(Well, maybe you need it hidden.)

You grab the first box you see, the only one that’s opened out of the stash, and carefully make your way back down to the ground. You quietly return the stool back to its original place, looking up when the door opens and the twins enter with bags in hand.

“Hey!” you greet with a smile, watching them enter with rosy cheeks and exhausted looks. “How was it?”

Osamu scoffs a bitter laugh. “How do you think a grocery store is two days before Thanksgiving?”

You snicker. “Okay, point proven.”

Atsumu sighs a breath of relief, unzipping his jacket and tossing it over one of the stools as he goes to get around the island — probably to kiss you, or something. He’s like that.

But he watches you reach for the box of chocolates, and for a passing moment, he chuckles.

Then, he turns white as a ghost.

“Stop!” he shouts, making you jump as you pause with the box. “Don’t open that,”

“Huh? It’s already open.”

“No, I mean — can I see that?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “No way, I got it first.”

“C’mon, there’s like eighty bars in there. You’re not gonna have all eighty.”

“Watch me,” you taunt, nodding to Osamu. “You both are too stressed out about dinner. I think we all deserve a chocolate bar, don’t we?”

Atsumu takes a step toward you. “Wait, don’t—!”

You shake the box gently, dumping out a pile of them as you look through the kinds, wondering which one you’ll have. There’s the basics, the classics, some special Halloween editions.

Something else catches your eye.

A small, black velvet box rests on the island in the puddle of sugar, and you furrow your eyebrows at it in suspicion.

“Holy fuck,” Atsumu whispers to himself. You don’t hear him.

You pick it up, looking it over. “Woah, that’s new. We must’ve got a special box or something.”

Osamu narrows his eyes, glancing at Atsumu before walking over to get a closer look. “What do you mean ‘special box’?”

“Like a special edition, or something. They probably gave out costume rings in some of the—“

You open the box, and a hand flies up over your mouth as you set the box right back down on the counter. You may be confused, but one thing is for sure; that’s not a costume ring.

It gleams under the overhead lights, and Osamu’s eyes are wide. You freeze, not really sure of what you just uncovered, until you look at your boyfriend.

Until you look at your boyfriend, and he doesn’t look shocked at all.

“‘Tsumu, why do you look like this isn’t crazy?” you ask, eyes wide as he just leans on the island, dropping his head in defeat. “Atsumu?”

Osamu glances between the two of you, before it clicks in his head and he’s taking a step back, his hands on his hips.

“Holy fuck,” he mumbles.

Atsumu sighs, standing up straight again, and turning to you with a lopsided, barely-there grin.

“It’s not crazy to me,” he tells you, “because I know where the ring came from.”

“What? Where?”

Atsumu smiles weakly. “I bought it.”

Your eyebrows furrow, glancing back to the absolute diamond on the counter, your head tilting as it practically blinds you where you stand. Osamu stands off to the side with a dumb smile on his face, and you just look between them.

“You bought it?”

“Yeah.”

“For—,” Holy fuck.

Your hands fly up to clasp over your mouth, your eyes going wide before they go glassy; you watch Atsumu through a layer of water as he slowly takes the box from the counter, turning towards you again.

Atsumu huffs. “It was supposed to be later,”

“Atsumu!”

“Shoulda known you’d go rummaging back through that cupboard.”

( Osamu chimes in: “Wait, you guys found that?” )

“Atsumu,” is all you can say. Words feel foreign.

He laughs, shaking his head. “I’m gonna re-do it, okay? That works, right?”

“Yeah, yeah! Right?”

“Yeah, okay.”

He glances up to that stupid fucking cupboard, slowly dropping to one knee as his eyes well — just because it wouldn’t have been fair if you were the only one who cried. He kneels on the very spot he once held you up on top of the counter, making sure you didn’t fall.

“Back when we were thieves, we kinda swore we’d be partners in crime,” he starts, and it makes you choke out a laugh. “I know neither of us ever failed to keep our end of the bargain, and I know that promises don’t need nothin’ to seal them and yadah-yadah-yadah…”

Atsumu takes the ring out of the box, looking back up to you.

“I wanted something to say ‘forever.’ This ain’t bad, no?”

You sniffle, shaking your head with a laugh of disbelief. The tears come faster than you can stop them.

You cross your arms. “Did you steal this, too?”

He nods, grinning ear-to-ear. “Yeah, so you’re gonna need to answer a question for me before I get put in the slammer.”

“That means we’re gonna have a jail ceremony.”

“Welp, that’s what happens to thieves.”

Atsumu sighs shakily, taking your hand in his; he runs his thumb over the knuckle of your ring finger, his eyes softening as he holds you. His eyes are brown, but it is not just him, twenty-something and the love of your life.

It’s him, twelve or so years old and making sure you don’t fall off the counter in the middle of the night.

“I have to actually say it for it count, right?”

“Yeah, you do.”

“Okay, okay. Y/N,”

“Atsumu.”

He takes a breath. “Will you mar—“

You don’t wait for him to finish. Instead, you lunge forwards, dropping to your knees and wrapping your arms around his neck, stealing the air right out of his lungs before he could even finish his sentence.

He’s not mad about it, either. He smiles against your lips.

You’ll be stealing from him for the rest of your life, and he’s pretty okay with that.

#atsumu x reader #atsumu miya x reader #hq atsumu #hq x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!! x reader #hq!! x reader #haikyuu!! fluff #haikyuu fluff #hq fluff #kit writes

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zoeysandin · 1 year

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“this heart beats for only you” ( @politestrange )

he knows how to make her shake & yield to him. more than any other person ever has & ever will ( if he has anything to say about it ). & unfortunately it’s completely against her will. it torments her how malleable he renders her, despite how evil he is. how she trembles, beside herself, under him with the way his hand snakes upwards to slot itself around her elongated throat as he holds her in place, thumb digging into her vocal chords.

how he forces her against her best efforts to melt under him & cling to him desperately as he breathes against her ear & tugs on her earlobe with his SHARP TEETH. condensation from his breath sticking to her cheek as his palm slides from her neck over the breast he’s claimed as his long ago — & back up to capture her throat once more.

just as wantonly, she hangs onto him, his cock filling her, owning her, in the most intoxicating way. splits her soft pleading cunt for him incessantly, completely soaked for him as she always is ( even the first time when he took stole her virginity ) / her legs draped over his shoulders & her head is thrown back as her inner thighs shake with how deep he’s going. the curve of her back inclining down, BEGGING to take him in further — to the hilt & more ( if she could ).

she wants to consume him. ERASE him. stop him.

but he won’t let her.

the way he’s soft & gentle ( he presses his abrasive lips to her thrumming pulse point ), but rough & demanding with the way he rolls them over now — her on top ; secures her firmly to his body with one lean but toned arm around the small of her back while the other grips her features in place.

she’s gasping at how he makes her body ache for him, bottom lip trembling as her hips buck down & her back arches. his own hips expertly move to drive his cock in deeper within her desperate hole, looking down the best she can to watch him disappear within her repeatedly. but he slaps her across the mouth — HARD — then clasps her throat again as she whimpers, finding his eyes once more. pay attention, she can hear it without him saying a word. she’s not supposed to look at anything other than his eyes. she repents for her sin silently.

the way he looks at her right now tears her soul in two. how the sternness in his eyes makes her want to ride him right, just the way he likes it. swerving her hips to serve him in the way he’s trained her to — but with a violence & vengeance that only ANGERS him more ; makes him whack her ass & tighten his grip on her throat to tug her down to lock their gaze closer.

her brows furrow apologetically as his intent gaze holds her own & the heat rushes with that red hot hue to her cheeks ( she wishes she could stop whimpering ) — her hips moving less mean since he’s reprimanded her for it nonverbally. doe-like now / she can’t handle it when his beautiful endless eyes shift lightly now as if in approval ( good girl ) & penetrate her soul like that. those wicked, possessive, yet always shockingly reverent eyes that grip her soul & tether her to him & him to her. his thumb traces her parted bottom lip & her lashes flutter to a close as she leans into his hold.

he’s quiet as she noses against his palm. she supposes her tenderness engenders him to speak.

“this heart beats only for you.”

her eyes flash back open with the shock of the sincerity & it stings because she can feel how TRUE it is. he says it so SOLEMNLY, in a barely there whisper that for a moment she struggles to believe its true. he’s glaring at her as she does, as if to challenge him or mock him for saying it. she’s on thin ice & she knows it. its a moment of severe vulnerability he’s never given her before.

“christian—” comes her soft hymn of disbelief. his blonde locks frame his angel set features.

he’s never said something so.. earnest. he just stares at her insistently, his hand starting to tense around her face, ready to punish her, almost out of habit but then—

“i love you—” escapes her lips before she can stop herself & he sits up immediately, clasping the back of her neck as he slows the rocking & upwards thrusts of her hips ( making her gasp ). deliberate in the way he guides her to take his cock inside her more agonizingly tempered. straddling him now in his lap, the tangle of the silk sheets around them as she mews weakly at the change of angle.

“say it again,” he’ll breathe the demand quietly ( maybe even innocently / brokenly? as if he doesn’t believe her? ) & she’ll relent — over & over again into his mouth. & he’ll pull her flush to him, chest to chest as the tides roll over.

because she does / heavens knows she does / & she’ll never even try to escape. as her arm hooks & wraps around his neck, her other hand gripping hard onto his platinum luscious hair. he buries his face in the solace of her neck. you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine.

through the bedroom window, blue baptisias line the front lawn.

i’m yours. i’m yours. i’m yours.

( @politestrange / @daevilhorns )

#zoey sandin #polite stranger #polite leader #the purge #the purge rp #politestrange #my religion.#secret place.#arc. his mouth is your confessional.#v001. the purge.

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elisajdb · 2 years

Text

Autumn Love III

Day Three: Cold

Growing up in a village where her castle was surrounded by fire for nearly ten years, changed the natural weather landscape of her father’s village. Even though the fire was finally put out, it was still unusually warm. ChiChi was used to warmer springs, hot summers, mild falls, and winters. When ChiChi married Goku and moved to Mount Paozu, she experienced a culture weather shock.

It was shockingly cold when the weather should be warm. Perhaps it was the elevation of the area or the numerous rolling mountains that surrounded Mount Paozu but it was unusually cold to ChiChi. The summers were chilly compared to the sweltering summer heat she dealt with in her home kingdom. Some mornings ChiChi slept with a blanket or snuggled closer to her husband for extra warmth. He was an unusually warm man and the cold weather didn’t bother him. While ChiChi would be in a thick robe in the morning, Goku would walk around in his boxers and tank shirt. ChiChi thought it was only her but her father commented on the cooler weather, too. Her father was a big man with a little padding of fat mixed with his muscles but to hear him comment on the chilly weather made ChiChi relieved it wasn’t just her.

ChiChi adjusted to the weather wearing boots and thicker materials in her clothes. Their home was gifted with a furnace so ChiChi only worried about the coolness when she went outside. Trouble rose when a nasty storm passing by damaged the furnace. Parts were ordered but sadly wouldn’t arrive until a week. Until then, ChiChi had to brace against the cold.

ChiChi made soups, hot cocoa, and hot ciders to keep her warm. Sometimes she took extra-long hot showers. It warmed her temporarily but not enough to be satisfied. One morning was so cold ChiChi wore a coat in the house. This provoked her husband to finally speak on ChiChi’s problem.

“You’re just like Grandpa.”

He said it with a laugh. ChiChi might’ve shrugged it off but being in a cold house for nearly a week made ChiChi irritable and Goku’s casual remark came off as an insult.

“What does that mean?” ChiChi questioned. “Are you calling me old?”

“No. Grandpa didn’t like the cold either. He always wore those heavy surcoats and smoked his pipe.”

ChiChi sipped her apple cider. “So, even as a kid, the weather didn’t bother you? Does the cold ever bother you?”

“It bothered me when I went to Muscle Tower in Jingle Village but that was really cold. There was thick snow everywhere and the wind was so cold. Here,” Goku shrugged, “it’s just warm. There’s no snow. I don’t understand how you are cold.”

“My Dad talked about it, too. Maybe we’re normal and you’re not.”

Goku laughed. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”

A tinge of guilt struck ChiChi. She didn’t mean to say that. She heard enough stories about what Goku’s friends thought of him. ChiChi didn’t want Goku to think she saw him that way. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I don’t like this cold. I’m not used to it. It was always warmer on Mount Frypan.”

“Maybe that means you are not the normal one,” he teased. “Your home was surrounded by fire for years. Your body got used to that.”

He had a point and it was something ChiChi theorized but that didn’t mean she wanted him to say it as fact. ChiChi stuck her tongue out at him as she made a face. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Sound too smart for your own good.” She smiled at him to let him know she was teasing. “I’m the brains in this marriage.”

Goku copied that smile as he approached. “You have a problem with that.”

ChiChi sipped more of her cider. “What problem?”

“You misjudge me. You did it at the tournament.”

ChiChi knew what Goku referred to but pretended to not know. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure you do.” Goku stood in front of ChiChi. He placed both hands on each side of her and leaned forward causing ChiChi to lean against the counter. “You told me I am incredible and not the goofball you used to know. Why did you think I was a goofball? What did I do?”

“Oh, you know what you did.”

Goku looked completely sincere. “No, I don’t. It confused me when you said that. I picked you up, took you to Master Roshi’s back home, and got engaged and didn’t know it.”

“It was more than that. The pat-pat,” ChiChi reminded him. “You don’t think that was a goofball move?”

“No.” And to prove his point, Goku patted ChiChi between her legs. She wore thick pants. It didn’t have the same effect when he patted her iron bikini but that point got across. “I was showing you what I liked!”

“Oh, no you weren’t,” ChiChi giggled as she pushed his hand away.

“No,” Goku agreed as he took ChiChi’s mug from her hand and placed it on the counter. “But I do now.”

He was looking intently at her as if he wanted something badly. His looked caused her breath to quicken, her heart to stammer against her chest and blushing heat to creep up her face. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You’ve been cold for days. I felt bad about it because it’s my home that’s making you cold.”

“It’s not.” The playfulness fell from ChiChi’s face. She was serious now. “It’s all right. It’s only until the parts are mailed and then Dad can fix the furnace and the house will be warm again. None of this is your fault. Don’t think that.”

Goku chewed his lower lip nervously. She was right but he still felt at fault. “I guess not but I do know a way to help you with this cold.”

“What’s that?”

Securing an arm around ChiChi, Goku pulled her against him and lower his face until their lips met. ChiChi’s eyes closed as she became wrapped in the heat of Goku’s body transferring to hers, intoxicated by his strong, manly scent as his tongue caressed her mouth requesting ChiChi to open up to him. ChiChi did so and nearly swooned at the possession of his lips and tongue in her mouth. As his hands slid to her hips, ChiChi’s went up into Goku’s hair.

Watching him at the tournament, ChiChi picked up Goku was a quick learner in fighting. She hoped but was surprised at how quickly Goku picked up matters of intimacy. She also learned in the short time they’ve been together, Goku was a quick learner in what he applied himself to, and whatever he liked learning whether it was martial arts or intimacy, he mastered it and she reaped the benefits.

Deeper and deeper, ChiChi fell under his prowess. Her breasts rose and fell against his chest; his hot breath fanning her skin tickled and heated her body from her face to the secret place between her legs. The kiss went on as their chest and hips rubbed together inciting friction that spread intense heat through their bodies until a rapid knock from the door forced them to part.

“ChiChi! Goku! Are you home?” It was Gyumao. “I have the parts. It came early.”

“Guess you don’t have to worry about that cold anymore but next time it happens,” Goku gave her another quick kiss before he left to answer the door. “I’ll take care of it.”

Goku greeted her Dad as he stepped into her home. She smiled in greeting as she wondered what she could do to make it cold again.

#Goku #ChiChi #GoChi #GoChi Fall Week 2022 #Cold #Fluff #Dragon Ball Z

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venisontransmission · 4 months

Note

[ 𝐔𝐍𝐔𝐒𝐔𝐀𝐋 ] reversed :)

[ 𝐔𝐍𝐔𝐒𝐔𝐀𝐋 ] ― sender feeds receiver something they’ve never tried before.

He'd mulled over the choice in organ for an embarrassingly long time. Never before had Alastor been quite as self-concious over his cooking as he is right now. He's an amazing cook - he knows he's an amazing cook. But this meal is undercut with something else.

What that is, Alastor has absolutely no idea.

But as the familiar sound of sizzling meat carries through the room, the radio demon's mind falls back to that evening with Vox. He'd been teasing the media demon, as usual - expecting nothing to come of his questioning about Vox's refusal to try cannibalism. But, as per usual, Vox surprises him - likely without meaning to.

"Have you ever thought of trying demon meat, Vox?"

"Sure, if you feed it to me."

The deer demon finds himself staring at the stove, lost in the moment in the same way he was when Vox had first said that to him. He watches the meat cook - the flame from the stove top is hot, but it does not reach him. Internally, a heat blooms in his chest and dances on his face, flying to his ears.

What is this reaction?

Alastor shifts the skillet with a practiced twist of the wrist while his other hand rubs at his cheeks.

Hot. Why is his face so hot?

There is the sensation of claws drawing up and down his spine. It's uncanny and strange, brings a feeling of maggots under his skin. His stomach almost feels hungry, but he's eaten recently. Shockingly, he cannot blame it on starvation for once.

