#shrink wrapper | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thef1diary · 6 months ago

Text

A Naughty Gift | D. Ricciardo

Merry Smutmas - Day 6: Secret Santa

warnings: 18+ content, use of vibrator, fingering, best friend!danny

— missed day 5? Read it here by @emchante

The living room radiates warmth, the soft glow of string lights reflecting off ornaments carefully hung on the Christmas tree. A steady, crackling fire in the fireplace adds to the cozy atmosphere, its warmth mingling with the scent of pine and spiced mulled wine. The chatter of your closest friends fills the air, their laughter blending seamlessly with the holiday playlist humming softly in the background.

The room is alive with anticipation. You’re seated on the couch, a glass of wine in your hand, your legs curled comfortably beneath you. Around you, your friends settle in—some on couches, others sprawled on the floor with mugs of hot cocoa or cider in hand. The Christmas tree stands proudly in the corner, its base surrounded by an array of colourfully wrapped gifts, each tagged with a name.

Tonight is the long-awaited secret Santa exchange, a tradition that never fails to bring laughter, surprises, and a few inside jokes to your closest group of friends. Two weeks ago, you all had drawn names from a bowl, each person tasked with finding the perfect gift for their chosen recipient. The mystery of who picked whom has been the topic of countless teasing conversations since, and now, the moment has finally arrived.

You’re excited to see your friend’s reaction when they open the gift you picked out for them—an item you’d put serious thought into, sure they’d love. But there’s also a nervous energy bubbling beneath your excitement. You have no idea who drew your name from the bowl, and your mind has been running through possibilities all week. Will it be something heartfelt? Funny? Maybe even a little ridiculous? Only time will tell.

One by one, the gifts are claimed and brought back to their recipients. Each present earns its own reaction—gasps of surprise, peals of laughter, or appreciative murmurs.

The stack beneath the tree shrinks as the night goes on, and the anticipation builds. Finally, it’s your turn. Your heart skips a beat when one of your friends plucks a medium-sized gift from the dwindling pile and passes it to you. The wrapping paper is festive but slightly crooked, as if the effort was rushed or the wrapper wasn’t skilled—it’s impossible to tell which. You let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head at the uneven bow perched on top.

Balancing the gift on your lap, you spot the tag attached to the ribbon. Beneath your name is a handwritten message in bold, playful script:

For when you need to unwind :)

Your eyebrows furrow in curiosity. “I’m almost afraid to open this,” you mutter, pulling at the ribbon.

With careful fingers, you peel back the wrapping paper, the brightly colored patterns giving way to a glossy white box underneath. The moment the text and images on the packaging come into focus, your breath catches in your throat.

Your gasp is audible—and immediate.

Nestled inside is a vibrator, sleek and modern, its packaging professional and uncomfortably clear about its intended use. Your mouth falls open in shock, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at the box, your mind blank.

The room explodes into laughter, your friends practically doubling over as they take in your reaction. You blush furiously, scrambling to pull pieces of the discarded wrapping paper back over the box as if that might somehow undo what just happened. But despite your embarrassment, a laugh escapes your lips, shaky and incredulous.

“Seriously?” you managed, your voice slightly higher than usual as you hold up the box—stil half-covered in the wrapping—for emphasis.

“That’s the next best option if you’re not getting laid!” one of your friends teased, wiping tears of laughter from their eyes.

“Oh my god,” you groan, burying your face in your hands for a moment before peeking back out at the chaos around you.

The laughter continues, the jokes coming in waves.

“Looks like someone’s trying to do you a favour!”

“Now you have no excuse to be cranky.”

You can’t help but laugh along with them, even as your cheeks burn. This wasn’t entirely unexpected; for months, your friends had made a running joke about your supposed sexual frustration. Anytime you were stressed or snappy, the solution was always the same: “You just need to get laid!”

Still, you never imagined getting such a gift from a secret Santa.

Once the initial uproar dies down, you look around the room, trying to pinpoint who might have been bold enough to give you such an obscene gift. Your friends are still chuckling, tossing jokes back and forth, but as your gaze sweeps over the group, it lands on Daniel, seated across from you.

Unlike everyone else, he isn’t laughing. His lips curve into a smirk, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement as he watches you, unbothered by the chaos around him.

Your eyes narrow, suspicion flaring. “Daniel,” you say, your voice sharp enough to cut through the lingering laughter.

The room falls silent, everyone turning to look at him. His smirk deepens, and he leans back casually in his chair, his posture oozing confidence.

“What?” he asks, feigning innocence. “I thought you could use something to help you… loosen up a little.”

The room erupts again, louder this time, your friends practically collapsing into each other at the sheer boldness of his comment. You groan, shaking your head, but there’s no hiding the amused smile tugging at your lips.

“You’re unbelievable,” you say, your voice laced with exasperation.

“Unbelievable or thoughtful?” he counters, his tone dripping with mock sincerity.

“You know, I should be offended,” you reply, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Are you?” comes his immediate response.

“Still debating it,” you mutter, unable to stop the small chuckle that escapes.

The focus soon shifts as another gift is unwrapped, the group’s attention moving on, but your gaze keeps wandering back to Daniel. The box lies heavy in your lap, the weight of it grounding you in more ways than one.

It’s just a gag gift, you tell yourself, a harmless joke meant to get a laugh out of you. But your mind can’t help but circle back to him. Of all the things he could have picked, why this? And, more importantly, had he thought of you—truly thought of you—when he chose it? The thought sends a shiver down your spine, one you quickly dismiss with a shake of your head.

Needing a distraction, you rise to refill your glass of wine, letting the chatter of your friends fade into the background as you retreat to the kitchen. You’re pouring a generous amount when you hear the soft creak of footsteps behind you.

“You might need more wine than that if you’re trying to forget about my gift,” Daniel’s voice drawled, the teasing tone unmistakable.

You glance over your shoulder to find him leaning casually against the doorframe, his posture relaxed but his eyes watching you intently.

“I’m not trying to forget it,” you say, turning back to your glass. You lift it to your lips, letting the liquid warm you before continuing. “Just need a little liquid courage.”

“To use it?” he asks as he steps closer, his tone light but laced with insinuation.

You turn fully to face him, narrowing your eyes. “Who says I’m going to use it?”

“It’d be a shame if you didn’t,” he replied smoothly, his smirk deepening.

Your heart skips a beat at his audacity, and before you can stop yourself, you blurt, “do you want me to use it?”

His smirk falters for half a second, replaced by something darker, something unreadable. “You’re always so stressed, so uptight. You’d be doing everyone a favour if you did.”

You roll your eyes, slapping his arm playfully. “I didn’t know my lack of… cumming was a group concern,” you muttered, sarcasm dripping from your voice.

His chuckle is low, almost a hum, but his eyes never leave yours.

Taking a sip of your wine, you decide to lean into the humour of it all. “Thanks for the gift, though,” you say, your tone light, playful. “Maybe this thing will finally do the job, considering everything else I’ve tried has been useless.”

Daniel’s expression shifts, his smirk freezing as his eyebrows lift. “Wait, what?”

Your cheeks flush instantly, and you curse yourself for letting that slip. “Nothing,” you mumble, shaking your head as you try to sidestep him.

But his hand darts out, gently grabbing your wrist and holding you in place. His grip is firm but not forceful, and it sends a jolt of electricity up your arm.

“You’re not getting out of this one,” he says, his voice low, laced with curiosity. “What do you mean by that?”

You groan, tipping your head back in exasperation. “I can’t believe I’m telling you, of all people, this.”

“Hey!” he exclaims, feigning hurt but a moment later, his smirk returns, though it’s softer this time, less mocking and more intrigued.

You bite your lip, debating, but the words tumble out before you can stop them. “It’s not voluntary, okay? I just… I can’t make myself, you know… finish. Not with my fingers, not with toys—nothing works. And I’m not exactly dying to hook up with anyone, either.”

His grip on your wrist loosens slightly, but his thumb brushes against your skin, sending another shiver through you. He’s quiet for a moment, processing, before he lets out a soft chuckle.

“Well,” he starts, his voice dropping an octave, “if that’s the case, you’d better give me a review of my gift once you use it.”

Without thinking, without hesitating, you fire back, “Why don’t you see for yourself if it works?”

The second the words leave your mouth, you realize what you’ve just said. His eyes widen, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, but it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by something darker, more intense.

His grip tightens slightly, anchoring you in place. The air between you shifts, thick and charged, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ve gone too far. But then, he steps closer, invading your personal space as his lips graze your ear.

“Careful,” he whispers, his voice low and dangerous. “I might take you up on that.”

Your breath catches, the weight of his words settling over you like a challenge. And for the first time all night, you’re not sure if this is still a joke—or if you want it to be.

The thought had all but left your mind as the night wore on, the air filled with laughter, the buzz of conversation, and the off-key singing of your friends as they belted out holiday tunes. You’d allowed yourself to relax, to forget about Daniel’s provocative words and the gift itself. The glass of wine you’d poured earlier remained untouched on the countertop—a conscious decision to remain completely sober and avoid any further embarrassment in front of him.

As the night began to wind down, your friends trickled out one by one, each hugging you tightly and thanking you for hosting. The energy shifted, quieter now, though still warm and filled with contentment. One of your friends lingered before leaving, her grin mischievous as she nudged you gently.

“Don’t forget about your gift,” she teased, winking. “Tonight might be the perfect time to use it.”

You laughed it off, waving her out the door, but her words lingered, stirring something deep inside your chest. As the door closed behind her, you let out a quiet breath and turned back to the living room.

Daniel was still there, gathering stray glasses and stacking plates with a practiced ease that made your stomach twist. He always stayed behind to help, his presence in your space as natural as if he belonged there.

The last of your friends were slowly trickling out, bidding you their goodbyes with hugs and sleepy smiles. It wasn’t long before it was just you and Daniel, the sound of clinking dishes breaking the comfortable silence.

In the kitchen, you were focused on loading the dishwasher when Daniel came up behind you, balancing a few more plates in his hands. His proximity sent a familiar jolt through you, a rush of awareness that made it impossible to ignore him.

As he set the dishes down beside you, the memory of your earlier moment in the kitchen resurfaced and you felt your cheeks warm at the thought, and you stole a glance at him. It seemed like that moment was on his mind too. His expression was unreadable, but the silence stretched between you, thick and charged.

Neither of you brought it up, though, working side by side until the kitchen was spotless.

He wandered back to the living room right before you, picking up his leather jacket from the couch. But as he moved to sling it over his arm, his eyes landed on the box still sitting on the cushion—the gift, untouched and glaringly present. His head tilted slightly, his lips curling into a faint, knowing smirk.

You weren’t sure what compelled you to speak up, but the words left your mouth before you could stop them. “I was told I should use it tonight.”

The moment the confession escaped your lips, heat flared across your face. You busied yourself with fixing the cushions on the couches, avoiding his gaze.

Daniel chuckled softly, the sound drawing your attention back to him despite yourself. “Is that so?” He picked up the box with his free hand, his movements casual. “Are you going to?” He asked, tone laced with intrigue.

He dropped his jacket back onto the couch, sliding one hand in his pocket as he waited for your response. Your heart was pounding now, and for the life of you, you couldn’t figure out why you were even entertaining this conversation.

Daniel’s smirk widened as he toyed with the box in his hand, his fingers brushing deliberately over the edge of the packaging. His gaze flicked to you, then back to the box, and with a slow, deliberate step, he started closing the space between you.

“What’s the hesitation, huh?” he asked, his voice smooth, teasing. “Scared it’s not going to work? Or are you scared it will?”

You shot him a glare, though it lacked any real heat. “I’m not scared,” you muttered, your voice betraying the slight tremor in your chest.

“No?” He stepped even closer, the vibrator box now dangling lazily from his hand as his eyes roamed your face, searching for cracks in your resolve. “Then what is it? You just like edging yourself, is that it? Letting yourself get so close you can taste it… then ripping it away?”

Your breath hitched, and you instinctively shook your head, the heat in your cheeks spreading down your neck. “I don’t—”

He cut you off with a low chuckle, taking another step until he was standing directly in front of you, the air between you thick and charged. “No?” he pressed, tilting his head. “You’re telling me you spend your nights wound up tight, desperate, trying to finish but never quite getting there?”

You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “I need to,” you admitted, the words spilling out before you could think twice. “I need to cum. So badly.”

Daniel’s smirk deepened, his gaze darkening as his free hand came up to brush a strand of hair away from your face, his touch lingering for just a second too long. “Then you should use it tonight,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, more intimate. “Get yourself off, let go for once. But…”

He paused, the corner of his mouth twitching as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Maybe what you really need is another pair of hands.”

“Daniel…” you whispered, your voice trembling, unsure if it was a protest or an invitation.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, the teasing smirk never leaving his lips. “Say it,” he said softly, the challenge clear in his tone. “And I’ll make sure you finally get what you need.”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, time seemed to still. Daniel stood close, so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, his dark eyes locked on yours like he was daring you to make the next move.

You nodded, the motion small but deliberate, your lips brushing against his as if testing the waters. The faintest whisper escaped you, desperate. “Please, Danny, make me cum.”

That was all it took.

Daniel surged forward, his hand sliding around the back of your neck as his lips crashed against yours with a force that made your knees weak. The kiss was fiery, intense, and filled with a hunger that had been simmering beneath the surface all night. His other hand dropped the box unceremoniously onto the couch, coming up to grip your jaw, guiding your movements.

You gasped into his mouth as his tongue slipped past your lips, deepening the kiss. Your heart raced as Daniel’s mouth moved against yours, eliciting a hunger from within you that made your knees weak. His tongue teased yours, pulling soft, desperate noises from the back of your throat.

Daniel’s hands found your waist, steady and firm as he guided you backward until the edge of the couch caught the backs of your knees. A gentle push sent you down onto the cushions, your breath hitching as he towered over you. His gaze, dark and filled with intent, flicked to the discarded box on the couch beside you. Without breaking eye contact, he reached for it, the tearing sound of the packaging loud in the charged silence.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice low and commanding, sending a shiver down your spine. His fingers worked at the box with practiced ease, pulling out the sleek vibrator that gleamed faintly in the dim light. He held it up for a moment, his smirk deepening as he glanced back at you. “Strip for me,” he said, the words carrying a weight that made your stomach flutter.

Your hands moved instantly, almost on instinct, tugging at the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head. You fumbled with the waistband of your pants next, your eagerness only adding to the heat building between you.

