#the date might be a bit off but I’m pretty sure it’s correct | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kingdumkum · 1 year

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WHERE THE RIVER MEETS THE SEA

this has been a long, long time coming. hopefully it’ll live up to the obscenely high expectations i’ve set. agree or disagree, please reblog/comment/send an anon with your thoughts--but make sure you read the RULES of interaction first.

summary: your date stood you up… again. Don’t worry, though, Baji will be there to pick up the pieces, like he always is. The only question… what will you do when you find out his secret? wc: 15k (we don't talk about it)

cw: virgin fem afab!reader x virgin!Baji, a lil itty bitty baby bit of blood, somewhat public (initially), bc why not, marking, creampie, Confessions galore, somewhat gendered pet names (princess, babe, sweetheart), actually gendered pet names (one handful of "good girl," "pretty girl," and "my girl"), subtle yandere themes but not to the extent a DC label is needed—correct me if I’m wrong though—be nice if I missed something, this is my first time :) way too many words but c’est la vie such is the way.

dedication: Storm, my friend, your support and advice has made me a better writer. Without you, this would probably still be sitting in my drafts, collecting dust and every hateful thought I’ve ever had about my writing. Thank you for being you and all of your aid in getting this to where it is. 💛

Your coffee’s cold when you give up. Well—second coffee, to be precise; the first you’d ordered after Tadashi said he was a few minutes away. That one had grown cold too, but the barista, taking pity, had given you a piping hot refill—for free.

It feels like an insult when she offers you a third.

An hour and a half has passed since Tadashi said he’d be there, and… well, you were still kinda hoping he might show up. But when the manager approaches with a tight-lipped smile, not-so-kindly pointing at their hours plastered ever so neatly on the glass door and indicating they’re just a few minutes to closing, your hope ebbs entirely.

The heat in your cheeks could’ve rewarmed your cup—but not one to cause a scene, you offer a tight-lip smile of your own and apologize. You don’t explain that you were waiting for someone; the pitying look in the barista’s eye as she mouths sorry and slides the unwanted third cup your way says they know.

You slip into the bathroom, wondering how in the world you could be so stupid— again. This was your third first date in three months… and the third time in three months that you’ve been stood up.

It hurts more when you check your phone. Two new messages from Emma, asking how it’s going and if you want to grab dinner to dish; one from Draken, asking if you can bring back a vanilla frappe and a triple dark roast espresso with two pumps of caramel; one from Baji, saying he might be late to pick you up, but he’d be there, and could you get him an order of whatever you’re having?

Nothing from Tadashi.

You don’t respond, instead letting your phone rest against the mirror while you stare at your reflection and try, desperately, to convince yourself it isn’t your fault.

Everything had been going great—you thought. You thought he really liked you, that he was excited to get to know you, and that this one, this one for sure would show up. You made jokes that he found funny, you were just the right amount of flirty, and you knew—thought—hoped—the picture you’d sent of your outfit (a simple sundress that accentuated your best features and wedges that made your legs seem endless) was enticing enough that he’d want to see it in person.

But here you are. Crying in the bathroom of a cafe you’ll never be able to return to, wondering how you’re going to explain to your friends that you got stood up.

Again.

Your phone starts to buzz. With a deep breath, you wipe off your dripping mascara. You force yourself to smile at the hollow reflection staring back at you, then answer with an overly-cheerful, “what’s up?”

“Kenny’s worried.” Baji’s familiar drawl echos, making the space seem even smaller. “I said he was being too overprotective, but—well, you know how he is. Said it’s his duty or some shit to make sure you’re okay. He tried to come down here himself, wanted to meet the guy trying to woo you—can you believe that? He actually said woo—“

“What do you want?” you interrupt. Too harsh, you realize when Baji doesn’t answer. “It’s just—I’m kinda in the middle of something, you know?”

Baji takes a moment, then forces a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, the little princess’s got a date, we know. God, they wouldn’t let it go. You should be thanking me, ya know, I’m the only reason they’re not all crashing—”

“Baji.”