Maybe he's finally gone insane? Or he's dying a cruel and embarrassing death that plays his nervous system like a fiddle. Something is wrong, but not entirely horrible - he can pull out of this, as can Vox.

Vox, right. Everything leads back to Vox.

Don't get attached. It's all still a fun little game. Remember that.

Alastor takes a deep breath, shutting off the heat to the stove and placing the cooked demon heart in a tupperware container. Once the food is set in his personal pocket dimension, he sinks into the shadows.

Time to meet Vox for dinner.

#♛ ;; on air || ic #voxxcd #♛ ;; feedback || answered #♛ ;; i'm feeling so obsessed with you || voxxcd (alastor & vox)#tw cannibalism #//oh boy :)#//alastor like: feelings?? no im dying

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shitty-check-please-aus · 2 years

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genuinely need a dishwasher and washing machine in the next place I move, these are chores that I don’t hate when they’re actually easy to accomplish

#also need a vent hood on the oven #like. whatever I'm breathing in can't be good for me #why don't landlords just install this very basic thing #also the smoke detector goes off way too much and I'm convinced it's because of the shitty stove with no vent #if you want to know what stove I have it's the absolute cheapest model from the hardware store #it's the older kind of design where each burner has a pilot light that burns constantly #which like. gas and water are included in my rent so it's not like I'm spending the money #but it does shockingly heat up the place when it's hot #shockingly bc it's more than I'd expect

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moon3thereal · 3 years

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I have a request with Nat x reader. It’s a party at the compound and nobody has ever seen Nat drunk but this night she was completely gone like blackout drunk. So you end up having to carry her to her room and take care of her but she accidentally admits her love for you, you end up sleeping on the armchair in the room and in the morning you wake up to a Nat that’s throwing up on the floor, at first she don’t remember shit but later during the day she remembered what she said and gets really flustered and embarrassed but it ends I fluff reader admits her love for Nat to

Title: Drunken Confessions

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: alcohol

a/n: thank you for the request! happy reading <3

1.4k

Everyone knew Tony Stark loved the glamour of his extravagant parties often threw in the Avengers tower. Everyone also knew that while everyone else got batshit drunk, the black widow never got even slightly tipsy after several rounds of drinking games when everyone else was drunk enough to strip to their undergarments and start pole dancing. She always only watched with a hint of amusement glinting in her emerald eyes

That led to the bet going on amongst the other Avengers, Tony threw in a solid 500 dollars to whoever got Natasha drunk while the others put in smaller amounts. Thor had been lurking around with a smug grin for a whole 5 minutes since the party had started, you had no doubt that he’d been up to no good and opted not to touch the alcohol at the bar for tonight.

Spotting a certain redhead, you sidled up to the bar in your new dress that you definitely haven’t bought to impress her and new heels that again, you definitely didn’t buy to awe her. “Someone put in effort for tonight’s party” Natasha said, dropping her gaze to your heels and all the way up until she met your eyes “trying to impress someone?” she winked teasingly. Damn it, were you that obvious “Steve maybe?” she pressed, seating yourself on one of the rotatable, red leather stools you laughed “I don’t swing that way”

Natasha hummed in acknowledgement “me neither” she said. You turned to look at her so quickly that you thought you may have given yourself whiplash “Then…You and Bruce?” you asked cautiously “there’s a reason that didn’t work out” she said, taking a sip of her martini and sending her glass a peculiar look “you’re new?” she asked the bartender “no ma’am I’ve been working here for three years” Natasha’s lips formed into a silent ‘oh’ and you stifled a laugh

After a few more glasses of alcohol, Natasha was clearly very drunk, the rest of the avengers who hadn’t seen Thor’s expression of obvious smugness had drunk the alcohol unknowingly too and Tony and Steve were challenging each other to a dance off. In their boxers. You watched with amusement and second-hand embarrassment. Meanwhile, the Russian that was the heart of all this chaos was standing across the room apparently having an argument with Clint about whether the walls are green or red. The walls are white. Then it suddenly clicked in your mind, the only alcohol that could get her so shockingly drunk, Asgardian liquor

Of course, why hadn’t you thought about it before. Thor was incredibly competitive even if he didn’t look it. You continued sitting aside from all the havoc erupting on the party floor taking tentative sips from the water you’d brought, keeping an eye on Natasha before she does something stupid. Normally that was her job, unbeknownst to you, Natasha always looked out for you during Tony’s parties, knowing your alcohol tolerance wasn’t exactly high.

Glancing at the clock, you could see that it was almost 3 in the morning and the noises had died down and all the Avengers were splayed out on the couch only half awake, Natasha was half laid half seated on two bar stools barely keeping herself upright. Deciding that you really didn’t want her to fall off and give herself a concussion, you tugged at her sleeve “come on Nat, we’re going back to your bedroom” she smirked at you with her painted lips which were normally perfect but tonight, they were slightly smudged, you liked the look on her though

“Bedroom? Getting frisky already y/l/n?” you raised your eyebrows while helping her off the chair and draping your jacket around her shoulders “getting concerned about how drunk you are” you corrected. Natasha hummed and after a few steps let her head slump onto your shoulder, you were half supporting and half carrying her but you were glad she wasn’t sober right now because your heart was probably going a million miles a minute, her hair smelt so nice, her tresses were gently tickling your neck

Caught up in your thoughts you had to abruptly steer Natasha towards her bedroom before she walked directly into a wall. Practically dumping her onto the bed with a huff from the exertion of dragging her all the way back to her room, you pulled off her heels and hung up the jacket “I love y/n, don’t you think she’s just so pretty, she’s so smart too and how she fights, it’s soooo hot” she slurred and your cheeks heated up.

You were ready to dismiss it as a hallucination, you had feelings for the redhead, you’d been harboring them for a good 2 months because you thought they’d never be reciprocated. But Natasha turned to you “do you think she likes me too?” she asked “yeah, yeah I’m sure she does” you whispered. Natasha seemed to hear it, she sighed contentedly and let her eyes close. Making your way out of the room, you heard her say “stay” it was barely a whisper but you heard it and you could never refuse her

So you slumped onto her chair with your chin supported by the heel of your hand just appreciating how gorgeous she looked even blackout drunk, ginger hair all over the place and smudged makeup. It sounded creepy but you were really just taking the advantage of being able to stare at her now before she’s sober again tomorrow and your act of indifference had to come up again.

You didn’t know at what point you fell asleep but you woke up to Natasha rushing to the bathroom and throwing up in the toilet. Hastily pulling her hair back into a ponytail, you rubbed her back in an attempt to soothe her. She glanced up at you when she was done and flushed the toilet “why are you here?” she asked while rinsing her mouth in the sink and holding a hand to her head while wincing. You tried to hide your disappointment, last night it was the alcohol speaking, not her, it didn’t even make sense that she would remember it, really. “you couldn’t stay on your feet on your own, let alone walk back to your room, I wanted to make sure you were okay so I slept in that armchair” you gestured to the armchair at the corner of her room

“You didn’t have to do that” she said “but I’m glad you did, thank you” sending you a tired smile. You squeezed her shoulder “I’m gonna go make some breakfast you want some?” you asked at her doorway “please” she said while removing the makeup from the night before. You nodded and made your way to the kitchen

Once you step foot in the kitchen, you saw Thor with a triumphant smile on his face and the rest of the Avengers grumbling, you slapped a 50 dollar note on the table, shaking your head amusedly as you passed by. Thor’s grin widened further as he stuffed the money into his pocket. There were pancakes in the pan, courtesy of Wanda most probably. You put two each on separate plates, slathering Nutella on yours and drizzling syrup on Natasha’s. you made some coffee and poured out two mugs

When you came back to the table, Natasha was already seated wearing a hoodie, one of yours you realized with a skip of your heartbeat, and sweatpants. Setting the plate and mug of coffee in front of her, you took a seat and dug in.

It was only in the afternoon when you and Natasha were working on reports that her cheeks suddenly went pink and she stared at you with an expression of mortification. You frowned at her sudden distress and walked over to her “what’s wrong?” you asked, genuinely concerned. “last night, what I said, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, I didn’t, I mean, I do feel that way, but if you don’t it’s completely understandable and I-” you cut her off by pressing your lips to hers, the feeling of her lips against yours was heavenly, they were soft and tasted like her vanilla and cherry chapstick.

“I love you too” you whispered slightly dazed from the fact that you’d just kissed Natasha and that she hadn’t pulled away “show me how much” she said and kissed you again.

Taglist: @phoenixofash @michelle-dsn @midgardianweasley

#natasha romanoff x y/n #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha x reader #natasha fluff #natasha x y/n #black widow x reader #black widow fluff

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the-last-kenobi · 3 years

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Hi! I love your writing and was excited to see you're taking requests! Could you do 10 with majorly hurt Obi-Wan and the 212th like trying not to completely freak out?

Aww, thank you! <3 Happy to oblige darling. And ooooh, the underrated 212th! I’m so happy to write them. I hope this does them justice.

From this various prompts list.

“Cody! No! Pull the men back!”

“What?”

“There!”

A burst of flame that lit the world up in blinding heat. A strange echoing noise.

A scream.

Cody thought that he would see that moment burned behind his eyelids for the rest of his life.

It was still swimming before his eyes even as he frantically tried to deal with the aftermath, as he tried to force his brain to engage with the present moment.

Right now, right here, Obi-Wan was gasping for air, his whole body twitching and writhing beneath Cody’s hands, blood staining his face, his chest, everything. Everything was painted with hot, metallic red and Cody for the first time wanted to vomit at the sight of blood.

“Hold him still!” the medic beside him barked. Cody didn’t even know his name. He always knew their names, but right now nothing was lodging in his brain except General Kenobi and his ragged screams.

“I’m trying,” he snapped back. “Help him!”

The medic gave him a strained look and then returned his focus to the man bleeding out on their watch.

“Does he need bacta?” Cody asked desperately. This time the medic didn’t glance up at him at all absorbed in pressing down forcefully on one of the darkest red stains pooling across the pale tunics, his other hand searching far more gently along the other side of the torso.

The General groaned, his feet kicking involuntarily, scraping the dust.

“No,” the medic said brusquely. “Bacta is for repairing clean injuries and accelerating healing. The General has internal injuries that need to be patched before we dunk him in bacta.”

Dunk him in bacta? Cody had never heard of such a thing. Bacta came on swabs and patches and ointment jars, not tubs to throw a whole person in.

He pinned the Jedi’s shoulders more firmly in an effort to keep him — both of them — as calm and still as possible.

Leading his men up the gorge, with its dry soil and faded patches of grass, hoping to make it over the crest and down into the ravine before dawn.

Cody walked a little ahead of the others, taking point.

He heard the clankers first.

The Commander gestured back to his men, silently ordering them to take whatever cover they could while he crept onwards, keeping low. The enemy sounded few in number, maybe twenty, outnumbering them by only 2 to 1. That was easy. His men could take two droids each without breaking a sweat. The real issue would be keeping the fight as quiet as possible. Their approach still needed to go unnoticed.

Cody hesitated a moment, then shot forwards and flung himself behind an enormous old tree with withered leaves, pressing himself against the trunk.

Nobody had seen him.

Taking a deep breath, he peered around the edge and took in the oncoming droids. He had been right. There were only fifteen, in reality, even better than he had hoped.

Their behavior was odd, though.

They all walked close together, not in their typical line formation, but centered around one droid in the middle of the pack that he couldn’t make out clearly. It was a different model from the others, but not one he was familiar with.

Cody zeroed in on it. Whatever this was, that droid needed to be dealt with.

He retreated back to the other vode, who were awaiting his word. “Fifteen clankers,” he hissed. “One of them is different from the others. Leave that one to me.”

They all murmured assent, a few of them tossing a salute in his direction, and at his signals began placing themselves strategically along the path, concealed behind bushes and stones.

All fell silent except for the sound of the oncoming droids.

A dry breeze rattled in the sun-dried branches like a tired sigh.

“Cody! No!” the sudden shout shattered the silence, shattered the oncoming ambush, ruined Cody’s plans — but he looked around sharply, searching for the owner of that familiar voice.

“General?”

“Pull the men back!” Kenobi roared out over the comm line, and still he was nowhere to be seen. “It’s a trap!”

“Where the fuck is that evac?” the medic muttered. Then he turned his head and screamed, “Where the fuck is that evac?!”

“Five minutes out!” a brother replied.

Cody looked to his medic companion for a reaction, waiting to see. Was five minutes good? Bad? Salvation? ...A death sentence?

The medic closed his eyes briefly.

“Keep him steady,” he said, “and either give him something to bite on or gag him. I need to remove some of this shrapnel before it penetrates too deeply.” He reached behind him for his bag. “And I may need to cauterize the wound to his thigh.”

Cody looked down at his Jedi, watching the blue eyes flutter open and closed, shockingly bright in the midst of all the red. Blood, and dirt, and burns.

Obi-Wan didn’t seem to be coherent enough to understand what was being said, but he was trying to speak, still writhing on the ground as much as his Commander tried to hold him still.

“It’s okay, sir, we’ve got you,” Cody said. He bent down lower to bring himself closer to the General, hoping to make himself understood. “We’ve got you, General, it’s going to be okay.”

“No,” Kenobi protested weakly, the words coming up with a cough and a hoarse sob. “No — it’s — have you — what —”

He dissolved into a fit of coughing. Tears sprang up in those blue eyes that had only ever smiled for them, and leaked down over the grime on his face, glistening in the blood, clinging to his eyelashes.

“Shhhh,” Cody hissed out in desperation. He didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

General Kenobi was a magnet for trouble, but he always survived, always managed to keep a level head, to smile for his men. And they, in turn, protected him as best they could so that he could do all those things.

He was untouchable because he was a Jedi.

He was untouchable because he was their Jedi.

...He was bleeding out in their arms.

“Cody,” his General choked out, eyes fixing on his face, a look of relief dawning in them that Cody didn’t understand. “Cody?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” his Commander said earnestly. “I’m here. We’ve got you.”

“But — I...” the General’s face pinched with pain, but his eyes remained wide and desperate and so, so blue as he stared up at Cody, fighting to speak. “The others? I... trap...my men?”

“They’re all right, you — you saved them,” Cody told him, his voice breaking.

His General’s face looked confused, uncertain. Uncomprehending. “...I... where... the plan. The men. The... we...” More blood seeped between his teeth, and Cody wondered slightly hysterically if his reassuring smile would ever be the same after this. “My men,” whispered the General. “The plan. I have to, I have to—!”

“No!” Cody cried, and he saw his Jedi flinch. “No,” he repeated, a little softer, leaning forward to make sure those blue eyes were looking into his own. “Don’t worry about that right now, just hold on. Hold on.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to speak again, and then the coherency in his eyes was ripped away at the same time as his back arched off the ground; his shoulders strained against Cody’s restraining hands.

“Hold him!” the medic barked.

Cody tried desperately to comply, but the General was shaking so hard it felt as if he were about break.

And then Obi-Wan screamed — a ragged, uncontrolled wail of agony.

The Commander searched the area for his General, but there was no sign of him except the voice yelling in his ears.

“Stay back, Cody! They have a new weapon!”

“What?” Cody asked.

Obi-Wan’s voice was strained. “There! It’s— go! Get back, all of you, get back!”

Cody scanned the droids through the trees but saw nothing. His General wasn’t making much sense.

But Cody was trained to obey his Jedi, and more than that, much more, he knew he wanted to. He trusted Kenobi, more than almost anyone.

Or maybe it was just that he trusted his General more than anyone else, full stop, because he didn’t protest when the Jedi came hurtling out of nowhere, dropping from a nearby ridge, and put himself directly between his men and the droids.

And he didn’t protest as he kept shepherding his men back down the way, while Obi-Wan ignited his saber just as the droids created the slope.

And he didn’t protest as Kenobi let go of his lightsaber, his weapon, and used the Force to guide it through the air, cutting down fourteen droids in a matter of seconds.

Cody trusted his General implicitly right up until the point where he flung out his arms, standing still, like a human shield between himself and his troops, as the last droid, the strange droid with the odd markings, erupted in a surge of flame that swallowed the world.

Even as Cody was thrown backwards, he saw, as if burned into his vision, a glimpse of Obi-Wan standing with his arms outstretched like a sacrifice, holding the hellfire at bay as if by some unseen wall, his expression serene.

And then, as Cody hit the ground and struggled to regain his feet, that invisible wall broke, and Obi-Wan took the impact of the bomb.

His General’s scream went on and on for what felt like an eternity but which could only have been seconds, and there was blood on his lips and his side was torn open and there was shrapnel everywhere, and—

More hands joined Cody’s, gently but firmly taking hold of the General’s wrists and elbows, clutching his ankles, cradling his head and keeping it still.

Cody looked up.

There was Waxer, and Boil, Barlex, and Longshot.

He could see others framed in the background, shielding the General from view and from the dust and debris stirred up by the relief team. Wooley had crouched next to the medic and was handing him items from his bag as soon as they were requested.

Waxer had tossed his bucket aside and was looking Cody dead in the eyes.

“We’ve got him,” he said reassuringly. “We’ve got him.”

Cody chose to believe him.

To trust his brothers and his Jedi.

