#raised stone bar top

[curlyrps]

Rustic Kitchen - Kitchen

[francinesoleil]

Rustic Home Bar Large rustic galley ceramic tile wet bar design idea with granite countertops, raised-panel cabinets, dark wood cabinets, multicolored backsplash, and stone tile backsplash.

[imaginedisish]

Wild Horses (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Proofreading took way longer than I thought; sorry this didn't go up on time, y'all. Anyway, the song references came from an idea from an anon, but the fic itself isn't a request. Working through requests now (sorry I haven't been doing more). I really like this fic, and I hope you guys do too. There are a couple of songs in this one, but "Wild Horses" by the Stones is def a Logan song. Enjoy!

Summary: Logan takes you out for a friendly drink...that ends up being more than just friendly.

Warnings: 18+ SEXUALLY EXPLICIT CONTENT MINORS DNI! Oral (f!receiving), Fingering, Unprotected PIV (wrap it up), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, porn with very little plot, implied!age gap (Logan is older than everyone, tho?), friends to lovers, alcohol consumption, cursing, feelings, f!reader/afab!reader, def some grammatical errors, I think that's it.

Word Count: 4,362 back on my BS

You’re sitting in a chair in the hallway, decompressing from the day—which, to be honest, is impossible in a place like this. Kids playing, running, yelling, T.Vs blaring all across the mansion. It’s always so noisy, always so active. And sometimes, that can be too much. 

A cacophony of voices bursts down the hall. One is bassy, louder, angrier than all the others. You smile softly to yourself. Logan. You can hear his footsteps against the hardwood floors as he makes his way towards the front door. He has his keys in his hand, and his leather jacket on his back. 

You perk up, trying not to seem upset that he’s on his way out. Although it’s probably no use; you wear your heart on your sleeve. You care about Logan, and that care extends beyond friendship. You’ve wanted him for months, but you’re not quite sure if he’ll ever feel the same. You’re friends—close friends—but just friends. 

He looks over to you, his frown suddenly turning to a smile. “I’m going out,” he says, nodding to the door. “Wanna come?”

“S-sure,” you stutter, pushing yourself up from your chair. You look down at your denim shorts and tank top. “I don’t know if I should change tho—” “You look perfect,” Logan says, shaking his head and smiling. Your breath hitches in your throat, and you try your best not to overthink Logan’s words. His hand is at your back, warm and undeniably massive, guiding you with him to the door. 

A cough erupts from behind you. “Where are you going, Logan?” You know exactly whose voice that is. 

You and Logan turn around, and there’s Scott. “Out,” is all Logan says, gruff and short. 

“We aren’t done talking, and you still have to run drills with—”

But Logan is tugging your arm and leading you out the door and towards the garage before Scott can get a word in. 

“Logan!” Scott calls from the front door. But Logan doesn’t stop, his hand now clasping around yours. He raises his fist in the air and unleashes just one of his claws: the middle. You giggle as Logan leads you inside the garage.

He walks you to the passenger door of his truck, opening it for you and closing it once you’re safe inside. It doesn’t hit you until he’s walking around the front that he opened the door for you. 

He slips in the driver’s side door and turns the key in the ignition, the truck springing to life. He pulls out of the garage, down the driveway, and through the gate. 

“So, where are we going?” You ask, turning to face Logan. 

His eyes drift between you and the road, a small smile playing on his lips. “Thought maybe we could get a drink,” he says, eyes on you again. There’s something behind his stare—a softness, maybe. It’s intoxicating and dizzying. It’s so distracting that you have to force yourself to acknowledge what he said.

“Sounds good,” you finally answer, smiling back at him. He nods, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift, dangerously close to your bare thigh. 

The ride to the bar is quick and quiet, but not uncomfortable. You feel safe with Logan, cozy, like you could have spent the entire night just driving around with him. The bar looks like a little cabin—definitely Logan’s kind of place. It’s quaint, and perhaps a tad divey. But you don’t mind. You’re with Logan; that’s all that matters.

He slips out of the car, and you follow suit. He’s at your side when you open the door, smirking, holding out his hand to help you out of the truck. You take it, stepping onto the gravel of the parking lot. You think he’ll let go, that he’ll drop your hand to your side, but he doesn’t. 

Logan leads the way into the honeyed, yellow light of the bar. It spills across the porch as he opens the door, the light consuming you as you walk inside. The bar is warm, filled with couples and friends sharing drinks and listening to music. Some people are dancing over by a set of speakers. You smile, instantly recognizing the song blaring from the speakers. 

I met her in a club down in old Soho Where you drink champagne and it tastes just like Coca-Cola C-O-L-A, Cola

You sing along, mouthing the words to Logan. A grin spreads across his face, his gaze flitting between your eyes and your lips. “You know this song? You like The Kinks?” He asks, his eyes narrowing as he tugs you over to a stool at the bar. 

“Of course! How old do you think I am?” You ask, moving your shoulders to the song as you sit down. 

He smirks, shaking his head. “Younger than me!” He shouts over the music, sitting down next to you, finally letting go of your hand. You wish he didn’t. You wish he held on. 

“Everyone is younger than you!” You shout back, singing the lyrics and swaying your head from side to side. 

Well, I'm not the world's most physical guy But when she squeezed me tight, she nearly broke my spine Oh, my Lola Lo-Lo-Lo-Lo-Lola

Logan is watching you—watching the way your lips make that O in Lola, the way your hips shake in the chair, the way you throw your head back laughing when you mess up a line. He’s entranced by you. You finally notice him watching, and you giggle, hiding your face in your hands. 

Your eyes widen as his hands come up to yours, tearing them away from your face. “No hiding,” he says softly, so only you can hear him. “It was cut—”

“What’ll you two be having?” The bartender interrupts, arms crossed against his chest, towel thrown over his shoulder. 

“I’ll have a Coors, and she’ll have…” Logan turns to look at you, and you nod towards him. He takes the hint immediately, as if he can read your mind. “The same as me.” You smile as the bartender walks away to get your drinks. 

You part your lips, almost ready to ask Logan what he was going to say before the bartender cut him off, but you’re interrupted again as your beers are placed in front of you. 

“Thanks, bub,” Logan says, pulling out a twenty-dollar bill and slapping it on the counter. The bartender grabs the bill and walks off to help the next patron. 

“So…” you trail off, watching as more people drift to the makeshift dance floor. “Have you been here before?” You ask, making conversation. There’s something about being out with Logan that makes you more nervous than usual. He’s never awkward to be around or hard to talk to. But in here? Out together? Alone? This is different. It’s almost like…

A date. 

“Just a few times,” Logan answers, snapping you back to reality. His long fingers wrap around the neck of his bottle, and he takes a swig. You catch the way he licks the little droplets on his upper lip, his tongue darting out all quick and gentle. You can’t help but wonder what his tongue would feel like against your own lips, and in other places too. Now is certainly one of those moments when you’re thankful Logan isn’t a telepath.  

You trace your fingers over the wet, cool bottle and take a swig, too. It’s ice cold, the alcohol burning at the back of your throat ever so slightly. Lola fades out, and Whole Lotta Love starts up. You nod your head, singing along in between quick sips. 

Logan shakes his head. “This one too?” 

“Oh my god, old man,” you remark sardonically. “Do you think I live under a rock?” 

“Didn’t peg you for a Zeppelin girl,” Logan says, tipping his bottle to you. “I’m impressed.” 

“Well, maybe there’s a lot you don’t know about me,” you say, meeting his bottle with yours. The clink is almost suppressed by the bass of the music. You bring the beer back to your lips and watch as Logan sips, too.

“Yeah?” He asks, pulling the bottle away. “What else don’t I know?” He leans in, his shoulder brushing yours. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the music pumping through your body, but you find the courage to lean into him. You can smell him—the pine and musk and tobacco on his flannel, his body. 

Your face is inches from his as you turn towards him, your noses practically touching. “I like dancing,” you hum. You down the last dregs of your beer and set it on the counter, grabbing Logan’s arm as Robert Plant’s voice croons throughout the bar. 

Way down inside

He knocks back the last of his beer, placing it on the counter as you tug him to the outskirts of the dance floor. 

Woman, you need, yeah

“I don’t usually dance,” he says, his hands finding your waist despite his words. He squeezes softly.

Love...

“But I’ll dance with you,” he says against the shell of your ear. And then his hips are rocking into yours, swaying with you to the beat. He’s never been this close, never this intimate with you. His lips ghost yours as the guitar and the drums echo against the wood floors and walls of the bar. 

Shake for me girl

I wanna be your backdoor man

You need more, need him closer. Logan pulls you in—chest to chest—his grip on your waist tightening. His hands slide around your back, slipping under your shirt. Your heart beats out of your chest as his fingers trail up and down your back. His lips find your ear again. 

“You’re pretty when you dance,” he whispers. “Pretty all the time.”

You look up at him as the song fades out. You part your lips to say something, but the next song starts up before you can find the words. You recognize the opening riff immediately, the acoustic guitar strumming gently through the speakers. It’s slow and soft. Logan pulls you back into his arms, closer this time. His palms rest against your lower back, and you let your arms wrap around his neck. 

“Don’t tell me you know this one too,” he husks, his lips at your ear again. 

Graceless lady

You know who I am

You know I can't let you

Slide through my hands

You smile into the crook of his neck. “Of course I do,” you answer. “Wild Horses. The Stones.”

“God, you’re fucking perfect,” he murmurs, pressing his hips harder against yours. You let your head fall to his shoulder as you lean into his chest. You can feel that ache between your legs spreading like wildfire. Friends don’t talk like this. Friends don’t dance like this. 

Because maybe you two aren’t friends. Maybe you never have been. 

“Logan,” you call, lifting your head. 

He’s just centimeters away, his eyes locked on yours. He tightens his hold on your lower back, your foreheads pressing together. “Wanted you for so long, pretty girl.” 

And then his lips find yours, consuming you, engulfing you like an open flame. He’s warm and soft, better than black treacle and golden honey and maple syrup. It’s slow and languid, his arms wrapping around you tighter, trying to pull you closer. 

Wild horses

Couldn't drag me away

Wild, wild horses

We'll ride them someday

You reluctantly pull away as the song goes on, looking up at Logan—looking for more. 

“We should get out of here,” he says, keeping one hand firmly around your waist as he guides you off the dance floor and towards the door.

He grips you tightly as you head to the truck, practically breaking the passenger door off the hinges as he opens it for you. He closes the door more carefully now that you’re inside. In the blink of an eye, Logan is on the other side, opening the driver’s door and slipping in. He turns the key in the ignition, and quickly makes his way out of the parking lot and onto the road. 

His hand moves across the center console and finds your bare thigh—exactly where you wanted him to be on the way here. His thumb brushes gentle circles into your skin. Something about it is possessive, like he needs to touch you, needs to know that you’re not going anywhere. His foot is practically through the floor as he presses down on the gas, racing back to the mansion. 

A few minutes later, Logan is pulling into the garage, his hand giving your thigh one last squeeze before putting the truck in park. And then you’re both tumbling out of the truck and towards the mansion. 

Logan’s hand finds yours, tugging you along and through the door. The mansion is swallowed in darkness save for the few hall lights scattered here and there. 

He suddenly pins you against the wall, his lips capturing yours. “Could fuck you right here,” he whispers. “But I wanna fuck you properly.” He steals another kiss before letting you go and leading you up the stairs towards his bedroom.

Logan twists the doorknob and guides you inside. Moonlight pushes through his curtains, washing his bed in white light. He turns around to face you, grabbing your waist and pushing you against the door. He’s caging you in, towering over you. 

“Logan,” you whisper, his lips crashing down on yours again. He’s all firm and solid against you. He bites your lower lip, his tongue swiping across to soothe the sting. You can feel his erection straining in his jeans, throbbing. He needs you, and you need him too.

“Want you so fucking bad, pretty girl,” Logan says between kisses. His hands slide down to your ass, squeezing gently before hoisting you up in his arms. You wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you across the room. He settles you in the center of the bed and climbs on top of you. He’s straddling you now, grabbing the bottom of his flannel and pulling it up and over his head. He’s wearing one of those beaters that you love so much underneath—tight against his abs. 

Logan lowers himself down over you, balancing on his forearm while his free hand explores your body. He slips under your tank top, his fingernails tracing every inch of your stomach. Your shirt hikes up as he reaches higher. He finally hits the hem of your bra and looks down at you. 