Daniel knelt in front of you once you were bare for him. His hands found your ankles, warm and strong, as he pulled your legs over his broad shoulders, his stubble grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. The couch cushions dipped under your weight, but all you could focus on was the way he leaned in, the heat of his breath just inches away from your cunt.

“Look at you,” he murmured, almost as if speaking to your glistening cunt rather than to you. “So wet already… Were you this desperate before, or is this just for me?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but no words came out. Your throat felt dry, your body so keyed up you could barely breathe. He grinned, clearly pleased by your speechlessness, and leaned in just close enough that his breath ghosted over your folds. The sensation made you shiver, your body straining toward him of its own accord.

His warm breath fanned over your slick heat, and you swore you could feel every word as he spoke. “You’ve been needing this, haven’t you? So worked up, so desperate to let go.”

Your mouth fell open in response, a soft whimper escaping as his fingers slid up your inner thigh, his touch featherlight but enough to make you arch into him. Two fingers came to rest against your folds, spreading you gently. The simple act, something you’d done countless times to yourself, now felt like an entirely new experience under his hands.

He dragged his thumb upward, deliberately brushing against your clit in the faintest tease, a mere suggestion of pressure that sent jolts of electricity racing through you. Your hips bucked involuntarily, a soft, pleading whimper slipping from your lips.

“Daniel,” you breathed, your voice shaky with need. “Please, I need to—”

“Shh,” he interrupted, his tone smooth, teasing. His lips curled into a smirk as his thumb circled your clit again, just barely grazing the swollen nub. “Needy, aren’t you?” He chuckled softly, the sound reverberating through you. “You’ve been so patient. Let me enjoy this for a moment.”

Your head fell back against the couch, your thighs trembling over his shoulders. The teasing was excruciating, his touch featherlight and agonizingly slow, keeping you on the edge without giving you the relief you so desperately craved. Another whine escaped you, and he chuckled again, clearly amused by your desperation.

“Do you know how pretty you sound when you beg?” he murmured, his voice low and rich. “But don’t worry. That’s what I’m here for. Me and this little gift of mine.”

Before you could respond, Daniel leaned in, his warm breath ghosting over your core before his tongue dragged a slow, deliberate stripe along your folds. The sudden wet heat of his mouth made you gasp, your back arching off the couch as he pulled back with a hum of satisfaction.

“Sweet,” he muttered, his lips brushing against your inner thigh as he spoke. “Perfect.”

Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath, but there was no time to recover. He brought the vibrator into view, the sleek toy gleaming in the dim light. “Let’s see how well this works, hmm?”

He pressed the tip of the vibrator against your clit, still teasing, still maddeningly light. Then, with a click, he turned it on. The sudden vibration against your sensitive flesh was like a jolt of electricity, and you cried out, your hips jerking upward as pleasure shot through your body.

The sensation was familiar yet utterly foreign, amplified by the fact that you weren’t in control. You didn’t know what was coming next, couldn’t anticipate his movements, and it left you completely at his mercy.

Daniel pressed the vibrator more firmly against your clit, his eyes fixed on your face as he watched your reactions with a wicked grin. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he asked, his voice thick with satisfaction. “You’re so sensitive, love. Look at how you’re shaking.”

Your legs quivered over his shoulders, your body trembling under the relentless stimulation. Just when you thought it couldn’t get more intense, his fingers returned, parting your folds once more. The wetness there made it easy for him to slide one finger inside you, then another, the intrusion smooth and deliberate.

You moaned loudly, your hands clutching at the couch cushions as the dual sensations overwhelmed you. The vibrator against your clit and his fingers inside you created a perfect rhythm, each movement pushing you closer to the edge.

“Daniel,” you gasped, your voice breaking as the pressure built inside you, coiling tighter and tighter.

The vibrator hummed steadily against your clit, Daniel’s fingers curling inside you with a precision that made your back arch. The pressure built higher and higher, and you trembled, caught between the unbearable pleasure and the tension coiling in your stomach.

This was always the point where you faltered, the moment where the pleasure grew so overwhelming, so maddeningly close, only to slip away. Every time you’d done this to yourself, your fingers had failed to push you past that invisible barrier. It was like chasing a mirage, just out of reach, leaving you frustrated and aching for more.

The memory of all those failed attempts made your chest tighten. You bit your lip, your moans softening, and Daniel noticed the subtle shift in your body. His movements slowed slightly, and his dark eyes flicked up to your face.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he murmured, his voice smooth and commanding, yet somehow soothing. His fingers stilled inside you for a moment, and he leaned in closer, brushing his lips against your thigh. “Don’t go shy on me now. I can feel how close you are.”

You whimpered, your lips parting to speak, but Daniel didn’t give you the chance. His grin turned wicked as his fingers curled again, this time pressing deep against a spot that had your breath catching in your throat.

“Look at you,” he rasped, his voice low and filthy. “Dripping for me. You’re so tight, sweetheart—so desperate to let go. Don’t fight it. You’re mine to ruin tonight.”

The vibrator pressed harder against your clit as he notched up the intensity. The sensation made you cry out, your hips bucking against his hand, but Daniel held you firm, his grip possessive.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he stated, his tone dark and teasing. “Not until I’ve wrung every last bit of that tension out of you. I want to feel you shake for me, hear you scream my name.”

His fingers thrust into you with deliberate precision, and he leaned in closer, his breath hot against your cunt. “You’re going to cum for me, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dripping with sin. “And when you do, you’re going to fucking thank me for it.”

The vibrator buzzed relentlessly against your clit, and his fingers kept up their steady rhythm, hitting a spot that constantly made you see stars. Your body writhed on the couch, every nerve on fire, as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak.

“You like that, don’t you?” Daniel’s voice was a low growl, his lips brushing against your trembling thigh. “Being completely at my mercy? Taking exactly what I give you? That’s it, pretty girl. Stop thinking. Just feel me.”

His words broke through your haze of overthinking, and you let go, surrendering completely. The coil inside you snapped, sending you spiraling into an orgasm so intense it left you shaking, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

Daniel stayed with you through it, his touch unrelenting but steady, drawing out every wave of pleasure until you were left trembling, spent, and utterly undone beneath him.

Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath, your thighs trembling over Daniel’s broad shoulders. The vibrator slowed but didn’t stop, sending smaller, teasing jolts through your sensitive clit. His fingers withdrew carefully, and you whimpered at the loss, your body still pulsing from the aftershocks.

He straightened, his hands gripping your thighs firmly as he lowered your legs from his shoulders, guiding them down to wrap around his hips instead. Rising to his full height, Daniel moved onto the couch, the cushions dipping under his weight as he hovered over you.

“You’re a fucking masterpiece,” he murmured, his voice deep and rough as he braced one arm on the back of the couch, the other trailing down to grip your jaw gently. “Look at you, trembling for me. Completely wrecked—and I’m not even close to being done with you.”

His gaze was magnetic, holding yours captive as his lips hovered just above yours, a breath away. The heat of his body pressed against yours, his hips brushing yours in a way that made you gasp, your body instinctively arching toward him despite your exhaustion.

Your eyes widened as his words registered, your mind spinning as his intentions became clear. A fresh wave of heat pooled in your stomach, your body responding despite how utterly spent you felt.

“Oh, that’s right, sweetheart,” Daniel said, his lips curling into a wicked, filthy grin. “I’m going to make up for all those times you had to edge yourself, all the times you were so fucking close but couldn’t quite get there. That’s over now.”

He dipped his head, brushing his lips along the curve of your jaw, his stubble scraping against your heated skin and leaving a delicious burn in its wake. His hand slid down your body, fingers grazing your waist before gripping your thigh possessively. “You’re going to cum on my fingers again, on my tongue, on my cock—over and over until you’re wrecked, until you can’t even remember what it felt like to want more. I’ll make sure you’re completely satisfied, sweetheart.”

His teeth grazed the shell of your ear, his voice dropping even lower, rough with desire. “And I won’t stop until you’re a mess beneath me, begging for mercy or for more.”

Taglist: @lilorose25 @thenotoriouserg @a-distantdreamer @leclercsluvs @fat-meh @wintxr-widow @amirahart @alishamai @rendezvoushn

682 notes · View notes

draqu1a · 3 months ago

Text

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ A SWEET CHALLENGE . . .

— what kind? : SMUT — warnings : sexual&suggestive content ahead , viewers discretion is adviced , MDNI .

The sink was a shit show. Towering stacks of plates, decorated with the ghostly remains of lasagna loomed cautiously. "Fuck," you muttered, eyeing the mess with genuine distaste.

Beside you, Chris chuckled. "Yeah, not exactly a masterpiece, is it?"

"Definitely not my masterpiece," you retorted, nudging him playfully with your elbow. "You were the one who insisted on making enough lasagna to feed a small army."

His face was shadowed with offense, clutching his chest dramatically. "Hey, I thought you enjoyed my cooking!"

"I do, I do," you conceded, "But I sure as hell don't enjoy cleaning up after it."

A silence hung in the air, thick with unspoken dread of words. Neither of you wanted to take care of the mountain of dishes.

"Alright," Chris said, a glint in his eye. "I have an idea."

"Oh, I'm scared," you replied, narrowing your eyes suspiciously. His ideas were usually… interesting.

He made his way over to the local cupboard and returned, flashing around a simple KitKat bar. "Whoever pulls away first does the dishes."

You raised an eyebrow. "Pulls away from what? A staring contest? you know I'd crush you in a staring contest."

He grinned, the mischievous light intensifying. "Not a staring contest, sweetheart. This." He unwrapped the KitKat, the noisy foil echoing in the sudden quiet. "We both take one end. First one to pull away does the dishes."

Your heart skipped a beat. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious," he said, holding the chocolate bar out to you. "Unless you're scared?"

"Scared? Please. I'm gonna make you wear dish gloves for a week. This is my territory, baby."

You took the other end of the KitKat, the chocolate cool against your finger tips. The air suddenly felt charged, buzzing with anticipation. You met Chris’s gaze, a playful challenge dancing in his eyes. You mirrored it with a smirk of your own.

"Ready?" he whispered, his voice suddenly husky.

"Born ready," you breathed back.

Slowly, deliberately, you both started eating at the chocolate. The silence was thick, broken only by the faint crunch of chocolate. Your eyes stayed locked on his, a silent battle of wills.

The KitKat became shorter, the distance between your faces shrinking with each bite. You could feel the warmth radiating from his body, the subtle scent of his cologne filling your senses.

The pressure was constantly going up. Your heart pounded against your ribs. You could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his lips curved slightly in a teasing smile.

You were both so close now, the anticipation almost unbearable.

One bite. That was all it took. The last sliver of chocolate disappeared while your lips brushed against his. A jolt of electricity shot through you. You held your breath, savoring the moment.

He tasted like chocolate and something else... something indescribably Chris.

The brush of lips became a lingering kiss. Soft, tender at first, then deepening with a sudden urgency. You completely loosened your hold on the wrapper, letting it flutter to the floor. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair.The kitchen faded away. The lasagna-encrusted plates started to not exist in your minds.

There was only you and Chris, lost in the intoxicating heat of the moment. His kisses grew bolder, more demanding, and you responded generously, meeting his passion with your own.

His hands moved lower, tracing the curve of your hips. A shiver ran down your spine. You pulled away slightly, gasping for air. His eyes were dark, glazed with desire.

"Damn," he breathed, his voice raw. "I forgot what we were even doing for a minute."

You chuckled, it being a breathless, shaky sound. "Me too." You glanced around the kitchen, your eyes landing on the towering stack of dirty dishes. "So… about those dishes?"

He grinned, a slow and lazy curve of his lips. "Fuck the dishes." He pulled you back into his arms, his lips finding yours again. "They can wait."

And they did wait. You didn't do the dishes that night nor the next. The battle of wills had dissolved into a delicious, intoxicating truce. The dishes remained, a silent testament to the KitKat challenge, the steamy makeout session and the undeniable fact that sometimes, forgetting your responsibilities was the best decision you could make. Especially when it involved Chris. And chocolate.

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹🃜 . yappin claudia : got inspired by a rando reel, actually like this idea a lot .

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹🃜 . taglist : @strnilolover @ifwdominicfike @courta13 @sturns-mermaid @sageshollow @sturnsc . . .

304 notes · View notes

mediumgayitalian · 1 month ago

Text

Nico only sees it because he is watching. Watching — him.

They are sitting together, the six of them; Nico, Kayla, Austin, Lou Ellen, Cecil, and Will. It is spring. It is nice out, even outside of Camp standards, they have hedged just outside the borders to sit on one of the dandelion-peppered hills, just laying. Being. Austin, Kayla, and Lou Ellen throw a frisbee around — the girls have united against him, much to his fervent protests and complaining. Cecil fiddles with a contraption everyone is ignoring in name of plausible deniability. Nico curls up with his cheek on his knee, watching; Will weaves a flower crown.

He is deft, Nico notices. Hands shaking but careful. The golden buds loop and bend like vines around an old pine, like Cellini’s writhing snakes.

It is only because Nico is watching that he sees. Kayla and Lou are cackling, the wind rips through the grass, flipping up their blanket. Every minute twitch sends the napkins and wrappers from their lunch crinkling.

Will pulls a stem through a loop. His hands twitch. He freezes, and the crown falls from his wide hands. His breathing slows, heavy.

He reaches for Cecil’s hand.

“What day is it?” he whispers, weak in the wind.

Cecil goes still.

Nico feels the hair rise on the back of his neck. He has never seen Cecil so serious. The ever-present raise to his thin eyebrows goes immediately smooth, and he grips the hand Will holds out, hard enough his knuckles go bloodless.

“April,” he says, quiet. He glances around. Nico shrinks back, looking quickly away. “Twenty-ninth.”

Nico can hear the curl of Will’s voice, from three feet away. It is nauseating.

“Fuck.”

Cecil squeezes. “How long?”

“I — don’t know.” Will’s hands start shaking, again. The twisted strands in his lap give, finally, under the tension; dozens of crumpled stems and crushed petals fluttering down the hollow of his crosses legs. “I thought there would be — snow.”

Cecil curses softly. There is an edge to his voice, that Nico has never heard before; he loosens his spine and sinks against the blanket, like that will make him less visible. Like he can melt into the razor-thin shadows of every blade of grass; unseen, observing.