Obi-Wan’s gaze was unfocused, but he looked at each of his men in turn, studying their faces, searching for something. Bloodied lips formed their names, faint beneath his unsteady breathing and periodic coughs, the moans of pain triggered by the medic’s steady hands.

Each trooper murmured a response, something soothing, something far, far calmer than the worry in their eyes allowed for.

Lastly, General Kenobi looked at Cody.

“Evac is here!” a trooper nearby shouted. “Sticker, prepare him for a lift! Med team is prepped for emergency surgery during the flight!”

The medic — Sticker, Cody registered, relieved that his panicked unrecognition earlier was gone — breathed a sigh of relief, rubbing his eye. With his wrist, because the fingers were stained deep red.

“You’ll be all right now, sir,” said Longshot.

“Oh, I know,” the General breathed, a smile peeking through the blood. “I have all of you, don’t I?”

#oh my god #I nearly killed him this time #my poor boy #the clones love their Jedi #obi wan kenobi #212th attack battalion #commander cody #longshot #waxer and boil #star wars #my writing #star wars fic #tw blood #tw medical #tw bomb #tw injury

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theskywaslookingback · 3 years

Text

[AO3] - [read the rest of the series here]

Martin has the TV set to a low murmur, letting Bake Off reruns play in the background as he combs his fingers through Gerry’s hair. It’s warm in the flat, the summer worming its way in through the cracks of the place and turning everything hot and tight. The fan is louder than the TV, oscillating back and forth between the two bodies slumped on the sofa and the one on the chair.

Jon grumbles as the movement rustles his papers, his glasses low on his nose and gaze intent on the paper he’s reading.

“You know,” Gerry says from his comfortable position on Martin’s lap, “if you didn’t assign so much work, you wouldn’t have so much to grade.”

Martin pinches Gerry’s ear in admonishment as Jon makes a noise of protest from his comfortable perch on the arm chair. Gerry yelps and then laughs, swatting at Martin’s hand.

“I’m just saying, you do this to yourself.”

“Hush,” Martin says, tugging gently on a lock of black hair, “It’s too hot to deal with you.”

Gerry hums, picking his head up enough to wink at Jon who just sighs in reply. Gerry settles back in and Martin resumes his petting. It’s nice, despite the heat, one of the very few days they have to spend together. Jon had offered to help out with a summer class at the university that had been overbooked and Gerry had recently been promoted to manager at the bar he’d been working for, which was all phenomenal and Martin was so proud of them both, but it left them all with shockingly little time together.

Martin’s thumb strokes down Gerry’s neck, rubbing over an old tattoo of an eye, pressing down slightly at the pupil. Gerry huffs a breath into his lap and turns just enough to look at him. “Hi,” Martin says.

“Hey.” Comes the soft reply, warm and fond.

Martin would very much like to kiss him, but that would require a level of flexibility he’s never possessed, so he settles for bringing his own hand up to his palm and kissing the center of it before setting it back down lightly over Gerry’s mouth. He can feel the smile tugging at Gerry’s lips before his palm is being kissed in return and Martin brings it back up to his mouth. “Tea?” He asks after finishing the ritual.

“Christ,” Jon says, letting his papers and pen fall onto the small table at his side. The pen jumps at the small shock and rolls off onto the floor. “Please? If I don’t take a break I may actually start pulling my hair out.”

“Well we wouldn’t want that.” Martin says.

“Mmm, I don’t know.” Gerry says, tapping his finger to his chin as if in indecision, “Bald can be sexy. I seem to recall a time when you shaved your head and it didn’t look that bad.”

“Oh?” Delight suffuses through Martin like honeyed sunshine, “Now that’s something I would have loved to have seen.”

Gerry’s face lights up and he sits bolt upright. “Wait here a second,” he says before hopping off the couch and bounding toward the bedroom. There’s a loud crack, like the door has banged off a wall, and then the sound of things hitting the floor in a hurry.

Martin looks over at Jon, bewildered, but Jon just gives a helpless shrug, looking just as lost as he feels. He’s about to get up and go see just what the hell Gerry is doing when he comes tearing back into the room, clutching something in his hands.

“Look!” He crows, clearly pleased with himself, and hands out a book to Martin.

It’s not very large, about the size of a standard journal, and bound in worn, brown leather. The front of it is scuffed, the top corner bent inward like it’d been stepped on or stuffed somewhere and left like that for a long time, forgotten. “What is-“

From the chair he hears Jon say, “Is that-“

But Gerry drowns them both out with his plea of, “Open it!”

So Martin does.

Inside the front cover is a mess of pen drawings and doodles. A stylized eye, a moth, an anarchy symbol, a middle finger, half of them overlapping and the lines blurring. There’s a burst of black in the top right, a dark blot like a burst pen. In the center of the mess are big blocky letters, all caps.

PROPERTY OF GERRY KEAY

Below that, in a much smaller font that Martin can only decipher from years of recognition and practice.

and Jon Sims.

Martin looks up at Gerry who just grins and flops back down on the couch next to him, pressing hard up against his side like he’s eager to watch. Martin flips to the next page.

There’s a polaroid taped to the center, two young boys staring up at him with twin grins of mischief and joy. The boy on the left has chestnut brown hair cropped short. His mouth and hands look sticky and stained a bright red, the likely cause of which being the ice lolly stick still clutched in his right hand. The boy on the right is much smaller, with unruly black hair and red stains on his button down shirt and a matching red mouth. At the bottom someone had written in a tight, cursive script ‘Gerard and Jonathan, August 1999.’ Someone had drawn an ice cream van on the bottom of the page. At the top, in Gerry’s capital letter font, were the words PARTNERS IN CRIME.

The following pages are similar, photos taped onto the pages, sometimes overlapping each other. Some were clearly taken by Jon’s grandmother - the two of them dressed in suits for some function, the two of them sitting at a table and studying, the two of them asleep in the backyard. Others were clearly taken by the two themselves - Gerry smoking a cigarette and flipping off the camera, Jon holding a bottle of beer, Jon reaching for the camera and looking angry, Gerry riding a skateboard, Gerry on the ground with his skateboard upside down next to him. Some of them held commentary - WE LOOKED LIKE TWATS we were eleven!, Gerry has never once landed a kick flip HEY!!!!, we stayed up waiting for the meteor shower, BEST MATES FOR LIFE. Even more held doodles - ocean waves crashing against a rock, a pair of doves, zig zag mazes and tic tac toe, a lit cigarette and a bottle of beer.

“Ah-ha!” Gerry exclaims when Martin is more than halfway through the book, jamming his finger down at the picture taped there.

Martin jumps and looks at him.

“I knew it was in here,” Gerry says smugly.

By this point it looked as if Gerry had already started dying his hair black and growing it long, almost past his shoulders. His eyes were rimmed in black eyeliner and he had at least two piercings that Martin knew hadn’t come with parental permission. Next to him was Jon, hair buzzed down to his scalp and scowling impressively at the camera, wearing a too large leather jacket and a t-shirt for a band Martin had never heard of.

“Oh!” Martin says, grinning, “It looks so good!” He looks up to gauge Jon’s reaction, maybe even tease him a bit, but the words die quickly in his throat.

Jon’s looking right at Gerry, his face a mass of emotions that Martin is at a loss to try and describe. His eyes look wet.

“Jon?” Martin asks, concern tugging away his amusement and leaving it raw.

Gerry’s head snaps up, his own smile rapidly disappearing in the weight of Jon’s gaze.

There’s a long moment where none of them say anything and the room is stifling from the heat and tension. Martin looks between the two of them, trying to piece together what on earth could possibly be wrong, but he’s coming up short on pieces to work with.

It seems like forever before Jon finally says, “You kept it?” The tone of his voice is raw and brittle.

Martin very gently closes the book and sets in down on the coffee table.

Gerry’s mouth opens and closes a couple of times, confused noises eeking out like the squeaking of a rusted hinge. He seems almost as lost as Martin is. Finally his words take shape and land on, “Yes? Yeah, of course I did. Why wouldn’t I have?”

Jon’s eyes flicker away, to the oscillating fan and then to the TV kindly asking if they were still watching. He picks at a loose thread on the chair, fingers working anxiously. “I thought…after your mother- after you left- I thought that…”

Gerry’s eyebrows pull together, his lips tipping down into a frown. “What? Did you think I’d thrown it away?”

Jon shrugs, first one shoulder and then the other, like the collapse of a building. “Just kind of...assumed.” His hands were wringing together now, picking at the skin gently and scratching at his wrist. “After the...after the funeral we weren’t really talking, and then you were just...gone. Thought maybe…” Jon shrugs again, this time lower, hunching himself down smaller, “maybe you didn’t want to remember.”

Oh, Martin thought distantly. Gerry’s mother, Mary, had died when he was only 16, apparently by suicide. It had been a sudden, violent thing that had sent Gerry’s childhood spiraling in a direction he couldn’t control. Less than a week from the time his mother had died, Gerry had been uprooted from the home in Bournemouth he’d always lived in and made to move in with a distant relative named Gertrude up in London. He’d barely had time to process any of it, let alone let Jon know what was happening. It was over ten years before they’d seen each other again, and the gap had always been a sore spot for both Jon and Gerry.

Gerry makes a choked noise and crosses the room in quick strides to kneel in front of the chair. He gathers Jon’s hands in his own, cradling them together. “No,” he says, so softly Martin can barely hear him, “Not you.” He brings their hands up so he can kiss the backs of Jon’s hands, brush his lips over the knuckles. “I never wanted to forget you.”

Jon’s breath hitches.

Martin watches Gerry hold Jon’s hands to his face and mumble something that he can’t make out. Jon’s fingers twitch in response and he huffs out a breath. After a moment he gets up and goes into the kitchen to make them all some tea, flicking the switch on the electric kettle and rummaging through the pantry to find the container of lemongrass tea that he knows Jon likes and the mint tea that Gerry prefers. It doesn’t take long, but he likes the ritual of it anyway. He gathers their two mugs in one hand, and his own mug of a spicy black tea in the other and heads back into the sitting room.

Jon has moved over to the couch, tucked under Gerry’s arm with the book in his lap.

Martin smiles and sets their tea down.

When Jon looks up, Martin bends down and kisses his forehead and then grins wider when Jon’s nose and forehead scrunch up.

“Okay?” Martin asks.

Jon waves at him dismissively but makes a grab for his shirt when Martin turns like he’s going to take the chair. “Yes,” he says, exasperated, “come here, please.”

Gerry squishes himself into the corner and pulls Jon closer to make room, so Martin sighs and fits himself in next to them on the sofa. It’s a cramped fit, but ultimately worth it for the way Jon relaxes against him, flipping absently through the book of memories on his lap.

“Gerry had a point, at least.” Martin says.

“Hm?”

“You looked good with a shaved head,” Martin says too lightly, “might be a good summer to try it again.”

Jon’s protests are drowned out by Gerry’s instant and joyous peal of laughter.

Jon says something about ‘nothing being sacred’, the tips of his ears burning, while Martin tries to hide his grin in his cup of tea. He almost succeeds.

#fic #my fic #visible world #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #gerard keay #jongerrymartin #((here I’ve been writing for like three hours))#((you can have it))#((edit: just realized this was missing a whole ass paragraph??))#((also added a keep reading since apparently no one will reblog anything anymore))

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detectivesebcas · 3 years

Text

Nightswimming

I did write a little something just for fun before I started my Promptober prep. There’s not much to it, but it’s NSFW. Basically, 30-year-old Sebastian meets a mysterious stranger on the beach.

...

Eight cops in one beach house is a terrible idea. It was a terrible idea when Connelly suggested it, but for some reason Sebastian went along with it anyway, and there’s not much he can do about it now. It’s day one, they’ve already been through almost four cases of beer, and while Sebastian enjoys video games and arm-wrestling as much as the next guy, it’s too fucking hot in the house and definitely too fucking loud in the living room.

He slides open the glass door and steps out onto the deck. The others don’t seem to notice his departure, but it’s not all that surprising. They haven’t partied this hard since the Academy, so everyone’s observation skills are probably pretty compromised.

The air is warm against his chest and legs, but at least there’s a nice breeze, and once he slides the door closed again, it’s a little quieter. He takes a deep breath, head spinning a little from the alcohol, and tries to clear his mind.

The gentle lapping of the waves in the distance calls to him, pulls him forward into the darkness. It’s peppered with the reflected lights of distant ships and buildings, and the wind carries the smell of salt. Before he can process all of it, he is descending the steps to the beach.

The sand is soft underfoot, still warm from the heat of the day, and he moves across it silently, drawn toward the water’s edge.

He stands there for a few seconds. The waves are breaking in front of him, but not with the same fury as earlier in the day, when he and his friends were laughing and splashing and drunkenly attempting to body-surf. Now the beach is serene, dark, and deserted.

He’s not sure what possesses him to slip his shorts down and off so that the breeze tickles him even in those places that are normally covered. Leaving the shorts behind on the sand, he closes the gap to the water. It’s almost as warm as the air, and Sebastian wades in up to his waist, then stands, swaying slightly as the waves push him back and forth, staring out to sea.

For just a moment, he feels small, unimportant, as though he has caught a glimpse of something much greater than himself, and he stands in awe of the darkness, but then the clouds shift and the moonlight is shimmering, reflected in the water, and Sebastian turns around to find he is no longer alone.

He knows immediately it’s not one of his friends. The dark-haired stranger is standing on the beach, gazing evenly back at him. There’s nothing threatening about him- or maybe Sebastian isn’t in a position to assess threats after how many beers he’s had- but there is a certain mystery about him, a pull Sebastian feels the same way he felt the pull of the sea a moment ago.

Sebastian doesn’t speak, doesn’t want to ruin the peace of this moment. The other man doesn’t speak either, just casts his gaze down to the sand, and Sebastian feels his own face go hot as he realizes the man must see his shorts there, must know there’s nothing between him and the water.

He almost convinces himself he can see a smirk on the man’s face and maybe in the light of the moon he can, but it disappears almost as quickly as it came, and Sebastian is left wondering if it was ever there at all.

“Mind if I join you?”

The man’s voice reaches him somehow even over the sound of the waves. Sebastian swallows hard. He can’t form any words. His mouth has gone dry, but he shakes his head. He doesn’t mind at all.

The stranger definitely smirks this time, and then he is hooking his thumbs into his own shorts, and Sebastian looks away, his face burning hotter if that’s even possible. He manages to keep his eyes averted until the stranger has waded out almost to where he is, and even then, it’s hard to look at the other man with only the water for modesty.

“What’s your name?” the stranger asks.

What is his name? He has to think about it for a moment, and not just because of the alcohol. Everything about this is so surreal, so dreamlike that he isn’t even sure he is himself anymore.

“Sebastian,” he manages finally.

The stranger smiles at him, and now that they’re within a few feet of each other, Sebastian can see more of him- dark hair, pale skin, shockingly blue eyes. He’s almost as tall as Sebastian though considerably more slender. In fact, he must be quite a bit younger than Sebastian originally guessed.

“Who are you?” Sebastian asks, a little more bluntly than he intended, but apparently he doesn’t offend the other man, who laughs before he answers.

“Stefano.”

“And how old are you, Stefano?” Sebastian asks, because he can’t think of a more tactful way to approach the question.

Stefano does frown a little at that. “Twenty,” he answers.

Sebastian nods, momentarily at a loss for how to continue the conversation before he asks, “What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”

“Just enjoying the sea and the moonlight,” Stefano replies. The more he speaks, the more Sebastian can detect a European accent, although Stefano clearly speaks English well. “And you?”

“The same,” Sebastian says. “And my housemates were being really loud and obnoxious.”

Stefano laughs at that.

“Are you here with anyone?” Sebastian asks.

“My parents,” Stefano says, a dark look passing over his face. “They are...irritating as well, but in other ways.”

Sebastian nods again, unsure how to respond.

“It’s a beautiful night,” Stefano muses, taking a step closer to Sebastian.

Sebastian isn’t looking at the night anymore, the water and the sky are becoming blurry, indistinct around him, the crashing waves fading out as he focuses more and more on Stefano’s face, on Stefano’s voice. It is a beautiful night indeed.

He knows he should be saying something right now, knows it’s his turn to respond to Stefano, but his brain is stalled and his heart is pounding, because Stefano is stepping in closer and closer until his face is inches from Sebastian’s.

“Kiss me,” he murmurs, and Sebastian closes the gap, dipping his head to press his lips to Stefano’s. His hands are on Stefano’s hips, pulling Stefano against him, his heart leaping into his throat as Stefano’s bare skin slides against his.

Stefano’s arms are around his shoulders, pulling him close as Stefano kisses back hungrily. It’s a little clumsy at first, though Sebastian isn’t sure if it’s because of Stefano’s inexperience or his own intoxication, and it’s hard not to laugh when their teeth bump against each other, but soon they get the angle right, and Stefano is drawing Sebastian’s tongue into his mouth.

Stefano’s mouth is warm and soft and tastes like coffee and mint. The kiss is long and slow and deep, and when Sebastian’s hands slip around to grab Stefano’s ass, the little moan Stefano makes goes straight to his cock, drives every rational thought from his head, and all he can do is pull Stefano closer to him, fuck Stefano’s mouth with his tongue, and let the sounds of the ocean soothe his mind.