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “You sure you want this, sweetheart?” He asks, his fingers dipping tentatively underneath your bra. 

“Y-yes,” you stutter, arching up into his touch. “More than anything.” 

His hand slips around your back in an instant, unclasping your bra before you fall back down to the mattress. He sits up, knees on either side of your waist, straddling you again. 

He grabs the hem of your shirt and practically tears it from your body, your bra falling away with it, leaving your upper half bare before him. His hands find your tits, grabbing, squeezing, palming them. “So fucking beautiful,” he husks, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. He settles back down over you, resting on his forearm as his free hand continues to glide over your breasts, pinching and pawing. 

“Lo,” you whine, rubbing your thighs together, searching for more friction. “N-need…” You trail off, unable to finish a coherent thought.

“I know, princess,” he soothes, swallowing your whines with a kiss. His lips trail to your jaw, your pulse point, and down to your collarbone. He keeps moving down, pressing a kiss between the valley of your breasts and then to your belly button. He spreads your legs with the palms of his hands and settles between them, his fingers tracing the skin just above the waistband of your shorts. 

You sit up on your elbows, staring down at him. He smiles softly, cocking his head as one of his hands unbuttons your shorts and pulls the zipper down. He’s teasing you, leading you on as he thumbs your clit through the denim. A jolt of pleasure shoots up your spine. You can tell by that smirk, that look on his face, that he’s loving this. 

“Please,” you whimper, and Logan obliges, fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts and panties, tugging them down your legs and throwing them over his shoulder.

He settles back in between your thighs, his palms splayed on either side. His breath is hot against your cunt. “You gonna keep these pretty legs spread for me?” He huffs, and you nod emphatically. You need him now—you can’t wait any longer.

“Lo,” you whine again. “Please, fuc—”

But you’re cut off as he licks a long stripe through your folds and up to your clit. He does it again, another slow, long stripe. He’s taking you in, consuming you, committing your taste to memory. He smiles against you as one of his hands climbs up your inner thigh. 

“Tastes so fucking good, sweetheart,” he mumbles against you, the bass of his voice rocking through your body. His fingers finally find your folds, your slit, spreading your slick before gently prodding your entrance. “Pretty little pussy,” Logan murmurs, shoving two fingers deep inside you. He takes your clit between his lips, sucking roughly, his teeth grazing the bud. 

You curse under your breath as he laps at you—starving, reckless. His face is buried deep in your cunt, his hair a mess. His fingers pump in and out, deepening with every thrust. His tongue swirls around your clit, drawing hard, fast circles. You’re already getting close. It’s all too much—the feeling of his fingers deep inside you, hitting that sweet spot every time. 

“I-I—” you stutter, throwing your head back as your walls flutter around Logan’s fingers. 

He chuckles against you. “You what, pretty girl?” He pulls your clit into his mouth again, sucking harder this time. “Use your words. Tell me what you need.”

“F-fuck,” you stammer. “Y-you. Just need you.”

“Yeah?” Logan answers. You can feel him smirking between laps. “Just me?” And then he’s adding a third finger, plunging deep inside. He’s dragging against your walls, scissoring inside you. 

“Y-yes,” you answer, arching your back as he pumps in and out, down to the knuckles with every thrust. “Only you.” Logan mutters a curse against your cunt as he buries himself deeper inside. “Need you too,” he hums, his tongue flicking your clit, drawing rough circles around the bud. “Such a good girl,” he praises. “Can feel you getting closer, sweetheart.” As if on command, your walls clench around him, taking him in deeper.

“Feels so good,” you choke. He’s pushing you over the edge, and you can’t hold back anymore. “L-Lo I’m gonna—” “That’s it, pretty girl. I’ve got you,” he coos between harsh laps, his pace unrelenting. “Let go for me.” 

And then you’re coming undone around him, your walls contracting and fluttering. Pleasure washes over you in warm waves like liquid fire. You’re trembling underneath him, his head still buried between your legs. His thumb brushes over your hip comfortingly as his pumps slow and his fingers slip out. His tongue drags through your folds a few more times, savoring you, before he pulls away and looks up at you. 

“You okay?” He asks, his tongue swiping out to lick your juices from his lips as he sits up on his knees. 

You nod, reaching out to him. “Need you, now,” you beckon. Logan smiles, grabbing the hem of his beater and tugging it over his head. He unbuckles his belt, letting it fall to the floor as he works at his button and zipper. His fingers hook into the waistbands of his jeans and boxers, yanking them down his legs. 

His cock springs up to his stomach, and you can’t help but let your jaw drop at the sight. Your breath catches in your throat at the size of him. You always thought he’d be big, but he’s massive. 

“Don’t worry, pretty girl,” he husks, settling between your legs as he lowers down over you. He balances on his forearm as his hand wraps around his erection, guiding his cock to your entrance. “Gonna take care of you,” he whispers, his tip sliding through your folds. “Gonna make you feel good.” 

And then he’s filling you up, bottoming out with one thrust. Your chest is flush with his, his cock unmoving inside you. You’ve never felt so full, so whole. “Fuck,” he murmurs, his forehead pressing to yours. He pulls out and plunges back in, down to the hilt again. “So fucking perfect.” 

His hand lets go of his cock but stays between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and circling softly. He starts to set a rhythmic, gentle pace, letting you adjust to the sheer size of him. But you know he can’t hold himself back for much longer. You can feel the way his cock twitches and throbs against your walls as he drags himself in and out. 

You rock your hips against his. “Logan,” you moan. “M-more.”

His lips find yours—two puzzle pieces coming together. “You sure, sweetheart?” He asks, his thumb adding more pressure to your clit. 

You nod. “Y-yes,” you stutter. “I can t-take it.”

He curses under his breath, pulling out and slamming back in. He pounds into you, his cock hitting that spot deep inside, where you need him most. “Wanted you this whole time, pretty girl,” Logan grunts, thrusting in and out carelessly, punishingly. “Thought about you all the time, thought about fucking you just like this.” 

“Th-thought about you too, Lo,” you whimper. 

His cock twitches inside you. “Love it when you call me that, sweetheart,” he groans, his hips snapping against yours, thumb flicking your clit. “Say it again.” “Lo,” you pant as he fucks into you. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, fingers clinging to his biceps. “Logan,” you moan again, his name the only thing on your mind. 

Your walls flutter around him as he pounds into you with reckless abandon. “That feel good, sweetheart? You like when I take what I want?”

“Fuck, Lo, yes,” you whine. You’re growing closer and closer with each snap of his hips, with every swipe of his thumb against your clit. You know you can’t last much longer, not with his lips on yours, not with his praises floating through the air. 

“Doing so good for me, princess,” he whispers, his voice deep and raspy. “Taking me so well. Can feel you squeezing me.”

You contract around him as he sinks inside you, working you open with every thrust. It’s too much. “L-Lo,” you stammer. “I’m s-so…” You trail off, your eyes fluttering open and closed. 

“I know, princess. I’ve got you,” he hums, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. “Wanna feel you come on my cock.” His thumb circles your clit, faster, harder, still splitting you open with every pump. “Know you can come again; know you can take it.”

You shatter underneath him as the words leave his lips, falling apart in his arms. “Logan!” You cry out, your orgasm crashing into you, harder this time. His thumb is still on your clit, his cock pumping in and out with no signs of stopping. He isn’t letting up or letting go. Your nails dig into his biceps, searching for support, purchase, something, anything. 

Logan slams into you, chasing his own orgasm as that tension builds inside you again, liquid heat raging through your body. “Lo,” you whine. “It’s s-so much.” The pressure is so intense it almost burns, but it burns deliciously. It’s thick and hazy, dizzying and uncontrollable. 

“Just a little more, pretty girl,” Logan soothes, his pace faltering, growing sloppier with each pump. “Know you have another in you, know you can take it.” 

He flicks your clit, electricity sparking at the base of your spine. You’re so close again, ready to burst. “C-close,” you stammer. 

“Me too, pretty girl,” Logan grunts, cock twitching against your walls. “Wanna fill you up, wanna stay inside.”

You wrap your arms around his back, keeping his chest pressed to yours. “P-please,” you whimper, clenching down around him uncontrollably. His thumb is still stroking your clit, back and forth, drawing rough, tight circles. 

“Come on, princess. Come on my cock again,” he whispers at the shell of your ear. You listen, his name on your lips as you let go underneath him. You’re melting into the sheets, dissolving into nothingness, into air, as your orgasm courses through you. 

Logan lets go too, filling you up, spilling inside you. “So fucking beautiful like this. Always so beautiful,” he praises, his thrusts slowing as he rides out his orgasm. He pulls out, his thumb stroking your clit a few more times, easing you down from your high. 

He presses a soft kiss to your lips, rolling onto his side and tugging you with him. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you close to his chest. “You have no idea how long I’ve thought about doing that…how long I’ve thought about you,” Logan confesses, his fingers drawing abstract shapes across your lower back. “Wanted you for so long, pretty girl.”

Your chests heave together, breathing in time. You can feel him, still half hard against your thigh. “I thought you saw me as just a friend,” you say, smiling at how quickly things have changed in one night. 

Logan shakes his head, smiling back. “Never saw you as just a friend, princess.” He presses another kiss to your lips, savoring the feeling of you against him. “Should’ve taken you out sooner.” He presses his forehead to yours. “But I would’ve waited…waited forever just for you.”

You can see the adoration in his eyes, the love. And you know he means it. You bury your head into his chest. “I love you, Lo,” you whisper. 

“I love you too, princess. Always have.”

tags: @ilysmdovie12 @prettyseaveins @spiderset @figsnpassionfruits @silversprings-mp3 @movhoney @wittyjasontodd @theasiaabattoir @fanfic-writing-barbie @manipulatour @pedrohoe04

[danneelgrauls]

Kansas City Home Bar

[merwilson]

Houston Wet Bar

[athousanddresses]

Home Bar in Indianapolis

[mary1in]

Traditional Home Bar

[m-mihalyiova]

L-Shape - Home Bar

[lokisgoodgirl]

Distractions [Loki x Reader]

A Link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: You suck Loki's fingers during movie night with entirely predictable results. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Avenger!Loki x Female Reader. Finger-sucking. Smut. Chino-besmirchment. Language. 'SEVEN' movie references. (w/c 1.6k)

You flinch as Brad Pitt recoils from the body on the bed in disgust. Scott hollers in the corner, sending popcorn and assorted snacks nestled between he and Sam flying. “Wooooah-” Scott cries. Sam's face is aghast as he tries and fails to scramble the chocolates. “Dude, what...these are new chinos. Pale stone, man. Pale...stone.” Scott’s hands crest at his nose. “Did you see that guy on the bed? Ho-boy, that’s gross. So gross. Rewind it.”

“Fan-tastic,” Sam says dryly, yanking the depleted bowl to his side. He clutches it in one hand, searching for stray chocolate buttons concealed beneath his thighs with the other. Tony snaps the leg panel of his recliner down, bracing at the sides. “Zip it or you’re barred. I have managerial rights.” “C’mon man, you saw what he did to my snacks - to my chinos.” Tony raises a silencing finger to Sam, moving it slowly to Scott. They both shrink into the sofa. "You know you're out of line when the lovebirds are better behaved that you are - and one of them is Loki." Loki’s mouth moves to your ear in the midst of the bickering, his breath making your scalp tingle. “It still amuses me that these picture reels affect you so. So easily unnerved.” “I’m not affected,” you mumble against his t-shirt. Loki’s low chuckle jostles your head. You prop your chin on his chest, staring up at the taut underside of his jaw. His eyes are bright and reflecting the screen stretched across the wall of the common room. “Yes you are,” he whispers in a frequency it feels like only you can hear. “It would be unreasonable for you to be as stoic as a god, darling. Very difficult to affect us to the same extent, you see.” “Is that right?” “Mmm,” Loki hums as he focuses on Morgan Freeman doing something clever. “My concentration is impeccable. Always has been.” You snort against his t-shirt. Minutes pass and peace is restored to the Stark cinema. You reach for Loki’s hand, intertwining the fingers. He gives it a squeeze, kissing the top of your head with his eyes trained on the screen. “Quiet,” Tony snips. A puff of air escapes against your hair. Loki squeezes your hand again and you press a kiss into his stomach, sucking the cotton between your teeth. The hard heat of his muscle clenches as your teeth graze the curve of a pectoral, blowing a blast of heat through the fabric. A strained exhale escapes Loki’s nostrils. “Careful, darling,” he murmurs. Silently, you shift the back of his hand to your lips. It's huge. Your dainty fingers get lost in the flickering shadows from the screen beneath the perfect pale of his long digits. His abdomen tightens against your cheek; hips shifting beneath you. After pausing a few moments...just to make him sweat, you press your lips against his skin. The unlikely pair on-screen move and talk, but you’re not really listening. It’s Loki’s gentle breaths you’re listening to, the ones drawn with such utmost precision that they’re anything but natural. Your lips move along the back of his hand, kissing the way you used to practice when you were a kid. “Mmgh,” he groans quietly, widening his thighs. Without looking you can tell Tony is glaring. “Apologies,” Loki says. “Cramp.”