The line falls quiet. Then, softly, “where are you, y/n?”

You frown and start searching for your mascara. “At the coffee shop. Why, where are you?”

Another pause. This one heavier. With the phone tucked to one ear, you slowly swipe the wand over your lashes. It’s clumpier than you usually like, but it’s better than nothing—

“I’m outside.”

Fuck.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he echoes. You mouth another fuck, heart plummeting, then start reapplying your mascara. More carefully, now that you’re out of time. “I, uh—I’ve been here. A while.”

“Oh… yeah?” you question, teeth starting to grind. “How long’s a while?”

Baji clears his throat. “Long enough. You gonna come out, or are ya gonna make me come in?”

Mascara gets tossed in your purse, gloss comes out. “You’re not exactly welcome in the ladies room, Baji.”

You can picture the dangerous curl in his smile when he replies, “not without an invitation, babe—why, you asking?”

Your laugh isn’t completely real, but not unnatural, either. You hover the gloss over your lips, and for a moment, you imagine what it’d be like. To sneak someone into the bathroom, kissing until your lips start to bruise, his hands playing with the hem of your dress, his lips marking your skin, his voice whispering your name…

You shake the thought away. There’s no point in getting your heart broken twice in one day.

“Three’s a bit of a crowd for a single stall,” you deflect. “Be out in a minute.”

Baji hums. Your gloss feels too thick, but you don’t take it off. You fluff your hair again, placing it the way you like, turning your necklace so the clasp faces the right way, lips smacking together once, twice, three times—

By the time you run out of things to do, you think you’re ready. You pick up your purse and give yourself a final once-over. Pretty, you think. Doesn’t look like you spent the last seven minutes sobbing in a public restroom.

When you exit, Baji’s still on the line, but he doesn’t hang up. You know, because the teasing, “well shit, babe, if I had known you’d worn that, I would’ve come two hours ago,” echoes; once from your phone, and the other from the man himself, standing right in front of you.

You laugh, and this one isn’t forced at all.

Baji’s smile gleams in the evening sun. A low wolf-whistle causes your face to warm pleasantly—the way it should have, when you met Tadashi. You take Baji’s extended hand, not flinching when his callouses rub against your soft palms.

You’re used to their roughness. Much like the others, Baji’s always been a hands-on friend (and fighter), so over the years, you’ve gotten used to the various bumps, cuts, and jagged edges, to the extent that the only hands that’ve ever felt comfortable have been those rough ones, soft only for you.

Baji spins you, over-exaggerating the way he checks you out. “Sweetheart, you’re going to stop traffic looking like that.”

“Oh, please,” you deny, but your smile hasn’t been this genuine all day. “Laying it on a little thick, Baj.”

“Only the realest truth for the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” is his sly reply, accompanied by a slyer wink. It’s his usual charm, but you’re oblivious to his sincerity, the way you always are. Baji pulls you into a tight hug and closes his eyes, and for a moment, he allows himself to pretend this was your intention all along; to wind up in his arms, with his compliments, by his side—the way it always seems to go after every failed date.

But you never say as much, and you always seem so genuinely excited for the next one that he’s never going to ask. Instead, he’ll take these moments. The ones where you turn to him for comfort, where he gets to hold you, your knight-in-shining-armor, and do all that he can to make everything better.

He’s so close that you almost miss his muffled whisper of, “fucking—stupid bastard. Doesn’t know what he’s missed.”

Your smile slips. Your thumb rubs against the back of his knuckles, familiarly cracked with scabs that never seem to heal. These are fresh, though; you can tell by how his hand darts to the back of his neck, preventing you from looking too closely.

“Been up to no good?” you question with a raised brow.

“‘Course I have,” he responds easily, “you’ve been busy.”

Baji won’t meet your gaze. ‘If only you knew,’ he thinks—but he’ll never say it. Not that. Not to you. He shrugs off his black leather jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, fingertips lingering as he straightens the collar. His dark eyes flick to yours, a coy smirk almost hiding his guilt as he hopes beyond all hope you don’t see through him.