After a few moments, he pulls back, trying to look Stefano in the face with eyes that refuse to focus.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “That was…”

Stefano laughs and leans in for another kiss, which is fine, because Sebastian probably wasn’t going to be able to come up with the words to finish that sentence anyway. Stefano shifts in his arms, pressing the front of his body fully against Sebastian, and then Sebastian definitely isn’t coming up with any words at all.

It occurs to him vaguely to wonder what on earth Stefano thinks he’s doing approaching a stranger on the beach in the middle of the night and being so forward in his advances, but Sebastian supposes he’s being a little more forward himself than he normally would. Maybe it’s the buzz of the alcohol or maybe it’s the spell of the night and the sea. Still, it does seem strange...

Stefano breaks the kiss.

“Is something wrong?”

His confidence falters just for a moment, and Sebastian can see so much written on his face- the hope, the nerves, the fear of rejection.

“No,” he says immediately, gathering Stefano in his arms again and kissing him deeply, savoring the little whine Stefano makes as his tongue thrusts forward.

He can feel Stefano’s cock pressing against his thigh, can feel Stefano’s soft, wet skin against his own cock, and he holds them closer together, lets his tongue stroke Stefano’s the way he wishes he could fuck Stefano, slow and gentle and easy. But of course he can’t do that here, can’t do that now. There’s no time and no privacy and no way to make this comfortable under the current circumstances, and he doesn’t even know if that’s what Stefano wants anyway.

Though of course, Stefano has made it clear that he wants something.

One of Sebastian’s hands slides back around to the front of Stefano’s body, slips in between them to palm his cock, and Stefano moans, breaking the kiss again to rest his forehead on Sebastian’s shoulder, breathing hard.

“Is this-?” Sebastian starts to ask.

“Yes,” Stefano hisses. “Please.”

Sebastian’s hand closes around Stefano’s cock, and Stefano sighs deeply, raising one leg and wrapping it around Sebastian’s waist. Sebastian strokes up and down a few times as Stefano shivers against him, then traces his thumb across the head, smiling when Stefano tries to thrust his hips forward into Sebastian’s hand.

“It’s alright,” Sebastian murmurs. “We’ll get there.”

Stefano nods, taking a few deep breaths and steadying himself against Sebastian, who wonders for a moment if this is the first time Stefano has done this with someone else. It’s not the right time to ask, of course, and whatever the answer is, it’s clear what Stefano wants.

He begins to stroke again, letting his hand glide up and down, making little splashes in the water between them, and when Stefano presses closer and his hand brushes his own cock, sending a little thrill of excitement through him, he has another idea.

“Oh!” Stefano breathes as Sebastian’s hand encircles both of them. Sebastian couldn’t agree more, though he is struck speechless by the feeling of Stefano’s cock pressed against his. He squeezes them together gently, enjoying the feeling of soft, wet skin on soft, wet skin, and then his hand begins the slow slide up and down.

It takes Sebastian a moment to process what he’s feeling, how much better this is than when he pleasures himself alone in his room. The feeling of friction on his cock is amazing, but even better than that is the feeling of Stefano’s body against his, the sound of Stefano’s little gasps and moans in his ears, the way Stefano clings to him.

Stefano is beautiful. His pale skin shines in the moonlight, and the way he lets his head rest on Sebastian’s shoulder leaves his neck exposed in such a way that Sebastian just can’t resist. He presses a kiss behind Stefano’s ear, then kisses his way down, letting his lips and tongue and breath raise goosebumps on Stefano’s skin. He doesn’t use his teeth; he’s too afraid that will leave marks that will lead to questions Stefano won’t be ready to answer, but Stefano is so responsive to even the gentlest explorations.

As he draws his tongue along Stefano’s collarbone, he can hear the hitch in Stefano’s breathing, can feel the way Stefano is pressing into his hand with more urgency, his thrusts losing their rhythm as he gets closer to completion. The waves are still lapping at them, and one of Sebastian’s hands holds Stefano steady as the other strokes them both.

He’s pretty close himself, though not as close as he suspects Stefano is. The other man seems entirely lost in his pleasure, all sense of propriety forgotten as he rocks himself against Sebastian, faster and rougher than the waves now, and Sebastian pulls him close, holds him tightly as his hand squeezes and strokes and tugs at them both.

“Sebastian!” Stefano’s voice is muffled as he bites down on Sebastian’s shoulder, thrusting forward to press their bodies together as he comes. He clings to Sebastian tightly for a few seconds before going limp in his arms.

Sebastian releases Stefano’s cock, wrapping both arms around Stefano’s body to support him as the waves push them gently back and forth, the soft roar of the ocean blurring the world around them. He holds Stefano, kisses his way up and down his neck until he can feel Stefano smile against his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Stefano says, sounding suddenly shy. “That was...I didn’t…”

“It’s alright,” Sebastian murmurs, giving Stefano a little squeeze before loosening his grip so Stefano can take a step back and they can look at each other again. “That was really nice.”

He means it. It’s been a long time since he’s been with someone else, and being with Stefano tonight has made him feel good in more than just the physical sense.

“Can I do something for you?” Stefano asks, gesturing vaguely toward Sebastian’s erection, which is still standing proudly between them.

“Oh,” Sebastian says quickly, because he had honestly almost forgotten about that. “You don’t have to. I mean-”

“I want to,” Stefano says. He’s not quite making eye contact with Sebastian, and there’s a blush spreading across his cheeks, but the small, self-conscious smile on his face tells Sebastian he really does want to participate, even if he’s suddenly become rather shy.

“Then of course you can,” Sebastian says with a smile.

Stefano pauses for a moment, still looking down at the water rather than at Sebastian. “What do I…?”

“Uh, have you ever…” Sebastian begins, finding himself at a bit of a loss for words as well.

“No,” Stefano replies. “I mean, not with another…”

“Oh,” Sebastian says, feeling a blush growing on his own face. “It’s not really that different from doing it by yourself. Here,” he says, taking one of Stefano’s hands in his and turning around so that his back is to Stefano. He guides Stefano’s hand down to his belly just above his cock.

Stefano’s other arm wraps around his body, hand splayed on his chest, and Sebastian releases the hand he’s been holding so Stefano can wrap careful fingers around his cock. He’s not going to last long. He can tell that the moment Stefano begins to touch him, tentative at first, but gaining confidence with every stroke. Stefano’s fingers are slender, but his grasp is firm, and he seems to know the perfect rhythm, the perfect way to squeeze and rub that has Sebastian moaning, “Fuck,” and grasping helplessly at the water around him.

He ends up with one hand pressed to his chest on top of Stefano’s and the other arm reaching behind himself to pull Stefano closer to him, and the feeling of Stefano’s body all up and down his back is lovely- safe and exciting and familiar all at once.

It has to be less than two minutes before he comes, but he can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed. Stefano’s hand on his cock and Stefano’s skin against his back and Stefano’s breath on his neck just feel too good, and before he know it his hips are jerking forward and he’s spilling over Stefano’s hand, which continues to stroke gently, milking the last few drops from him before he sighs deeply and turns around in Stefano’s arms.

Stefano is looking quite pleased with himself, but Sebastian only has a moment to take note of this before he throws his arms around Stefano, embracing him as his heart slows down, as his breathing returns to normal, as he comes back to himself.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, tilting his head to kiss Stefano’s temple, then his cheek, then his lips.

“Thank you,” Stefano says, and they both laugh.

They stand like that for several minutes, arms wrapped around each other, as though neither of them wants to let go, before Stefano says, “I suppose I should be getting back.”

“Yeah, me too,” Sebastian says, reluctantly letting go of Stefano and taking a step away.

The silence as they wade back to the beach is a little awkward, but once they’ve both put their shorts back on, Stefano gives him a smile that is equal parts warmth and mystery.

“I hope to see you again, Sebastian.”

Sebastian smiles back. “Likewise.”

His head is spinning as he makes his way back up to the house, but this time he knows it’s not the alcohol.

#the evil within 2 #steseb #Sebastian Castellanos #Stefano Valentini

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chamomileteainabuttercup · 3 years

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Dincobb Week Day 2 - Hurt/Comfort (SFW)

Welcome to my Dincobb Week fanfic posts! I've written stories and scenes of varying lengths and tones. For clarity I should say that most of these exist as miniature AUs of their own and have no continuity with each other or with anything else I've written about these characters, so in different pieces they may be described having different physical features, personal possessions, preferences, et cetera. (There are three exceptions which I'll note as such when they come out.) Thanks to @djarining, who helped me a lot with brainstorming and discussing my ideas!

For today I have two pieces, an SFW and an NSFW - the NSFW is scheduled to post an hour after this one. The SFW is the first of the three linked stories - the other two are SFW and NSFW for a finale (but the SFWs can stand alone if you prefer not to read the NSFW one).

Hurt/Comfort - Sunburn and Grief

“Oh, partner,” Cobb says with rueful sympathy. “Look at the state of you.”

Din doesn’t know how his face looks, but from the hot, tight feeling of the skin he guesses it’s much like what he can see of his arms, shoulders, chest — burned crimson. Even his eyelids feel burned, and puffy to boot. He’s feeling pretty angry with himself. Just because he’d been enjoying the newfound warmth of the sun on his face was no reason to decide to take his shirt off and feel it all over the top of his body. It was a dumb impulse and the fact it had felt blissfully good, so much so that after he lay down to bask on the patch of sand behind Cobb’s house that he jokingly calls the garden, he fell fast asleep, did not excuse it. This is his natural punishment, he guesses, for getting into a “nothing matters any more so I’ll do whatever I feel like” state of mind, exacerbated by day-drinking. He’s not sure if the splitting headache is because of the sunburn or more of a hangover symptom. Either way, he knows he deserves it — and he doesn’t deserve how gentle Cobb is being with him, guiding him into the cool shade of the house with a hand carefully on his unburned back.

“You don’t have to look after me,” Din says. “I deserve this.”

“You’re under my roof, so yes I do,” says Cobb. “We take hospitality seriously out here. Sit down.” He guides him into a chair by his kitchen table and looks him over again. “You’re already blistering, you poor dummy. Well, first things first, you’re dehydrated.” He brings him a tall glass of water. “Slow sips, now. You gulp it down and you’re liable to throw up. I once found that out the hard way.”

Din doesn’t want to be fussed over but he still has enough of a wish to survive that he takes the glass gratefully. He takes a first sip to wet his mouth and throat, then another that he tries to hold in his mouth for as long as he can before swallowing. Cobb’s left the room; he thinks he can hear him in the bathroom, opening and shutting the cabinets. It’s so hard to think clearly; his head aches and he’s still not really sober. He can’t think what he should be doing. Is this sunstroke? What are you supposed to do for sunstroke again? He doesn’t think he’s ever been sunburned before, maybe it always feels this awful and he just wouldn’t know. Not really a Mandalorian problem. And he’s not really a Mandalorian now, so it’s become his problem. He drinks the rest of the water, probably too fast, but if he throws up he probably deserves that too.

Cobb comes back with a handful of washcloths and a big jar of something pale yellow and waxy-looking. “Let’s get you cooled down,” he says, and goes about efficiently filling a big bowl with water, throwing in some ice from the freezer, soaking the cloths and laying them spread out on Din’s chest and arms. They feel shockingly cold at first and he flinches, but almost immediately they seem to grow warm from the heat of his skin. Cobb’s humming softly as he does it, a constant soothing sound. “Head back,” he says, and lays a wet cloth over Din’s face, then leaves again and comes back with something that he sets on the table beside him. There’s a click and a whirr and a fan is blowing across his body, helping to chill the wet cloths again. Cobb keeps re-dipping and replacing them. Quiet minutes pass. The coolness is so merciful. Din opens his mouth a bit and sucks some water from the cloth over his face. His lips really hurt, but it’s still comforting somehow. He remembers how Grogu was hellbent on sucking soapy water out of the washcloth whenever he gave him a bath, and the memory stabs him under the ribs. Why does he have to remember stuff like that? Stuff that was annoying and a little gross and worried him at the time, but that he’d now give an arm or a leg to have back in his life?

“Okay,” says Cobb, peeling the wet cloth back from his face, “I want you to drink some more water. I put some rehydration salts in this glass, so it may taste a little funny, but you need the electrolytes or whatever.” Din accepts the glass and drinks, obediently; he’s starting to feel very slightly better physically. “And I bet you have the mother of a headache, so take these too.” He gives him a couple of white capsules to swallow.

“Thanks,” Din says, his voice even more subdued than normal. Cobb is watching him with his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand. He looks concerned, which makes Din feel guilty, but also irritable because Cobb doesn’t have to concern himself. Yes, Din asked if he could stay here, but he could always have said no, he can always ask him to leave if he becomes a burden. He should leave, it was so selfish to come here just because he was miserable and didn’t want to be around anyone else. He doesn’t know where else to go, though. He can probably go and find Boba. He would give him a job. He should probably have stuck with him anyway, but he felt like he’d imposed on him a lot already. Or followed Bo-Katan and tried to sort out all the Darksaber political nonsense. Not come here just because he wanted to see Cobb. Because he missed him and wished he could have spent longer with him in the first place. And all he’s done since he got here is act like a depressed asshole. And for reasons unknown Cobb is putting up with it. Yes, he’s a good, kind person, and maybe he feels like he still owes Din for his help over and above giving him the armour, but he still shouldn’t put up with it. Maybe he won’t for much longer. Whatever good opinion Din bought back then must be eroding fast. And that thought stabs at him, too.

“Okay,” says Cobb, taking the washcloths off Din’s left arm, closer to him, resting on the wooden arm of the chair. “This is good for sunburn, windburn, you name it. The all-purpose old-fashioned Tatooine skin balm.” He takes the lid off the jar, scoops out a generous amount on his fingertips, and begins smoothing it onto the burned skin on the back of Din’s left hand. It looks waxy, but it’s so soft that it melts into his skin almost immediately. “Mind you, you’re bound to peel, as crispy as you are, but this’ll soothe the pain and help your skin recover.”

Din’s cracked lips tremble, and if he wasn’t dehydrated he’s pretty sure there would be tears in his eyes. Cobb’s hands are so gentle. Being touched on the sunburn hurts, too, but it’s the gentleness that makes him want to cry. Cobb quietly, patiently, continues up Din’s arm to the shoulder, then moves his chair to do the same on the other side. He’s humming all the while, an old Tatooine folk song, Din thinks. Or for all he knows, last summer’s big pop hit, it’s not like he keeps up with these things.

“Sure do have a lot of scars,” Cobb remarks as he reaches the top of Din’s arm. “Looks like some of these wounds were cauterised.”

“I can’t exactly give myself stitches,” mumbles Din.

“Life’s been like that, huh?” Cobb says sympathetically. “Been there. Things are better now.” His voice softens further. “Things do get better, if you give it time and don’t lose heart. Turn your chair towards me, I gotta get your front.”

When he removes one of the washcloths from Din’s chest, Din takes it from him and drapes it over his face again. Being covered is such a relief, even if he has no right to it now. It’s particularly a relief because Cobb’s hand stroking his belly and chest with soothing balm is… embarrassing. His face would be red even if it wasn’t burned. He’s not used to this kind of physical intimacy with… anyone really. The fact that it’s still somewhat painful to be touched and his head still aches is keeping him from enjoying it in any unseemly way, but he wishes he’d laid down to bask on his front. He could just have a burnt back then. Much less… confronting to have your back touched. Cobb’s hand is stroking his neck now; he’s even burned under his chin, which feels ridiculous.

“Okay,” says Cobb, “I need to see your face again.” He takes the washcloth and Din lifts his head again, but keeps his eyes closed. Cobb begins by smoothing a dab of balm over each puffy upper lid. Now he thinks about it, he must look pretty hideous, not just red but swollen. It’s not the sort of thing he’s used to thinking about, or caring about, but it does bother him a little to have Cobb see him look like this. Gentle but firm fingertips spread balm over his forehead, down his nose, across his cheeks, down to his chin. He must have absorbed enough water by now from the two glasses he drank; tears are sneaking from the corners of his eyes and stinging his skin painfully. He feels Cobb’s thumb brushing balm across his chapped lips, the last place on his face, and thinks that will be the end of it, but then he feels hands cupping the sides of his head, thumbs stroking his temples. “Look at me, Din,” Cobb says quietly.

Reluctantly, he opens his eyes. He isn’t prepared for what he sees in Cobb’s eyes, the tenderness and affection but also the trouble and fear.

“Don’t hurt yourself like this again,” Cobb says. “Please.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Din says, although his voice comes out weird, choked and husky.

“Wasn’t it?”

“Trust me,” he says with a little grim smile, “if I wanted to hurt myself I know a lot more efficient ways to do it.”

“But —”

“If I wanted to hurt myself I could just go out back and eat my blaster. Quick and easy. Roll down the dune and let the wind cover me up.”

“Please don’t talk like that,” Cobb says urgently. “Don’t be so flip like you don’t matter.”

“I — I don’t matter,” Din says. “I don’t matter any more. I — I’m nothing any more,” and then the dam breaks and he’s crying. It hurts, it hurts to stretch the burned skin of his face, it hurts where the tears cut through the balm, but it hurts worst inside his chest, around his heart.