Your tongue covertly traces the line of Loki’s finger from his second knuckle to the tip, catching it between your lips. A violent shudder wrenches his thighs and his effort to remain casual is astonishingly evident in the tighten of every muscle touching your body. His finger balances on the flat of your tongue and Loki’s holds his breath. After a pause, you slide it to the back of your tongue, fastening your lips to the base of his finger. “Norns,” he breaths, clearing his throat. It times perfectly with a jump-scare on screen. His free hand is curled to the arm-rest, perfectly manicured nails turning white as he digs them into the upholstery. You began to suck.

A growl rumbles his chest and the desperation to seem un-phased makes heat pool in your belly. You shift your hips, wetness sliding in your underwear. Loki’s cock is hardening furiously against his thigh, the drape of your hand, swelling against the tight jeans he insists on wearing. Sucking firmly, you drag your mouth down his finger, lingering on the tip and swirling your tongue. When you do that to his cock, just right, he cums down your throat with a whimpering stutter of your name. “I can’t do this anymore,” Loki mutters. Suddenly the world is upended and you’re tossed against the cushions on the opposite side of the sofa. Loki’s on his feet, one hand on his hips and the other pointed at the screen. It glistens with your saliva. Tony slams the feet of his recliner down. “Laufeyson for Christssakes will you pee before the movie? How many times.” “This man is an insufferable buffoon,” Loki says as he gestures at Morgan Freeman. “It’s clear the villain they seek is among them: the man with the vaguely attractive face who’s eating constantly.” Scott covers his ears while Sam leans forward. “Yo, man...spoilers,” he warns, raising an eyebrow. Loki lowers his head, shaking it with a smirk. Dark curls fall around his face and the pulse in his neck races in the half-light. “Fools. Come, darling. We shan’t waste your depleting lifespan on this nonsense.” Loki grabs your hand and yanks you from the sofa, bustling towards the door. “Keep moving,” he orders while a frantic hand runs over your ass and squeezes hard. The door barely clicks shut before Loki descends like a storm; hands and lips and dark sighs smothering you against the wall. “You dare to tease me thus?” He pants between the words, wet lips parted and eyes heavy. “I didn’t think you’d be affected, you say as Loki’s eyes glint. “I thought your concentration was impeccable.” He steps between your legs and the flat of his thigh pressed up against your clit. You gasp. “Even a god can be undone by simulated oral pleasure on his extremities, darling." You bat your lashes, biting your lip. “I won’t tell Hydra, I promise.” Loki growls again as he trails his knuckles over your breasts; his black hair and t-shirt and jeans melting into the darkness of the unlit corridor. The hand snakes down your thigh, working under the loose hem of your skirt. “Loki,” you say, eyes darting to the cinema-room door at the other side of the corridor. “Shhh…” Loki buries himself in your neck, sucking against your pulse. There’s a girlish scream from inside the room as another body is discovered. Your fingers fumble with Loki’s jean buttons, a desperate sigh of relief clouding the air as his cock springs free. “You’re impossible,” he says as he pulls the gusset of your panties to the side. “You’re impossible.” “Well, yes,” he says with a conspiratorial smile before hoisting your legs around his waist and sinking you greedily onto his length. The tug of his cock squeezing inside you hits with new fire as his hand covers your mouth. The finger you sucked is still wet and you pant against his palm. His eyes are bottomless in the gloom; the slight tremble of his brows and the part of his lips as he fucks you against the wall making you melt against him. Every slow roll of his hips erupts a quiet moan between his fingers. His breathy pants time with your own as he gets off on your pleasure like he always does. Your fingers claw at the V of his t-shirt, bunching it in a fist with a mewl of his name. “Teasing a god rarely ends without mischief, love,” he murmurs in the dark. Loki’s skin is flawless in the weak light leaking beneath the door to the cinema room. “You’d do well to remember that as we continue this…” He thrusts with calculate precision. “Venture.” You moan against his hand, eyes screwing shut as the coil tightens deep inside you. He loosens the pressure of his palm, a finger nudging at your lips. “Go on,” he whispers through heavy exhales. “Suck it as I fuck you. Show me how filthy you are for me.”

You let it slide against your tongue, sucking the digit over the flat with every rise of his hips. Legs tightening around him, Loki bites his lip as he looks down at your head falling back against the wall with unbridled approval. “You like it,” he moans with a whiff of condescension. “Perhaps I can summon a duplicate of myself for you to pleasure while I take you another way; would you like that?” The thought has blood thumping in your ears and the twisting pressure tightening in your core reaches critical levels. You whine, sucking Loki’s finger frantically as his eyes glaze with lust and his teeth clench. “F-fuck,” he chokes, stiffening against you. His forehead presses to yours, a guttural sigh shaking from his chest. Breath mists against your lips and you can feel the swell of his hot cum leak from your slit as he shuffles, milking the last of his pleasure – and yours. Your nails dig into the meat of his shoulders as you cum with a strangled whimper, dragging against the cotton. Loki’s thrusts slow, his kisses working into the angle of your jaw and the thud of your pulse. “You were wrong,” you sigh as he lowers your feet to the floor. “Excuse me?” “About the killer. It’s not Brad Pitt.” Loki’s brow scrunches as trembling fingers pull at his zip. “How can that be?” You shrug mysteriously, buttoning his jeans with a pat of his softening bulge. “Shall we go back in?”

Loki’s eyes narrow and he curls a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Alright. But no distractions.” “I promise,” you lie, and a wicked smile plays on Loki’s lips.

Tags in comments because Tumblr continues to be annoying❤️

[wannab3-writer]

Country Club Rivalry

PATRICK ZWEIG X CHILDHOOD FRIEND READER (some Art x reader)

NOTES : GOD, how I tried to make this an Art x Reader because I'm an Art GIRLIE, but Pat just had to come out on top for this one, truly…"

WARNINGS — 18 + content mdni, fem!reader, not proofread

wc: 5.3k

description:

When three friends work at the same country club, things are bound to get messy—especially when they have a bet about who can win over the reader first.

The Oakridge Country Club was bustling with its usual summer energy. Guests lounged by the pool, chatting under the striped umbrellas, while golf carts zipped along the winding paths. The sun blazed overhead, casting sharp shadows on the clay tennis courts where Patrick and Art were finishing their morning lessons.

You stood at the server station near the patio, jotting down drink orders on your notepad. It wasn't your first summer at the country club, but you still enjoyed the easy rhythm of the job—the way the breeze rustled through the trees, the laughter of kids playing by the pool, and the familiar faces of the regulars.

Patrick waved at you from across the tennis courts, his hair tousled from teaching. He was grinning like he always did when he'd just finished a good session. Art stood beside him, spinning his racket in his hand, looking relaxed and effortlessly charming.

"Hey, how's your section?" Patrick called, jogging over with Art trailing behind. He was wearing his usual tennis gear, white shirt, and shorts, with a blue visor to keep the sun out of his eyes.

"Pretty good," you replied, glancing at your notepad. "Mrs. Anderson is on her third mimosa, so I'm expecting a big tip."

Art laughed. "Better watch out, she's got a mean backhand when she's tipsy. I saw her smack a golf ball into the pond last week. Her caddie still hasn't recovered."

Patrick chuckled, shaking his head. "Classic Mrs. Anderson. Did you know she was a tennis champion back in the day? She could probably still give us a run for our money."

Art leaned in, lowering his voice. "Speaking of giving people a run for their money, I heard you've been racking up the tips lately. What's your secret?"

You shrugged with a playful smile. "Just being nice to people, Art. You should try it sometime."

Patrick laughed and nudged Art's shoulder. "Yeah, Art, maybe if you focused less on flirting with every guest and more on your job, you'd make some tips, too."

Art feigned shock. "Me? Flirting? I don't know what you're talking about." He turned to you with a charming grin. "Do you think I'm a flirt?"

You raised an eyebrow. "A little, but that's your thing, right? I mean, it's not like you're betting on who can get the most milfs phone numbers or anything." Clearly sarcastic.

Patrick shot Art a look, then quickly turned to you with a smile. "Yeah, nothing like that. We just... like to keep things interesting."

Art nodded, but you noticed a brief flicker of guilt in his eyes. It was subtle, but it made you wonder if there was more to their competition than met the eye.

"Well, whatever it is, just don't bring any drama into my section, okay?" you said, playfully tapping your notepad against Art's chest. "I've got enough to deal with without you two causing trouble."

Patrick raised his hands in mock surrender. "No drama, I promise. We'll be on our best behavior."

Art winked. "Scout's honor."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help but smile. Despite the teasing and the occasional competitive streak, you knew they meant well. It was just another summer at the country club, where the days were long, the sun was hot, and anything could happen.

Anything.

---

The Club had settled into its evening rhythm by the time you reached the bar. Fairy lights twinkled overhead, casting soft glimmers on the stone patio. The air was warm and fragrant with the scent of blooming jasmine and freshly cut grass. A live band played classic rock covers, the gentle strum of guitars mingling with the murmur of patrons relaxing after a day of golf and tennis.

Patrick was at a corner table, nursing a glass of whiskey on the rocks. He looked up from his phone and waved you over, a broad smile lighting up his face. He'd changed out of his tennis instructor uniform into a casual blue polo and jeans, his hair still damp from a quick shower.

"Hey, there you are!" he said, using his foot to pull out a chair for you. "I was starting to think you forgot about me."

You shook your head with a grin. "Please, I could hear your bad jokes all the way from the kitchen. Had to come and see what was so funny."

Patrick laughed, setting his phone aside. "You know I'm hilarious. You just pretend not to appreciate my sense of humor."

You took a seat and glanced around. The bar was lively but not overcrowded. A group of older couples was playing cards at a nearby table, and a few teenagers from the tennis program were playing darts in the corner. It felt like the perfect end to a busy day.

"So, what are we drinking tonight?" Patrick asked, gesturing to the menu. "I've got whiskey, but I hear the margaritas are pretty good."

You considered for a moment. "Let's go with the margaritas. I need something fruity after today."

Patrick flagged down the bartender, who quickly mixed up a pitcher of margaritas with a generous splash of tequila. He poured you a glass and handed it over with a mock bow. "Your drink, my liege. May it bring you all the fruitiness you desire."

You raised your glass with a chuckle. "Thank you, William,” you turn towards the brunet “To Patrick, who somehow managed not to break any tennis rackets today. It's a new record!"

Patrick clinked his whiskey against your glass. "And to you, for not spilling any drinks on Mrs. Anderson. She's still mad about last summer's 'mimosa incident.'"

You rolled your eyes, remembering the time you accidentally spilled a tray of drinks on Mrs. Anderson's white dress during a particularly hectic brunch. "Don't remind me. I had to run for cover like I was in a war zone. I thought she’d have my head.”

Patrick laughed, the sound warm and familiar. "You should've seen her face. It was like you'd ruined her entire day. But hey, at least you got to keep your job."

As the two of you shared stories and relived old memories, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow across the patio. The band transitioned to a slower song, adding a mellow vibe to the evening.

Art arrived a little later, his tennis gear replaced by a button-down snap back and jeans. He had a confident stride and a smile that seemed to draw attention wherever he went. He slid into the seat next to you, his presence bringing a shift in the energy at the table.

"What's up, party people?" he said, his voice smooth and inviting. "I hope you saved some margaritas for me."