You almost do.

Not enough to call him out on it, though, so instead, you roll your eyes—but you can’t deny how this—him—is making everything better. He picks up the helmet he only brings when he’s driving you and puts it on for you, visor up so he can brush the hair out of your eyes. Baji offers a comforting smile, then juts his chin to his bike. “Wanna ride?”

The answer, of course, is yes; for him, it will always be yes.

Silently, you climb on and wrap your hands around him, chin tucking into his shoulder as if you were made to be there. He revs and pulls off, seamlessly weaving in and out of traffic. Your eyes close. The wind whips in your hair, and the familiar scent of nicotine, mint, and Baji’s crisp aftershave envelopes you. For a moment, you feel like everything’ll be okay. Your heart might hurt now, but after an evening with him, it’ll all be okay.

That’s the power of Keisuke Baji, though; the sense of embarking on your greatest adventure but feeling like being home, all at once.

It’s nearly sunset when he stops. Pulls up to the river, kicks the bike stand, then grabs your waist to lift you off the seat.

“I can do that,” you say, even as you let him lift you.

“More fun when I do,” he replies with an easy grin. Your feet hit the ground, but Baji keeps one hand around your waist. He takes off the helmet with the other and laughs when your hair flops out. Hurriedly you go to smooth it, but Baji catches your wrist after setting the helmet down. “You don’t have to do that. Not with me.”

He cages you between the bike and his hips with just a few inches of space—and suddenly, your heart starts to race. When did he get this close? How hadn’t you noticed the way his leg slid between yours? Why isn’t he taking his hand away? Why can’t you breathe?

Baji’s dark eyes dart between yours, then down to your lips, and for a second, for a split second, you think he’s about to kiss you—

“Not like anything can make it better now,” he smirks, and if it weren’t for how his fingers were locked in yours, you would’ve slapped him.

“Asshole.”

Baji laughs, and you swear the moon shines a little brighter. You’re grateful that he turns to check out the area before he can see just how much of an impact his laugh has on you—though you don’t doubt that he knows. He’s Baji, after all, and you’re not blind (or deaf). He’s handsome, witty, flirty with anything that moves—and that laugh of his could bring even the tides to a standstill.

“Coast’s clear,” he says, looking back at you, a lazy smirk curling his features. It shouldn’t be a surprise, hardly any ever comes this far south of the city—but a few weeks ago, you’d accidentally stumbled upon a couple who were… not expecting company, to put it delicately, and ever since, Baji had been extra cautious to make sure it was just the two of you before getting settled.

He takes a few steps backwards, leading you to your spot; a grassy knoll that overlooks the river as it feeds into the darkened sea. The moon slowly rises over rolling waves while the sun, more a memory, sets over the river’s bend. It’s a secret, sacred place for the two of you, where heartache and daydreams don’t exist; only the moon, the tides, and each other.

Your stomach flips but you can’t tell why; this is exactly what happens every time you come here, from the way he helps you off the bike to how he stops you from picking at your appearance. The only difference is the way his hand is still wrapped in yours.

You wonder if Tadashi’s would have been this warm.

But Tadashi isn’t here—Baji is, and it’s Baji’s warm hands that always make things better. So you let him keep his hand in yours, even though you’re not sure you should, and you let him gently tug you along when you don’t move fast enough. Let him take his time in taking his jacket back, in spreading it on the grass before waiting for you to sit. You even let him settle next to you, instinctively leaning into the familiar comfort of his body and for a minute, you wonder how you ever could’ve wanted your day to end different.

Then Baji meets your gaze, smiles that sweet, genuinely kind half smile that he only shares with you, and you remember: Baji is your friend—and no matter how many heartaches he heals, that’s all he’ll ever be.

You can’t remember when things got so complicated.

When it was just you and Kenny, you’d sneak up to the roof of the brothel and watch the sun dip behind the buildings and talk about how one day, you’d get a house that was that color pink, and it’d be on the far side of Japan where you could watch the sunset from your porch and life would be good. The sunset was the only dream you’d ever need, and it would be good.