“Oh, no,” says Cobb, and pulls him forward, pulls Din’s head to his shoulder, hugs him close, and Din feels his hands stroke his back, his unburned back where thank heavens, he can feel some real comfort from the touch. He still can’t stop crying. It’s a raw, ugly sound that tears his throat, a stupid, inarticulate a-hur-hur-hur. “No, darlin’, no,” Cobb’s telling him, “you’re so wrong, you matter so much to me, you are everything to me. You don’t know how happy I was to see you. To see your face! Or how broken up to see you so miserable. I wish I knew what to do for you, what to say.”

Din still can’t stop crying, but if he’s ever able to do so, he’ll want to tell Cobb that he’s doing and saying it now.

#dincobweek2021 #dincobweek #dincobb week #fanfic #suicidal ideation cw #self harm cw #hurt/comfort

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thran-duils · 4 years

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Use All of Me (P.7)

Title: Use All Of Me (Part Seven) Summary: Fem!Reader x Dark Mob!Steve Rogers. The Avengers are heroes saving the world but in this AU, they are also permitted by the powers in charge to have less than favorable business underneath their guise of mere superheroes. Steve and Tony are at the helm, keeping their empire’s wealth in check, both devious and perilous if crossed. Steve takes a liking to the reader at a party and it may be her undoing to her autonomy choosing to go home with him. Words: 3,097 Warnings: Dark AF, angst, emotional/mental abuse, smut, breeding, death Author’s Notes: I really like writing scenes of them working because… it’s hot. So, part of this is me indulging myself.

Part Six || Part Eight || Masterpost (mobile) || Fanfic masterpost

Steve got back onto the plane, sitting down as soon as he could. He was covered in sweat, having had to run back to the plane. He had sent Natasha ahead of him, insisting he could finish the mission on their escape. He had succeeded too.

“You alright, Cap?” Clint called from the cockpit.

“Yeah,” Steve answered as heartily as he could. He wiped at his forehead, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

“Must have been a tough sprint if it wore your ass out,” Tony commented from further into the plane.

“Got it done,” Steve responded, to a smirk from Tony.

As he relaxed, he pulled out his phone from the bag on the table next to him. He opened it, searching the cameras of the house for Y/N. It was something he did regularly when he was away; he liked keeping an eye on her whenever he could. He enjoyed watching her do regular things, even when doing nothing like sleeping. She was tranquil and he loved her pensive looks when she was reading or focusing on knitting.

Now though, she was racing through the house towards the front door and his brow furrowed in curiosity of what had her so excited.

He switched cameras to the driveway and saw a car pulling in. He straightened up in alarm, trying to zoom in on the driver. He relaxed, remembering their conversation a few days ago. He had told her that she could have her friends visit soon. She had technically asked but had not clarified when.

<> <> <>

They were here!

You came down the stairs as quickly as you could. Natalie and Yua had driven up upon your request. You told them Steve was going to be on a mission across the country, so it would be okay for them to come over for a few hours.

In the main living room, Bryce was talking to the front gate saying he was not informed any visitors were coming.

“It’s my friends!” you told him, slowing down next to him. He shot you a look of surprise. “Tell the gate to let them in or I’ll run down the driveway and push the button myself.”

“Did you ask Mr. Rogers? Does he know?”

“Yes!” you called over your shoulder. You were barefoot, not stopping to grab shoes. It was warm enough out being late summer.

<> <> <>

Bryce stared after Y/N confused. Steve had told him no such thing. He watched her disappear around the corner, and said into the phone, “Yeah, let them in.”

<> <> <>

Steve watched Y/N come out the front door – wearing no shoes at that – excitedly. She practically threw herself into their arms. Jealousy crawled over his skin; she had not done that for him for a couple months. She responded when he initiated sex and kissed him when he came home. But it was never with that much enthusiasm. Perhaps it was her pregnancy hormones; it is what he had to chalk it up to to avoid outright anger.

He dialed Bryce’s number and held it up to his ear.

“Don’t let them stay too long,” Steve ordered Bryce as soon as he answered.

“She did ask you, correct? She said she did.”

“Yes… she did,” Steve said with some difficulty. “I am just irritated I had not been informed exactly when she meant. But she did ask. We just have guests coming over later, remember?”

“Of course. I haven’t forgotten, sir,” Bryce replied.

“Good. I want Y/N to be able to freshen up with enough time. She doesn’t need to spend the whole afternoon giggling like a schoolgirl with her friends. And no, they can’t stay for dinner. Because I know she’s going to ask.”

He hung up the phone.

“She’s quite the little handful sometimes,” Tony commented lightly. “A foxy little handful. But a handful nonetheless.”

“Unfortunately,” Steve muttered in response, returning to the camera.

“You ever watch her shower on there when she’s alone?”

“Jesus, Tony.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Tony returned quickly. Steve gave a little laugh and Tony chuckled, wagging his finger at him. “See. I knew it. Nothing to be ashamed of. She is ultimately yours after all. Totally okay to be examining your most prized possession.”

“Who is over there?” Natasha asked.

“Her friends, Natalie and Yua.” Natasha perked up at the mention of Natalie and Steve noticed. He shook his head, “No. Not happening.”

Natasha mocked a pout, “Oh, come on, Steve. I don’t rough girls up too bad. She seemed interested enough. Even if she was seeing someone at the time. She may be single now.”

“Not happening, Nat. I don’t want anyone else there so we can talk freely.”

“Fine. Buzzkill,” Natasha muttered, leaning back in her chair.

<> <> <>

“Twins?” Yua and Natalie exclaimed at the same time as soon as you told them.

You nodded, cracking open your pop and taking a swift drink. You had asked the maid, Patricia, to whip up some sandwiches to have lunch with them. The three of you were seated in the living room, plates in your laps.

“Yeah. Can you fucking believe it? My first pregnancy and I get slammed with this.”

“Well, I won’t deny you got slammed—” Yua started.

“Oh, shut it,” Natalie cut in, slapping Yua upside the head.

“Ow! Okay, well, also, look at your tummy! I wouldn’t believe that you would be already showing like that if it were just one baby!”

“Yua! God!” Natalie scolded. “It’s not that big, Y/N.”

“It’s going to get a lot bigger,” you joked, a smiling tugging at your lips.

“See, Y/N can take a joke. Why can’t you, Natalie?”

You smiled at their banter, a feeling of loss tugging at your heart. You had missed last month and the month before girl’s night much to everyone’s disappointment. You had vowed to not make that mistake again which is why you had asked Steve if your friends could visit and he had agreed without much resistance, shockingly.

“How are you going to take care of two babies?” Natalie asked seriously as you picked up half of your sandwich, taking a bite.

“A nanny.”

She cocked her head in surprise. “Like… live in?”

You shrugged, “I’m not sure yet. Pepper is going to come over at some point and help me interview people.”

“Pepper?”

“Um, Tony’s wife.”

“First name basis with them now. Nice,” Yua said, nodding in approval. “You’re in with the big people now. Thanks for honoring my request to remember us little people. But, do you really want a live in nanny? If you do, you should get one that’s not too comely. Don’t want Steve Jude Law’ing you or anything.”

“Honestly, if he gave me a break, I might actually welcome the reprieve.”

“I TOLD you. Sex addict!” Yua exclaimed, throwing her hands out, her mouth full of sandwich. “I mean, the pregnancy—" You shushed her, trying not to laugh. You knew Bryce was nearby and you did not want him to overhear. She quieted down and whispered, “I told you. Didn’t I?”

Time flew by; sandwiches long gone, replaced by a bag of chips that were on their way to being completely demolished had taking their place. When you were interrupted with a clearing of a throat, the three of your eyes fell upon Bryce standing in the doorway from the hallway.

“Mr. Rogers said three hours. You still have to get ready for dinner tonight.”

“Oh…” you said, heat tinging your cheeks at being told you had a schedule to keep in front of your friends. Especially since dinner was mentioned and he was essentially telling you you needed to kick them out. “But, there is room—”

“Mr. Rogers said the team only,” Bryce cut in, only looking slightly apologetic at having to tell you that no, you could not ask your friends to stay.

“Dinner? And you didn’t invite us?” Yua teased.

“It’s with the team only, apparently…” you trailed off, shooting a quick glance at Bryce. He nodded once before turning to leave the room. “Steve wanted them over so we could break the news about the babies to everyone.”

“Oh, so we were the first you told? Perfect. I love feeling special,” Yua chirped, not seeming bothered by the fact she could not stay. Natalie on the other hand looked reserved; she had always been more perceptive than Yua.

“Of course you’re special, Yua,” you said, standing up from the couch. “I suppose we should… start saying goodbye. Have to make sure my hair is nice and all.”

Standing outside, Natalie turned to face you before getting into the passenger side. She leaned in, staring at you. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked, the playfulness from moments ago having disappeared from her face. She was solemn, studying you closely.

You forced a smile, “I’ve got to be okay.”

“No. You don’t.”

“I know,” you whispered, giving her hand a squeeze. “It’s not all bad though.”

She exhaled heavily, looking dissatisfied with your answer. “Not all bad doesn’t mean good, Y/N.”

“It’s just… different,” you said, choosing your words carefully. “And I’m nervous. I mean, giving birth to one baby is terrifying. But going through the pain twice? What if they fight to be the first one out?”

That at least made Natalie laugh, relaxing the tension. You took the opportunity to pull her in for one last hug.

“Call us. For anything.”

“I will.”

As soon as they disappeared out of the gate, you felt weight pressing down on you again. You were alone once more. The mere few hours you had together had been reprieve but it had been far too short.

Annoyance built up in you at Steve refusing to let them stay for dinner. Deciding right there, you thought to hell with looking perfect. Simple hair, leggings, and winged eyeliner was the best he was going to get. You turned to go back inside and let Patricia know she could go home because you were going to be the one cooking dinner.

<> <> <>

Pepper sighed heavily settling into one of the tall plush chairs at Steve’s – well, your – kitchen island.

“Where’s Patricia?” she questioned, seeing you removing the chicken from the marinade Patricia had let it sit in for the better part of the day. You arranged it in two prepared pans, enough pieces for thirteen people, including Bryce and Eloise.

“I sent her home early.”

“Oh?”

You shrugged, “I wanted to cook the dinner myself. She’s wonderful but I wanted to do it myself. It calms me down. Always has.” You checked the clock and saw it was almost 5:00pm. Dinner was supposed to be at 6:00pm. The chicken would take thirty, so you decided to wait another ten minutes before putting it in.

“As long as you don’t poison me,” Pepper joked as her nanny, Eloise, came into the room, bouncing her baby. She smiled, “Oh, is she awake now? Ugh, she’s probably going to keep me up all night. Something to look forward to, Y/N.”

“Wonderful,” you said under your breath as you went into the pantry to look for the potatoes.

Pepper spoke to Morgan, playing with her as you turned the heat up to high on the stovetop to get the water boiling and began chopping the potatoes. Skin on, you thought to yourself. That is where most of the nutrients were anyway and Steve could not complain about you getting more nutrients now could he? You were going to roast them too.

“Shit,” you muttered to yourself remembering you were going to roast them. You moved to the fridge quickly to grab the baking soda and eyeballed the amount to toss in.

“What are you doing?” Pepper asked from the counter.

“Baking soda helps draw the starch to the surface and then when you bake them, it makes them extra crispy.”

“Interesting,” Pepper commented, sounding genuine. She eyed your stomach and said, “Are you wearing a loose sweater on purpose? Hiding a baby bump?”

Snorting, you lied, “There’s not much to see yet.”

“You’ll start showing more soon enough. You’re almost four months along now,” Pepper told you.

“Steve is very excited for that.”

“Men love seeing it because it makes them prideful that they put a baby there. But they’re not the ones growing the baby, are they?” Pepper noticed your stare over your shoulder, and she laughed. “Well, it’s true. I think women are our own brand of superhero. Our bodies are powerful. You should be proud of yourself. You’re doing something remarkable.”

You refrained from telling her she sounded a little Handmaid’s Tale-ish. It was true, of course. Your body held a special kind of magic to grow another human being. But like Bucky, she sounded like she was trying to coerce your thoughts and feelings to be more accepting of the situation.

“It’s not what I had planned for myself,” you finally said after debating about what to say. You opened the oven to slide the pans with the chicken inside. Now to prep the salad. Shit, you also needed to get the wine.

“Me either.”

You stopped what you were doing, standing still to give her your full attention.

“I hoped I would be on the board at Stark Industries. It took a long time for me to admit to myself I liked Tony, first off. His attention he gave me, his sarcastic wit. Yes, he was a little forceful, but he saw something there that I refused to see because I was so focused on getting a leg up in the company.” She was explaining all of this to you calmly, but you sensed some hurt beneath the surface. She gave you an encouraging smile all the same as she said, “Things don’t always work out the way you plan. But it doesn’t make it the end of your life. Just life as you knew it. Change doesn’t mean everything is falling apart.”

“And… you’re satisfied being home and taking care of a baby then?”

Pepper was quiet for a moment. “Most of the time.” She shot you a look. “I think you understand Steve and Tony are very much alike in their… ways and temperament. There will be days you pine for what could have been. But it’s best to keep that to yourself. It’s not worth the fight.”

She sounded like she was speaking from experience.

“I have a different sort of power now. You ever seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding? ‘The man is the head of the house, but the woman is the neck. And she can turn the head any way she wants.’” She leaned in. “Make him happy and you can have him wrapped around your finger. It makes things easier. For everyone.”

You bit back a comment, nodding in its stead.

“Trust me,” she said, leaning back in her chair, turning her attention back to Morgan who had began pulling at her hair. She poked Morgan’s tummy gently, smiling, “You little hooligan. I spent a long time on these curls. Daddy loves them, don’t go ruining it for him.”

Self-consciously, you touched at your hair that you had barely spent any time on. It looked fine but you had not put any extra effort into it. You had already made your choice though: a good dinner and sticking it to Steve subtly about waving off his ‘freshen up’ idea for you or do exactly as he asked, letting someone else cook the meal for the guests coming to your home. You had chosen the former.

A line of cars rolling up the driveway caught your attention out the window, and you told Pepper, “Looks like they’re here.”

You went back to attending to the potatoes, prepping them for the oven.

Tony came in first, much to Pepper’s happiness. She rose to give him a kiss and he commented that she looked lovely. He said hello to Morgan, tickling her, before his gaze fell on you. You could feel the heat of his stare on your back.

“Y/N is cooking?” Tony questioned. “Where’s the cook?”

You looked over your shoulder and said with more conviction than you felt, “I sent her home. Wanted to do it myself.”

“Hmm.” His expression and tone were unreadable, which made you slightly more nervous. Gauging his reaction would help you determine what Steve’s was going to be more accurately. “What have you guys been talking about?”

“Nothing, just cooking tips,” Pepper told him without missing a beat. She held Morgan up to him. “Your daughter is in need of some cuddles from her father.”

Steve walked in next with Bucky, Sam, and Clint. His eyes fell on you, running over you quickly. He was stoic for a few moments, taking it in. Your resolve to be a brat was dissolving quickly, even if you knew he would not cause a scene in front of everyone. There was ice behind his eyes, if only for a moment that you caught.

“Seems Y/N is doing the honors of making our meal. What a treat,” Tony said to Steve and you knew then what his real feelings were about you cooking. You had a maid for a reason, that was the message.

The mask Steve donned was well crafted. “Truly. She hasn’t cooked me anything since we first started seeing each other. I have faith in her.”

He came over to you and now that his back was to everyone, you could see the truth in his eyes. He was not pleased with the situation, which had been your goal. Steve’s hand rested on your stomach, his nose nuzzling into your hair, inhaling deeply.

“We’ll talk about it as soon as everyone leaves,” he whispered into your ear. He placed a quick kiss on the side of your face before pulling away.