Patrick handed him a glass. "Of course, wouldn't want our little Arty to feel left out.”  He added leaning into Art smirking. “What took you so long anyways,  Shelly needed some one-on-one time to work on her underhand? Or what. ”

You smirked. "You really think He’s that charming, huh?” she turns towards Art looking into his eyes “What’s your secret hmm? Is it the cologne?"

Art leaned in with a grin. "It's all about confidence. And maybe a little bit of cologne. But mostly confidence."

Patrick rolled his eyes. "Right, because confidence is what you exude. You should've seen Art on the tennis court today. He was so confident he almost hit a kid with a tennis ball."

Art raised an eyebrow. "Almost. That's the key word. No harm, no foul."

The banter continued, the three of you falling into an easy rhythm. Art's charm contrasted with Patrick's laid-back, cheeky style, and you found yourself enjoying the playful back-and-forth.

As the evening progressed, you noticed Patrick watching Art with a hint of unease. It was subtle, like a flicker in his eyes whenever Art made you laugh a little too hard or leaned in a little too close.

---

"All right, we're here. Try not to break anything, okay? Last time you were here, my mom couldn't find her favorite vase for a week."

Art smirked, stepping inside. "That wasn't my fault! How was I supposed to know it was on top of the fridge? Who puts a vase on the fridge, anyway?"

Art dropped his bag in his Patrick’s room and looked around. The place had an eclectic charm—walls lined with tennis trophies, faded concert posters, and family photos. A stack of video games sat beside the TV.

Patrick led the way into the kitchen, grabbing a couple of beers from the fridge. He tossed one to Art, who caught it with ease. "So, what are you in the mood for? I was thinking pizza, but we can order something else if you're not into it."

Art popped open the bear and took a sip. "Pizza sounds good. Just no anchovies, okay? That stuff is nasty."

Patrick laughed, opening his own soda. "You're missing out, man. Anchovies are a delicacy." He grabbed the phone and dialed the pizza place, ordering a large with pepperoni and sausage. "There, something a bit more your speed. Happy now?"

Art nodded, leaning against the counter. "Yeah, that'll work. So, you ready for tomorrow? Two-on-two is serious business. We can't afford to slack off."

Patrick waved a hand dismissively. "Please, I'm always ready. Besides, we've got the advantage. I mean, have you seen the other teams? Half of them can't even hit a backhand."

Art chuckled. "You're so modest, Patrick. What would you do without me to keep you humble?"

Patrick shrugged with a grin. "Probably win more matches.”

Art threw a punch at Patrick's shoulder, and Patrick pretended to wince. They both laughed, the kind of easy camaraderie that came from years of friendship and shared jokes. But there was also a subtle tension in the air, like they were both aware of the unspoken rivalry that had been growing between them.

"So," Patrick said, leaning back against the kitchen island, biting his lip "you and […] seemed pretty chummy tonight. What's the story there? You trying to make a move, or what?" The familiar smirk making its way to his face.

Art raised an eyebrow, his expression guarded. "We're just talking. Nothing wrong with getting to know someone, right?" He finished wetting his lips.

Patrick smirked. "Sure, nothing wrong with that.” He shrugged.  “But you're not just getting to know her. You're flirting, and we both know it." He took a couple steps forward “Basically eye fucking her, to be honest” He only smiled.

Art shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Oh, come on Pat, maybe, She's just fun to be around, you know. No need to be gross." Art gave him a wry smile. "You know me. I just go with the flow. If she likes hanging out with me, who am I to complain?"

Patrick leaned in, lowering his voice. "Or maybe, you think she's interested in you. Is that what this is about? You think you've got a shot?" His eyes scanning arts face.

Art met his gaze, his expression calm but with a hint of challenge. "I don't know, man. Maybe I do. What does it matter to you huh? You think you've got the inside track because you've known her longer?"

Patrick grinned, his eyes glinting with mischief. "I mean, it doesn't hurt. We've got a lot of history. I'm charming, good-looking, and I've got the best jokes. What's not to like?" he goes back to lean on the counter. “Besides, I’ve seen the real her, all of it, kinda gives me a little advantage don’t you think.”

Art halts, stops chewing his gum, straitening himself up. “What’s that supposed to mean Patrick.”

“Exactly what it you think.” He kissed his teeth, kicking off the counter and going back to looking inside the fridge.

Art chuckled, but there was a hint of envy in his laugh. "Well, if you're so confident, maybe we should make it interesting. How about a little bet? See who can win her over first?"

Patrick waved his hand dismissively. "Little Arty wants a bet he’ll lose?” He chuckles. “No games. Just a simple bet. May the best man win."

Art held out his hand, and Patrick shook it with a grin. The bet was sealed, but there was an underlying seriousness in Art's eyes. As they waited for the pizza, the two friends continued their banter, but there was a new edge to their jokes—like the stakes had just gotten a little higher.

---

A week after their doubles match, the annual Oakridge Country Club gala was in full swing, the ballroom bustling with elegantly dressed members and guests. The chandeliers sparkled overhead, casting warm light onto the neatly set tables, while smooth jazz played in the background. You stood near the entrance, surveying the glamorous crowd, your fitted dress drawing approving glances from a few partygoers.

Art was the first to spot you, leaning against a wall with a cocktail in hand, chatting up club regulars. He was dressed in a sharp suit, but he carried himself with a boyish charm. His grin was wide as he motioned for you to come over, his eyes moving from your head to your heels in a way that felt like a visual undressing.

"Wow," he said, raising his glass, "you clean up nice. I was expecting you to show up in your waiter outfit or something. I'm glad you went with the dress, though. Much more... appealing."

You gave him a playful smirk, stepping up to the bar. "Thanks, Art. I do my best to impress." You glanced at his drink. "Are you trying to get a head start on the partying? We haven't even hit the dance floor yet."

He took a sip, his gaze lingering on your lips. "Hey, I like to loosen up a bit before the main event. Keeps things interesting. Besides, you can't blame a guy for wanting to enjoy himself, right? You gonna  help me enjoy my night and keep me company?"

Patrick, who was laughing with a group nearby, walked over just in time to catch Art’s comment. He gave Art a look of mild disapproval, then turned to you with a sly smile.

"Don't listen to him. He's just trying to get you alone so he can talk your ear off about his latest tennis game.” Patrick shrugged, looking at Art with a smirk. "So boring. I was thinking we could have some real fun; you know? A little adventure never hurt anyone." He leaned closer, his voice barely audible over the music. "Besides, I know all the best spots around here. Private spots. You'd love it."

Art shook his head, clearly not amused. "Come on, Patrick. We're here to enjoy the gala, not to sneak off like we're in high school. Why don't we all just enjoy the party and see what happens?"

Patrick grinned, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Sure, sure. Whatever you say, Art. But if you change your mind,” he turn towards her. “You know where to find me. I'll be the one having a good time." He turned to you with a suggestive wink while walking backwards to god knows where.

Art rolled his eyes, then smiled at you in a more relaxed manner. "Sorry about him, he’s not really allowed to leave the house. He's a good guy, but he doesn't always know when to tone it down. If you want, I can keep him from getting too out of hand. I wouldn't want him to scare you off." He says mocking Patrick as he walked away.

You laugh full heartedly glancing at Patrick, who was already chatting with a couple of other guests, his flirtatious demeanor on full display. " Thanks so for watching out for me. It can get a little overwhelming with him around." You continued smiling.

Art nodded smiling, his expression kind. " I was thinking we could get some food, maybe hit the dance floor. What do you think?" Art suggested, leading the way. "I'm sure Patrick will join us once he's done charming the entire room."

Patrick shot Art a mischievous look but didn't follow immediately. You could tell he was reveling in the attention, his flirtatious behavior attracting more than a few curious glances from the other guests.

The band switched to a slow, romantic melody, and Art extended his hand to you with a charming smile. "Care to dance?" he asked, his eyes warm and inviting.

You nodded, accepting his offer, and he led you onto the dance floor. His touch was gentle yet confident as he pulled you close, swaying to the music with practiced ease.

As you danced with Art, you felt yourself relaxing into his embrace. His presence was comforting, his movements smooth and graceful. You couldn't help but smile as you looked up at him, feeling a somewhat new sense of closeness.

Halfway through the song, Patrick appeared out of nowhere, a cocky grin on his lips. "Mind if I cut in?" he asked, his eyes twinkling with excitement.

Before you could respond, he swept you away from Art, taking you into his arms with a boldness that made you some type of way. His touch was hot, his body pressed close to yours as he guided you across the dance floor.

"So, you replacing your best friend with that ginger?" he asked, his voice low and suggestive. "Boring you to tears yet?" He raised a brow.

You laughed, unable to resist his playfulness. "Hmm maybe. He's actually a great dancer, unlike some people."

Patrick smirked, pulling you even closer. "Yeah, but can he do this?" With a sudden flourish, he spun you around, his movements fluid and confident. "Do I need to remind you why I’m better.” He paused.

“How, I’m better.”

You chuckled rolling your eyes, enjoying the thrill of dancing with Patrick. He was unpredictable, to say the least, his smile contagious. But as much as you were drawn to him, you couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt for leaving Art behind.

Patrick reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and offering you one with a sly grin. "Care for a smoke?" he asked, lighting his own with practiced ease.

You just shook your head with hesitant smile. “I really shouldn’t, Pat. You know I’m trying to quit.”

He looks you up and down with a seductive look.  

“We’ve all got our guilty pleasures, darling.”

As the song came to an end, Patrick took your hand, leading you away from the dance floor and out onto the club’s private beach. The cool breeze off the ocean felt refreshing against your skin, and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore was soothing.

You hesitated for a moment, then accepted the offer, taking the cigarette from him and inhaling deeply. The nicotine hit you like a rush of adrenaline, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of exhilaration as you exhaled a cloud of smoke into the night air.

"So, what do you think?" Patrick asked, his eyes searching yours. "Having fun yet?"

You nodded, feeling a sense of liberation wash over you. "Yeah, I am. Thanks for... you know, stealing me away." You added motioning to the cigarette.

Patrick grinned, leaning in closer. "Anytime, sweetheart. Just say the word, and I'll whisk you away to paradise."

You laughed, feeling a flutter of excitement in your chest.

Patrick decided to sit down in the sand, his cigarette glowing in the darkness as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. You sat beside him, savoring the familiar scent of his cologne.

He took a long drag from his cigarette, then shot you a sidelong glance. "You know, I was just thinking about that first summer at tennis camp," he said, his voice low and playful. "I mean, it's where it all started, right? Just a couple of kids swinging rackets and making trouble."

You smiled at the memory. "Yeah, it's crazy to think about how much has changed since then. Who would've thought you'd actually make it big in tennis? Meanwhile, I could barely keep the ball on the court."

Patrick laughed, a warm, hearty sound that cut through the night air. "Yeah, well, I guess I had a little more motivation to stick with it. You were off climbing trees and playing in the woods, and I was stuck with a bunch of coaches yelling at me to hit harder."

"Hey," you replied with a smirk, "it's not like I was useless. I remember showing you all the best spots to hide when you wanted to skip practice."

Patrick nodded, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh, I remember. You were the queen of avoiding responsibility. If it weren't for you, I'd probably have become a strait-laced tennis prodigy. Instead, you dragged me into the wilderness to make forts and find weird bugs."

You both chuckled, reminiscing about those lazy summer days when tennis camp was more of a suggestion than a requirement. But then Patrick's expression turned sly, and he leaned in a bit closer.

"Speaking of weird things from our past," he said, his voice dripping with playful insinuation, he nudged you. "You remember that bet we made? The one about if we were both green by the time you turned 16, we'd, you know, be each other's first?"

Your face grew warm at the memory. It had been a silly bet between two best friends who figured they'd never find anyone else in their small circle. But the fact that you followed through with it made it more than just a joke.

"Yeah," you replied, pretending to be nonchalant, "I remember, Pat we’re not that old. It was a dumb bet, but I guess we kept our word, didn't we?"

Patrick nodded, a cheeky grin spreading across his lips. "We sure did. And you know, I wasn't expecting it to be so... memorable. I thought we'd just laugh about it later, but it was kind of nice. You know, like a rite of passage or something."

You laughed, trying to deflect his innuendo. "A rite of passage? Yeah, right. More like a hilarious disaster. I mean, you had no idea what you were doing."