“Okay. That’s — okay, Will, you’re okay.”

To his horror, Will begins to cry. Barely, and silently; he swallows hard and his throat bobs once, twice. A tear traces the scars on his jaw and neck and drops onto his loosened bandages.

A frisbee hurtles towards them. Will sniffles; a quick, practiced thing, and swipes a hand down his face. When his palm drops back into his lap he is smiling, laughing; he scoops the frisbee up in one trembling hand and tosses it back, standing to his feet.

“Will,” Cecil tries, carefully.

Will does not look at him.

“Come play!” he shouts, voice careful, back straight. When he meets his eyes again his eyes are pleading. “Come on, Cecil! You too, Nico!”

Kayla cheers, and calls Will for her team. He hounds over, feet bare, fist tucked against the bend of his hips. Cecil watches, breathing slow.

Nico follows, when he jogs down the hill, catches the red disk Will tosses him.

Neither of them bring it up again.

235 notes · View notes

sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth · 3 months ago

Text

Marked (MOC Dean x female reader)

Chapter 1 - Ten days

CWs Explicit sexual content. Some graphic violence. Dubious consent. Unhealthy relationships. Age gap. Sad ending. 18+. 8.6k words.

Mark of Dean series master list ⏐ SPN masterlist

It’s been ten days since you and Dean had sex for the first time. Ten packages of twenty-four hours, neatly stacked beside each other, like birthday presents. Every hour filled with sixty minutes. Every minute with sixty seconds.

You’re pretty sure not a single one has passed without you thinking of him.

Something always brings you back to him. It’s difficult to avoid him, first of all, living together in the bunker, or the signs of him. A dirty coffee cup. A sandwich wrapper. Sometimes his smell wafting in the air, telling you he’s been there – a smell you got to know intimately. A smell you washed off yourself afterwards.

Standing in one of the large, tiled showers, water so hot it flushed your skin running over you. You try not to remember how long you stood in front of the shower, how hard you had to convince yourself to step in, knowing you wouldn’t be able to smell him on you afterwards. How you scrubbed at yourself, in the end, frantically, once doubt and shock at yourself started pouring in. How it still feels like he’s all over you.

To pretend you went to Dean’s room not hoping for exactly this would be to lie. You did, although you’re not sure you were even aware of the wish. You went there for something completely different. You could claim ignorance, but the way Dean has been looking at you, studying you, is something you’re violently aware of. The crush you’ve had on him for as long as you can remember – try convincing a jury that there was no premeditation and you would land behind bars. You’ve carried a flame for him for a long time, but it was always just that, a crush. You had no idea it could turn into a wildfire.

You assumed Dean was out of your league, but then Dean’s pretty much out of anyone’s league – even the beautiful, breathtaking women you’ve seen him with seem to shrink in his presence. There’s something about that you don’t wish to explore, how a beautiful man holds so much power. But it’s not just Dean’s looks, of course – though they would be enough to make him the most mesmerizing person in any room. It’s him. His presence.

The first layer: charming, funny. A little silly, dorky, but in a way that makes his good looks bearable. He could be vain, could be vapid. He’s not. He’s engaged. He’s present, yet careless. He’s a horndog and a jokester and it’s easy to roll your eyes at him. It’s like Dean gives up a little bit of his power by being himself, maybe because in a way, he doesn’t see himself as powerful, or he didn’t. Not until he got the Mark.

The second layer is his fierce loyalty. His love. Being in Dean’s inner circle, part of his chosen family, his tribe, is like having the sun shine on you and only you. It always made you ache violently, to be loved like that by him. He’s protective. No, that word doesn’t encompass it. There is no word. He will protect you and Sam and Castiel and Charlie and a few chosen others even while he is bleeding and dying and crippled. It’s what he does. And when he did, looked after you, enquired about you, protected you on a hunt, you felt a need so deep inside yourself it made you want to bend over and sob. Not arousal, but something sadder, yet still similar. Need. Want. You’d lie in bed with one hand between your thighs, the other pressing your pillow into your face as you wept from both ends. The knowledge that you would never be loved as fiercely and protectively by anyone as you were loved by Dean Winchester, and that it still wasn’t enough.

The third layer is the one that has all the hate for himself. Dean’s the exception to the rule, or maybe the exception to prove the rule. He should have everything in life with how he is, how he enters the stage. Nothing should be able to stop him. But he himself does. He’s his own worst enemy. You see the way he isolates himself sometimes, the way he’s decided he needs to carry everything on his own. There’s no convincing him otherwise, not at this point. When you say something nice to him, genuinely tell him about his goodness, he waves it off in a way that isn’t just politeness, or pretend humbleness. It’s deeper. It’s uncomfortable for him, painful, because his own idea of himself is so far from what you’re telling him.

It makes your love for him burn that much brighter. Dean evokes that distinct, ever famous I can fix him urge, the one that has been the downfall of many a great woman. The belief that maybe he can be unknotted, in some way. He would be the perfect man, if only he didn’t get so angry at himself and in turn the world, if only he could be a little softer without scaring himself, if only he could settle for something rather than panic the moment any kind of standstill happens. If only he was a completely different person with a different set of experiences, he would be perfect. You’re pretty sure that’s what Dean thinks about himself, too.

And the Mark has done something to him. Sure, it’s old, it’s ancient, it’s biblical, it’s the ultimate symbol of evil and murder and fratricide. But it has flipped a switch in him and suddenly all those voices that have made Dean question who he is, kept him down, suddenly seem turned off. It’s like there is another, louder voice, that tells him it's okay and you are right and this is just.

Quod erat demonstrandum: him sleeping with you.

You feel a little silly at calling it that. Sleeping together. You didn’t do any sleeping, and the only connection to those words is that you did it in his bed. You had a moment, Dean buried deep in you, his sweat mixing with yours, your brain almost melting out of your ears, where you thought: Dean wouldn’t do this, while he was, quite literally, doing this. It must not have been real. But it was.

You came, harder than ever before, and not just once. No doubt that Dean Winchester knows what to do with a woman’s body - not that you had any doubt about that. It’s the kind of experience you would laugh at fantasizing about, because while it’s a good fantasy, it’s so unrealistic as to be embarrassing. But it still happened.

Still, it’s not how you imagined it, not quite. It wasn’t your first sexual experience, but close enough to it to almost count as it. But the Dean you imagined being with, all those times before, was, well, the Dean you know. Silly, a little shy maybe in the face of it. He would enjoy you and you him and you would fall down on the bed afterwards, satisfied, laughing. Whole.

But this man who ravished you, opened you up - it’s still Dean, of course, but it was someone else as well. It wasn’t the man who got excited at a pair of boobs, who thought a red thong was the height of eroticism, who bought his almost juvenile skin mags at the gas station, like the world of free online porn had never been invented. He wasn’t just scratching an itch, and he wasn’t making love. He was fulfilling something - something so deep and primal that you don’t have the words for it.

You don’t know whether that’s better or worse. If it had been the Dean you know, the silly one, you know you’d be even more in love than you already were. If he had held you, caressed your cheek, maybe kissed your forehead - what woman wouldn’t have become a vessel with the sole purpose of making this man hers?

But it was different. He wasn’t dismissive, or rough in a way that you didn’t like, and he didn’t make you feel like he didn’t care. While he was deep inside you, fucking you from behind, you asked him to kiss you - and he did. It was your first time kissing him, after he’d already been fucking you for a while. But he did kiss you, once you requested it. He kissed you, gently, while he fucked you like an animal.

And that’s the thing. On the spectrum of how you expected the sex to be - one end: loving, gentle, soft, the other: rough, hateful, impersonal, not loving - it falls somewhere in the middle. You like to think you don’t have any puritanical views on sex, but you don’t know where to put it. The neediness and passion, yet it was definitely fucking, not sleeping together, and not making love. But Dean doesn’t hate you, doesn’t think less of you for giving yourself to him the way so many men would in his place.

You lean forward, elbows on the library table and lay your face into your hands, rub at it.

This is exactly the circular madness you have been going through for the last ten days. Back and forth and back and forth, constantly, on what does it all mean? You’re young, you know that, but not clueless. Still, you’ve been taught enough that you know a sexual relationship with a man almost twice your age carries a certain power dynamic that should make you run the other way. And the fact that you can’t place the act, can’t qualify it - is that your lack of experience causing it, or should you trust your gut? Trust that voice inside you that is telling you to stay away? The one only surpassed by the voice telling you to find Dean right now and tear at his clothes and make him do all the things he already did again.

So this is how you’ve spent your days - fluctuating, unsure, nervousness buzzing under your skin. You’ve avoided Dean, because of the urges it sets free in you - what you wouldn’t do to take his hand, shove it into your underwear while he grunts into your ear - and also because the way Dean has been looking at you, talking to you when you are unable to avoid him, is sure to set you on fire.

He’s not flirting. No, flirting is suggesting, is saying something without saying something, is getting the other person to consider you a certain way. That’s not what Dean has been doing. What he has been doing is much less subtle.

He stares at you. Stares at you and when you catch him at it, it’s you who looks away, blushing, not him, and something about that isn’t right. He mostly doesn’t say anything outright, because usually Sam or Castiel are there, by your design, and he doesn’t resort to innuendos, double meaning, licking at the rims of cups or stroking cylindrical objects or finger fucking any soft, pliable surfaces. He’s not trying to seduce you. It’s like he knows he doesn’t have to.

Instead, he just looks at you. Which shouldn’t be as effective as it is, but it is. Not stolen glances. No brushing past each other, backs of hands accidentally touching. It makes arousal twist in you so violently you think you’ll be sick.

One morning, he caught you alone in the kitchen - Dean’s usually the one who sleeps the longest, so you didn’t think you’d meet him at that hour. You were pouring coffee and he walked in, stopped in his tracks while you turned to look at him. Then he kept walking towards you. A million perverted fantasies went through your head in one go - was he going to push you against the wall, take what he, maybe rightfully, considered to be his? Kiss you? Pry you open?

Instead he stopped just a step short of you, looked down into your eyes, you half turned to him, coffee pot in one hand, cup in the other, waiting for whatever he was going to do.

“Take your clothes off,” he said, like that was a viable option, like you were going to put down the coffee and then get naked, in the kitchen, where anyone could walk in, only for Dean to– what? Fuck you there? On the table? Fast and hard and hand pressed over your mouth so no one would hear the sounds he drew from you? Not a viable option. Still, exactly the thing that went through your mind. Your breath stuck in your throat when he stepped closer to you, his scent all around you suddenly.

“I wanna see your skin again,” he said and you needed to swallow. Not pussy or tits or ass, or anything like that. Your skin. How absolutely unsexual, and yet the most erotic thing anyone had ever said to you. Surely, it wasn’t depraved if Dean only wanted to see your skin?

“I–” you stuttered, unsure what to say, then settling on: “We shouldn’t.” Which didn’t mean you didn’t want it. Which didn't mean you weren’t craving it. Only that by some outside law, it was bad and wrong. A soft smile played on Dean’s lips while he watched you intently.

“Says who?” he asked. You just had time to wonder who, indeed, before Sam came barreling into the kitchen, sweaty and breathing hard from his morning run. Dean took a step back, switching to his jovial self, leaving you standing there breathless and wet.

Who, indeed? Who is saying you shouldn’t? And so your thoughts make their inevitable rounds. You love Dean, really love him, and as much as the thought that he wants you - he wants you, needs you, he wants to see your skin - is making you fall apart at the seams, you’re also sure it’s not real. Not really. It’s the Mark. It has to be.

And that, in itself, makes it wrong. Makes it bad. Because Dean’s not himself. He’s driven by this thing, by this power. You’ve seen him act out, more violently than ever before, and that’s really saying something. He enjoys it now. Maybe he always has, but he sure doesn’t feel ashamed about embracing it now. Is it the same with sex? You don’t think he’s been hooking up as much when you’re out on a case, which seems contradictory to your theory that the Mark is magnifying all those primal needs. It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense.

You press your fingertips against the skin of your temple, trying to get some of the tension out. Trying to think of anything other than the way the muscles under Dean’s skin moved when he was over you, the way he kept looking into your eyes even when he pressed his cock down your throat, the way his strong hands felt on your most sensitive parts. You felt beautiful. How sick is that? And you felt safe. Thrilled, nervous. But safe.

As if summoned by your thoughts, the three men you share the bunker with - well, two men and an angel - walk in, and from Sam’s tone alone you know he is talking about a case. The laptop he has balanced in one hand while gesticulating with the other is a dead giveaway too. Castiel is wearing his usual frown and walking behind the tall hunter. And then there’s Dean.

He’s sauntering more than walking, the way he does. It’s not arrogance. It’s a put-on display of coolness, because Dean meets the world with a balled fist and a charming smile. He has to. It’s the way he’s survived.

He looks at you and your gazes meet before you can avert your eyes. You look away, breath catching in your throat, stare at the table in front of you. As the three come closer to where you are sitting, you look back. Dean is still looking at you, the slightest smile on his lips. God, he’s so beautiful. After how much time you’ve spent with him, you’d think the novelty would wear off at some point. It hasn’t.

“I’m not totally sure it’s something for us,” Sam says while he sits down but two chairs from you, putting the laptop on the table without taking his eyes off it. “But the first death looks suspicious, and there is a witness for it.”

“But you said they didn’t see anything,” Castiel says with that rough voice of his as he sits opposite Sam - it’s still strange to see him casually lounge around, something you’re gonna have to get used to. Sam raises his hands from where they’re resting on the table, his face saying well? Meanwhile Dean positions himself somewhere between the two at the head of the table. Man of the house, you involuntarily think as you try to zone into the conversation.

“Care to fill me in?” you ask, and both Sam and Castiel turn to you.

Your relationship to both of them is good. They treat you the way Dean used to treat you - like a junior tribe member, a younger sister, not that the age difference really checks out for that. Everyone in this cobbled together family takes care of each other. When you joined them a few years ago - insistent, no family you could go live with since they had all been killed - Sam called you stubborn, and according to your role, you rolled your eyes at him. But Dean just shook his head. She just knows what she wants, is all, he said, and you blushed under his gaze. The gaze that, back then, you’re sure, wasn’t what it is now.

You’re distracted from your thoughts when your phone buzzes. It’s lying on the table, screen down, and you pick it up, unlock it in one swift motion without even looking who the message is from.

You look beautiful today. Sexy. Good color on you.