Then Mikey started coming. More often than not he’d fall asleep before the sun did, and on the days he didn’t—the roof felt too… small. The dreams, too… little. They evolved, from a porch where you could watch the sunset to a skyline that never sleeps.

Dreams change, and that’s okay… but a part of you aches for the time when the sunset felt like enough—when the family you had, the brothers you’d found and the friends you’d made—was enough. You still had the sunset, but rarely. More often than not, you were by yourself up there, or stuck to Kenny’s side somewhere out there, or brushing against Baji’s shoulder down here.

So these days, you prefer to watch the moon rise. There’s more comfort in a light to guide you through the night, rather than watching your dreams disappear with the day.

And you do, the way you do every time you’re stood up or don’t feel—enough. You sit beside Baji with the full moon crawling towards you, staring at the conjunction of the river and the sea, and focus on how you’re going to get through this.

Baji cut his hair since the last date—the last time you’d been stood up, you correct. Still long, but now only to the edge of his jaw, not mid-back like you were used to. The light is bright behind him, bringing out the warm undertones in his onyx hair. You can make out the scab on his cheek from a bar fight a few weeks ago; the scar on his nose from when Mikey split it the first time they fought; the tender bruise along his jaw that looks too new to have told you the story yet.

Instinctively, you reach for it… then chicken out, instead teasing the edge of his hair. You’re left wondering if an angel’s wings would be as soft.

Baji glances at you from the corner of his eye. “You don’t like it?”

“What? I didn’t say that.” Your hand falls back to your lap, eyes quick to follow. The light behind him is too bright—too blinding. Too much like a halo. It’s impossible to hide the truth from an angel, and you know you don’t have the right words to convey just how beautiful you find him. “Just… gonna take some getting used to. I don’t think you’ve ever had it this short.”

He scoffs. “Maybe at birth.”

The idea of baby Baji flashes through your mind; sweet, chubby cheeks, little fists flailing at the world. A tuft of hair, dark as his and long already, but when he opens his eyes, they’re yours—

“Why’d you cut it?” your voice is steadier than you expect. It does nothing to change your thoughts, especially when Baji’s slender fingers start pulling at grass, just the way a baby grasps what's in front of him.

He stares straight ahead, letting one hand splay by your lower back as he watches the green blades dance in the wind. “Figured it was time for a change.”

You hmm in acknowledgement, brain too traitorous to come up with anything other than, ‘I bet you were a cute baby’ or ‘you look handsome either way’ or, worst of all, ‘why would you ever want to change?’

He probably meant nothing by it. Baji’s as flexible as they come; sets his own hours at the shop, varies what time he wakes or goes to bed, never eats the same thing too many times in a row… there’s not much permanency in his life as it is, so it sticks with you that he still wants something different.

If he thinks you’re being weird, he doesn’t say so. He waits for you to speak, like always, and like always, you find yourself loving him a little more for it. Baji’s so—quick; to judge, to speak, to fight… but in these moments, when it’s the two of you and the moon and no one else, he’s not. He’s slow; slow to speak, slow to touch, slow to pull away…

Slow to make you wonder why you keep wasting time with boys who don’t deserve it when he might be enough.

The silence becomes too much; too easy to drown in. Too tempting to fill with all the wrong things.

“What happened to your jaw?” is the best you come up with.

It’s no surprise when he answers, “got into a fight,” but how he says it… how he immediately ducks his head and covers the darkening bruise with a broad palm, as if he’d forgotten all about it and wished you would, too… that makes you pause.

One tenet of your relationship is that you don’t lie to each other. There are often times you wish he would, like when Chifuyu teases him about the pretty girl at the pet shop who came back and asked for the number of the flirty hunk who sold her a dog collar and Baji admits she was pretty cute and he’ll take her to drinks tomorrow night, or when Kazutora reminds Baji that he promised to go on a double date with the twins they met clubbing so no, he can’t take a look at that leaky pipe in your bathroom—but you’d never say that. Not when he could, so easily, call you out for keeping your own.