Patrick raised an eyebrow, his grin growing wider. "Oh, come on, it wasn't that bad. Besides, you were just as clueless. At least I managed to keep my cool, mostly."

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't help but smile at his cockiness. "Mostly, huh? If I remember correctly, you tripped over your own shoes and nearly fell face first."

Patrick groaned, but his eyes sparkled with amusement. "Okay, maybe I was a little clumsy. But you have to admit, it was an experience neither of us will forget. And hey, we did it together. That's gotta count for something, right?"

You nodded, feeling a mix of nostalgia and fondness. "Yeah, it does. I'm just glad it didn't ruin our friendship. It could've been awkward, but it wasn't."

Patrick leaned in, his gaze locking with yours. "Of course it wasn't. We were best friends. We still are. And besides, even if it was a bit awkward, it was worth it. You know, just to say we did it." He flicked the ash from his cigarette, then added with a wink, "And hey, I was your first. That's something not everyone can say."

You laughed, pushing him lightly on the shoulder. "Yeah, well, don't let it go to your head. You still have a long way to go before you become a pro. But if you need any advice on how to avoid tripping over your own shoes, I'm here for you."

Patrick grinned, taking a final drag from his cigarette before tossing it into the sand. " If you ever want to make another bet, I'm always up for it. " He Looks at you seductively, his eyes full of mischief. " I think if you were to give me another chance, you’d find that I’ve improved quite a bit. " He gives you his signature smirk.

You scan his face trying to find sincerity in his words, not sure how you’d feel if he was. “What are you trying to get at Patrick?”

“Nothing at all.” He raised his hands in a surrender, cigarette in mouth looking away. “I’m just saying, I feel like I deserve a redemption arc,” He takes his cigarette putting out in the sand. “I wasn’t the most…giving you can say.” He looks back at you, under his brows. “And I just want to show you that I’ve changed, for the better.” He offers a smile.

You just nod your head in fake agreement. “Uhh, how much have you had to drink tonight pat?  Is it time to call you a cab?” You questioned with a week smile.  

“Oh, shut up, I’m dead sober.”  He said leaning in.  He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "Besides, what's life without a little adventure?"

You felt a shiver run down your spine at his touch. It was a simple gesture, but there was something in the way he did it that made your heart skip a beat. Patrick had always had a way of pushing boundaries, but tonight, he seemed more deliberate, more intent.

"Adventure?" you replied, your voice slightly breathless. "Are you planning something?"

Patrick's smile grew, his eyes locking with yours. "Maybe. But you know me—always full of surprises." He stepped closer, his hand resting lightly on your waist. "But I promise, it'll be a good one."

You felt a rush of heat at his touch, the closeness between you stirring something deep within. Patrick leaned in, his lips just inches from yours. "So, do you trust me?" he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

You hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "No I don’t, Patrick, because I know you. Why? What are you up to?"

Patrick's gaze grew more intense, his eyes fixed on yours. "I just wanted to try something." He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, tentative kiss. It was gentle at first, a teasing touch that sent a jolt of electricity through you.

The kiss deepened, the heat between you building as Patrick pulled you closer. His hand slid around your waist, holding you firmly as he kissed you with a newfound intensity. The sound of the waves seemed to fade away, replaced by the pounding of your own heart.

Patrick's other hand cupped your cheek, his touch gentle yet assertive. His kiss was slow and deliberate, each movement a carefully orchestrated dance that left you breathless. As his lips moved against yours, you felt a rush of desire, a connection that seemed to transcend words.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark with emotion. He looked at you, his lips slightly parted, as if he was trying to read your thoughts.

“Show me.” You said looking him deep in his eyes barley a millimetre away from his lips.

“Show you what darling?” He question with a smile gracing his lips

“How you’re better than Art.”

That’s not what he was expecting at all. Maybe a ‘show me how you’ve improved.’ But certainly not you using his own words against him, That’s for sure.

That didn’t stop Patrick's smile from getting bigger though, as he moved his hands all over you, bringing you in for another wet and sloppy kiss. He slowly laid you down into the sand using his teeth to slide up your dress around your waits.

He slowly kissed your stomach stopping at the hem of your thong. Moving it to the side, he slides one of his digits up and down your slit.

Looking up to you with a sly smile, he lets out a contented sigh. " Give me some of this sweet pussy." With the excited flattening of his tongue, he dives right in, right there, on the beach. Before you even having a chance to fully lay down, Patrick slides his arms beneath your legs and pulls you in. 

As you begin to grind into him and yearn for more of his tongue, you play with one of your tits. Suddenly too shy to look him in the eye, you reach down and tug on his hair. You can feel your cheeks getting hot with shame at how quickly you folded for him.   “Tongue fuck me, please, Pat. When did you get so good at this?”

 he consumes you. his hands are playing with your ass and thighs. He kneads the skin and spreading you out. He trust his tongue into your entrance and explores your pussy.  Less than a minute later, your walls start to twitch around his tongue. He takes in all your cum. When he looks up back at you, he just gives you a sly smirk. 

Patrick rolled onto his back beside you, his chest heaving slightly from the intensity of what just happened. You try to get your breathing back to normal when suddenly you let out a random laugh.

Patrick turned his head, raising an eyebrow. "What's so funny?" he asked, his voice low and smooth, but his face still wet from your essence.

You shrugged, trying to stifle your laughter. "I don't know, it just hit me—how did we end up here? One minute we're at the gala, and the next we're... well, doing this." You gestured at the beach, and your unruly appearance.

Patrick grinned, rolling onto his side to face you. "Maybe it's fate," he said, his voice soft and playful. "Or maybe it's just because I couldn't resist pulling you away for a little... private time." He winked, his cheeky grin only growing wider.

You rolled your eyes, but there was no denying the warmth that spread through your chest. "Or maybe it’s because you and Art have a weird little bet going on, and for some reason, I’m in the middle of it." you replied, a teasing edge to your tone.

Patrick frowns sitting up to look at you properly. " You know about that?" He’s confused.

You let out a chuckle. "Patrick, I’m not a dumbass, like i said, i know you. And i know Art, you guys have been total try hards for the last week, sure, you’re just a whore and will flirt with anything that has a vagina, but even Art was over doing it." You swatted at his shoulder, trying to hide your smile. "Patrick, seriously," you said, though your tone lacked any real reprimand. "You always push your luck, you know that?  You leaned in a little closer, your eyes locking with his.

Patrick's grin softened, his eyes reflecting the moonlight. "Yeah, well, sometimes you need a little excitement," he replied, his hand resting on your hip, a gentle reminder of his presence. "And you can't deny that you like it when I take charge. Right?" His fingers traced a light pattern along your hipbone, his touch both playful and suggestive.

You sighed, the subtle tension between you becoming more palpable. "Maybe," you replied, your voice low and teasing. "But don't think I'll always let you get away with it. Sometimes, you need to earn it."

Patrick laughed, a deep, rich sound that seemed to carry on the breeze. "Oh, don't worry," he said, his eyes narrowing with that familiar mischievous look. "I'll work for it. You just let me know when you want me to turn on the charm." He leaned in again, his lips hovering near yours, the warmth of his breath a tantalizing invitation.

You closed the gap, letting his lips meet yours in a brief, soft kiss. It was playful but laced with an underlying intensity, a promise of more to come. When you pulled back, you saw the surprise in his eyes, followed by that trademark grin.

"Consider it a preview," you said, giving him a gentle nudge. "But don't get too cocky, or I’ll make sure you lose this bet."

------------------------

Thank you for reading! Please leave comments, likes, and reblogs; all are appreciated! Also, feel free to send requests!

[theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction]

Imagine Law accidentally hurting you with ‘shambles’…

It was an accident.

Law was focused on the bounty hunter, determined to put the man in his place after the hunter had launched a surprise attack on his crew.

Law knew that there was no better opportunity to do so while his Heart Pirates kept the rest of the attackers at bay.

What he didn’t know was that you had broken away from the fight to find him.

…not until it was too late.

Law had the enemy pinned inside a blue dome. Cockiness exuded as Law also summoned the ruins of a stone and wood house that sat abandoned on the edge of the shore. He had it poised above the head of the trapped man.

The bounty hunter hardened his resolve and lunged forward to escape the bubble and swipe at the Heart Pirate.

But Law was faster. “Shambles.”

The house disappeared. The bounty hunter disappeared. Your wide eyes met his before, they too, disappeared.

No… how had he not seen you? Why were you even here?

Rushing over to the edge, Law’s hands gripped the rails lest he accidentally launch himself over. He saw the field in the distance where the teleport had taken place. He saw the debris and a dark figure underneath. But as he watched gravity bring the wood splinters to earth, he recognised that the dark figure was in fact comprised of two bodies before they were swallowed by the house.

A scream ripped through Law’s throat and he wasted no more time. He hurled himself over the barrier, airborne for a few moments before his feet found purchase on the hard ground. Then he sprinted - heart in his throat, fear replacing his blood as it pulsed in his ears.

What had he done?

Every speeding step forward felt agonisingly slow but he pushed through until he reached the damaged field. Had he been thinking straight, Law would have done a scan of the area and found you. But he was hardly thinking (or breathing) when his fears won out and he cast his sword aside. Then, like a madman, Law clawed at the broken wood and shattered glass desperate to find you.

A minute passed. Then two. Then five. Each second passing with dread and attacking what small shred of hope he held onto.

He screamed for you, begging that it would rouse you enough to make a sound but he was met with silence.

Law grabbed a thick wooden plank and raised it carefully, blood-stained glass rolling off its edges like a hellish waterfall. That’s when his eyes caught a familiar fabric. It was the hem of your pants. The one he grew to admire over the course of your stay on the Polar Tang.

With a harsh movement, Law tossed the beam away revealing a small space in the mess. It should have relieved him now that he had found you - but it didn’t.

Your body was littered in scrapes and blooming bruises but, worst of all, you had been pierced by thin metal bar in your thigh.

Law crossed the space carefully. He bent down and touched your face, moving away the loose bits of glass. He expected your skin to be as cold as death but there was a warmth… better yet, there was a pulse and faint, haggard breaths.

He hadn’t killed you.

The relief that he felt escaped his body in a sob. Looking around wildly, Law needed something sharp to cut around the pole so he could get you out. His sword was somewhere at the top of this mess but he refused to leave your side.

And as if by a miracle, a large polar-bear shaped shadow appeared holding the very blade he had been in need for.

Bepo tossed him the sword and Law made two decisive slashes against the metal which effectively freed you from being pinned. Setting the sword down, he carefully threaded an arm under your knees and behind your back before lifting you as he stood. With slow steps, Law got you through the clearing onto safer lands. Bepo had been telling him about the crews success with the bounty hunters. The bear also expressed his regrets in being unable to stop you from rushing to aid Law mid-battle.

But it fell on mostly deaf ears. Law was only occupied with your health. He wanted to summon another room and teleport you to safety aboard the Polar Tang. But when he let the thought enter, his vision was clouded by your face and the few precious seconds of fear in your eyes when you knew it was too late to escape.

No. He wouldn’t let his powers hurt you.

Never again.

~ More imagines here ~ (for more One Piece)

A/n: Writing angst at 5am? Okay, brain.

[seat-safety-switch]

Although the Pizza Hut brand still occupies parts of this world, it no longer stands for what it once did. You'll be hard-pressed to locate a sundae bar, glittery sticker dispenser, or red cups made of translucent acrylic – of which I can assure you were once "bottomless." The only thing left are the disaffected, stoned teenagers taking the orders. That, and the Personal Pan Pizza: more than any other, a symbol of North American culture.

In Italy, where hard-working chefs stole the idea for the pizza from visiting space aliens, they decided that a pizza should be shared. Sure, they are often capable of being eaten solo, and the owner of the restaurant would be extremely pleased if each member of your party slammed their own pizza down before ordering a flotilla of liquor, but the way they are enjoyed best is to give a couple slices to your friend. This means you have to compromise on toppings, of course, which is a concept alien to those of us raised on lifted Powerstrokes and fuzzy VHS tapes of air show disasters.

Not so with the Personal Pan Pizza – you get what you want, and to Hell with everyone else in the dining establishment. As well, Pizza Hut gets to charge a little extra margin on each pizza, their shareholders laughing all the way to the bank. You're happy, they're happy. Maybe the guy (your stepdad?) paying the bill at the end of the night isn't happy, but he can get a Personal of his very own.