You swallow, eyes going immediately up to Dean. He’s standing there, watching you, phone in one hand, other arm tugged across his chest. Without breaking eye contact, you lock your screen, but keep your phone in your hand while you try to focus on what Sam has been saying.

“So it looks like they drowned, even though there was no water nearby,” Sam says and turns to you just as you force your gaze back to him.

“Some kind of water spirit?” you hazard, even though you’ve only heard the last little bit of what Sam said. Sam pulls down the corners of his mouth a little. It’s the look he gets when someone’s wrong but he’s too nice, too polite, to say how stupid what they just said is. That’s Sam for you - so friendly and empathetic that it makes your insides twist. It used to not bother you - quite the opposite. It’s Sam you would spend long evenings talking about loss and grief with, not Dean. The perspectives he gave you and how intently you listened to him made you love him wholeheartedly.

But since you and Dean, Dean and you, that thing, the thing that happened, you realize you’ve been avoiding him. And you know he can tell. He’s been throwing you looks too, but a very different kind than his brother. He seems worried. Only a little over a week that you’ve been feeling strange and already Sam’s picked up on it. It would move you if it didn’t annoy you so much. Fill you with so much dread.

Like now, him considering your suggestion of the water spirit when clearly he’s already ruled that possibility out. If Sam thought it could be a water spirit, he would have said it could be a water spirit. The fact that he hasn’t means he’s already pretty sure it’s not. Still, he acts like it’s a legitimate solution, and that in itself makes your blood run hot.

You’re good at this. The hunting, specifically. The interpreting the lore and understanding what monster it is this time. You are, and more than once you’ve made the three men give each other impressed looks at your words. Look at you, big brain, Dean once said, grinning. Proud. He was proud of you. You don’t think that’s an emotion he feels regarding you anymore.

Just then, your phone buzzes again and without thinking about it, you look down at it. The preview of the message shows. It’s from Dean.

Too bad Rizzoli and Isles are here. I would love to have you on that table, right where you’re sitting. I could go so deep if you’re be…

The screen goes dark again before you finish reading, and you don’t wake it again. You need to swallow, a delicious, almost painful twist somewhere in your lower abdomen. You can see it, almost as if Dean beamed the images from his head into yours.

Shirt pulled up, jeans pulled down, no time for full undressing. Bent over the table, Dean standing behind you, one hand on your hip, one… in your hair, maybe? Your chest on the smooth wooden surface. You’ve never had your cheek pressed to it, but you’re sure you know what it would feel like. And Dean maybe wouldn’t thrust but grind into you, twist himself around in you. It would take a long time for you to get there, but it wouldn’t matter, because Dean would take his time and you could explore that rise of pleasure, how his body makes your body feel exactly. You would explore it together while he’d hold you like a taut string, calling you baby girl and good girl and my girl and who knows what else.

You blink yourself out of your reverie, try to focus on what is happening. Heavens, you feel like you’re running a fever. You look up and just catch Castiel looking at you too. It makes you clench your teeth just as the clenching between your legs lets up. God, why can’t everyone just stop looking at you? Why are you under such constant scrutiny? Your eyes shoot up to Dean, who is looking at Sam who is talking again. Is that what you want? For everyone, including Dean, to stop looking at you?

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks, and Sam stops talking in the middle of a word, looks at Castiel, then, following his gaze, at you. Dean does too and you quickly look away from him, focus on the angel. He cares too, is kind and sweet, but a little less concerned with everyone’s feelings when it comes to staring into your soul with those baby blues.

You almost want to shake yourself. Why are you so dismissive of their care, of their worry for you? It’s something you’ve always loved, something that always made you feel safe, looked after. Why the sudden antagonism?

Because you have a dirty secret, a voice inside your brain offers. And if Sam or Castiel found out, found out what you have done, no, what Dean has done to you, or what you have done to him, with him, they would look at you differently. You clear your throat.

“I just, I have a headache,” you say, then clear your throat again.

“Maybe you should lie down for a little,” Dean says and you whip your head towards him, eyes wide. A perfectly innocent suggestion. Except of course it’s not.

“Yeah,” Sam says, looking at the laptop screen, then at his watch. “Look, this is pretty inconclusive, so even if it is something for us, we won’t be leaving for a couple of hours. Why don’t you take a nap?” Your shoulders tense, but then you stand up.

“I will,” you say, feeling a little breathless, “thanks, guys.”

With that, you stride out of the room, not looking back. You walk down the hallway to your bedroom, quicker than you need to. Like when you used to need the bathroom in the middle of the night as a child, and even though you were too old to think monsters were real - ironic, now, looking back - you still couldn’t help but hurry on your way back to bed. Just in case something snapped at your heels. Just in case something was about to breathe down your neck.

You’re almost at your door when your phone buzzes again. You shouldn’t look, you know that. It could be anyone, in theory, but you know it’s not. But you still look. Of course you look.

When you get to your room, I want you to touch yourself. Think about me.

Your palm lands on the door to your room, throwing it open, then throwing it shut behind you. You think about locking it for a moment - but that would be an overreaction, right? That would be mad? That would imply you don’t feel safe living there. Is that what this is? Do you not feel safe?

Walking to the bed, you put your phone on the small night table, then lift up the comforter, slip under it. No thick boots for you to kick off, you leave that to Sam and Dean. You’re a creature of comfort and you refuse to tie up your feet all day long in what is supposed to be your home.

Tugging your legs up, you wrap your arms around your knees. Ignore that you want to stretch out. Ignore that you want to feel the fabric against your skin, running over you. Imagine it’s someone’s fingers. You close your eyes, try to ignore that tight fist inside of you.

Go to sleep, you think. And when you wake up, everything will be fine.

Dean stands there, listening to his little brother blab about the case, throw theories back and forth with Cas, and the only reason he doesn’t rush right after you is because he’s imagining you on that table.

You’re naked, fully naked, bared for him and only him, and you’re on your back, ass at the edge, your ankles somewhere near his ears while he bends you in half as he fucks you deep. You whimper, but you also spur him on. Fuck yes and keep going, harder and oh God, you’re so deep, Dean. And he would. He would do it all.

He can feel himself grow hard in his jeans, shifts a little to hide it. He likes the chase, it’s not that he doesn’t. He loves walking in on you unexpectedly when you’re in the kitchen or the library, loves the look on your face when you’re surprised when you see him. He knows that you think about him then, about that night, about the ways your bodies sang together. Maybe you’re thinking up some new things, too, but whatever it is, you’re thinking about him. That’s really all he cares about.

Because he thinks about you. Every second, every minute, every hour. He goes to bed, freshly emptied, your name on the tip of his tongue as he finishes himself off with quick and rough strokes, and he wakes up achingly hard, already seeing your face before he has even opened his eyes. It’s like he’s a goddamn teenager all over again, except without all the confusion and shame.

There’s no shame he feels when he sends you a message telling you he wants to fuck you on this table, or when he goes to the washing machine and your laundry is waiting in a nearby basket and he presses a piece of clothing of yours against his face, inhales. No shame when he once had to take care of himself right there when he found a pair of your panties, buried deep in the pile, a dried white smudge right there. No shame when he walks past you, brushes close by on purpose. No shame when he eye fucks you across the room. No shame when he’s sure, so sure, he can smell your arousal in the air every time you’re close. He doesn’t know if he’s imagining it or not, and he doesn’t really care, if he’s being honest.

He raises his phone, checks the message he sent you. You haven’t opened it, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t seen it. Doesn’t mean you don’t know exactly what he wants you to do.

He latches back onto the ongoing conversation. He’s better at it than you, maybe exactly because of the lack of shame, so he waits until his brother has said something, and then Cas, and then taps his hand against his arm.

“Didn’t we have something like this in storage downstairs?” he asks, making his voice sound curious. Sam raises his eyebrows.

“I don’t know, did we?” he asks. Dean nods.

“I’ll go take a look,” he says and before anyone can ask any further questions, he turns around and walks away, straight to your room.

You try to go to sleep for a whole thirty seconds, but you know immediately it's useless.

Somehow your hand has found its way between your legs, and with the comforter still over you, you can almost pretend whatever is happening there under it has nothing to do with your head peeking out from the covers. Never mind how quickly your fingers have warmed you up. Never mind how you’re slowly rolling your hips. Never mind that it’s Dean’s head you’re imagining moving under the covers.

You just want to come. You just want that tension out of you, let the tiredness of it carry you to sleep. A quick nap, a case. Exactly what you need to focus yourself. And if thinking about Dean working away at you is what gets you there quickest - well, you’re just being practical, right?

Right then you’re imagining Dean unlatching his plump lips from your clit, and kissing his way up your body. Deep, open-mouthed kisses with his breath fanning over you to warm the coolness left behind by his spit. He nips at your throat when he reaches it and you hum at it.

Then he’s over you and both your imagined and your real version drop their legs open. To receive him, to let him in. No barriers, already wet and glistening, and he slides in so easily, yet there’s rapture on his face at feeling you. You make a sound in your throat and when you hear another sound, you freeze.

Eyes flying open, you look. A part of you expects Dean to simply be standing at the foot of your bed, but he has not crossed that line - as far as you know, at least. But he’s not standing there, and you wonder what the sound was. Until you hear it again, and your eyes go to the door.

Someone is standing on the other side of it. You just catch the slight movement, the change in how the light from the hallway outside falls in through the gap at the bottom, the slightest creak, maybe of shoes. It can’t be the floor, since the hallways are tiled, but maybe a leather boot?

He’s standing there, you realize. Dean is standing on the other side of the door. He could come in, right now. He could. See you here, making yourself come to the thought of him.

But he doesn’t. He just stands there. Unmoving, or almost. The shadow and light interplaying under the door only slightly moving. Is it possible you can see him breathe? No, there’s no way. You must be imagining it. And yet…

For a moment, it leaves you cold and freaked out. For a moment. Then you imagine him there - he was wearing that shirt with the brownish, yellowish pattern, the one that would look grievous on anyone else, but that made his eyes pop. Swampy, you told him only a few weeks ago, making him smile. Swampy in a good way.

The light stubble. The one you now know, intimately, the feel of. Against your cheek, your lips. So many parts of your body. You can almost feel it now, at the top of your breasts, scratching along the skin while he works his way up, or down, or wherever. You don’t really care.

His hands. Compact and strong. Good, honest hands, you always thought. Hands that can squeeze your flesh, the thumb that can press down on your tongue, the fingers that can roam your insides and undo you.

Your own fingers twitch, there, between your legs. Twitch, then move a little, only testing. Oh, who are you kidding?

He’s right there, behind that door, as your fingers explore your wetness, find all the places you know will make you warm. Another sound comes from your throat. The shadow moves.

Is he maybe touching himself? Could it be? Right out there, in the hallway? For anyone to see, anyone to walk by suddenly? Castiel’s eyes would probably burn out of his skull, and Sam’s too, only more violently. But no, you don’t want to think about them.

You want to think about Dean. About his hand, rubbing over the bulge in his jeans. About his breath hitting the door, because he stands so close to it, too eager to hear every single sound you make. How he’s staring at that door handle - should he or shouldn’t he? He wants to, that’s for sure.

You imagine he doesn’t. He needs to stay outside, but he can’t stop himself, because you hear clinking, metal on metal, you’re sure, maybe a belt buckle being opened, maybe a zipper being pulled down. Maybe a skilled hand pushing inside.

He finds himself, just like you found yourself, and he’s so hard. Just from thinking about you, just from hearing a single sound on the other side of the door. How pathetic. How good. How right. You know what he feels like, what his softest skin felt like under your palm, and that’s what you feel now, in the hand rubbing you, like some sort of strange, phantom double sensation.

He can’t wait. He’s too hard, needs you too badly. Still, the first stroke is excruciatingly slow, because it’s the one he imagines sinking into you on. Velvety, wet softness greeting him, you so open and ready for him. He doesn’t even have to put in any work, although he would be happy to.

He drags his hand up to his balls, pushes against them just a little, imagines it’s you, it’s the natural stop of how deep he can go, even though he wishes he could go deeper. He wishes he could fill up all of you, until he’s coming out of every pore. He wishes he could become the essence of you, crawl under your skin.

Emotion, deep in your throat. Love, need, want - one of them, or all of them. The shadow shifts again but then your eyes fall closed so you can focus on the sounds, focus on the image of Dean on the other side of the door.

He begins stroking, pulling out of you and in. He goes slow, even though it’s hard to control himself now that he’s inside you, but he wants not just to fuck, but to learn. Learn about every single bump and crevice and part of you. Commit it to memory. Not that he needs to. Not that this isn’t just the first time of a million.

Your breathing is chopped as your bodies get used to each other, as he finds that perfect rhythm, the perfect angle. It’s almost like he’s exploring you, like some new exotic continent he’s come to claim and make his, to own and pillage, and when on one stroke, one round of your fingers on your clit, you pivot your body up, throaty sound bursting forth from you, he knows he’s found the way to you.

He focuses on that, tests it again, and it elicits the same reaction from you. There you go, he says, the concentration on his face breaking in favor of a soft and knowing grin. That’s where you need me, isn’t it?

It is. It’s where you need him, need to have him, exactly like that, how is he doing this? So sudden, so expertly, but now that he knows where, knows how, there’s no stopping him. He pushes that part, over and over, and there it is, that first taste of pleasure, spreading outside from that spot like a tidal wave. Into your lower abdomen, the tops of your thighs. You’re clenching, searching for him, but there’s no point in you taking control, not when he is taking you high so perfectly.

His hand tightens on your thigh, or maybe it’s your own, it doesn’t matter. He’s adding a twist to the hand stroking him, the inside of his index finger pressing into the sensitive spot under his cockhead. Except it’s your pussy instead, dragging this pleasure from him. He’s fucking you, but the way you look at him, the slightest smile on your face, clenching down on him, allowing him to pleasure you - you’re the one in charge. Or he is. It’s not clear. Maybe it’s too complicated for that.

He picks up his speed, and you moan. His mouth is open, lips parted while he’s breathing hard, and he looks down at where your bodies are meeting. Oh fuck, baby girl, look at you taking me so well. This tight little pussy taking me so well, huh? Maybe you want him to say something else. It’s too pornographic, too on the nose, right? But it feels so good to hear it. How he makes you small small small but you never diminish.

He huffs. Your body is so good and perfect that even though he’s calling the shots, if that's what he's doing, it’s almost too much for him. He’s fucked a thousand women but you, you are the one who’s gonna ruin him. The only one he ever really wanted.