The dinner had gone well, everyone satisfied with the meal and even more happy with the announcement. That still did not quell Steve’s disappointment in your choice to be preoccupied with cooking rather than entertaining and spending quality time with your new pseudo-family. Talk about it you did not though. As soon as everyone left, Steve turned away from the door, not sparing you a look. He did not answer his study door when you knocked and called his name. You slept alone and cold. He shut you out and you hated to admit how much the rejection stung more than if he had yelled at you.

~~~

Tags: @imsonick , @alexakeyloveloki, @kvzctam, @ironlady1993, @taintedgenre, @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters

#steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers x reader #dark marvel fic #dark marvel #my shit

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dilfbane · 3 years

Text

Your Weeping(Your Need For His Touch)

Summary: When things go south on a mission, you have to confront more than just the sketchy town, cartoon villains, and one-bed hotel room you’re forced to share with Loki. You have to come to terms with not only the consequences of being captured, but also the God of Mischief’s feelings for you - Because for all that he might be an asshole, sometimes, he really does have a heart. Written for the Picture Is Worth A 1,000 Words 6k Follower Writing Challenge by @startrekkingaroundasgard

Pairing: Loki/(Female)Reader

Warnings: Descriptions of injuries and medical treatment, as well as discussions of the inevitable mindset around sacrificing oneself for the mission that I feel like being part of the Avengers would entail. Also swearing, because at its core, this story started out as a bit of a crack! fic.

Word Count: 7.8k.

A/N: So apparently when I have mental breakdowns they result in me writing crack-fic that takes a 180 veer into angst and fluff for absolutely no reason. For the sake of the crack-fic, in this timeline Loki was forced to help the Avengers take down bad guys directly after the end of the first Avengers movie, so… Is that a confusing plot hole I didn’t know how to account for except by making this AU? Maybe. Did I do it anyway?…. Yeah. This really was meant to be a crack-fic about Loki and the reader confessing their feelings set in the bizarre world of meme culture, I didn’t realize there were going to be feels in it until it was three in the morning and all of a sudden this happened. That being said, your girl went there, so enjoy!

“Oh, shit,” You say, as you take in the grimy hotel room. The walls all smeared in what looks like dried blood, the putrid smell of rotten eggs, a crack-screened television with a fine dusting of some suspiciously white powder. And, of course, “There’s one bed.”

“Hmm?” Asks Loki, turning towards you, briefly, from unpacking. He had dumped his suitcase(Magically plucked out of a chaotic liminal space) unceremoniously on the bed’s scratching, pilling coverlet without so much as a second glance at the rest of the room. And why do you need a suitcase, anyways?? You wonder. It isn’t like we’re planning to be here that long. In fact, you hoped with every fiber of your being that you’d be here for as little time as possible, because this town might actually be the sketchiest place you’ve ever seen in your life; no small feat, for a bona-fide member of S.H.I.E.L.D.

You’ve kicked alien ass on a mutated purple Mongolian death-worm three thousand feet over New York City. You’ve run reconnaissance to rescue debatably-magical items sequestered away in an ancient cave labyrinth plastered in paintings and untranslatable runes, gunfire and what could only be described as the baying of hellhounds in the near distance. You’ve fist-fought a gigantic hive-mind robot in a field of artificially sentient feral steel suits - You’ve even survived Tony’s parties.

Yet none of those scenarios hold a candle to this fucking town.

And Loki, the asshat, seems utterly, competently - no, maniacally - unfazed.

“There’s one bed,” You repeat, into the air.

“Ah,” Says Loki, straightening.

“You don’t see that problem with that?!”

“Should I?” He asks you, walking across the room in long, graceful strides to stand in front of you. He wears the same expression he always wears, amused and indifferent, but this time with the addition of a single, elegantly-arched eyebrow. You drop your head, refusing to meet his somewhat-curious gaze. It physically hurts, how attractive Loki is. Not for the first time, you curse whatever god decided that you and him would once again be mission partners - in this case, you belatedly realize, and choke back a thick laugh, said god is, unsurprisingly, Thor.

If you survive this, you make a note to beat his head in with Mjolnir. As it is, you are here in this room with Loki, with perhaps twenty IPP agents and a reckless poisoner dogging your every move, and there’s a high chance that you won’t live long enough to navigate whatever the hell sleeping with your crush-who-has-murdered-men. Ok, so ‘murdered men’ isn’t entirely accurate. More like ‘caused the murder of men inadvertently through his schemes’. It doesn’t seem to make much of a difference, right now.

And what about Loki? He is still staring you down, like you’re some wind up toy moments away from going off. Funny, that, you think. If ever there were a time to not have a mental breakdown, it would be here, with him. You’ve crossed a lot of moral lines in your life, but you will be damned if you let Loki Laufeysson see you cry. Loki is graceful. Composed. Sarcastic. Lithe. Rolls his eyes at almost every statement that comes out of somebody’s mouth. But he is, also, beautiful. Shockingly comforting, in his own nihilistic way. You don’t know what it says about you that you find comfort in statements like, Try not to die, you know that I hate funerals. Part of you - most of you - doesn’t want to. But it gives you strength, somehow, to shrug off the day and ground your flailing mind in evading Loki’s calculated manipulation. I won’t show you my weakness, you think to yourself. It’s not enough, but it’s a start.

“No,” You tell him - too quickly, he’ll pick up on that - “You’re right, you shouldn’t. It’s fine. We have - a lot to deal with, is all.”

Loki nods, seemingly accepting your answer, but his eyes are still narrowed, watching you like he’s calling your bluff. You talk right past that look - have to, to keep yourself sane, to not think about the one bed that looms large over this entire conversation. It doesn’t even look like a comfortable bed.

“We have two days,” You say, to stop yourself thinking of it. And, also, to talk your way through your disarmingly disjointed thoughts. Loki nods. It would really help if you said something, you think. Swallow the thought, hot and thick, down your throat. What’s the point of a mission partner if you can’t even soundboard off them? “The Pink Cobra could strike anyone, anytime. The IPP is planning something in New York - “

“Isn’t everyone, these days, planning something in New York?”

He sounds regretful, and for half a second you want to offer him the reassurance that his very presence offers you. But you are sure he doesn’t know what he does to you - with his words, with the sidelong glances that you’ve felt linger on your form far too long in the heat of a fight. If you didn’t know any better, you would say Loki worries about you.

“We have to shut him down,” You say. Focus on the Pink Cobra, because honestly, that’s easier. “Find out where he manufactures. Not get poisoned,” You add, at the end.

“Yes,” Loki says, tone dripping with sarcasm, “We should certainly try not to get ourselves killed. Failing that, I suppose, we can at least request that no one in H.Y.D.R.A gets autopsy access.”

“Loki?” You ask. Rhetorically. “You’re not helping.”

He smirks at you, then. He knows.

“What do you propose that we do then?” He asks, taking a step towards you, getting so close that you can feel his hot breath. “About the Pink Cobra?”

“Find him.” You say, fumbling, blush rising high on your cheeks.

Tonight?

One bed?

You are screwed.

***

When you were a kid - think really little, Capri Sun pouches and still believing that true love wasn’t complicated - your father told you that every story needed a good supervillain. You aren’t sure if the Pink Cobra counts as a good supervillain, but he’s the least confusing one that you have to deal with - and, as far as villains go, a fine enough challenge to face. He’s like a madman out of some high fantasy novel, with dark eyes and a sable-sewn cloak and a penchant for poisoning. He is adept in all the arts of the woman’s murder; he has a keen grasp on the side-effects of arsenic and camphor and tansy and cyanide and strychnine. He’s been found to have dropped crystal phials filled with belladonna and ricin while fleeing a scene. If all else fails, he’s more than practiced with daggers.

In other words, he’s the kind of villain that none of you, with your flying suits and telekinesis and super-strength, are anywhere near prepared to waylay.

The plan, as far as team Avengers is concerned, is easy:

You and Loki. This town, where the webs of his manufacturing production and the few glimpses of information that Thor has totally legally excavated out of his captured minions has led to. Two days until some undefined grand attack bears down on the city you live in. Two days to find the Pink Cobra and kill him. The more time passes with no headway, the more you think that this is an impossible task, but you know what Tony would say. We have our best minds on it.

The thing is, you aren’t sure that that’s true. The minds that have been set to this task are you and the God of Lies. It’s hardly the best they could have come up with, considering your track records. Actually, you take that back - Loki was a good choice for this mission, because, not three hours after arriving in this hellhole of a city, he seems to have somehow developed the ability to read minds. More specifically, yours. And that could prove stunningly useful.

The scene, as it stands: Loki, sprawled across the lumpy bed, three pairs of crisp white shirts, a plaid scarf, and a full set of Asgardian battle armor neatly hung in the mothball-infested closet, flicking through channels on the grain, cracked television with an apathetic expression and one arm thrown haphazardly over bent leg. Propped up in such a way that he could jump or spin or parry at a moment’s notice, yet perfectly, devastatingly languid, leafing through Nick Fury’s dossier on the Pink Cobra. He looks at you like a god, you think, and then remember. He is one.

You, on the floor, because on top of all the other things this hotel doesn’t have, like two beds, there isn’t anything even resembling a desk, shifting through a glowing, holographed file archive from headquarters that barely runs on your severely outdated laptop. It’s a point of pride to you, keeping the laptop - not because it’s good, but because it’s survived five years of being an Avenger, which is something not even all the Avengers can claim to have done. You’re also fairly certain that Tony’s attempts to update the firmware had infested it with some sort of renegade virus. Elevated above your screen, the files are split into two groups, the sum total of everything that you know about both of the groups that are avidly trying to kill you.

There’s the wealth of information containing the Pink Cobra’s poisoning sprees, but those aren’t the files that interest you, and you know that Loki’s not much interested in them either. That honor falls to the fanatics at the IPP, the Imminently Predictable Psyops organization, which you know even less about than you do about the Pink Cobra, chief among which the fact that they need a new name. Imminently Predictable Psyops?, Tony had said, when you’d finally apprehended one of their proxies. What do they think this is? Some type of ARG?

What you’ve gleaned, from months worth of studying the network, is that they operate as a sort of cringe-oriented death cult intent on ‘reshaping the universe through meme agents’. They’d been on S.H.I.E.L.D’s radar for a long time - upwards of a year - before anyone at team base learned they existed - which, you can almost hear Loki saying, was a failure in the extreme. Currently, it was your job to obsessively worry over whether they were going to send ‘meme agents’ to bust through the door of your seedy hotel room and off you both. You hated - truly loathed - how casually Loki was taking it all.

He’s acting like nothing was wrong with this situation, when, in fact, you’re ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure that this night will end up with one or both of you dead. It is, to say the least, disconcerting.

Kill switch, the holograph files read. Cross-referential Neil Cicierega acoustic weaponry. Your mind sees the words, but doesn’t comprehend them, and you run a hand up to rub at your bleary eyes with annoyance. You risk a glance upwards; on the bed, Loki scans page after page after page with disinterested nonchalance, punctuating the flipping over of each document with a noncommittal hum; as if to say, I understand you. As it to say, This could be worse. You try to slip into that mindset. Certainly, things could be worse.

Actually, though? Not really.

Because, for all the world, the holo-file in front of you just said ‘Pepe The Frog Chaos Banking Laser Initiative’.

“What the fuck does that even mean?!”

“Sorry?”

You whip your head around. Loki, raising an eyebrow. Damn that - perfect - eyebrow.

“Sorry,” You echo back at him, rubbing your eyes again, perversely glad for the break, even if it is this awkward. “I … said that out loud, didn’t I?”

“Marginally,” He tells you. “Yes.”

“Sorry,” You - well, it’s not a whine, not exactly. You’re tired, and there’s no way you’re going to sleep tonight, so you feel like your tone’s justified. “I didn’t mean to do that. I think I’m just - this is. Completely nonsensical.”

“Show me?” He asks, and you snort. He could totally just look up, but -

“Do you have a P.h.d in memes?” You ask him, and, before he can answer, “Because unless you have a P.h.d in memes, I don’t think you’ll be able to help.”

“You’d be surprised,” Loki says. Vaults over the bed with the speed and grace of a panther, filling the air with a cringing wheeze as the rusty springs bend underneath him, and landing in front of the holo-file, pushing you aside slightly to get a better view. When his fingers brush against your side, cool and firm, you flinch.

“Tired,” You offer, when he shoots you a momentarily concerned look. “Just. Need to sleep, later, I think.”

But Loki is already scanning the file, and when he looks up, not five seconds later, you want to hit somebody. Preferably, you think, him.

“I would assume,” Loki says, “That they’re using time travel in order to obtain and store monetary value by way of a Pepe-the-frog inspired laser array.”

“Oh,” You say. You blink once. Blink twice. Still have no idea what that means. “Right.”

“Do you not know your memes, love?” He asks you, smirking. And oh, if you don’t feel things.

“I don’t go on the internet, much,” You tell him. “Too busy, you know, trying not to get killed.”

Loki shrugs. Sidles away from the file. The groan and squeak of those springs tells you he’s back on the bed, giving you some well-needed space, but you can’t bring yourself to look.

“You can sleep,” He says, “If you want.”

“Ha!” You yelp/choke/embarrassingly bleat out into the room’s stale silence. Underneath the rotten eggs, you catch a whiff of bong-water. “No.”

“There’s a bed,” Loki says, cocking his head pointedly and patting the lumpy covers.

“Yeah, that’s - kind of the problem.”

“Why?” He asks you.

“You - really?”

“I was only asking,” Says Loki, re-focusing his attention on whichever Pink Cobra document’s next in the folder. “If you aren’t comfortable telling me - I merely thought, seeing as you were tired, you might take this opportunity to rest.”

“Yeah,” You tell him, “Of course, that’s - nice of you.”

It comes out stilted. Patently off. If he notices, he doesn’t say.

“Are you going to - um. Do you need help, with the rest? The ones I have seem kind of hopeless. I mean,” You say, when he doesn’t look up, “I don’t think that we have to worry about getting demolished by trans-dimensional Agarthian wormholes.”

“Of course not,”” Loki says, scoffing and incredulous, gaze, you are sure, on his page. “If they wanted to kill us, they’d send someone with a gun.”

In reality, it’s several someones.

***

“You jinxed it,” Is the first thing you tell him, when the men leave you. They’ve thrown you into a one-room warehouse, rickety shelves stacked with cartoonish tubs of green goop and mildewing boxes filled with grenades and machine guns and what appears, at second-glance, to be twelve-fingered latex gloves. You’re tied wrist to wrist, ankle to ankle, and your throat feels uncharacteristically parched. Fear, you tell yourself. Apprehension. “Can’t you just - use your seidr to magic us out of this?”

If you could see him - which you can’t, because you’ve been tied back to back - you’d swear that Loki was glaring.

“Do you - do you have a plan?” You ask, after a moment.

“I’m working on it,” He says.

“That’s all?” You say. “We were dragged out of our drug-dealer’s hotel room by a bunch of robed men with guns and the only thing you have to say is ‘I’m working on it?’”

“I’d get it done faster,” Says Loki, “If you wouldn’t interrupt me.”

“Ok,” You tell him, “No interrupting you. Got it. That’s - Alright.”

Unfortunately, not interrupting him is easier said than done, because without the sound of your voice, you are left to your thoughts.

The men had broken in nearly immediately after Loki’s glib, sardonic retort to your worries, shooting the glass out of the room’s already half-smashed-in window and kicking the door in simultaneously. A bit much, isn’t it?, Loki’d asked, and you had wanted to smack yourself on the forehead. Really not the time, you had hissed, but Loki hadn’t seemed to hear you. Do you do this with everyone they send you to assassinate?, he had asked, instead. The men had been dressed in long, billowing cloaks of bright red, embroidered with orange snakes framing a picture of Beaker from the muppets with early 2000’s emo hair. Chaotic meme agents, you had thought to yourself. So that’s what they’re supposed to look like.

You hadn’t picked up, until now, on the snakes.

“They’re working together,” You say, when you can’t stand the playback of Loki being disarmed after spinning and tossing his silver daggers at the men, of the men kneeing him in the balls and twisting your arms behind your back, holding a gun to your head to stop you from trying to fight. Waking up in the back of a van that smelled like microwaved fish. Being tossed like garbage onto the floor of the warehouse, painted in bruises and cuts from the small pieces of glass that had dug their way into your skin. “The IPP and the Pink Cobra.”

“Obviously,” Loki says. Sharply.

“Did Tony not -“

“Stark,” Loki practically growls, and, ok, you’re not losing it but that did make you jump in your skin, “Is an idiot. He wouldn’t know how to connect the dots if they were presented to him in a Buzzfeed Unsolved episode.”

“That’s - You had that on Asgard?” You ask him, momentarily distracted. You wish that you could see Loki’s face, and are very glad that you can’t.

“That isn’t the point,” Loki says.

“I know,” You tell him. You’re scared that your voice is trembling. Scared that he can tell, even though he’s not facing you, how badly your fingers are shaking. Scared that he knows your worst, biggest secret -

That, despite being an Avenger, you are anxious. That, despite him being Loki, despite him being here, and wonderfully, infuriatingly himself, he cannot help you, this time.

You are going to die, covered in cuts and abrasions, on the floor of a meme network’s headquarters, at three a.m in the morning. They are going to come in with umbrellas that shoot poison darts or the ex-presidents Point Break masks and mow you down, and Loki has no fucking plan. You feel the ropes tighten where they’re knotted, itchy and fierce, and you have to fight to keep yourself from whining in terror and nerves. Whining isn’t what Loki needs right now. Whining’s not going to save you.