Nowadays, this humble concept of individuality is becoming abandoned in favour of collectivism. No, don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those radical psychopaths who films TikTok videos about overthrowing the government from the front seat of his pickup truck. Pretty sure all those dudes got blown up by drones a couple weeks ago, and replaced by exact body duplicates grown in a lab. What I care about is being able to get a good paint colour on a new car.

Nowadays, everyone worries about resale value. Back then, nobody freaked out about choosing the optimal toppings to keep their lease payments low on their pizza; that would have been an insane thing to say. The pizza was for their enjoyment, and it was meant to be used up. Maybe the crusts got left behind and stolen by a rat. That rat is me. What I'm trying to say is: please order your new hybrid Lexus in bright green, so that I can drive it in thirty years. Don't be so selfish.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Obedience Training.

Pairing: Yandere!Illumi x Reader (HxH).

Commissioned by the very lovely @h2o2-and-baking-soda.

Word Count: 1.6k.

TW: Kidnapping, Prolonged Imprisonment, Physical/Psychological Abuse, Pet Play, Dehumanization, and Controlling Behavior.

The ring was beyond repair.

It was the ugly kind of damage, too – the gold chipped and dented, some parts entirely flattened while others had scratched and tarnished to the point of virtual unrecognizability. The jewel itself (a diamond the color of the sky just before sunrise and the size of the nail on your pointer finger) had been pried out of its casing and polished with the blunt side of the hammer you’d pilfered from collection of one of the more forgetful servants. Any fragments that might’ve been worth salvaging were then washed down the sink of your en suite, and the near-microscopic remnants glistened against the table’s dark mahogany – twinkling whenever they caught the ample sunlight.

It'd been his mother’s ring; albeit, one of countless. Breaking it in such an obviously deliberate way had been a stupid thing to do, and a part of you must’ve known that while you were doing it. A part of you must’ve basked in the idiotic rage of it all, must’ve been dying to see what Illumi would be like when he couldn’t hide behind those big, blank eyes and that unreadable expression. As hazy as it seemed, you could remember being excited to see how Illumi would react, what he thought he could do to you that he hadn’t already put you through.

Now, though, standing next to him as he evaluated the damage, watching as those dark, glossy eyes skirted from the splintered wood to the decimated ring to the sparkling residue…

You weren’t excited, anymore.

Several seconds passed in silent paralysis. Images of braided rope and rusted chains and broken legs flashed through your subconscious, but he managed to draw you out of your spiraling thoughts with a low hum, a startling click of his tongue. Finally, he turned toward you and raised a hand, and you braced yourself for the feeling his fist around your neck, two fingers piercing the fragile bone of your skull, his pointed nails clawing out your eyes and leaving you to ble—

His palm came to rest on top of your head, petting over your hair gently. “Sweetheart,” he muttered with a tone as warm and as affectionate as a corpse in a snowstorm. “Would you come with me?”

You opened your mouth, but closed it again just as quickly. You nodded, the gesture stilted and jerky, and Illumi offered an approving smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, letting his hand fall to your wrist. He pressed a lingering kiss into the top of your head before tugging you gently towards the door.

Neither of you spoke as he guided you through the halls of his mansion. Usually, you could count on running into one of the sociopaths that made up his family or a member of their bloodthirsty staff whenever you left your room, but today, his sprawling home seemed to be vacant, lifeless, as empty as the killers who dwelled inside of it. Steadily, you moved downward, the marble walls turning to rough stone, the filtered sunlight soon traded out for the artificial glow of dim gas lamps. He didn’t drag his feet or try to prolong your walk to the gallows, but he didn’t rush, either, didn’t seem to be in any rush to carry out your inevitably punishment. Eventually, he came to a stop in front of a simple wooden door – unremarkable in every aspect save for the deep well of dread it managed to dredge up inside of you.

With little ceremony, the door was pushed open and you were ushered inside of ahead of him. Your attention quickly fell onto the object most immediately in front of you: a dog crate.

It was almost shockingly mundane; not overly massive, but big enough for a large pitbull or golden retriever, the bars thin but close together and the bottom cushioned by a small bed with pink and white paw prints splattered across it. A handful of miscellaneous items had been laid on top of it. Your attention caught on the collar, first, the cutesy type with a bell and fake (or, knowing Illumi, very real) gemstones studded into the leather and a matching leash, and then headband with what couldn’t be—

Illumi moved past you, approaching the crate and taking up the undeniably, indisputably dog-eared headband. He turned it over in his hands once, then twice, before speaking. “Strip.”

It sounded like gibberish; partially muffled by the static buzzing over your conscious mind and made even more difficult to process by your own unwillingness to do so. “What?”

“Strip,” he repeated. “Or I’ll break every bone in your right hand.”

It was the specificity of the threat (paired with the implication that your left wouldn’t be long to follow) that had your shaking hands reaching for the hem of your shirt and hauling it over your head. You looked towards him for approval after every shed article, but he only seemed to notice your obedience at all when you stood bare and vulnerable in front of him, completely unprotected from both his prying gaze and the chill of the damp dungeon air. You started to move towards him, but he stopped you with a quick shake of his head, a new softness to his expression. “Kneel.”

With a shallow breath, you complied, lowering yourself onto your knees. Now, now, he took his time, his terrible eyes raking over your trembling form as he came to stand in front of you. The collar was fastened around your neck deftly, the leash allowed to hang loose and pool in your lap. He was more careful with the headband – meticulously lining it up with your ears, your face before sliding it into place with a satisfied hum. In a very distant, very muted way, you found that you were surprised less that your hitman-turned-kidnapper would have a pet play lair hidden away in some dark corner of his basement, and more that the aforementioned kidnapper would use that pet play lair to dress you up as a dog, rather than a cat. Illumi was as cat-like as a man could be – silent and skulking, prone to digging his claws into what he loved most – but the more you thought about it, the more sense it made. Cats were smart and sly and perfectly capable of surviving on their own, whereas dogs were stupid and clumsy and almost painfully reliant on their owners. People get cats because they want something that can choose to love them back. People get dogs because they want something that doesn’t have another choice.

“I--Illumi,” you managed, his name still awkward and bitter on your tongue. “I… I’m really sorry, and I’ve learned my lesson, and—”

One second, you were staring at his feet, and the next, your head was snapped to the side, a searing pain stitched deeply into your cheek. His open palm slipped downward, cupping your chin and tilting your head back, forcing you to face him properly. “Good pets don’t talk.” His tone was shockingly sweet, coercive, as if he was trying to explain something very simple to a very stupid child. “Good pets only follow commands. Can you do that for me, puppy?”

Tears were starting to gather in the corners of your eyes, a tight knot lodging itself at the base of your throat, but you did your best to keep both at bay. You started to nod, then thought better of it, straightening your back and squaring your shoulders, trying to communicate the only thing you could seem to think – please don’t hurt me please don’t hurt me please don’t hurt me – without giving him a reason to land another blow. In the end, he rewarded you with the ghost of a smile, his free hand held in front of your mouth. “Good puppy. Now lick.”

You hesitated, but the steady ache pounding in your cheek was enough to make you swallow your pride. Your tongue darted out from between trembling lips, and with no small amount of trepidation, you lapped over the back of his closed fist. He let you begin to pull away before moving – before forcing two fingers into your open mouth and pressing the pads of his digits into the back of your throat. You gagged, your body instinctually recoiling, but he didn’t relent, his thumb digging into your jaw as he held you in place. Your hands shot to his thighs, the tears you’d forced back resurfacing and flooding down your cheeks, but he didn’t budge, didn’t pull away until you were gasping and breathless and utterly humiliated. Finally, he drew back, wiping his spit-soaked digits on your shoulder as his eyes moved from your open mouth to your hands, still balled around the fabric of his pants. “I have something upstairs for those,” he said, voice dripping with all the warmth and affection he usually denied you. “I’ll forgive you this time, puppy, but good pets shouldn’t be able to grab.”

He reached down, taking you by the leash. You were too detached to resist as he half-led, half-dragged you towards the crate. This time, you couldn’t stop yourself from shaking your head, from stammering out little ‘no, no, no’s as his fist curled around your collar and forced you past the metal gate and into the confined space, suddenly so much smaller than it’d seemed from the outside. You had just enough time to scramble for the door before Illumi slammed it shut, letting the clasp fall into place and leaving you withering inside the makeshift cage. You couldn’t stop yourself – hands curling around the bars as you looked toward him with your most pleading expression, but Illumi only shook his head. “You don’t have to sulk. Maybe, with some time, we’ll be able to move your bed somewhere warmer.”

He paused, his grin widening into the first real smile you’d ever earned from him.

“After you’ve proved you can be a good dog, of course.”

[bowieandqueen11]

Strawberry and Black Tea / Sanji Imagine

Request: for the fluffy sanji request-- maybe sanji and the reader end up sleeping in each other's rooms one night because its hard for them to sleep apart. reader gives sanji a good night kiss and he just falls into a lovesick puddle on the floor.

Something short and sweet because this idea is so so lovely, thank you anon!! :)

Warning: mentions of child abuse!

(I do not own One Piece or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes @suuho.)

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°

It was the Iron Mask that had left Sanji with such a distaste for the dark.

Even now, lying tossing and turning in his bunk on the Going Merry, the dark starlight that creeped through the lone porthole seemed to do nothing but shroud his eyes in a long-suppressed misery. It reminded him far too much of home. Of his father. Of nights spent trembling in dank corners: nothing but the touch of flimsy cobwebs against his outreached hands, and the ratchet of his own voice cawing off the empty stone chamber to ease the frightened child.

Until his paranoid eyes couldn’t tell of the receding monstrous shadow shrivelling up the tower was the receding form of his father, or the unyielding loosening of shrill’s death fingers rasping uneasily across the stone wall by his cage, finally come to fulfil her promise to take him away.

She grew closer and closer, until her liripipe seemed to crow through the bars as she leant down through the shadows to kiss his forehead.

He started scrambling back desperately along the dirty dust, still too young and inexperienced with the true hardships of his life to try and face them head on. Instead he buried his head into his crossed arms, tried his hardest to calm his panting breath, closed his eyes and squeezed. It was the only way, he thought in that tumultuous moment, it was the only at he would be able to hold onto his sanity. To pretend it was you. To pretend it was you. To believe it was you.

A rat scurried out of a hole between cracked shackles, sniffing the air as it noticed Sanji cowering in the corner: the same boy who had showed the rodent such kindness only e weeks before, feeding it leftover scraps of his mother’s favourite crumble, trying his best to clear the dish before his father realised it was missing. The poor thing ran over to Sanji’s shoe, it’s tiny claws pinching into the forgotten prince’s skin as it raised its little body up closer to him. But to that child - oh, that poor child - it was like bony fingernails biting into his bone and extruding coarse chills straight to the bone.

She had come. The wrong person had come. So he did what any young child would do. He started screaming.

He screamed your name. He screamed for his ma, until the screams died, choked by the wails sticking in his throat. Then he whimpered, clawing at the metal screwed against his cheeks until his fingernails were left stunted, jagged, bloodied.

He thought about how alone he was, but realised quickly that wasn’t what made him so sad. He thought about you: how you would react, how heartbroken you would be when his father announced to the world that the young Prince has perished in a terrible accident. He imagined your tear streaked face as you would watch the faux funeral procession parade in a cheerful solemnity down past the main market and into the sea, stealing away into the alleyway and seeing how alone you were.

Most of all, he felt guilty. Guilty that this was all his fault. That he had proved his brothers right. He was weak. He had destroyed his mother. He had ruined you. He was weak. And so he crumpled into a ball, falling onto his side and allowing the sweet embrace of the shadows to lap over him.

His cries had quickly fallen into pitiful whimpers. Then quiet sobs, jolting his body forward in convulsions that had left him gasping for breath every few minutes or so, only broken by the almost angelic sound of the iron wrought door being shoved unsteadily open, and the pained whisper from the top of the stairs. ’Sanji? Sanji! Where the- ow- are you?!’

'Y/-Y/n?' He clambered to his knees, and shoved his arms desperately through the bars, as if he could levitate you down towards him. 'I'm here! I'm here - please! Y/n!' His little fists began to bang on the bars as he scraped up to lean on his knees. 'Help me - get me out, please! She's going to kill me!'