So when he goes out of his way to not have to tell you the truth, you know better than to push.

“Did it hurt?”

Baji looks to you with a cocky smile. “You should see the other guy.” You snort. Baji knocks his shoulder into yours. “I’m good, really. Just… had some business, s’all.”

It’s supposed to be comforting, but it’s not. It only flares your curiosity… and honestly? Your annoyance. “I hadn’t realized a pet shop needed such security.”

Baji barks out a laugh. “I mean, you’ve seen how crazy some people get about their pets, ‘specially when they think Dr. Google is a better resource than Chifuyu’s degree… but nah, this was… off the books.” He catches your inquisitive gaze and offers a smile, but it’s more like a grimace in the lowlight. His hand creeps closer, fingers pressing into your back, and for a moment, you’re willing to let it go. He gently grazes the middle of your spine. “It’s done, alright? Finished. Won’t happen again.”

You know he’s lying because he holds you close, the way he only does when he thinks you’re about to leave.

But you don’t leave; you never leave. You just give him a withering glare you know he can’t see, then turn back to the ocean.

You hate this feeling. The one where the world becomes unsteady, and everything you’d been trying to keep buried since you were thirteen sneaks up on you. That horrid, awful, destructive fascination and jealousy and yearning that’s plagued you since Baji first bragged about stealing a kiss from the pretty girl that lived three floors above him and only gets worse every time he mentions someone new.

Going on dates was supposed to squash this. Meeting a nice guy, having a good time, and getting a kiss or two of your own was supposed to end this. This—obsession—you’ve had since the first time Baji said he hopes that one day, you meet the right guy and you accidentally thought, ‘maybe it’s you.’ Because at the end of the day, he’s the one who’s there. Not Tadashi, who couldn’t even be bothered to show up. Not Draken, who recently started putting Emma above all else (even you). It’s been Baji, your Baji, whose mere existence makes everything better, that’s been the last one standing.

You can’t ruin that. You can’t risk pushing away the only companion who still puts you first for something you’re positive you can find somewhere else.

At least, that’s what you have to tell yourself, as yet another date fails and Baji is here, again, picking up the pieces and making you feel more whole than when the day started.

The sky is nearly dark when you finally ask the question that’s been on your mind since the barista gave you that pity cup—the one that’s probably still sitting in the bathroom, the last witness to your heartbreak. Just as alone and unwanted as you.

“What’s… wrong with me?”

Baji’s sharp. He alway has been, from the stern angle of his nose to the feral way his teeth carve like a predator’s. He watches everything—the road, the fighters, you—with a scrutiny that’s often clouded behind cheshire grins and snide quips.

But there’s nothing sharp about him tonight; only soft. Soft hands that gently grab your chin and force you to look at him. Soft breathes as he pulls you close. Soft words as he makes sure you hear him whisper, “nothing.”

Baji’s eyes, dark and teeming with something you can’t place, move from one eye to the other; to the fingers on your cheek; to your tongue, wetting your lips. He leans in, forehead resting against yours as his hand slides back, gripping your hair like you're his lifeline and not the other way around, and you’re back to thinking okay, this is it, he’s going to kiss me, he’s finally going to kiss me—

But all he does is repeat, “absolutely—fuckin’ nothing, alright? And—‘n fuck whoever makes you feel otherwise,” before resuming his seat like nothing happened.

You let go of a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. It’s stale and hot and full of fury, your fury, and suddenly, you can’t take it anymore.

“Fuck you, Keisuke.”

“What?” Baji scrambles for your arm as you abruptly stand, too furious to even look at him. You rip away but don’t stop, trying to will the stupidness of—whatever this is—to go away, to release you so you can go back to feeling better and right and whole. “Wait—come on, I didn’t—what did I say? Did I do something? Where the hell are you going?”

“Forget it!” you snap. His every question—the fact he wants to make it right even though he’s the reason it hurts—just makes it worse. “Just—leave it alone, alright? It obviously doesn’t matter—”

This time when he grabs your arm, he doesn’t let you leave. He pulls you in to him, nearly crashing you into his chest as he holds you in place.