What is going to save you, you try and remind yourself, is Loki. If you can shut up. If you can let him decipher what needs to be done. If he can figure out some way to do it before the blowtorch-wielding robed vigilantes or some disincarnate meme god comes back and draws their electronically-sharpened fingernails across your throat hard enough to split skin and sinew, send waves of blood down the front of your shirt like a river of sweet, thick red honey and toss your corpse in a ditch by a highway and -

“Y/N?” It is foggy, barely-heard. Posh. “Y/N!” Louder, this time. There are fingers on your wrist, bent backwards to grip you. Squeezing, insistent and there. “Breathe.”

Fuck, you think. You’d started to hyperventilate. To shake, with a full-body tremor that forecasts a great, unstoppable wave of sobbing panic. And Loki had noticed. “I need you to trust me,” He says. “Trust me to get us out of this. Can you do that for me, darling?”

He has never called you darling before, but God how you’ve wanted him to. You feel like you’re being stabbed in the heart - because there is no way he means it, no way that this is anything other than a desperate and cruel attempt to get you to calm down. Something that belies how obvious you are. How needy you are. How pathetic. And yet -

And yet, he doesn’t say it meanly. He speaks like he cares about you, and in the face of your impending death, you want to think Loki cares. You’d let him say anything, do anything to you, right now. More than that, though, more than any of that - as you think back to meeting him, to your blossoming late-night friendship and twitchy banter and the quiet moments you’ve shared with him in-between battles -

“I trust you, Loki,” You tell him, and feel your breath quiet in you. Feel yourself growing still and calm with the certainty that Loki will do as he’s said.

That you will survive this.

That -

“Good,” Loki says. Not relieved, but determined. Leaving you no room to argue.

“So what do we do?” You ask him.

“Nothing,” Says Loki, and you can hear his wide grin.

“Nothing?” You ask him, gawking.

“Nothing,” Says Loki. He gives your hand a tight squeeze.

And then the Pink Cobra walks in.

***

This will end badly, you think. It’s about the only thing that you can think, preoccupied as you are with -

It might be easier not to -

Fuck.

The thing is - and you really do try not to move, not to groan, not to scream - the thing is, you thought that when Loki said he had a plan, that said plan wouldn’t involve you being collateral damage for a LARP-er who’d most likely broken out of an asylum. I wish that we could be back in that shitty one-bed hotel room, you think to yourself, and - alright, not the best timing, but it rips a laugh out of you, spiraling and unhinged, before you feel the Pink Cobra, resplendent in coral cloak and villainous swagger, slug you one in the jaw. It hurts worse than you’d thought it would - you’ve never really gotten injured on missions, you’re usually good at talking yourself out of things, which is why the Avengers keep you around. You can speak any language, as long as you’ve heard it once, and your customary daily awkwardness can shift into persuasion like flicking a light-switch on.

Usually, though, you had an opportunity to speak, and weren’t rendered speechless by -

Loki, if you’re being honest. How much you want to kiss him. How much of an asshole he is. Trust me, he’d asked you. Can you do that for me? The Pink Cobra’s grip is sharp and bruising on your side; he’s slipped his fingers up your shirt and is pressing the point on your side that threatens to make your knees buckle, making bile rise up in your throat, driving you wild with the aching need to flee. He has one hand clasped over your mouth, now that you’ve quieted, and you can feel something - pain, and a pill - pressed snugly into his palm. He will force it down you, you know, if Loki so much as sighs wrong.

You’ll never trust him again.

You wish that you knew what the time was. If you end up dying at 4:20, you’re going to throw fists with somebody in hell.

You wish, also, for aspirin. Avengers training has left you woefully unprepared for the reality of getting punched in the face. You can already feel your jaw starting to swell, taste an egregious amount of blood. You’re pretty sure that the force of the blow knocked a tooth out.

What strikes fear into you, though - a fear somehow deeper than the absolutely bone-chilling, blood-curdling knowledge of what the Pink Cobra might do to you - is the look you’d seen on Loki’s face in the seconds after he’d grabbed you, before it fell into practiced, amused apathy. He’d gone white, and his eyes had blown wide. His fingers had spasmed with anger.

He’d looked as scared as you feel.

And you have no idea why.

It isn’t like you’re anyone special. Not any more than the rest of the team. Less so than most of them. You aren’t a god, like Loki and Thor are. You don’t have stealth-assassin training, like Bucky, or super-strength like Steve. You can’t seamlessly pilot mechanical suits over the New York skyline like Tony, or use a crossbow like Clint, or beat thirty people in single-hand combat like Nat, or change into a nitro-fueled rage machine like Bruce.

You can’t do anything, much.

Except, apparently, die.

You squeeze your eyes shut, not letting yourself look at him. You won’t let Loki’s disinterested face be the last thing that you see. It makes the Pink Cobra’s words all the worse, when he speaks. His voice is dark and sick and timbered, and you feel maggots crawling over your skin as he slots you closer to his body, tightening his already painful grip on you so that you can’t move even an inch away from his tensed, coiled muscles.

“So,” He says, “You are superheroes? How long did it take me, to apprehend you? Ah - three and a half hours? Tell your boss-man, do better next time.”

“I’ll pass it along,” Loki says. His voice sounds different. You can’t place why. Still won’t look.

“You won’t,” The Pink Cobra says. You can feel his shoulders rise, then fall. Feel him smirk. You love Loki’s smirk - secretly delight in drawing it from him, sometimes - but the Pink Cobra’s only fills you with yet more terror. You’ve pursed your lips tightly shut against the intrusion of his hand, but when Loki speaks he forces your bruised, bleeding jaw open and shoves the pill into your mouth. The pain of your injury tears through you like white lightning and you thrash, trying to escape. A keening sound claws its way out of you, fevered and anguished, and you feel your hands, still bound up in ropes, trying in vain to push off and away. The man behind you sighs, and then aims a swift kick at the back of your knees, which sends you down before you can so much as yelp. Your knees hit the floor, and he’s holding you by your hair now, twisting it so hard that you’re almost sure he’ll scalp you. He’s pulled something - too big to be be a knife, some kind of shortsword?! - Out from beneath his cloak, and is pressing it up against the column of your throat. You feel the weight of the capsule between your teeth heavily now, and realize what it means in the split-second before the Pink Cobra bends and whispers, Your choice; stale and rancid into the shell of your ear.

Next, he addresses Loki.

“You’ll be wanting to know what our plan is,” He says. Our, you think. We were right. “Hmm? I know how you people are. Always wanting to know. Tell me this, Mischief Man. What will I get, if I tell you? What price are you willing to pay?”

You know what this is. You know it like the ache in your heart when Loki brushes you off. Like the safety you feel in his arms. You open your eyes. Take in Loki’s face - he’s trying to hide, but you know, you know how he feels. You know what he’s going to choose.

And you know that you can’t let him choose it.

“You’ll let her go,” Loki asks, “If we let you leave here?”

“The thing could be managed.”

No, you think. No, Loki, don’t! Whatever the Pink Cobra’s going to do, whatever the IPP’s planning, knowing’s worth more than your life.

“One thing I want to know,” Loki says. He’s twirling a knife of his own, a slim silver number he keeps on him at all times, and you feel the blade on your own throat start to dig in - not enough to draw blood, but enough for you to feel it. The threat of it. The promise of it, and the coldness of the gleaming metal. “You and the IPP? How does it fit?”

“You want information from me?” The Pink Cobra asks. Lets his blade bite you, just barely, and the strength it takes for you not to scream is more strength then you’d known you possess.

“Yes,” Says Loki. “It’s not like I’m asking for much.”

He meets your gaze. You meet his. You hope that he cannot read it. His eyes are so worried, so desperate, you nearly break down.

“I suppose,” The Pink Cobra says, “That you’ve earned it. Getting here - getting this far - it must have been no easy task. Fine. There is no Imminently Predictable Psyops organization. They were a - what do you call it? Red herring? A scent of blood for the shark.”

“You fabricated them,” Loki says. “Why would you fabricate them?”

He is losing his composure, you can tell. You will never be ready for this. He will never be ready for this. You hope that he will forgive you, and you know that he never will, and you swallow the pill in your mouth.

“Because it was fun,” The Pink Cobra says.

And then your body knows pain.

***

“He didn’t think I would do it,” You say. Your mouth feels thick, clotted with blood and shock, and your body is one raw, gaping wound, but the giddy feeling of victory has begun to course through your veins. Pure, unfiltered adrenaline. You had waited for the moment of death to come, and it hadn’t. The pill is fake, your mind had screamed. But there’d been one thing left, that might work. You had breathed as slowly as you possibly could, forced every muscle of your scared, writhing body into single-minded limpness, rolled your eyes backwards into your head, drew one last breath in, and fallen. Twitched, for a few seconds, like a rag-doll. Then made yourself still.

Loki had slit the Pink Cobra ear to ear, beaten him within an inch of his life as he bled out, screaming like a man deranged. He’d left him a wet, bloody mess on the floor, and the blood had run down the not-quite-steady plane of it, pooling around you and mixing with the blood from your jaw, from the evening’s earlier glass cuts, from the deep, burning stab wound the Cobra had got on your arm.

You breathe, and your body knows pain.

You look at Loki, and your body knows pain.

He is shaking. Visibly shaking. His hands are clenched into fists at his side, and he looks as pale as bleached bones. His eyes are shot red - he had sobbed, when you fell, and a howl had torn through his body. You don’t know what to do, what it means, what the hell even to say to him. His cheeks are tear-stained, his breaths ragged.

You blink, and your body feels pain.

“We won,” You croak out. “Loki, we won.” It hurts worse than anything you’ve ever felt in your life. “I think he broke one of my ribs.”

You don’t mean to say that last part, but you do, and you are the one crying now, because it feels like he probably has, and you can barely even stay awake through this pain. It feels like the Hulk is pulling you limb from limb. Like all of those nightmares you’ve had where Loki decided to leave you - to go back to Asgard, and never speak to you again.

Stupid, you think. He won’t, again. Not after this.

Loki still hasn’t spoken. He’s looking at you, and his eyes are wild. Desperately, jaggedly roaming your body. His fists twitch with every new part of your body they land on.

“That bad, huh - Oh, fuck.”

And just like that, the tension leaves Loki’s body. The dam that had held him firmly in place is broken, and he’s running towards you with none of his usual grace. Dropping down by your side. He hoists you, and you hiss, and the tears won’t stop coming, so you bury your face in his shirt, nose pressed at the crisply ironed collar. Don’t care that it’s bleeding, because Loki’s here now. Holding you. Keeping you real. He’s got one hand stroking your hair and his touch feels right, nothing like the Pink Cobra’s, and he’s whispering: You brave, precious, idiot, how dare you, how dare you throw your life away like that?!

“It worked,” You exhale - it’s the most you can manage. You would laugh, if it wouldn’t shred you to pieces. Loki cradles you fiercely, hands grasping at the sweat-and-blood soaked fabric of your shirt, running over you as if he doesn’t believe you’re alive. “It - hurts,” You get out. Barely. “Loki, it - I can’t -“

“Don’t,” He tells you. His voice has gone brittle, choked with thorns. “Don’t talk. Don’t - Don’t ever do that again. Do you hear me? You will never do that again.”

If I need to, I will, you think. And you wonder if that’s why you’re here. Wonder if that’s why you’re strong. You wonder, and hurt, and believe. Feel the strength of him, clutching you like you’re the only thing in the world, taking in greedy lungfuls of your weeping, your need for his touch.

You can’t talk, anymore. It hurts too badly. But you surge, upwards, up into where he’s holding the back of your head, pressing your forehead into the dark, warm space under his jaw that smells like smoke and peppermint. Loki is taller than you are - you fit right into the curve of his neck, and his long curls curtain you in a bubble of warmth and content.

“Promise,” You say, but it comes out unintelligible, and Loki’s hands are running, so gently, over your skin.

“What was your plan?” You ask him, forcing it out of your body.

“Hush,” Loki says, “Later.”

There might not be any later, you think. Not like this.

***

In the hotel room, an ocean of scattered pages and ceiling mold and blessed privacy, you balance, cross-legged, on the bed. The wind blows wet and cold from an earlier rain through the busted out window. You have managed this out of sheer stubborn-ness, because it is the most that Loki allowed you to do. You’d passed out, twice, on the journey back - he had magicked you there, though it had taken a considerable amount of effort that you weren’t sure you really deserved - and had immediately propped you up on the pillows and stooped to ruffle through his suitcase, emerging not long after with binding tape, cat-gut thread, and a needle so sharp you could feel it slicing your flesh. You had opened your mouth to protest, but Loki had silenced you with a glare that could fell Director Fury. So you had gone quiet, and caved, letting him kneel over you on the distinctly lumpy mattress and begin inspecting your wounds. It had taken a few tries and a Please to convince him to let you sit on your own, and it hurt much more than the manner in which he’d arranged you. You were starting to, slightly, regret it.

“You don’t have to do this,” You say, pulling it from bleeding lips. He shushes you with a harsh, stern tut. “You’re not my mother,” You tell him.

“You could have died,” Loki says. There’s a snarling undercurrent to it that you can’t even start dissecting. “What were you thinking?” He asks. It is easier, though still painful, for you to answer him - he had used nearly half of his Thor-limited magic reserve to perform a basic stasis spell on your injuries, but the spell wouldn’t last forever. You’ll need stitches, he’d said, choking it out like he was the hurt one when he’d seen the number the Cobra’s blade had done to your arm.

“I’ve had worse,” You say, grinning weakly.

“Are you lying to me?” He asks you, with the tone of someone who’s distinctly not in the mood for joking.

“I thought,” You say. Steel yourself. “I thought you weren’t going to do what needed to be done. So I - Did it myself.”

“What needed to be done.” Loki says, enunciating every word.

“We couldn’t let him walk away,” You say, meeting his eyes. Emerald, clouded with fury. You don’t let yourself flinch from that anger. You don’t let yourself run from your choice. “You know what he would have done.”

“I don’t,” Loki says. “I know nothing. I know - I know that you think that your life means so little I wouldn’t care if you were gone. That I could - Live, without you.”

That’s… different.

“And I know,” Loki continues, “That I told you to trust me, and I meant it.”

“I do,” You say. There is no hesitation. “I trust you - Loki. Of course I trust you. It’s not - it wasn’t -“

“Stop talking,” He snaps. Gentles, when you jerk your head away, blink back a fresh wave of tears. “You need rest,” He says. “And - This is. This is going to hurt.”

You nod.

“Best get it over with, then.”

“You should keep your eyes closed,” He says.

“No! I want - I need to look.” You bring your eyes up to your arm, which he’s settled onto bed’s chewed, scratchy quilt without you realizing, but Loki tilts your head up with a barely-there graze of his fingers, achingly gentle to avoid aggravating your swollen jaw. He holds your gaze for a long time. Doesn’t look mad, anymore.

“Are you sure?” He asks you. Like all of this could be over with, if you wanted.

“How bad it could it be?” You ask back.

The injury is horrendous. You’d thought - honest-to-God, you’d thought the pain was terrible, but you weren’t ready for what your arm has become. The line of the wound runs in a craggy jigsaw from just under your shoulder to the tip of your elbow. Small wonder you can’t move it, can barely think through it at all.

“Y/N?” Loki asks, “Are you -“

“Fine,” You say. Blink, and your body knows pain. Try not to let how scared you are show, when you look back up at Loki. The Pink Cobra’s dead. You shouldn’t be scared, anymore. “It’s really bad, isn’t it?”

Loki sighs. Long and low and sad.

“Will I have to - “

“Bite,” Loki says, and shoves something - the sleeve of his shirt, crusted in blood which you realize, sickeningly, is yours - into your mouth. “It’ll help.”

It doesn’t, but he holds your hand through it, hushing you through the pain with furrowed eyebrows, thread and needle flying deftly through skin, air, skin again. His fingers move precisely, deliberate, quick, and when, on one stitch, you audibly whimper, he pauses to lean down and press a soft, utterly unexpected kiss to your hairline. You are unable to fully express how much it means to you, so you do the next best thing and kiss him yourself, pressing him back once he’s finished the last of his stitches and breathing all the the words you can’t say into him. You press every fear and gratitude and lingering nerve into the warmth of his lips, wending your fingers through his dark hair despite the pangs of agony still thrumming through every inch of your body. Your face hurts, but the kiss is all you’ve ever needed and more, and Loki is so, so gentle with you, pulling away with creased eyebrows and a look of genuine concern.

“I wanted to,” You tell him, mustering all of your strength. “It didn’t hurt.”

“Stop,” He tells you, voice cracking, “Stop lying.”

“I’m not,” You say. “I wanted to, Loki, I did.”

“And you wanted to -“

“No.” You are vehement about it, for a broken-ribbed, broken-jawed, freshly-stitched person coming off the high of his teeth and his tongue. “Not that, I swear, never that.”

“Why did you do it, then?” Loki asks. He has steepled his fingers under his chin, and his narrowed eyes pierce through you to the soul. You couldn’t lie to this man, you think, if your life depended on it.

You know that you have to tell him, this time. Really tell him. You don’t.

“”Why didn’t you use your magic?”

“You know why,” He says, and you do. You’d remembered it as the white pill turned to white powder in your gums, as the Pink Cobra’s knife had carved its way into your flesh. Thor had put a set limit on it, as condition of Loki’s release - Proof, he had said, We can trust you. Loki had thought to save it for later, that you wouldn’t need him right then. He had thought you’d talk them out, to safety.

You’d failed him.

“You didn’t,” He tells you, voice raw. He goes to grip your chin, to force you to listen to him, but with a glance and ill-concealed wince at your purpled jaw he thinks better of it. “You think that you failed me? You let yourself be - be beaten and stabbed - just so people you’ve never met in your life wouldn’t die, and you call that a failure?” He runs a hand through his hair. Bites back a snarl. Drops your arm. “I need you to listen to me,” Loki says, “Very, very carefully. You’re going to tell me why now, love. And then we’re going to fix it.”

You raise an eyebrow. Worse than he does, you’re aware.

“Sleep,” He amends, with a pointed look at the bed underneath you, “And then we’re going to fix it.”

“There’s only one bed,” You tell him, “And I feel like I just got run over by a truck.”

Loki huffs, a puff of warm air that you feel, from how close he still is. A grin twitches at the edge of his lips. It sets off sparks inside you.