It took you less than thirty seconds to scale down the remaining steps, nearly flying chin first down into the dirt. You didn't care though: not when Sanji's fingernails sliced desperately into your skin and burrowed into the meat of your arm, tugging your forehead against the cool metal of his own. You did your best to cup his face between the clunky mask, pressing your fingers down to his neck and pulling him even closer to you. 'It's alright - it's alright. I'm here. I'm going to get you out of here, Sanj. We're going to run, we're going to get away.'

He refused to let you go, even as you bit your lower lip in concentration and wiggled into your pocket to pull out a stash of bobby pins you had pilfered from Vinsmoke Reiju when you had slipped into the castle. Poor Sanji nearly flies backwards onto his behind when you finally manage to click the locked gate open, yet the realisation hardly seems to dawn on him; he's leapt on you in a second flat, knees knocking the wind out of your stomach as he tumbles his torso against your awaiting hug.

'You came', he heaved out between sobs, shoving his grimacing face into the throbbing pulse point on your neck, 'you came back for me... why would you come back for me.'

The absolute dejection in the final warble of his desperate plea made you bite down on your tongue so harshly, you had to shove it against the roof of your mouth for a moment to stop yourself from spluttering on blood. 'Because, Sanj... because you're my best friend. And I love you. And we made a promise, didn't we? We're going to go find the All Blue, but we're only going to do it together. Not one without the other, right?'

He head bobs quickly, desperately. Shaking fingers latch tighter into your back, and although he wants nothing more than to grab onto your fingers and fly to freedom up that winding staircase, he slides his legs to the side and comes to sit awkwardly on your lap like a frail bird. The soft tip of his nose tickles the shell of your ear as he whispers: 'like black tea and strawberry?'

You snort, but nod your head against the side of his curls, tightening your grip around the shaking expanse of his spine. 'Yes chef, like black tea and strawberry. Even though that sounds absolutely disgusting.' His laugh- god, his laugh was so warming, even if the sound cracks, hoarse and low as his face balls up. What was less welcome, though, were the few pearly tears that slipped past the cracks slats covering his eyes and began to trace down an old bruised hollow that lay sharp and gaunt on his neck.

'I'm sorry- I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm sorry-', he starts to panic again, one eye blinking open as he stares into the inky depths of the umbral shade gathering over your heads. 'This is my fault. It's my fault we have to leave.'

'No.' You grab onto his shirt, nearly making him wince, but both of you refuse to unlatch from the other. 'No. This is not your fault. This will never be your fault, and I don't want you to think that for a second.'

The authoritativeness behind your shaking words was almost enough to make him believe you.

He nods slowly, but you can tell he's doing it just to placate you. 'I love you too, by the way', he sniffles, finally leaning back enough so he could wipe what he deemed as an unsightly amount of snot away from his nose. More than you know. More than he could even put into words. More than his young, frightful heart could even yet understand. He's too bashful to look you in the eye, instead skimming his eyes quickly over the torn threads of his kneecap, but finally allowing himself a respite of calm in the knowledge that the love he had been so desperately begging for hadn't abandoned him.

Before the adrenaline could rush out of his body, he leant forward with his head still bowed, and kissed your cheek as best he could in the darkness.

You hadn't left him. You hadn't: you never would. The revelation seems to shift the world around him, coaxing him into believing the sweet twilight sleeting across his eyes was sunlight instead; even though he still felt like his life was spent as a coin flipping through the air, so unsure of where it will land - of where it belongs - of the choices it will wrought, it felt a little easier afterwards, knowing he would eventually land. That it was your hand that would catch him.

He still hated the dark. And he still loved you more than life itself. Which is why you weren't surprised to find yourself running around your room at nearly one in the morning, trying your best to discreetly gather your bed sheets and sneak off towards the boy's cabin.

Before you could even finish gathering your pillow into your arms, the melodic rapt of Sanji's knuckles had rung out through the door. It took you less than thirty seconds to slide across the planks and fling it open, but it took the poor chef a lot longer to catch his breath and try to look more put together; he was doing his best to look suave by the way he was leaning his elbow against the doorframe, but the wind swept hair gave away the fact that he had come running over the side of the ship to get to you. The soft pant of his breath, the ruddy cheeks, the slight spasm of his abdominal muscles through his half-unbuttoned dress shirt, the scratch of his teeth against his inner lip line: you knew his tell-tale sings, his idiosyncrasies far too well. The man was flustered beyond belief, even if he did his best to cock his head and beam down at you.

What really gave it away - what really, really gave it away, though, was the fact that he literally had to clasp his hands together in front of his chest and wring them to stop them launching forward and grabbing onto you with the cloying, overwhelming power of eight octopus tentacles.

You almost have to shove your hand against your mouth to stifle your laugh at the way he flicked his head back to move the hair away from his eye: to anyone else, it would have seemed like an innocent tick. But he knew, and more importantly you knew too, that it was just so his glistening eyes could wander across your face, as if the lines and marks of your face mapped out the most beautiful treasure in all the seas.

'Well, my strawberry, I hope I didn't wake you from your beauty sleep. Not that you need it! But I, I was hoping, if you were to grace me with such luck, that I may come in-'

Before he can even finish, you've grabbed the knot of his tie and have hauled him across the door line like a fisherman reeling in his hook. Sanji goes flying, landing safely in your open arms, and flopping his back down pleasantly into your hammock. Sanji's eyes widen as he comes sliding down the material towards you, headfirst, stopped only when his chest does the job for him. His arms thump clumsily around your back, using his fall as an excuse to pull you as physically close to him as he can. He huddles up against you, his hand spreading across your shoulder blade and guiding your ear down to rest comfortably just above his right pec. You flush, pretending you don't feel the firm ripple of his tense muscle: don't hear the pounding shudder of his tell-tale heart.

'I'll take that as a yes, ma chérie.'

Distracted by the way your arm falls around his stomach, idly reaching up to curl back the stray edges of his fringe behind the corner of his eye again, his legs inch closer... and closer... and closer... until his left one has plunked down above your own. You have to bury your head into his neck to stop yourself from laughing at how incarnadine his face spreads, warm pink waves radiating off his cheeks as you lift up your knees and slide your free leg in between the heavy weight of his thighs. Bless his heart, it must have taken some exertion to hold it the way he did, making sure not to place his full weight on you, but just enough that the contact was physically there.

'You know', Sanji starts, once he has calmed his heart from beating so rapidly he feared it may have flopped out through his throat, 'Zeff used to give me a kiss goodnight.'

You lift your head to stare at him incredulously. 'No he didn't. I was there for only... uh...', you lift the arm hanging over the soft skin of his bellybutton to ostentatiously count on your fingers, waving them in front of his face. 'Hm, look at that - fifteen years!?'

He leans his head down until his chin is tucked into his neck, and does his best to try and hide the way his lips are warbling into a grin; he tries to play it off as him finding your antics amusing, as he strokes his fingers tenderly over the warm cotton on your shoulder, but inside he's just so beyond giddy to know that you remembered. To know that you had been together so long. To know that after all this time, after all the two of you had been through, he would gladly dredge through the unspeakable caliginosity again, if it meant he could always arrive at this moment. If it meant, no matter what his life threw at him, he could spend every moment of it by your side.

Even if the shadows are juddering up the walls of the girl's cabin too: even if your stroking fingers can't mask the memories of death's sharp knuckles stretching out across the walls. Even if he were to land, right now, in the waves: if he were to capsize and drown, he would be happy. He would be happy, because it was your hand instead. Your hand.

Too timid still, too apprehensive to admit that which had been a heavy weight holding down the flight of his sweet heart, he hides his love behind canorous tease.

'Yeah, well, Zeff did it when he could be arsed. Which I’m pretty sure was never.'

You snort, and he delights at the sound that he had drawn out. His vice like grip on your side tightens, but you decide better than to tease him for the way he begins squirming himself against you. He finally settles properly on his side, the bridge of his nose so dangerously close to yours that you can feel the shallow warmth of his breath brush over your bottom lip.

'Well-', he starts, trying to distract himself from your proximity. He was failing horribly, of course, because his eyes kept falling down to stare blankly at the seam of your lips. 'This does sure beat sleeping on the dungeon floor, even if we do have to put up with Luffy's snoring.'

'Hm, the dungeon wasn't too bad. Cosy', you say teasingly, letting your finger dance down the shell of his ear, pointing the tip against the jut of his chin and lifting his gaze with a smirk.

'How'd you figure that, sweetheart?' The feel of your finger against his skin, no matter how miniscule the touch, was enough to make the fibres of his body burn with such a want that it almost scared him.

'Because... it was the first place you ever kissed me.'

Sanji starts, eyes widening as he feels his limbs turn to stone.

He can't hide in the shadows anymore. Now, he has to come into the light. Has to let himself be free.

'Yeah, well strawberry', he wets his bottom lip with a dart of his tongue, and folds himself further down the hammock so his knees are drawn warmly up against your own. The shaking of his torso is only overshadowed by the widening of his eyes, so full of deep wonder the dams might have burst and drowned you if he hadn't spent so years cautiously restraining himself. You draw a finger down the pulse point of his neck, and he feels that resolve weaken.

He feels like that frightened boy again, but he knows it has to be now. He knows he's been lucky to have had the luxury of borrowed time, but the bell has tolled: the bill has come due, and now he must admit the truth of his life - of his soul - of his heart, for he doesn't know when it will become too late.

He wanted to kiss you. God, he had wanted to kiss you so badly for fifteen years it hurt. Now, now he was going to create his own light: he was going to thrive, in spite of it all. He was going to allow that child to live. The cage was open. He was free. His choices were decided by nobody now but by his own ruling, his own compassion, and he had wasted far too many years training himself to be sceptical, precise, composed.

'... If you may be so kind as to permit it... I think this beautiful ship might end up being the second.' He leans his torso forward, and after a bashful burn flickers over his cheeks, he squeezes his eyes shut and plants a wet kiss against your cheek, just like he had done all those years before.

He suddenly becomes hyperaware of it all: of the closeness of your thigh against his own: slick, naked, vulnerable below your pyjama shorts. Your warm breath, inching closer and closer to his trembling mouth as he juts his head back to look warily at you, so afraid he's messed everything up.

But then you surprise him; you rush forward, overwhelming and crushing in the way your lips pliantly slide over his own, licking against the inside of his bottom lip as it drops open, breathlessly.

He had been waiting for this - over and over since the two of you were children. This thought - the idea that he would finally get here was the only thing that had kept him grounded. Kept him sane. And so he kissed you back: heartily, heavily, with a slipping mouth awaiting your tongue, and clawing fingers coming up to rapt into your cheeks as if you were something fleeting: as if he were still spinning in mid-air, waiting for the shadows to snuff the light out again.

When you finally find the strength, the resilience to pull away, neither of you seem to be able to muster the courage to just finally admit the truth you had both always known. Sanji, instead, looks youthfully shy as he tries to hide his wanting - god, so longing gaze behind his fringe once more, although his tongue can't help but prod against his bottom lip as if in disbelief.

'Like strawberry and black tea, right?', he finally asks against the side of your mouth, nudging his nose against your own and smiling fondly.

'Like strawberry and black tea.'

[azzibuckets]

rollercoaster [pazzi]

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

summary: the team is at an amusement park and kk decided to have some fun with azzi

a/n: next pazzi fic will be on monday or tuesday!

word count: 1k

masterlist

“I hate the entire fucking team.”

Paige smoothed her thumb against the crease of Azzi’s wrinkled eyebrow. “They’re the worst,” she hummed in agreement.

“How could they even ever do that to me?” Azzi seethed, arms now crossed. “The most innocent person on the team.”

“So innocent,” Paige emphasized, wrapping her arms protectively around the younger girl when she buried her face into Paige’s chest.

Azzi continued ranting, her tirade muffled by Paige’s shirt, all while the blonde stifled her laugh. When Paige stopped making noises of agreement, Azzi looked up, a soft pout on her lips. “You think I’m being dramatic,” she complained.

“No, I don’t.” Paige gazed fondly at the dark haired girl, letting their noses brush.

“You better go give them a talking to,” Azzi grumbled, jabbing her finger into Paige’s chest. “Stand up for me like a good girlfriend.”

Paige only laughed, thinking the younger girl was joking, but when she received a stone-cold glare from Azzi, she quickly straightened up and made a beeline to where the rest of the team was lounging on some benches and eating popcorn.