Faster, deeper, there is no upper limit, not in your imagination and certainly not in his, standing behind that door, now breathing through his nose in an attempt to make himself more quiet, but it’s like he’s all you can hear.

Dean, you moan, over and over, his name so often expelled from you that he should grow bored of it, but he doesn’t. Yes, please, oh God, you feel so good. So f-fucking good.

You’re gonna come. You’re about to, it’s there, it’s behind your eyelids and in your toes and in the backs of your knees. You’re gonna come, so your hands shoot to his ass, push him harder against you, or trying to, while all these uncontrolled sounds leave you, your fingers on your clit so fast it’s dizzying, his hand moving so fast he won’t be able to stop, even if he wanted to. But why would he ever want to?

Yes yes yes you cry out, teeth clamped shut, body shoved back and forth by his hard thrusts and Dean pulls his upper lip up, like an animal about to strike, his balls and pelvis slapping against you, bruising you, but only stimulating you more, his cock thick and filled with blood and so close to bursting. You want me so fucking deep inside of you, huh? Want me everywhere all over inside of you? he pants, but it barely makes sense. How could it, with his brain having turned into a melting reactor core?

He comes first, but only just. Throws his head back while his hips keep working on their own accord, snapping back and forth, painfully hard now, perfectly hard now. But you are right behind him, aah aah, could be pain, could be horror, could be lust. At some point, all three become the same. The muscles on the insides of your thighs twitch hard, out of control and your stomach muscles tense, so perfectly, eyes rolling up. Your hand grabs the pillow under your head, twists it, while the other keeps working away at you until you need to stop, the feeling becoming too much.

Your body goes slack, blissfully, buzzing, perfect, excruciating. It’s done, it’s over, and it’s the deepest relief. You feel like you ate your fill off a table of rich foods after days without a morsel.

The pull of sleep is so strong behind your eyes, and you almost miss the shuffling sound over your own breathing. You move your head, eyes blinking open, which is hard work, the hardest in the world. There’s the slight tackiness of sweat under your armpits, and other parts of your body. You need to shower before you leave, you remind yourself, or, if there’s no time for a shower, apply some more deodorant. Change your underwear, that unhelpful voice in your head suggests.

The shadow under the door is gone. Only a thin strip of light, one that you can never turn off as the lights in the hallway don’t turn off. One you had to get used to when first sleeping here. A little bit of light is fine, but the fact that it comes in so concentrated, on that spot, made your eyes go to it over and over instead of close for sleep.

But there’s no one standing there. Or not anymore, at least. There was someone there, right?

You should care. You should worry. But you can’t. You roll to your side, and fall asleep.

Dean stumbles to his room. Jesus, he almost painted your door white. Not entirely untempting, but not the erotic present he wants to leave you, his come dripping down the wood of your entrance. He snorts at the idea, his brain still scrambled from the intense orgasm that, luckily, ended up in his boxers.

He just has the energy to kick closed the door behind him and pull all of his clothes off himself. He almost stumbles as his jeans end up stuck on one leg where his boot didn’t fly off when he kicked it away. Life long hunter skills and the Mark, but the way his brain leaks out of his dick when he comes thinking of you makes him trip around like an idiot.

He pushes off the urge to fling himself on the bed for just another second, grabs one of the tissues from the box next to his bed, wipes it over himself, grimacing at the expected sensitivity. Distantly he’s aware that he should feel more done, or that he used to after busting it like that. And he is, done, he means, but also, if you were to walk in right now, he’d be hard and fucking you again in a few seconds.

No, not again. He didn’t fuck you. But it felt like it when he heard you, listened to you. He could have sworn he felt you wrapped around him.

He just manages to pull off his shirt and t-shirt, then falls down on the mattress, groans contentedly, eyes already closing. The air of the bunker’s a little nippy on his ass, so he blindly feels around for the blanket, finds it, drags it over himself as best he can without actually, really moving.

He’s snoring before he can form another thought.

There is time for a shower, and it’s good, because it’s what you need to do, to do what you need to do. You need to feel clean. It’s important.

You raise your hand, only hesitating a moment before knocking on Dean’s door.

Shuffling inside, and a moment later he opens the door, handsome face peeking through the widening gap. He looks a little surprised, cheeks sucked in slightly. You love his face like that, curious, boyish, but then you love his face in pretty much any way.

You smile at him. You haven’t smiled at him in so long, too worried it would feel like encouragement, too worried it would open you up to his advances. But you don’t worry about that anymore.

“Hey,” you say, and your voice is clear. “Do you have a minute?” Dean blinks, then nods, opens the door wider.

“Sure, come in,” he says, and you can’t deny the small thrill inside yourself at how surprised he sounds. No trace, right now, of the dark seducer. He’s just Dean.

You walk in, and he closes the door behind you. You look at the bed, the bed you spent that night in ten days ago. It doesn’t look as scary now.

“Sammy and Cas ready to leave?” Dean asks, and it’s almost like he’s making conversation. You turn around, arms not crossed in front of your chest, no guarded look on your face. You’re open. Because you love this man.

“Yeah, we can leave in a little bit,” you say, then intertwine your hands before your body. “But that’s not what I came here to talk about.”

It’s Dean who crosses his arms over his chest. He looks interested, now, intrigued, but also you don’t miss the slight flick in his gaze going over your body.

“What did you want to talk about?” he says, just the slightest twist of irony on the word talk, like you’re using it as an excuse. You can’t blame him. But you’re here to be honest, straightforward.

It’s the one thing you haven’t done. No actual conversation was had over what happened between you two. Only looks and messages and silent need. But Dean’s not himself. He isn’t, no matter how much he likes to spin the whole the Mark only makes you more of yourself idea. He’s not.

He’s not capable of saying no. He has biblical forces working against him. But you don’t. You’re the adult in this situation, as strange as it may sound. And you need to make a decision.

“What happened between us,” you say, then press your lips together, almost chuckling at yourself, your own inability to come straight out with it. “Us, having sex? It shouldn’t have happened.”

Dean drops his arms, looks down, one corner of his mouth going up, a little huff escaping him. It makes him look perfectly charming. He looks back up at you, some softness in his gaze accompanying the knowing spark.

“Cause it was wrong? ” he asks. “Bad? Naughty? Immoral?” You can’t help but shake your head a little. Figures he would try to turn this into dirty talk. How would he know he shouldn’t do that if you’ve never told him?

“Because you’re not yourself,” you say, voice gentle. “Because I took advantage of you.”

Dean blinks, then blinks again, his smile slowly vanishing, dropping off his face. It sounded strange to you too, until you thought about it more, really thought about it. But it’s the truth.

“You might say that the Mark is a means to an end,” you continue before Dean can say anything. “But it has changed you, even you admit that. It might just be removing your inhibitions, but that’s still changing you.”

Dean still looks dumbfounded. A slight frown is all that’s left on his face. It’s free of expression otherwise.

“It’s like you’ve been magically roofied,” you say, then incline your head. “Or magically viagra’d, maybe more fitting.” You shrug. “The point is, you don't have the capacity to control yourself. Or to say no.”

Dean blinks again, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. It makes him look young. Like he’s in trouble and expects someone to yell at him.

“So what does that mean?” he says finally. You give him a sad smile.

“It means, Dean,” you say, slowly, the words not easy to bring out despite your mind being made up on this. “It means it can’t ever happen again. It means that no matter how much I care for you…”

You stop, feeling awkward for the first time. Now it’s you shifting around.

“No matter how much I might want you,” you continue and Dean inclines his head at that word. “It’s not right. Because you can’t say no. Because whatever… urges you have that made you do this, they aren’t your own. Not really.”

It might be your imagination, but Dean looks sad, you think, maybe a little disappointed. It surprises you and tugs at your heart. So you do something that might be a huge mistake. You step forward and take his hand.

He looks down at it, then up at your face again. You run your thumb over the back of his hand, your gaze briefly flicking to the Mark on his arm. It looks like a scar, like a thick, ugly scar.

“I care about you so much,” you say, and you’re surprised at the emotion in your voice. No, you’re not surprised, actually. Of course it’s there. You look up at Dean.

“And I think I hurt you,” you continue, swallow. “And that’s worse than anything else in the world.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” Dean speaks up. He’s still looking at your hands holding his, but then he looks at your face too. “You didn’t.” You force a smile onto your face. Of course he would take the blame for himself.

You bring your hands up, and Dean’s with them. You press the knuckle of his thumb against your lips, kiss it. Then you look up again. There’s tears in your eyes.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” you say. “I’m really, really sorry.”

With that, you let go of him. Dean doesn’t stop you when you walk around him, out the door. It’s difficult not to look back.

When you’re halfway down the hall, a single sob leaves you. Your heart hurts so much it threatens to burst out of your chest. But there’s another feeling as well. The feeling that you have done the right thing, even if it is hard.

You love Dean. You always will. But not like this. Not at this cost. Never at this cost.

Dean stands where you left him, the hand you kissed flexing open and closed over and over. There’s two things happening inside him.

One is the mangled, dried out throat of his old self, his real self, whatever one wants to call it, moving because it’s trying to speak.

You think you took advantage of him. You of him. It’s seven kinds of fucked up. It’s not the truth, and the fact that you think that, makes Dean want to rip down the walls, smash the furniture. He was a kid who thought every bad thing that happened was his fault. He’s an adult who thinks the same. And you’re not a kid, not anymore, but you think that. About him. It makes him sick. It makes him panic.

A hand goes over the mangled throat, squeezes. It quiets. Dean’s chest rises and falls. His gaze, slowly, wanders up, past the place where you stood only a minute ago and to the door, as if he’s following your path.

This is unacceptable. How can you not see that? How can you not understand that what happened between you two, how he’s been thinking about you, every night, all the time, every goddamn waking fucking moment, is special? You’re not stupid, so how the hell do you not see it?

Is this a trick, he wonders briefly, a trick to get him to storm after you, claim you? It doesn’t seem like something you’d do, but maybe he got it all wrong? Maybe it is?

No, he thinks, no, it’s not. You genuinely believe this. He hoped you would just come to your senses. He’s so tired of waiting on everyone to finally get it, the things he already got a long time ago.

Fine, he thinks, his hand flexing again. He’ll find a different way.

He hears Sam call down the hallway, saying they’re ready to leave.

A small smile builds on Dean’s face. He’ll get you there, he knows he will.

And woe to anyone who stands in his way.

#supernatural #spn #fanfic #spn fanfic #dean winchester #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #mark of dean #sorry's fics

189 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 months ago

Text

Rush Hour

Hey hey! This weekend (Jan 25-26) I’m going to be playing drabble roulette! I’ve curated a list of characters and prompts and I’m spinning the wheel!

Character: Bucky Barnes

Prompt: a shopping mall, crowded and loud .

Warnings: this drabble includes deceit and dark elements, along with social anxiety. Please mind these warnings and take care.

Explicit, 18+. Please reblog and leave some feedback.

You’re lost. You didn’t even want to come in the first place. The mall is a circus of lights and noise and strangers.

You spin in the sea of shoppers that fill the food court. The smell of food competes in your nose; the strong undercurrent of cinnamon at war with the soy sauce radiating from the noodle kiosk. You clasp onto the sides of your cable knit sweater and stumble as you’re nearly run over by a mother and her stroller.

You excuse yourself as you step out of her way and receive only a sneer in return. You’re trying to stay out of the way but everywhere you turn, there’s a person or a table or a garbage can overflowing with wrappers.

You back yourself against one of the tall chair along the curved table across from the popular chain coffee booth. You flick your thumb against the loop on your dyed jeans and try to catch your breath. There’s a map just on the other side of the dining area.

You peer around as you try to plot a path through. Just do it. You set your arms straight and march forward between the tables. You sweep around as a man with a tray steps ahead of you and continue down the other side. You make a stunted zigzag across the food court toward the beacon of the touch screen map.

You stop short as a group of middle-aged women butt in and tap it first. The squabble over where to go first as the search bar waits for input. You bounce on your feet impatiently. You take out your phone to text Melody. She’s likely at Sephora, you just need to figure out where that is.

You key in your message, ‘where are you?’

You just asked her to wait while you used the bathroom. That’s it. She couldn’t even do that. She’s too obsessed with taking pictures in all the wall mirrors and trying on everything, even things you can’t afford.

You wouldn’t be there if your cousin wasn’t getting married. If she didn’t insist on a colour-code. It’s too much. Too fussy. Why can’t you just wear the same old blue dress you always do. It’s not ugly. Simple. Does the trick.

She doesn’t answer. Not right away. You lower your phone and look up. The women continue to titter before the screen, zooming out on the mask and gasping as they try to figure out where to go. Another argument ensues.

You’re once more nudged by a passing a shopper. They snarl at you to watch out and you shrink down as you look at your phone again. You can look up the map on the mall website. You’re not very good with maps. The touchscreen will at least tell you where you are. Can they just go find the department store and move?

You finally find a PDF of the map and spread your fingers to expand. You don’t know where any of these stores are. You check the date in the corner. This is from before the renovations. Ugh.

You flip back to the conversation with your sister and send a single question mark. Get off your damn Snap and answer. Please. Your nose tingles as your panic swells. You just want to get out of here. You’re going to cry if people don’t stop!

“Excuse me,” the low timbre makes you flinch and you back away from the man who stands next to you.

You make yourself as small as you can. “I’m in your way, I’m sorry.”

“Hm? No, I... I was passing by and you... you look lost. Not to be nosy.” You make yourself look at him, not wanting to be rude. He’s a stranger but he seems helpful. And his eyes are so blue.

You frown. Is it that obvious that you’re entirely clueless. You shrug, then nod, the drop your chin in defeat. “A little,” you confess.

“It’s a zoo in here,” he says. “What’re you looking for?”

“Um,” you hesitate and wet your lips. You peer around. “I don’t know. My sister... hasn’t answered.”

“Ah, you know, the lump I walked in with went and disappeared too. Said he was grabbing a pretzel but I can’t find him either,” he sniffs and grips his hips in displeasure. “Hate these places.”

“Me too,” you murmur as you glance down at his leather gloves. It’s not that cold out but you don’t mention it.

“Marnie, no. Not that way,” one of the older women squalls and taps the screen furiously.

“Ahem,” the man beside you clears his throat, “she’s waiting for her turn. She’s been waiting.”