“I thought -“ You say. Shake your head, and restart. “You would have let the Pink Cobra attack. You would have let him just walk away, and I couldn’t just - let that happen.”

“Enlightening.”

“No,” You tell him, “I mean it. I couldn’t - I’m not - I’m not worth more than anyone else. We’re the Avengers. It’s our job to save people, Loki.”

He’s regarding you carefully, eyes still narrowed, all vestiges of softness gone from his face. When he opens his mouth, it’s to close it. Form thoughts. Discard them. Exhale.

“My mother once told me,” He finally says, “That I would never know what it meant to be human until I found the person who made me want to bleed the world dry. Take all of its’ suffering, all of its’ cruelty, and leech it out of the very fabric of time, just to keep that person from anguish, from harm.”

“I don’t -“

He holds a hand up. You still.

“She never said they would infuriate me,” Loki says. “She never said they would make me laugh, or smile, or question my sanity on a regular basis. She never said that they’d try and get themselves killed, and that I’d have to watch, and that I would feel like my heart was being ripped from my body and torn to a bloody pulp; that I would make the sky rain blood and fire at the sight of it alone. But she was right about one thing - Many things, but also this. She told me that it wouldn’t matter. That I would - love you - anyway.”

“You don’t,” You say, not daring to hope. It’s an automatic retort.

“Foolish girl,” Loki chides, and you blink back fresh, stinging tears. How long have you wanted to hear Loki say that to you? How many sneaky looks have you stolen in the heat of your missions, just to see his smart mind and tricky magic at work? How many nights have you sat up together, sequestered from your insomnia in a bubble of hard-earned banter and peppermint tea, fighting the tight, coiling urge to push aside your steaming mugs and pull him into your needing?

He could not - he can’t - feel the same.

“Loki,” You say, stumbling over the words, “You can’t - This is - This is me we’re talking about.”

“Is there anyone else here,” Loki asks you, “That I could be talking about?” He seems nonchalant, now, as if this - this cruel fucking joke, when you already feel you’re on fire - is merely a fact of his life. “We’re going to leave this excuse of a town, and get you - proper care. Fix it. Because I will not, on my honor, watch you suffer in pain. But first, you’re going to sleep.”

“There’s only one bed,” You tell him, and feel your resolve as it shatters. You cling to the statement like it’s the last remnant of the girl you were and the woman that you’ll never be, “And the shower doesn’t work. And I’m covered in blood.”

But when you look at Loki, his eyes twinkle, mischievous.

“Will you stay with me?,” You ask him, biting your lip.

“You astound me,” He tells you, and rolls his eyes, and it feels - it feels normal. Good. A tender heat unfurls in your heart like orchid petals in the sun, numbing the persistent ache in your ribcage. “To even think that I would do anything else.”

Later, you will ask him why. Why do you love me?, you will ask, and Loki will hum, low in his throat, curled around you just like this first night; your back pressed into his chest, your legs tangled up hopelessly, his fingers tracing nonsense patterns onto your spine in the dawn-light’s syrupy gold. Because, he will tell you, trailing a line of soft kisses up the scar on your arm - an ugly thing, but it functions, mostly, and only ever seems to hurt on the days when he isn’t there - I was given no choice.

But if you’d had one?”, You will ask, and spin around, propping yourself on your elbow.

You tempt me, He’ll tell you, baring his sharp teeth. Shouldn’t you know better than that?

You will lie there, next to each other, not needing a single word. Because you will know. Because he will have told you, a thousand times, a thousand ways, exactly how he feels about you.

Tonight, though, isn’t that night. It takes a moment to get settled in his hold, and the rain spits and drums against what glass remains in your window, slicking the carpet with dark, greasy splotches. It figures, you think, that even the rain in this city has the smell and the texture of oil. You feel like a bag of bones, stretched too thin. But safe, in his arms, in a way that you’ve never felt, before now. Loki is with you, you realize. Wrapped around you like a traveler’s cloak, the comforting weight of a slim, balanced blade at your side in a fight. He is cool, around your afraid. Warm, where his clever fingers whine and needle their way through your skin to your heart.

“I hate you,” You tell him, “You know that?”

Loki laughs, a deep, rumbling purr.

“Go to sleep.”

#picture1000wordswc #pic 4 #loki/reader #female reader #crack #so much crack #just a lot of references to bad memes and cringe movies that turns into all the angst #because for some reason i’m like this #guess which character from another popular franchise i based my crack villain off #soundtrack to this was 800 percent mouth moods #in all seriousness though huge congrats to @startrekkingaroundasgard #you deserve all the love #unfortunately i showed my love by writing insane crack fic but HEY #loki is in it so hopefully that makes up for the c r i n g e

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soulwillower · 4 years

Text

tozier • beverly marsh

(beverly marsh x reader smut)

part two of this series! <3

requested: okay so once regular requests open, here's my idea. so the reader and richie are siblings and they absolutely hate each other and to get under his sisters skin, he fucks her best friend. so in sheer anger she decides to fuck all of his

warnings: swearing, smut, mentions of recreational drug use, oral sex (fem receiving), woooo thats it i think, unedited as usual!

[losers and reader are 20+ in this.]

2.6k words

♡

you sigh as you slam your pillow over your head, once again trying to drown out the noise of the group of howling, feral 20 year olds in the room next to yours.

it's not even extremely late - it's only midnight, but you were up all day doing chores around the house and you got kept up late last night by richie, yelling as loud as he could at his pc while he drank enough monster energy's to power a small boat. you groan.

you are (shockingly!) still very pissed at richie. you haven’t said barely any words to him, no matter how many times you’ve wanted to scream i fucked your best friend!

you want him to feel exactly how you feel, because now you don’t even have your best friend to talk to about it. you sigh, flipping around.

slowly, you rise from your bed and stalk into the hall, sighing as you hear stan uris through the door mutter something along the lines of fucking a girl in the shower. you try not to turn red as you take a moment to imagine that situation.... with him... you shake your head. he's probably talking some big game, anyways.

you push open the door, remembering what you'd gotten up for as you walk into richie's room, wrinkling your nose at the smell of weed. all the occupants look up, making your stomach tingle at the attention. you make eye contact with your brother.

"can you and your friends be a bit quieter?" you ask, knowing you sound like a brat but too annoyed to really care. richie scoffs, "this is my room." is all he adds and you roll your eyes. stan snorts from the corner and you throw a half hearted glare to him, which he returns with a half-smirk and a lifted brow. your stomach flips.

you ignore the burning in your face as you realize all six of richie's hot friends are staring at you, and you grumble. "we have a basement and a living room for a reason. bedrooms are for sleeping." you say and then you catch ben's eye and immediately turn red at his look and the words you'd used.

right.... you hadn't ever mentioned the other night with ben since it'd happened - he seemed perfectly content to just move on. still, you keep finding your mind slipping back to it and how good it felt to get back at richie while having a great time simultaneously.

“you’re such a prude, aren’t you?” richie mutters. you snap your head to him, narrowing your eyes. “what’s that supposed to mean, asshole?” you spit.

richie smirks, lifting a brow. “you need to live a little, sis. just get laid or something.”

in the corner of the room, ben huffs a short laugh.

you can’t even look at him, trying to hide your smirk as you open your mouth, about to drop the bomb that you actually did get laid the other night, as a matter of fact -

“l-lay off her, r-rich. i’m sure y/n do-does just f-fine.” bill says, a smirk on his face as he winks at you. you feel like you might pass out from his words, your face heating up.

“what the fuck do you mean, denbrough?” richie then spits to bill, who smirks at you and then richie.

“-he’s saying that y/n definitely gets way more than you do, trashmouth.” stan pipes up, and your chest may just fucking implode. you gape at stan, who just grins to himself and nods to richie, who’s fuming. you smile to yourself, your chest warm and fuzzy at his look.

“they’re right, rich. i mean, have you seen her?” bev says, making you smirk, heart beating faster than you ever thought possible. you can’t believe the words falling from richie’s friend’s mouths - even if they’re just trying to piss richie off, you’re still flattered.

“guys.” mike says, but he’s grinning and he shrugs with a wink when you make eye contact.

richie looks like he could punch a hole through the wall above stan’s head. “shut the fuck up, you assholes. my best friends are not fucking allowed near my sister.” he hisses, face red in anger.

“well isn’t that ironic.” you spit, glaring at him as you cross your arms. bev smirks as she looks at you and mike snorts into his hand in the silence.

"god. can you just fucking piss off, y/n?" is all richie says, but then after second thought rises to his feet, "actually, i've got somewhere to be."

a little put off by his change in attitude, but more relieved for richie to be out of your hair, you grin. "finally."

his friends all start to gather their things and you deflate a little at the thought of not being able to waltz around your house with tons of eye candy lingering at every corner, but at least richie will also be gone.

"get fucked, richie." you say as a farewell, turning to leave when beverly marsh speaks up from where she lays across bill's legs smugly.

"hey y/n, can i borrow a hair tie?" she asks, making your face turn pink as you look at her. you nod though, turning to walk to the bathroom in search of an elastic. she follows, shutting the door on her way out and pulling up her jeans a bit, making you swallow as you see a sliver of her stomach.

you'd always thought she was hot - out of richie's friends, certainly one of the most well-rounded and tolerable, right up there with bill and stan. bev makes you nervous in a way that excites you and it's always been that way, since you first met her a few years ago.

she's humming a song you're not familiar with as she hops onto the counter, the sound of the front door shutting downstairs leaving you in relative silence.

why does she make you so nervous?

you rummage through the pull-out drawer and try not to stare at her figure in the mirror as you look up briefly. "y/n?" she asks and you look up at her in question.

"yeah, bev?" you ask, sounding breathless. you curse yourself silently as she smirks.

"i don't really need one." she says, making you look up and raise a brow. "really?" you ask, smiling at her as she grins at you, nodding and chuckling as she leans her head against the mirror. "i just wanted to get away from them. they're such assholes, sometimes. i like girls much more, anyways." she says and you almost choke as she winks at you.

your mind flashes, at that moment, to the hickey that'd been sprawled over cecily's neck at the pool the other day and you see red for a moment. then, your mind wanders to how it'd feel to have hickies like those pressed all over your own neck, from someone like bev. you clench your thighs and curse yourself, knowing bev was flirty but she probably wasn't actually interested. you're richie's sister, after all.

"don't you?" she asks, continuing your thought, and it makes you grin - maybe she did like you like that after all. you smile at bev, "we just get each other, don't we?" you say flirtily, leaning against the sink with your hands on either side of her thighs. you're unsure where this confidence comes from, but you think it has something to do with the way bev is staring at you.

her eyes glow with a challenge at your words and she boldly places a hand on your neck. she hums out, "exactly."

you're feeling confident as ever as you lean forward, clashing your lips against bev's harshly. she meets your lips with a fire and passion you barely knew existed and it takes you back as she pulls you close, legs wrapping around your waist.

her tongue is warm as it slides against your lips, making you groan into her mouth. you smell orange shampoo on her and a sweet perfume that engulfs you as she slides against you so you're both standing, your hand on her neck and waist and hers sliding down to grip your ass. you whimper lightly and she grins against your lips, mouth leaving yours to suck along the column of your throat. "bev..." you mutter, pulling her flush against you as her feet hit the ground and she suddenly slams you lightly against the wall. you gasp and her hands slowly move to palm your breasts.

you whimper as you tug on her shirt and she pulls away with glossy lips and a grin to pull her shirt over her head. you bite back a groan as your eyes scan her body, chest heaving as she watches you, a black lace bra contrasting against her soft skin and freckles.

you pull her back against you and her lips meet yours with fire, making you weak at the knees.

"you know, they're all gone." she whispers against your lips and you whimper as you feel her fingers dance across the apex of your thighs, slowly rubbing your clit over your clothes. "we're all alone."

her words send shivers down your spine.

you slowly pinch her nipple through the lace of her bra and she lets a small moan that makes you wetter than you already are and you bite your lip as she sinks to her knees.

you run your hand through her fiery hair, gazing at her with need as she smirks up at you and presses kisses to your stomach. “god, bev. please.” you say quietly.

she kisses your clit softly and you have to scrunch your eyes closed in order to not buck your hips in pleasure.

the way she slides your underwear down your legs, kissing the skin as she goes gives you goosebumps and you have to grip the towel hanging next to you because you can feel her breath on your aching heat. "fuck." you say quietly, eyes screwed shut out of desperation.

bev lets out a small hum, one hand falling to your thigh to steady you as she licks a bold stripe up your heat suddenly.

you let out a loud whimper, eyes opening and catching the sight of your reflection in the bathroom mirror - you're braced against the wall, bev on her knees in front of you as her tongue works slow figure eights on your clit, making your stomach clench and your toes curl.

her tongue makes you clench and she holds your legs open with her hand, moaning lightly as you tug on her hair.

and then she slips a finger inside you, sliding easily into your heat and pumping fluidly, making your legs turn to jelly.

she looks up at you suddenly through her thick lashes and grins as she presses a kiss to your swollen clit, slipping another finger inside you and moving with enough fervor to make you see stars. “does that feel good, babe?” she mutters lowly, making you melt and moan.

"bev, oh my god." you say quietly, hand falling into her red strands and carding through the curls, tugging as her tongue returns to rub tight circles on your clit.

you're a whimpering mess, bucking your hips and gasping, trying to chase that pleasure building up in your body as bev's hands pin your hips back against the wall.

your head falls back against it with a thud and you can't stop moaning her name, her tongue and fingers making you forget your own name. she pumps into you perfectly, hitting your spot perfectly as you whimper helplessly, chasing your high.

"please, bev." you mutter desperately, your hips bucking and she suddenly pulls away from you, her lips glistening as she stares up at you, fingers stopping.

"already that close, y/n?" her voice is teasing, mischievous and alluring and it makes you whimper again. you grow red as you look away, nodding shyly. she tuts, pressing a small kiss to your clit.

“someone needs to take better care of you.” she says lowly to herself, making your stomach erupt in butterflies. she flatters her tongue against you, swirling it and flicking against your clit as you let out another moan. “i’m so close, please.” you plead. her fingers slip into you again and you clench up again, her fingers hitting the perfect spot in you and you moan her name.

you hit your high as you stare at her between your thighs, eye lashes kissing her cheeks as her tongue flattens and she laps up your juices, moaning quietly. you grow weak and her hand stabilizes you up as you ride out your high, clenching so tight around her that her hand stops.

as she pulls away, she kisses your overstimulated clit and it makes you jump a bit.

“fuck, that was so hot.” she says with a grin, kissing your stomach gently. you sniff lightly with a sheepish smile. "do you - you want to stay the night?" you ask, out of breath. she stands to her full height and grins at you, eyes bright and glowing with mischief, "hell yeah, babe."

when richie comes home the next morning, he’s startled to see his best friend beverly in his kitchen. "hey, what're you doing here, bevvie?" richie says, yawning into his hand and walking over to grab a slice of bacon from the plate next to the stove.

beverly swats his hand before he can grab it and turns to him as she flips a pancake. "hands off, tozier. these are for your sister."

he lifts a brow, grabbing a cup to fill it with grapefruit juice as he shakes his head. "very funny. why are you here, though? for real."

beverly ignores his question. "where were you?" she answers with instead, which the tall boy regards with only passing suspicion. "i saw cecily last night." richie says into the rim of his cup casually, making bev gape at him.

he's got the largest hickeys blossoming on his neck and a trail that goes downward, towards his shirt collar. bev rolls her eyes, “you’re a dick, richie.” she says.

richie shrugs, looking at her with a grin. “y/n doesn’t care, she was just messing around about being mad.” “don’t think she was messing around when she rocked your shit the other day. that bruise just faded on your cheek.” bev states with a pointed brow.

"well then we just don't tell y/n." he smiles with a wolfish grin and beverly rolls her eyes, her lips curving into a secretive smirk that richie barely picks up on. “so any reason why you decided to make breakfast in my kitchen?” he asks.

bev grins, “oh, right. i fucked your sister last night. i figured it’d be nice if i made her breakfast for when she wakes up since i have to leave.”

it’s silent as richie stares at her for a few moments and bev relishes in the feeling of finally shutting richie up for once.

but the moment is over too soon as richie raises his brows, chuckling. “you’re fuckin’ weird, marsh.” he says.

beverly almost laughs at his oblivious stupidity. he doesn’t actually believe it? fine, she’ll let y/n have the pleasure of telling him eventually. revenge tastes good no matter if he knows or not.

bev scribbles a note that says, “y/n ;)” and turns off the stove.

“give your sister a kiss for me, kay tozier?” she asks with a wink, kissing richie’s cheek after she takes off maggie’s apron and puts the note next to the plate of pancakes and bacon.

richie watches her leave with furrowed brows, still oblivious.

tag list: @gabiatthedisco @blisshemmings @stenbrozier @simplesammyx @brxken-heartsclub @clownsloveyou @baby-yoda-a @moon-shine-baby @daughter-of-the-stars11 @trashedfortozier @oceandog13 @finnskindofwoman @kait-tozier @upamongthestarss @fiantomartell @beverlyparkerr @beauregard-s @leighjaenikhowell @cowbellies @deepestofwaters

#beverly marsh x reader #beverly marsh smut #losers x reader #losers club x reader #richie tozier x reader #stanley uris x reader #bill denbrough x reader #ben hanscom x reader #mike hanlon x reader #eddie kaspbrak x reader

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