“Damnit, y/n, what the hell? What did—why are you being like this?” For the first time tonight, he meets your eyes without falter. He tucks a hand under your chin, all but pries your eyes open himself to search for what you're hiding. You try shrugging out of his iron grip, but he’s too strong. “What did I do?”

“Nothing—” You’re horrified at the way your voice cracks. “Fucking—nothing, Baji, you did nothing—“

“Then why’re you so fucking mad, hunh? Why’re you acting like I’m the bad guy here?” His fingers tighten. It would’ve hurt, if you weren’t so angry. “I’m not the asshole who stood ya up—I’m not the one who’s been dickin’ everyone around, pretending like everything’s fine when I know, Draken knows—even fuckin’—Pah-chin—can tell that something’s wrong—“

“You’re calling me an asshole?” you gasp incredulously. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes!” he retorts hotly—then, upon realizing how horribly angry you’re growing, quickly backtracks, “I mean—no! Actually, no, you know what, I did mean yeah, because guess what, princess? You are acting like an ass! You’ve got—all these people who wanna be here for you, I want to be here for you, and all you’re doing is getting mad at me for it—”

“What do you want me to say, Baji?” It’s useless, trying to get free, but that doesn’t stop you from trying. “That I’m—heartbroken—at being stood up—again? That I’m done with dating, that I’m giving up, that everyone fucking sucks but I must suck worse—”

“They don’t deserve you—”

“Like hell!” Your tone is scalding. It must burn him just as bad, because a single lapse in his grip lets you rip your arm away. “That’s the whole goddamn point of dating, jackass, to figure out who’s worth what—and all this has shown is that I’m not worth it, to anyone.” You slam your hands against his chest, tears stinging your lash line. If you weren’t so angry, you might not have missed how his face falters when you push him away. “And you just—sitting there, and—and holding me like that, and—and telling me that I’m not the problem when I’m the only common denominator—you’re such a fucking liar—”

“You think it’s any easier for me?” he’s quick to yell, frustration making him bare his teeth like fangs. Anyone else would’ve cowered—but you stand your ground. Place two hands on his chest and shove, hard, forcing him back as he continues, “you think it’s any easier to see you gettin’ your hopes up, to freak out over what to text, what to wear, what to do—all for those fuckin’ dickweeds? Hunh? Guys who can’t even—spell your name right, or remember what your favorite flower is, or fucking—show up? You think it’s any fucking easier seeing you so goddamn upset over someone who doesn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as you, let alone spend time with you–be with you? Because it’s not, sweetheart!”

The sweet pet name that usually makes your heart skip a beat only aggravates you further. Your hands go from shoving to slamming, open palms against the hard muscle of his chest—but he doesn’t even flinch. Just catches your wrists before you can do it again and stares, like you’ve started speaking in tongues. “Oh, poor Baji, must be hard, hunh, thinking no one’s good enough, thinking everyone’s so lucky as to have people throwing themselves at them left and right—but newsflash, Keisuke, not all of us are like you! Not all of us have the ability to pick whoever we want, some of us actually have to work at it—“

“Stop working on the wrong guys then!”

“You’ve never even met them, how would you know—“

“Because they let me stand in the way!”

The world stills.

You can’t place why; why this feels like a sucker punch, why your heart is suddenly skipping beats–why you can’t tell if this hurts. Not until Baji’s grip tightens, then his eyes widen, and you have a sneaking suspicion you know where this is going—but still, you ask, “what?”

He doesn’t respond. He can’t.

He lets go of you, though every fiber in his being begs him to stay. He takes a step back, though his heart pleads for him to wrap you in his arms and hold you close and tell you the truth, about what he did, why he did it, why he can’t bring himself to regret it…

He has to turn his back to you, to stare at the waves crashing along the sand as he tries to process just how badly he’s fucked this up and if there’s any possibility for redemption. It’s too late to lie. Too late to try and salvage this.

He’s made his bed; it’s time to lie in it.