“Excuse you. We have every right to use this map,” a woman faces him with bluster. “So wait your turn.”

“It’s up that corridor and to the left,” he points.

“Aren’t you rude?” Another squawks.

“I’m helping,” he utters dully. “Hey, uh,” he turns to you, “how about we go find another map? Think they might’ve broke this one anyway.”

“We did not--”

“Have a good day, ladies,” he gestures you away. You eagerly accept the escape. You don’t like confrontation.

“There’s one down at the popcorn place,” he says. “I just passed it before Sam ran off.”

“Sam? It that... a friend?” You wonder.

“Sure, you can call him that. You said you’re here with your sister?” He guides you away from the lunchtime rush.

“Yeah. I gotta... get a dress for a wedding. Something pink.”

“Pink, ah. You’re favourite colour?”

“Not really.”

“Ah, right. Big wedding? Doesn’t sound like it’s yours.”

“No, my cousin,” you explain.

“Right,” he nods.

“You probably don’t care.”

“What makes you think I don’t?” He asks.

“Well... you don’t know me.”

“I guess not,” he stops at the map and faces you, “I’m Bucky.”

“Oh, uh...” you introduce yourself.

You look at him dumbly, unsure how to proceed. He coughs behind his gloved fist and his brows flick. “So, did your sister answer yet?”

“Oh, yeah, well...” you check your phone. “I don’t wanna waste any more of your time so I’ll just use this map and figure it out.”

“Not wasting my time,” he assures. “But if you’re trying to get me to go away, noted.”

“No, I... no, I’m not. I just...” your phone vibrates and you cringe. You check the screen. “She’s at Therese’s?”

You turn and tap the screen, typing on the large keyboard. You tap the magnifying glass and the map generates. You hover your finger over the marker that shows where you are then along the highlighted route.

“That’s all the way on the other side,” he says.

“Yeah...” you drone.

“I don’t mind showing you. I came from that way.”

“No, oh, no. I can’t.”

“I might run into my buddy,” he shrugs. “You know, lotta people stare when I’m wandering on my own... so you��d be doing me a favour.”

“I guess... I owe you.”

His lips curve, just a little, and his cheeks dimple under his dark beard. “Down here then loop around. Won’t have to go back through the food court.”

You follow him. Your own sense of direction would have you circling for hours. He takes you past the game shop and the organic food place you’ve never been too. You turn down the next corridor, it’s mostly empty.

“So,” he begins, “you get a plus one to the wedding?”

“Um, no, I don’t think--”

As you pass by one of the hallways marked for employees only, he elbows you and you stagger sideways. You’re thrown off balance and hit the wall. He’s so fast you have no time to react. He grips the back of your neck and covers your mouth as he drags you down the hall.

Your soles bounce off the floor as you flail your arms helplessly. What is he doing? He pinches your nape until your eyes water.

He shoves you against a door and twists the handle. The metal cracks in his grip and the lock gives to his brute force. He hauls you inside and flips you around against the inside of the door.

“Doll,” he growls through the dark. “You’re gonna wanna be real quiet for me.”

He keeps his hand on your mouth, the leather sticking to your lips, and he shifts around. You can’t see much in the tight closet. He closes something around your wrist and you squeak. He hushes you and presses his palm flush to your nose.

“Hands behind your back for me,” he growls.

You wriggle and he pushes your head into the door until it throbs.

“Now.”

You obey. He reaches behind you and another loop closes around your other wrist. Like a magnet, your hands are wrenched together and lock into place. How did he do that?

He’s silent as he peels his hand back only to quickly smother you with the other. You feel something cool spread over your lips and insert between your teeth, locking your jaw in place. You quake and kick out.

He grabs your shoulders and puts them straight. He hisses, “one more time and that’s it.”

You snivel and stop. He bends and another weight secures your ankles. Ensnared, he leaves you against the wall and backs away. Your tears overflow as you blink into the dim.

The rustle of fabric and the scuff of his boots undercut the tension. He comes back to you and moves you. He angles you around blindly and lifts you. He forces you into something. You don’t know what it is, only that you’re stuffed down into it, bent up into the confined. Something falls over you, light but enough to bury you further in darkness.

He wheels you around and the motion makes you dizzy. He opens the door and pushes you out into the light. You peer up at him between the crumpled paper and cans, frightened and restrained, from within the rolling garbage bin.

His hair is pulled back into a low pony beneath a grey ballcap that matches his janitor’s shirt. He keeps his eyes ahead of him as he pushes you, casually turning out into the mall corridor. He doesn’t flinch as other shoppers pass by, unable to see you beneath the rubbish.

“Now, doll, don’t you be thinking of trying anything...” he mutters as he keeps his eyes ahead of him. “Those cuffs can only get tighter.”

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #drabble #drabble roulette #winter soldier #captain america #falcon and the winter soldier #marvel #mcu #avengers

186 notes · View notes

sugardollcurse · 28 days ago

Note

Could you write about the Beatles helping you with an ED (eating disorder) they realized you had! I LOVE UR WRITING UR MY FAV

ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑛 𝑒𝑑

𐙚 contains ; disordered eating (anorexia, bulimia, binge eating), body image issues, food fears, bathroom behavior, obsessive thoughts, depersonalization, disordered patterns

𐙚 note ; mostly anorexia, bulimia & binge eating disorder shown... these are also quite long. i hope all is well! love you for breathing! you’re not alone, sweetheart x

𓆩🕊️ john 𓆪

"Don’t do that. Don’t go quiet like I won’t notice. I see you, y’know."

If you're anorexic,

John doesn’t see it at first. He’s a bit blind to nuance unless it’s emotional.

It happens at breakfast, weirdly. You try to scrape an egg off your plate onto his.

He smirks, “Tryin’ to fatten me up even more, are ya?”

You just smile, brittle.

His smile falls.

“Wait. Hang on. When’s the last time I saw you actually eat?”

You flinch. You try to joke. “You don’t pay that much attention, Lennon.”

“Don’t I?” he says, soft and low. “I do now.”

The next few days, he’s watching like a hawk.

Not in a controlling way, but with a haunted intensity. Keeps mental notes. Notices when you lie. Hears it in your voice.

“Fucksake, you think I don’t know what that is?” he says finally, voice cracking.

He's not angry at you. He’s angry at the ache. The voice that told you to shrink.

He talks to you late into the night.

“Y’think I wouldn’t still want you if you had a gut? Christ, I’d eat your gut if it meant you stayed.”

Gets you little snacks he knows you like. “One bite. You don’t have to swallow it if you don’t want. Just taste it.”

Will literally fight your inner voice in a fistfight if he could.

“Tell the bastard in your head I’ll bash his teeth in. I love your bloody stomach. I’ll write sonnets to it.”

If you're bulimic,

John catches on fast. He's used to knowing when people are full of shit.

The first time he hears you throw up in the loo, he doesn’t say anything. But you find the bathroom door locked from then on.

Yes, he won't let you poop without his permission either.

He jokes about it, cruelly, once. “If you’re trying to stay skinny, love, you’re not subtle.”

The look on your face kills him. He apologizes that same night, dead sober, quieter than you’ve ever heard him.

After that, he becomes vigilant.

Times your showers. Feigns casual conversation outside the door.

Once he hears you again, he says nothing. Just leaves a glass of water and a peppermint on the counter.

It’s more compassion than you expected.

After meals, you disappear. Always. And he knows it’s not because you’re tired or shy or “making a call.” He hears the tap turn on. He times it.

The first time he tries to stop you, he blurts out, “Don’t.” Just that.

Eventually he does say it. “I know what you’re doing in there.” And when you go stiff, he adds, “I don’t hate you for it. I just hate that you think you have to.”

You tell him, eventually, how scared you are that you’ll never stop.

That it’s always going to live in you. He touches your cheek.

“It might. But so will I.”

If you have binge eating disorder,

John doesn’t see it at first. Binging happens in silence, behind closed doors.

One night he walks into the kitchen and you’re standing there, frozen like you’ve been caught with blood on your hands.

Except it’s crumbs and open wrappers and a bin full of evidence you tried to erase.

His first instinct is to make a joke. “Havin’ a party in here?” It falls flat. So flat you flinch. And his face changes.

“Oh. I didn’t mean-” He trails off, because he suddenly sees it all.

Not just tonight, but every time you laugh off dinner, every time your eyes dull the second someone says the word full.

He doesn’t talk about it right away. Just watches you for the next week. Not in a cruel way, but in that hawk-eyed, hypervigilant way of his. Like if he watches close enough, he can fix it with his mind.

Then one night you binge again, and this time you sob. Not because he sees, but because you see you, and it’s unbearable.

You hate yourself so loudly in that moment it’s nearly visible in the air.

John grabs you, not rough, but immediate, and pulls you into his arms even while you’re trying to push him off. He didn't say anything.

He starts learning your tells. The tension in your jaw. The silence that goes too long. The fake smiles when people talk about diets. He calls it out. “What’s that look for?”

He doesn’t make you promise to get better. Doesn’t put you on some fake timeline. He just stays. Puts on a record. Pulls you onto the floor with him.

𓆩🕊️ paul 𓆪

"I know how you are when you're fine, love. You're all glow. And now you’re just... driftin’."

If you're anorexic,

Paul is the first one to see. Not guess. Not suspect. See.

You’re out at a little press dinner, he’s laughing, charming, nudging his shoe against yours under the table, and he glances sideways and realizes your plate’s still full. Your wine untouched.

Doesn't say anything that night. But he watches, gently.

Not in a policing way, never. But next morning he casually asks,

“Did that pasta not sit right?” in the way someone might ask if you slept okay. Easy. Warm.

When you wave it off, his eyes don’t move. He sees.

Over the next week he gets quieter. More still. More intentional.

He watches how you measure yourself in the mirror. How your fingers linger too long on your ribs. How your laughter’s dimmed and everything’s brittle.

“I’m not upset, y'know” he says one night, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I’m not. But I am worried. I want y’to let me in a bit. Let me know if there’s somethin’ gnawin’ at you.”

You snap. You tell him it’s fine, it’s not his problem, that you’re just “a bit tired.”

He stands up slow, like you’re something fragile on a windowsill.

“Alright. Then I’ll just sit here bein’ tired with you. If you’ll let me.” He becomes the most gentle food-adjacent presence in your life.

Offers little things with no pressure.

“Want a bit of this, love? I’ll eat the rest.”

“This reminded me of you, tasted sweet and sharp all at once.”

Leaves orange slices on your desk. Shares half his sandwiches.

Brings you cups of tea with milk and two sugars even if you don’t drink it, just in case.

But he never pushes. If you say no, it’s no.

If you're bulimic,

Paul finds out by accident. He’s walking past the bathroom, late night, yawning, ready to crawl into bed and complain about John's guitar levels again. And then he hears it, short, quick retching. Sink. Water.

He freezes. Waits. You come out flushed, eyes red, toothbrush still wet. He says nothing. Just lets you walk past.

He doesn’t bring it up right away. He wants to. He should. But he worries he’ll say something wrong, something too sharp. So instead, he circles.

You notice. He starts asking what you want for dinner more often, but never insists you eat. Leaves doors open. Asks if you want to come shopping with him, but never mentions food in the shop. Just looks at you with those eyes that see everything.

When he finally brings it up, it’s not after a big moment. It’s late. You're in bed. You reach for the light and he gently puts his hand over yours.

“Is it... is it something you do to feel in control?” he asks. Quiet. Not judging. Just desperate to understand.

You freeze. You know what he means. And the look on his face isn’t disgust. It’s grief.

Never shames you. Just rubs your back while you cry and murmurs, “Let’s take it slow, yeah? We’re not tryin’ to be perfect."

Talks about nourishment like it’s a form of making art.

You can’t write on an empty stomach. You can’t love anyone if you’re fading out.

If you have binge eating disorder,

Paul’s instinct is nurture. So when he first notices, he thinks you’re just sad.

“We all eat a bit extra sometimes, love.”

He starts noticing what happens before. The way your eyes scan the kitchen cabinets when you’re upset. The way you avoid him for hours after. The way you always seem hungrier at night.

So he adapts. Starts planning dinners with you, quietly building routine. Says things like, “Let’s cook together. I’ve got a new idea for lentils.”

Offers structure, but not control. Never restricts you. Never comments on what you’re eating or how much. Just makes sure you’re not alone when you’re hurting.

He can’t always catch it. Sometimes he walks in after, when you’re on the couch, glassy-eyed, one hand resting over your belly like it’s something to hide.

He sits beside you. Doesn’t ask what happened. Just rests his hand over yours.

Starts reading about the psychology of shame. Highlighting things. Leaving books lying open where you might find them.

There’s one night where you eat too fast, too much, too late. You feel it hit hard.

Paul notices. You brace yourself for judgment. He says nothing.

Just helps you into bed, brings you water, rubs slow circles on your back until your body stops shaking.

He loves you through the noise. He’s louder than it.

𓆩🕊️ george 𓆪

"It doesn’t have to be perfect. Y’don’t have to be empty to be enough."

If you're anorexic,

George is the kind of person who notices you don’t eat more than he notices when you do. It’s not the missed meals that strike him first, it’s how tense your shoulders are when the word “dinner” is mentioned. How your gaze drops whenever food is offered.

You’ll say, “I’m just not hungry,” and he’ll answer, gently, “Are you sure that’s your voice saying that?”

He doesn’t confront you all at once. He isn’t Paul with his emotions on his sleeve or John with his bulldozer honesty. But George lingers. He starts showing up when it matters, meals, dressing rooms, after parties. Not hovering. Just there. Just solid.

He starts making tea in pairs. “I made you a cup, too.”

Little rituals. Shared space. Easy excuses to sit down. He doesn’t always mention the food, but he’s always ready to offer it.

He’ll sit across from you while you eat one grape, one bite of toast, half a spoon of soup, and he won’t comment on it. He just stays. Doesn’t look away. Doesn’t reward you. Doesn’t guilt you. Just stays.

The first time you try to eat more and panic halfway through, shaking, George holds your hand across the table. No words. Just presence. His thumb runs along your knuckle in time with your breath.

He starts talking about bodies like they’re vessels for experience.

When you’re ready to talk about it, he listens. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t try to therapize you. He just takes your words and holds them like they’re fragile. Because they are.

And on the hardest days, when your head is loud and your body feels like a battleground, he’ll just lie next to you in silence and press your hand to his chest so you can feel his heartbeat.