“You guys really think you’re funny, huh,” Paige said, getting everyone’s attention.

KK started giggling, but once she made eye contact with a glowering Azzi over Paige’s shoulder, she immediately shut up, her face now somber. “You should’ve been there,” KK sighed. “The scream Azzi let out was ungodly.”

Paige scowled. “Well now I have to deal with the consequences of your actions.”

“She sent you over here to lecture us, didn’t she?” Nika mused. “Princess has you whipped.”

Paige ducked her head, trying to hide the light blush now covering her cheeks but ultimately failing. “Shut up,” she mumbled. “Just stop playing around with my girlfriend. What has she ever done to you?”

“Nothing,” KK cackled. “But it pisses you off, which makes it even funnier.”

Paige flipped the girls off, all of who were now laughing at the memory from moments earlier, before returning to pacify Azzi. “Was it really that bad?” Paige asked with raised eyebrows.

Azzi’s face darkened.

••••••••••••••

“You promise it’s not scary?”

KK’s eyes followed Paige as she faded into the crowds and finally disappeared into the bathroom. “Promise.”

Azzi looked around nervously, her knee jittering against the cold metal of the bar across her lap. “Are you sure? The top looks kinda high. And I could’ve sworn Paige said this was the one that dropped all the way down.”

KK bit down hard on her bottom lip, trying to hide the laughter that threatened to howl its away out of her body. “Paige got the rides mixed up,” she explained. “This one’s super chill. Look at all the kids.” She gestured at a group of 11 year olds in the seats across from them, which seemed to help relax the tension in Azzi’s shoulders.

“Still,” Azzi muttered, biting her fingernails.

KK felt a tiny prick of guilt as she observed Azzi’s nervousness, but she had a bet that she needed to fulfill. Azzi was famous for being way too pussy to go on any rides at amusement parks that were for people above the age of 8, so Ice had been cocky when she’d promised KK a hefty $100 if she managed to get Azzi to go on the infamous drop tower.

It had been damn near impossible the entire day, with Azzi clinging onto Paige, who would patiently wait with her while the rest of the team went on all the big rollercoasters. But finally, KK had managed to separate the two when Paige had said to needed to pee, and this was the moment - the moment she’d be $100 richer. AKA 14 bags of TruFu, she reminded herself in order to stave off any guilt.

As the ride started and they slowly got lifted up into the air, Azzi grew increasingly paranoid with each foot in elevation gained. “KK?” She asked nervously. “Are you sure this isn’t a drop tower?”They were now at the very top of the ride, with the city sprawled out beneath them, and when KK only smiled, it hit Azzi. “Kamorea Arnold!” she shrieked, betrayal in her eyes.

And then they dropped.

••••••••••••••

“Yeah, it was that bad.”

“Alright.” Paige tugged Azzi’s fingers, motioning for her to follow as she walked. “I know what’ll make you feel better.” Paige dragged them along until they found themselves in front of a bright carnival game stand, with music blaring painfully loud through the speakers. A line of netted hoops faced them, clearly rigged but still tempting to two girls who loved basketball.

“You’re right,” Azzi picked up a basketball and twirled it on one finger. “Beating your ass will make me feel a lot better.”

“Game on.”

If Paige and Azzi were one thing, they were competitive. As soon as they started shooting, the man running the game took a couple of nervous steps back. Paige aggressively nudged Azzi to try and throw her game off, while an incessant stream of trash talking came from Azzi’s mouth. He seemed almost relieved when the game ended and the girls stopped furiously chucking balls at the net, with Paige scoring 47 points and Azzi 46.

“That was so unfair,” Azzi fumed. “You’re such a cheater.”

“Hey, playing comes with pressure,” Paige bragged cockily as she scanned the shelves for a toy. When her eyes landed on a huge Olaf plushie, she knew she’d found the perfect one. “That one, please,” she requested, not noticing the corner of Azzi’s lips turning upwards at her selection.

Paige presented the stuffed Olaf to Azzi with a proud grin, getting an affectionate roll of an eyes and smile from her girlfriend. “I could’ve won this myself,” Azzi mumbled.

“Sure you could’ve,” Paige teased, pulling the younger girl in to press a chaste kiss to her temple. She tried to suppress a laugh as Azzi wrapped her arms around the Olaf and squeezed, burrowing her chin against the soft material.

Hooking an arm around Azzi’s neck, Paige led Azzi back to where the girls were. “Feel better now?” she whispered against the baby hairs of Azzi’s neck.

“I guess,” Azzi whispered back. And although she gave KK the silent treatment for the rest of the day, a grumpy look overtaking her face, to Paige she still looked adorable, tightly holding the Olaf her girlfriend had won for her and not putting it down once.

[escapingrealtiylovinginsanity]

Jay Halstead (& Platonic! Will Halstead): People You Love

Some stories just write themselves and that is what this one did. I’ve been in a writing mood lately and I have a whole list of ideas I want to go through. This isn’t super Jay x reader-focused. 

Warnings: Mentions of PTSD and anti Will/ Natalie content 

You took a sip of your drink listening to Will talk to his brother about his latest disagreement with Natalie. You had learned at the beginning of your relationship with Jay and first meeting Will that it was not a topic of conversation that you should chime in on.  

Will wanted to be with Nat and there was nothing that could change that to his and her own detriment. You stirred the brightly colored liquid with your straw, listening to the ice cubes click against the glass. It was a sweet drink that Gabby had made for you. You were one of the few who frequented Molly’s that didn’t drink beer and only ordered mixed drinks. You had gotten hell for it from a few of the blue-collar boys, but Gabby had taken that as a challenge. There was always a new drink she had found for you to try. 

You tried to hide your wince by taking a drink when Will went through some particularly low blows of the fight. The saying sticks and stones make break my bone never considered how cutting words could be. Especially from the people who were supposed to love you. “You want another babe?” Your eyes flashed between his eyes and your cup which you now found almost empty. You hesitate, but with the way Will is going, you will probably be here for quite a while yet.   

“Yeah, just one more,” You agree. You watch him leave the table and make his way over to the crowded bar top. He wouldn’t have to wait if not for your drink, but he never complained. You heard a sigh and the loud click of a bottle being set more forcefully on the table.  

“Alright, let's hear it.” You glance up at Will expectantly. You weren’t close but you had acquaintanceship because of Jay. You liked Will but it was hard to form a real friendship with someone when you felt like you had to edit everything you said because they couldn’t handle your honesty. Will had a strong alpha male confidence and ego. He needed someone who could call him to the carpet, but you weren’t willing to risk your relationship with Jay to be that for him. You tilted your head in question to his statement. “I know you want to say something, so let’s hear it.” You shake your head circling your straw in your cup again. The bangles that lined your arms clinked together loudly as they slid down to your wrists. “C’mon,” Will pressed. 

“It’s nothing you want to hear.”  

“But there is something you want to say.” His gaze held yours and he raised his eyebrows in question. There was a challenging spark in his eyes. He was looking for a fight. “You’ve been with my brother for almost a year and never had an opinion you wanted to share about any of my relationship problems? I doubt that. I’ve been trying and nothing has been working out. So, I’m up for a female viewpoint.”  

“What you want is a fight. I like my relationship with Jay, I’m not going to ruin it by fighting with his older brother.” Will sits up a little straighter in his seat.  

“Is that so? Well, this one can be on the house. No backlash or fallout. The way I see it-I asked, you answered.” You eye him up and down trying to determine the truth of his words and if he was able to abide by what he just offered. You looked at the bar. Jay was leaning leisurely against the bar top talking to Kelly Severide, Matt Casey, and Gabby. You could tell he was still going to be a minute. You look back at Will and nod.  

“You and Natalie are never going to work.” Will blows out a breath and leans back in his seat before scoffing and shaking his head.  

“You don’t-” You shake your head at him holding up your hand making all the bangles clank down to the bottom of your forearm, the loud noise effectively covering up his rebuttal.  

“Uh-uh, you asked my opinion and now you're going to listen to it.” Will mouth turns into a firm line but he stays silent. “You two are bad for each other. I know you want it to work, to figure it out, for the little rainbows and butterflies to flutter down to fix all your problems. But it’s not going to happen. You two are bad for each other. She is bringing out the worst in you and from what I can tell- from the very limited time I’ve spent with you together- you are doing the same for her.” 

“I love her,” You shake your head at the redheaded man in front of you. 

“What you're doing to each other isn’t love Will. I know you care about her. Want what’s best for her but that doesn’t make it you. Love is finding each other's soft spots, their weakness. It’s learning and knowing exactly what could destroy them. It’s having all that power and choosing to protect them instead of bringing them to their knees.” You play with a bangle on your wrist twisting it, “I’ve been in a relationship where we picked each other to pieces, and I promise you Will that isn’t what you want.” You feel your eyes mist over with emotion, “It’s hard letting go but when you find someone that goes out of their way to protect you...When you would do anything to protect them...You will know that you’ve made the right decision.” 

“I protect Natalie.” You shake your head at Will getting frustrated with his purposeful ignoring of the issues. “We just get heated sometimes, say things we don’t-” 

“That’s what I am saying, Will. It seems to happen every other week with you too. Over stupid things that don’t matter.”  

“Unlike you and Jay. Because I’m sure you too never fight.” Will shoots back and your frustration rises.  

“Jay has PTSD. I’m more worried about protecting his mental health than notching up our day-to-day bickering. He gets in this headspace sometimes and it is irritating and frustrating because I just want him to talk to me. For him to let me help him. But he won’t. I didn’t understand at first. How could I? Then he had a really bad bout of it after a case. He didn’t hear me come in and I startled him. He pulled his gun on me. Pointed it right at my head.”  

Will felt his own frustration turn into something churning in his stomach. He knew his brother struggled with PTSD from time to time. He knew that he had nightmares and that there were times when he was constantly on edge- hypervigilant. But Will had never been there to see the full extent of it. “When he realized it was me, I could see it all in his eyes. He was afraid that he could hurt me. That I would be afraid to be around him. If he had any idea how terrified I was, not that he would hurt me but that he would torture himself with it. Nobody can hurt Jay like Jay can. The fallout was awful. He struggled to get past it. I knew that it could never happen again.” 

“So, what did you do?”  

You looked at your arm and wiggled it. The bangles clank loudly together. “I made it so I can never sneak up on him again. When I went through my Bollywood phase and bought bangles my mom used to complain that the entire neighborhood could hear me when I walked around. I’m sure one highly trained soldier can hear it coming from a mile away.” You look over to meet your gaze with Will again. “Now when I see the signs, I wear them. That is what you do for the people you love.”  

A look of understanding and respect is clear in Will’s eyes. You give him a smile and feel the threads of friendship beginning to form on the strong foundation of honesty and shared love of another person. “If you ever tell him that-” Will mimics zipping his lips before taking the last pull of his beer. You two sit in quiet understanding, and you can see Will marinating on your words. Whether they are thoughts about Jay or his relationship with Natalie you were unsure.  

Jay returns a few minutes later, setting a vivid blue and green drink in front of you and two bottles of beer for the brothers. You eyed the drink thoughtfully, “Gabby said you had to try it. She called it sweet poison, I think.” You stir it before sipping through the straw. You could taste the rum. Gabby had a habit of being heavy-handed with your drinks. It was good though. You turned to look at Gabby and when she raised her eyebrows in question you gave her an enthusiastic nod. She fist-pumped her accomplishment before turning back to Matt. “That good?” 

His strong hand found your thigh under the table, and you smiled at him. You caressed his forearm with one hand while pushing the drink closer to him with the other. “Yeah, try it.” He made a face at you but took a drink from the cup, not the straw. He merely shrugged his shoulders when you asked what he thought. “Yeah, yeah it’s always too sweet for you.” Jay looks over at his brother. 

“You okay man?” He questions, Will was being too quiet.  

“Yeah,” He runs his fingers through his curls, “I was just thinking... Might be a good time to get away for a while. Maybe do a week trip at Gramp's cabin. Fish and stock up on some more wood for the winter. You want to go?” The offer seems to throw Jay for a second. Between Will’s struggling relationship and Jay being busy with a heavy caseload they hadn’t had much time to spend together. Jay looks over at you and you smile brightly at him squeezing his arm. 

“Yeah, I have some time saved up that I need to go through.”