Baji sighs–or something close. Something choked, not quite a laugh but also not quite a sob. Something is stuck in him, and even with the ice in your veins, you piece it together. Somehow, this—the failed dates, the heartache, the loneliness—it's all his fault.

Still, you have to ask. “What the hell are you talking about?”

You try making the venom in your voice match that in your blood, but you can’t. Not when he looks so—defeated. He runs his hands through his hair, doing a miserable job of either pretending he can’t hear you or attempting to buy enough time to come up with a plausible lie—though you don’t need him to. Not when his actions say enough.

It’s your turn to reach for him. Your turn to grab his arm, to keep him in place. You want to hold on to your anger, but the way his hands are shaking makes it impossible.

You draw him close, voice gentle as you say his name. You reach for his cheek, keeping his hands still with one of yours, and you tilt his head; he lets you tilt his head so that he has no choice but to look at you.

When your gazes meet, you wait.

“I had to,” he eventually says. His voice is steady, but his hands aren’t. His fingers wrap around your wrists tightly, as if he’s afraid you might try leaving—but your grip on him is equally tight. “They weren’t good for you. They were jerks, and they were only going to break your heart, and I couldn’t let that happen. Not to you. I had to—I had to.”

“Had to… what?” He doesn’t answer, not until you prompt, “had to what, Baji?”

“Don’t—” he breathes. “Don’t… call me that.” His eyes close, and he leans into the palm on his cheek. For a moment, you pretend that he’s memorizing the feel of you, as if he’s scared to lose you—but that can’t be it. Keisuke Baji isn’t afraid of anything.

You’re not sure what’s more painful: the knots in your stomach or the hope in your heart. “Tell me what you did,” you muster up. “Keisuke, tell me what you did.”

When his eyes finally open, all of his anger is gone. In its place is something you’ve rarely seen, and even rarer directed at you: desperation.

“I stopped them.”

For a moment, all you hear is your own heart… then the waves of truth come crashing down.

“I—I found them, and I swear on my life, on your life—I only meant to talk to them, to figure out if—if they had good intentions, if they were gonna treat you right—but they all sucked, y/n, they were awful—going on and on about how they were—how they wanted to—to fuck you, just to say they could—or they weren’t—serious about how they felt and I couldn’t—I couldn’t let them do that, I couldn’t let them hurt you like that, so I… I hurt them first. Not—not much, just enough so they’d—get the idea. Leave you alone. Stay away from my girl—”

He cuts himself off, and for a moment, you’re frozen. You don’t know what to do, what to think—is this real? Is he saying what you think he’s saying? Does he really mean it?

Baji’s voice cracks when he says your name.

“Y/n, listen—listen to me,” he pleads. His forehead presses against yours. Your cheeks grow wet, though you can’t tell if that’s because of you or him. “You are—the most amazing person in this whole freaking world. You get that? You’re—smart, and pretty, and so fucking funny and—and anyone who can’t see that is an idiot. And it fucking—kills me—that you’ve got it in your head that what these—stupid pricks think is the only thing that matters, because it’s not. It’s never mattered. The only thing—the only thing that has ever mattered… is you. Okay? You.”

Your throat closes. Your hands reach for his, catching only wrists as he cradles your face, trying to ground yourself in this moment. In all the things he says and all the things he doesn’t; in the silent, desperate dream that refused—refuses—to die, taking over you once more.

“I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not.” His lips are so close, they brush your nose. “I’d say I regret it, but I don’t, because— you deserve better. You deserve the world, if you want, or—or the moon and all the stars, and—and unless they’d get it for you, they don’t deserve you. Okay? None of them deserved you.”

You’re just a hair away from kissing him, from caving to the impulses you thought were dead and gone and hopeless all these years, and the worst possible sentence sinks out: “you’re an idiot, Kei.”

Then you lean forward and kiss him.