If you're bulimic,

George is precise. He hears the bathroom fan go on too often. He notices how tense you get after meals. How you disappear without a word.

He puts it together. Doesn’t take long. But he waits. Observes. Wants to be sure.

The first time he brings it up, it’s after dinner. You’ve already slipped off to the loo. He doesn’t knock. Just sits outside.

“You don’t need to lie,” he says through the door. His voice is calm. “I know what’s happening, y'know. And I don’t think less of you.”

It knocks the breath out of you, how gentle he is. How he doesn’t sound angry. Just tired. Just worried.

Later, when you finally admit it, stumble through the words, hating yourself. He just takes your hands in his.

From then on, he makes small changes. After meals, he suggests walks. “For air.” He never says exercise. Never says control. Just peace.

He starts lighting incense in the bathroom before you can get there. You know it’s so he can hear. So he knows if something happens.

The first time you relapse, you expect anger. You expect disappointment. But George doesn’t give you either. He sits down beside you on the tile floor and says nothing.

When you talk about control, about needing to fix something, he listens. And then he gently challenges you. “But who said your body needs fixing? Who taught you to hate the thing keeping you alive?”

He starts cooking with you. Nothing complex. Toast. Simple rice. Brothy things. Hands-on things. It becomes ritual, not punishment.

George believes in compassion over discipline. He doesn’t want you to get “better” to make him feel safer. He wants you to stay. To want to stay.

If you have binge eating disorder,

George doesn’t find out the way the others might. He doesn’t walk in on you. He feels it.

He sees the aftermath, wrappers hidden under the bed, shame in your voice when you say “I’m not hungry” for breakfast the next morning.

He notices how you move differently after. Like you’re trying to shrink back into yourself.

He starts noticing your tells. What leads up to a binge. What the spiral looks like in your body.

He tries to meet you there before it happens.

“Come lie down with me for a minute.” “Let’s go outside.” “Wanna paint with me?”

He keeps your hands busy. Not to distract you from pain, but to coexist with it without self-harm. He’s never shaming, never loud. Just steady.

Sometimes you binge anyway. And George is just there after. No questions. Just warmth.

He brings you water. Washes your face with a warm cloth. Curls behind you in bed like he can hold the guilt off your back.

He talks about the world.

About capitalism.

About how diet culture is a machine built to break people like you.

He never stops trying. Not to fix you. But to build a life around you that holds you, gently, while you heal.

𓆩🕊️ ringo 𓆪

"Y’can do this. We’ll do it together. Just don’t shut me out, yeah?"

If you're anorexic,

Ringo notices slowly. He’s not oblivious, but he trusts you. He believes what you tell him, even when you say you’re “just not hungry,” or “had something earlier,” or “ate before you got here.”

He accepts it… until he doesn’t.

It’s the patterns that start to stick out to him. You always seem tired. Cold when it’s not cold. Meals come and go and somehow, your plate stays full. He doesn’t confront you immediately, he just starts clocking it, mentally. “That’s three skipped meals this week,” he’ll think, brow furrowing behind his tea.

When he finally says something, it’s not dramatic. It’s gentle, and it comes from a place of worry that leaks into his voice even when he tries to play it casual.

“You barely touched your food last night. And the night before. That’s not normal, love.”

You brush him off at first, he knows you will. So he just keeps offering, not pushing. “No pressure,” he’ll say, setting a bowl down beside you. “But it’s there. And I’ll be chuffed if you have a bit.”

One night, you faint in front of him. It’s not graceful, it’s terrifying! He catches you just in time, arms full of your too-light body, heart hammering.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t demand answers. He just holds you on the floor, hands stroking your back, whispering softly, “You’re alright. I’ve got you. We’re gonna sort this, alright?”

After that, he changes tactics. He brings food to you when you’re not overwhelmed. Breakfast in bed. Tea with biscuits. Soft eggs with salt and pepper and a slice of toast shaped like a heart.

He starts making little routines with you: morning walks, vinyl on during meals, eating outdoors when the weather’s good. He makes food feel friendly again, like music or laughter.

On hard days, when you sit in front of your plate frozen, he doesn’t sigh or roll his eyes. He just reaches across the table, laces his fingers through yours, and says, “Still proud of you.”

If you're bulimic,

Ringo hears it once, and he knows. You think you’re being quiet. The door’s shut. The tap’s running. But he hears the muffled retch, the way you sit longer than needed, the way you won’t meet his eyes after.

He doesn’t bring it up immediately. But when you come out, pale and shaky, he’s waiting on the couch with a blanket and a mug of peppermint tea. “Didn’t know if you’d want this, but thought I’d have it ready.”

He doesn’t force you to talk about it. Just opens the space. “If you ever wanna tell me anything, you can. I won’t run, yeah?”

Ringo knows what it’s like to hurt yourself trying to feel in control. He’s seen it in drinking, in pills, in long nights that don’t end well. So he never makes you feel gross or judged. He gets it, even if the method’s different.

After a week of pretending not to notice, he gently says:

“I know what’s goin’ on, love. I don’t wanna scare you, but I can’t not care. That’s not how I work.”

He starts staying near the bathroom after meals, not in a suspicious way, but in a present one. Hums to himself. Knocks gently. “Left something out here for you.”

He begins suggesting after-meal rituals that aren’t purging. Brushing your teeth, going on a walk, laying down on the couch together. He never makes it sound like a test. Just offers it like a kindness:

Ringo never tries to control your eating. Instead, he learns your triggers, listens when you talk about the mental spiral, offers grounding when your brain goes static.

He’s not a therapist. But he believes in getting help. And he gently brings it up like this:

“I’ll go with you. I’ll sit in the waiting room. I’ll bring snacks, I’ll look like an idiot in this hat if it makes you laugh. Just say the word.”

If you have binge eating disorder,

This one takes Ringo a while to catch. You don’t restrict. You eat with the group. But then sometimes, you’re gone for hours. Or he finds crumbs, wrappers, containers shoved deep into the bin, buried under laundry. You always look so ashamed afterward.

The first time he sees it happen, really sees you binge, he doesn’t interrupt. He just sits beside you after, when you’re curled on the kitchen floor, arms around your stomach like it’s a punishment.

He doesn’t make it about food. Because he knows this isn’t about being greedy or lacking willpower, it’s about soothing a wound no one can see. And that clicks for him. He’s got wounds too.

He offers alternatives without condescension. “When you feel it coming on, ring me. I’ll talk you through it. Or come over. We’ll drum on pots and make a mess. Distraction’s fair game.”

Ringo never “monitors” you. That would humiliate you. Instead, he offers company. Not surveillance, presence. “I made too much. Want to eat with me?”

Starts focusing on body neutrality instead of “body positivity.” He knows compliments can backfire.

He gets you a little notebook. Not a food journal. Not a tracker. Just a place to notice what you feel. Before, during, after meals.

“Sometimes writing it out helps. I’ll do it too, if you like.”

On days you relapse, he doesn’t get cold. Doesn’t back away. He just tells you it was one day. Doesn’t undo your healing. You’re still trying!

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee, @alanangels

132 notes · View notes

sandsorghum · 3 months ago

Text

Casual Wear

wc: 4k

tags: Higuruma Hiromi x Reader | Humour | Character Study

synopsis: What that mouth do?

Higuruma Hiromi’s mouth is magic.

No, not for its purposes in his legal profession nor even in the leisure of his licentious pursuits, but it’s impressive for a far more fundamental reason - the act of eating, and more aptly, it’s an act which really warrants the description of a Performance.

You’re convinced meals with Higuruma Hiromi have both enough drama and tragicomedy to rival vaudevillian theatrics or Cirque du Soleil spectacles.

With him, menus transformed into playbills and lunches became matinées.

Currently, you’re savouring your front row seat as he launches into a Shakespearan treatise on a hamburger and some crinkle-cut fries. He is in fact delivering some diatribe about his latest case, but you find your attention rather riveted by the single tomato slice half hovering between the buns, waiting in the wings of the thoroughly wrinkled wrapper clutched in Higuruma’s hand.

All of his neatly pressed suit is a stage and these formerly sturdily assembled ingredients, merely players.

“And now I’m going to have to file an extradition request to the headquarters in Setagaya which will take weeks…” he scowls, practically glowering at his food as he takes a large chomp of it.

You’ve perfected a perfunctory yet sympathetic hum, which you deploy now, patting Higuruma’s free hand so it doesn’t come up to restore order to his rapidly dilapidating burger. It’s not so much eating as it is an exercise in embracing entropy; with his Jenga tower of trembly lettuce leaves, melty cheese, slabs of streaky bacon, a double patty and the obnoxiously outsized hula hoops of grilled onions. And naturally, Higuruma had the hubris to include pickles.

You keenly watch the egg wash bronzed dome and fluffy foundations of the brioche buns slipping and squeezing through the crevices of Higuruma’s fingers, somehow disappearing faster and shrinking back to further destabilize the stack as the layers jostle and jut ahead of each other at higgly-piggly angles. With each increasingly aggressive bite, Higuruma liberates rich rivulets of meat juices to dribble all over his knuckles, until inevitably, a dollop of sriracha mayo prematurely splodges a thick wad over his tendons.

Oh, this was going to be good.

Without skipping a beat in the monologue bemoaning his chosen vocation, you watch Higuruma start to crane his head forward to lick his wrist but then he stops himself and you’re disappointed, resigned to the assumption that this fully grown man will resort to the much more sensible option of the serviettes, which have after all, been sitting on the tray by his elbows, untouched since the start of the meal.

But Higuruma doesn’t go for the tissues - and what happens next is so much better than you could have anticipated.

Realising his cuffs are in the way, Higuruma in a singular motion instead raises both his arm and the dishevelled burger ascending aloft his head, and then proceeds to lave his tongue across his wrist. He’s quite successfully, if unconventionally, mopped away most of the offending sauce when the magic happens.

Sschhhloorpplbt.

With slow-mo melodrama and grace, the tomato slops out of the burger, landing with a watery splat! on Higuruma’s face, before skidding across the starched collars of his shirt, then careens into its final resting place - his lap.

“Drat. Knew I should have gotten the wrap,” Higuruma mutters.

You attempt to drown your snort in the last shallow dregs of your strawberry milkshake but Higuruma looks up sharply at you, as he pinches the offending vegetable off his pants and tosses it onto the plate.

Your eyes are glimmering as he futilely crumples a tissue against his shirt, sweeping over the stretched cotton canvas where he’s also made a tribute to Jackson Pollock in mustard and ketchup blots.

“You’re such an artist, Higuruma.”

“What?”

You only grin at him, licking your thumb and swabbing it along the tomatoey streak on his handsome cheek, leaving a different reddish tint in your wake.

You didn’t always think his mouth was magic — frankly it had given you the ick in the initial stages of this courtship.

Or perhaps, grotesque fascination was the correct terminology. It was perplexing, how his clothes sustained that much collateral damage during meals.

You had to see it to believe it, otherwise it was simply too baffling, just how much debris accompanied his approach to dining; although ‘approach’ implied that Higuruma had some sort of strategy or logic in manufacturing these messes, and it just wasn’t conceivable that anyone could structure this level of disaster.

But even if you didn’t witness the havoc of Higuruma’s eating habits in real time, the aftermath sometimes stuck around, goading you to reverse-engineer the chaos. There was a litany of clues you got skilled at deciphering, piecing together the (quite often literal) trail of breadcrumbs to figure out what he’d eaten that day, and with what degree of ravenous recklessness, from shoyu speckled sleeves to smears of mayonnaise on his collar — courtesy of the cup ramen he’d scalded his tongue on, or his even more hastily consumed ‘lunch’ of two takoyaki sticks.

Of course, there was still an unanswered question at the crux of these guessing games, a mystery underpinning the habitual volatility of appeasing his hunger. Because despite all of these tendencies towards frenetic feasting, there was still a certain aura of poise to Higuruma Hiromi.

Admittedly, it’s an assessment compromised by your aesthetic attraction to him; you could readily confess there was a certain case to be made for your bias, perhaps a subconscious conflation of the merits of his wit and style, both imbued with an effortless sharpness, each enhancing the overall effect; the innate elevating the deliberate.

He dressed smart, in well fitting suits that were rarely rumpled, as unruffled and unflappable as his own presence. For a man for whom an adherence to dining etiquette seemed strictly conceptual, practically he still presented himself well, keeping his attire if not pristine, then still remarkably sleek and clean, considering the tribulations he subjected it to at least three times daily.

How this was possible perpetually intrigued and mystified you, until the day you learned Higuruma’s secret.

It had been an accidental discovery, on an afternoon when you’d made a lunch hour visit.

The occasion was already nominally noteworthy, as you’d finally persuaded him to try a salad, after months of gentle chastisements about his diet.

Your triumph however, left a scattering of sunflower seeds along his chin and when he was done stabbing through the arugula, his countenance more closely resembled a truculent teen who had raced face first through a hedge maze.

“Do I really have to finish these lawn clippings?” Higuruma whined, prodding at the greenery with his prongs.

“I don’t remember signing up to date a man-child,” you tut, even as you swipe a napkin along his cheeks, while Higuruma tucks his grin against your wrist. Before those lips can detect and further elicit the pitter-patter of your pulse, you move to scrunch the serviette against his tie where quite unfortunately yet predictably, there are several sizable splatters of balsamic vinaigrette dressing.

“The smell is probably going to seep through this silk,” you say with a slight frown.

“It’s not a problem,” Higuruma shrugs, starting to loosen his tie, sliding two digits into the triangular knot and tugging it open. The fabric seemed to practically melt around his fingers, parting without resistance till it slipped down his chest. You try not to track the motion too overtly, but there’s little else qualifying as worthy contenders for your attention.

So you watch as Higuruma smoothly, almost automatically, pulls open a drawer to reveal row after row of neatly rolled black ties, as well as a stack of white Oxford shirts. He picks out the corner-most tie, and feels your gaze shift as he uncoils it around his palms and starts to loop it around his neck.

Mistaking your quizzical, fascinated focus for judgment, he states, “They’re for emergencies.”

“A dozen tie-related emergencies?” you clarify, with that tilt to your tone which Higuruma finds himself wanting, increasingly often, to see mirrored in your lips - even if it’s at his expense.

“Yes, but would you believe it’s got space for 14.”

“I do believe that, Higuruma. I’m surprised you haven’t fit a tuxedo in there.”

Higuruma shuts the drawer before you can scythe your eye over their contents again, hoping the sound of its rolling snap eclipses the death throes of the mollified whimper tickling the back of his throat. (It doesn’t.)

“The drawer does leave me with one question though.”

Higuruma glances up from making the final adjustments on his Windsor knot. The serenity in your expression belies the innocence of your inquiry.

“What if you have pants-related emergencies?”

Higuruma suddenly finds his tie too tight around his throat, scarcely providing a barrier to the sickle of your mouth which he thinks must be pressed to his jugular, that arresting curve he traces up to your eyes with their wicked gleam, the one he’s only seen so far in his dreams.

Be careful what you wish for...

He responds, rather raspily, “Well, I had to be economical with the space. Could hardly turn this cube into a walk-in closet.”

“No I suppose not,” you say, brushing your fingers against his discarded vinaigrette stained tie. “So you chose to prioritise the shirts and ties, which are likelier to be scrutinised.”

“Yes,” Higuruma says, grateful for the familiarity of your shrewd common sense, “Not many people pay attention to the lower half of my suit.”

Too late he catches the glimmer in your gaze flickering downwards, and he’s incapacitated by the mere dip in your voice when you reply, ever so off-handedly, “Well, perhaps such neglect ought to be rectified.”

And Higuruma realises, right then and there with a mild throb of panic, maybe he really ought to invest in a separate drawer for briefs (of the non-legal kind.)

It might be magic, or it might merely be beyond the scope of scientific explanation.

The way Higuruma’s mouth operates is a phenomenon to be studied, a riddle of the universe, its mystique obdurate against your observations.

It didn’t matter what the texture of the food was - boiled, baked, fried, sautéed or steamed. Carnage reigned. It was the second law of thermodynamics, mandated by Higuruma’s mouth; Entropy will always increase over time.

Or over the course of dinner and dessert.

Soba noodles dangled and tangled off his chopsticks like the most amateurish marionette attempts, sorbets slunk off of cones at strange angles despite his best efforts to corral them with his otherwise reflexively dexterous tongue (lightning quick with quips but not licks, in this situation) and at the movies, the first thing to emerge from the gloom of the cinemas were usually the puffy white popcorn kernels adorned to his collar. By the time you’d brushed them off Higuruma, on average you’d refilled nearly a third of the bucket.

Once, at a carnival, you found corndog crumbs clinging to his cheeks even after taking the roller coaster (which had two loop de loops) and wisps of cotton candy in his hair, their pink tufts tangling with his ink-jet fringe. And later, in the shrieking whirlwind glee of the teacups, he’d swept right into you, chuckling and clutching your hips in a spun-sugar collision of your mouths and you’d tasted the sweet detritus of his off-kilter caramel-apple kisses, crackling saccharine on your tongue.

You ride the pleasant ebb and surge of this new romance over the next months, Higuruma’s presence both thrilling and soothing, intoxicating and relaxing. You cannot help but succumb to the allure of his juxtapositions, all that remains unsolved about him - typified by that first mystery around his table manners (or lack thereof); How could a man so put together, so composed in his speech and thoughts still leave such a trail of devastation in his wake? On occasion, you are tempted to wonder if it portends some secret character defect.

Yet you dismiss this as paranoia, even knowing paradise won’t last.

After all, you and Higuruma were trying to keep things casual. You were both savouring that phase where ambiguity embellishes and relishes an amorous atmosphere, in all its tremulous, temerarious pacing. Dancing around definitions, sidestepping expectations; simply discovering a routine tenderness, and exploring the natural rhythm of fitting into each other’s lives.

That was easier said than done, however.

That first infraction comes when Higuruma has to cancel your weekend date, after two weeks of absence and only intermittent text exchanges.

The call comes just as you’re donning your platform sandals and heading out the door.

“I am so so sorry I am so so swamped-” There’s the Shinkansen swoosh of his apologies over the speakers, far more profuse than the excuses, sounding more wretched than frantic. For a few minutes, you let Higuruma rattle on with that barely sheathed saber-edged vexation to his tone, venting about some idiot who’d “only gone and committed perjury”, resulting in the decimation of an alibi and the implosion of a plea deal, while you glance at your wristwatch, letting the second hand slip past the 12 for a third time before you firmly interrupt.

“And then the other intern quit because they wanted to summer in the bloody Bahamas while I’m in the office on a Sunday...”

“Higu-”

“...trying to stop this damn injunction which makes zero sense-”

“Higuruma.”

“Huh?”

“I said, it’s 2pm. Did you remember to have lunch?”

“Oh.” Higuruma responds, as if the concept of midday meals was a novelty - telling you everything you needed to know.

“I’ll bring you something.”

“You don’t have to bother yourself, I’ll grab a bite from the vending machine.”

“Except I already have gone to the trouble. I’m all dressed up, you see I was supposed to catch up with some cute guy this afternoon.”

You can practically hear his blush through the phone, and even though you aren’t face to face, Higuruma’s voice still turns gruff as if to disguise the rush of blood to his cheeks.

“Some cute guy?”

“Yeah, he operates a kushikatsu yatai in my neighbourhood. Always gives me a couple extra sticks for free.”

“Oh, that place has been around for what, three decades now? And you’re referring to Kazuya-dono who refuses to retire, aren’t you? The balding guy in his 60s.”

“The tycoon in his 60s, yep. And he’s considering investing in a toupee I hear.”

Higuruma feels the fuchsia spreading to the shell of his ears, your smirk pressing close against them, even through the phone. Higuruma clears his throat.

“I see. Well, if those exciting prospects as a golddigger don’t pan out for you, could you include some shishito peppers?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I’ll see you soon? In half an hour?” You can’t help but smile at the tender inflection of optimism in his clarification.

“Of course. The queue shouldn’t be too long at this time of day.”

“Thanks for your generosity, Mrs Kazuya-dono.”

“Goodbye, Mr Higuruma.”

In the privacy of his office, Higuruma grins, lingering with his ear pressed to the screen even as the call tapers to its end, reluctant to hang up without hearing your chuckle fully reverberate over his name.

At this hour, when the final stretch of a weekend is lurching towards another interminable five day cycle of labour, the office is cloaked in a kind of velvet darkness, draping heavily over the afternoon. There’s a stifling stillness even as you stride past the empty cubicles, which makes the stubborn fluorescent buzzing coming from Higuruma’s office sound even louder in this oppressive atmosphere.

His door is ajar so you walk right in to see him barricaded behind towers of folders, the tousled strands of his crow’s nest upsweep barely jutting above the turrets of the piled high case files, as he fastidiously scribbles something in a leather-bound notebook, not noticing your entrance.

“Delivery for Mr Higuruma,” you announce, closing the distance between you and his desk.

Higuruma’s head jerks up as if he’s startled, blinking owlishly as he registers your presence.

“You’re here,” he says, gaze softening and his shoulders sagging back into some semblance of relief, the pen drooping from his hand. He reaches towards you, then notices his biro-blue polka dotted palms and sheepishly starts to retract them, but you catch his fingers in time, scattering a kiss across his knuckles.

“Yes, in the flesh. Shishito peppers and all,” you say with a smile, setting the take-away bag on the side of his table.

“Well. Damn,” he exhales, reclining against his chair for a fuller angle, all the better to drink in the sight of you. You had assembled a cute, casual outfit; light-washed denim pants paired with a cream ribbed knit top, layered over with a V-neckline sage sweater vest and accessorised with a delicate, silver flat chain. But the way Higuruma is staring at you makes you feel like you’ve just sauntered fresh off a runway.

“Need me to do a spin?” you tease, subconsciously taking a half-step back as he stands, gaze hungrily tracking over your figure and slowly approaching as if concerned the vision before him was delicate as a dandelion in its second, spectral bloom.

“Only a fool would object,” he responds and you laugh, obliging him with a quick twirl, but before you can even fully turn back around, Higuruma has pulled you into his arms, locking them around your hips and lodging his nose in the crook of your neck.

“This is getting ridiculous,” he mouths along your nape, fingers twitching at the small of your back.

“Hm?”

“You, coming here looking like this and I- I just tumbled out of the house,” Higuruma mutters, hands notching warmly at your waist to prevent you from moving away. But you push at his chest and his hold slackens, ever so slightly, so you can tip your head back to scan over him.

Well, it was true, Higuruma did not look dressed for a date, let alone the office. His attire looked more appropriate as the prized exhibit at a museum dedicated to the ancient history of textiles; a tatty maroon sweater, the brand logo emblazoned across the chest now faded and indecipherable as stone tablet etchings from an archaeological dig site, paired with crooked half-frame glasses. Plus, the piece de resistance, a pair of charcoal grey joggers with their drawstrings missing, patchy at the knees from only god knows how many spin cycles and planetary revolutions around the sun.

And were those, were those crocs? You make a mental note to give Higuruma an evangelical spiel about Birkenstocks at least.

“Well, you certainly look…comfy.”

A small groan escapes Higuruma, as he tucks his warm face against your neck, all the better to hear and feel your laughter ripple over him.

“I swear I only meant to pick up some documents this morning but then…”

“But then,” you echo mockingly, gently tweaking Higuruma’s face.

“Time just…keeps getting away.” He gazes up at you with those pits for eyes, shadowed by despair. You know he isn’t just talking about this date, or this case.

“There’ll be other flea markets,” you shrug, “But there’s only one workaholic I’m willing to put up with.”

You card your fingers through his raven-dark plumage, feeling Higuruma’s sigh settle over your shoulders as he leans into your touch.

“You’re an angel,” he whispers, pulling you into him and starting to graze his lips along your nape. “You’re all I need-”

It’s at this point his stomach chooses to interject with a loud, rumbly burble of bLRRRggccLHHhh.

Snickering at his belly’s betrayal, you peel yourself away from Higuruma’s peach-tinted cheeks and fuss at him to sit back down, opening the take-away bag for him.

“I forgot how good these smell,” Higuruma remarks, eyes lighting up as he tackles the plastic lid on the sauce, its tangy-sweet and savory aroma wafting into the air.

He wolfs through five, six, seven sticks of shisamo and tsukune and so on, it’s not long before flecks of the rich, glossy dipping sauce paint his lips and chin, whilst a spray of panko scatters like shrapnel over his shirt, landing on the drawer where you knew Higuruma kept extra sets of his corporate attire.

You had contended with what that easily accessible work-wardrobe implied, what his so-called closet of contingencies represented. All those spare shirts and jackets and even boxers were really evidence of someone who rarely returned to his own lodgings, who regularly spent the nights at the office, slogging on till dawn.

He was a man who was married to his job, to Lady Justice. You had no illusions or qualms about being the paramour in that equation. But these were early days, and while you aren’t entirely certain how permanent this addition to your life called Higuruma Hiromi would be, what’s indisputable is the undivided attention he gives you, when he is with you.

He brings that intense devotion, that focus to everything he does, mind and mouth in perfect exacting synchronicity, across all his feats of adoration, articulation and now of course, mastication.

You settle back into your chair nibbling on some suginamo, prepared to enjoy the show Higuruma always unwittingly put on.

What you’re not expecting is your epiphany, the stunning scientific breakthrough at last.

Sitting across from Higuruma, you study the way he hoovers through a dozen (and counting) kushikatsu skewers, and abruptly, you realise he must have his own gravitational field, one that flouted all principles of physics, of astrophysics.

You lean forward, eagerly examining the evidence before you: the glistening contrails of oil, the constellation of crumbs, all being yanked towards that relentless black hole which is his mouth, hinting at the white dwarf core in his belly, depleted of its own nuclear energy, all-consuming to avoid its own collapse.

You couldn’t help it, being dragged into his orbit, being drawn to this voraciousness you’d witnessed in other aspects of his life, singular unto the entity that was Higuruma Hiromi: A homunculus in fractious fraternity with his humanity - Someone who couldn’t stomach unfairness, which made him a glutton for punishment. His dedication was a whetstone whittling its own blade away.

Just one of Higuruma’s many alluring contradictions.

There are others you’ve discovered, chipping and chiselling the hours out of one another’s calendars till the days gave way to a more natural erosion of the edges around your selves, marble ceding to limestone: His words are deliberate, his quietness intuitive. Quick-witted, yet with long simmering ire. A sort of brazen self-deprecation. Brilliant arguments, stupid punchlines. An empiricist’s approach to empathy, a heart siphoning off its own sentimentality.

You behold your lover shoveling in skewer after skewer, operating on some internal combustion engine, mere mortal with a mechanic’s approach to morality, an automaton chugging on and on as if he were indefatigable.

(He wasn’t, he’d told you one evening, half an hour late to the fifth date. Too exhausted even for guilt it seemed, the confession was almost in confidence. But maybe you can do better than a Mr Perfect, he’d snarked with his trademark wry smile which, to an untrained eye, could just about pass for invulnerability. You had stared him down, your silence dredging the apology out of him with a sincerity you could tell surprised the both of you.

You didn’t expect to hear something like that from the mouth of your Tin Man, whose shine was so often eclipsed by that mind like a steel trap, in lieu of a heart of gold - so he professed to everyone else.

But that inadvertently coerced admission of his burnished cavity stirred a flutter in your heart. You’d always known Higuruma was made of rarer stuff than gold, even if he didn’t.)

“You want the last of the okra? It’s your favourite.”

You blink, dispersing the reverie you’d been indulging in, to focus instead on Higuruma holding out the tray to you. You shake your head with a smile, noticing his spectacles already spectacularly smudged with a slick of grease.

He happily polishes off the remaining skewers while he works, baggy sweater incrementally hoarding more and more morsels of food. He rolls his sleeves up, utterly oblivious to the avalanche of cumulative detritus, disappearing down the canyon of his lap.

And as you observe Higuruma, sat in his plush leather office seat, practically dressed in pajamas but somehow hardly out of place, intermittently cramming a kushikatsu stick in his mouth, and another annotation into the margins of a file, you feel that same tug towards him again.

And you suspect you will, over and over, regardless of how frayed or unraveled Higuruma’s threads become.

#higuruma hiromi #SFWhgrm2025 #higuruma #higuruma hiromi x reader #higuruma hiromi x you #higuruma x gn reader #higuruma x reader #higuruma x you #higuruma x y/n #hiromi x you #hiromi x reader #hiromi x y/n #hiromi higuruma #sandsorghum

52 notes · View notes