In an instant—you feel whole. You feel right, in a way you haven’t since you decided you never had a chance with him; in a way you’ve been searching for in the words of all the others who’d let you down, who’d broken your heart and always, always, always led you back to moonrise with Baji, back home—

Baji jolts. He pulls away and stares at you with a wild mixture of shock and confusion. His fingers ghost his lips, only to draw back as he stares at them, then at you, then back at them, like he can’t quite comprehend this hand is attached to his body—like you were. Like you want to be, like you thought he wanted to be, like you thought he was asking you to be—

Your heart plummets as he just—stands, no witty quip or teasing remark at the ready. No lines to read between; no phrasing to draw false confessions from; nothing other than the stillness of the night, and the pounding of your heart.

“Wait—” you shrink as you realize just how hoarse a single stolen kiss has left you. “I thought—please, Kei—”

A flicker of… something dances in his eyes, and then—he watches you. Studies you, with the same scrutiny he holds before a fight or when picking apart a bike to see what parts are broke and what can be saved.

“Say it again.”

It’s your turn to blink; your turn to have wide eyes and parted lips, to study him like you’re not sure how to fix it. “I don’t—“

“My name,” he says, and your heart starts to leap. “Say my name, sweetheart.”

“I say your name all the time, Keisuke.” You’re barely above a whisper. Barely above the fear that this time, he’ll break your heart and there’ll be no one to pick up the pieces because—you ruined this.

“Not like that,” he breathes. You forget how to. “Say it like it means something. Like—you don’t hate me. Like—”

“Kei,” you interrupt, hands coming to cradle his cheeks as you read between the lines, “I forgive y—”

He doesn’t even let the final word form before his lips are on yours. Hard, aggressively melding like he’s worried you might change your mind and wants to milk every second out of this as he can—but you reciprocate just as desperately. Keisuke’s hands wrap around you, one gripping the base of your neck and the other resting on the small of your back, pulling you impossibly close, as if he couldn’t get enough of you. His mouth opens, teasing your lips apart as you trade air, fingers digging into your soft skin like it’s the last thing he’ll ever touch.

You pull away first, and that’s only because your lungs are aching—not that you mind. The pain helps make this feel real.

For once, Keisuke’s grin doesn’t seem mocking. He moves a hand to cradle your face, thumb rubbing against your cheek. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that, sweetheart.”

“Not as long as I have,” you admit with a breathy laugh. Your hands lock around his neck, fingers playing with his hair, and you realize you’re smiling.

You kissed. Keisuke kissed you, you kissed him—everything makes sense. Everything is right, and with the moon and tides as your witness, everything is good again.

“Can I…” Keisuke starts, eyes flicking to your lips in an unspoken question. You finish his sentence with a kiss.

“You can always kiss me, Kei,” you say. “You don’t even have to ask.”

There’s the grin you recognize; the scheming, teasing grin that always makes your stomach flip in a way you thought meant he’s up to no good, but now realize as a sign you’d fallen for him long ago.

“Oh, yeah?” he questions, brushing his lips against yours. “Only here? Or can I kiss… here?” He moves to the corner of your lips, then to the hollow of your cheek as he continues, “and… here? And maybe…”

He trails off, and he trails down, letting his lips drag against your cheek while his hand keeps you firmly in place, lips going done to your chin, down the column of your throat and back up. Your breathy yes would be pathetic—if it ever made it out. All that escapes is a breathy groan of displeasure when he stops, teasing lips hovering just above your own. “What’s that, babe? Want me t’stop?”

“You’re such an asshole.”

Your hands tangle in his hair, lips melding as your make-out turns heated. He slides his tongue along the seam of your lips, silently asking you to open—and you do. His hands curl around you, bringing you closer until there’s no space left between you.

Something digs into your leg. Something hard and unmistakable, and it leaves you grinning deeper than Kei.

You break away, laughing at his whine of protest and briefly glance down. Keisuke follows your eyes and is quick to splutter a nervous chuckle, hands dropping as he tries to step away with a short apology—though the way you catch his belt loops stops him. “Shit—sorry, I didn’t—I just—it’s your fault, y’know—“

“Shut up,” you giggle and drag him back. Now, you kiss him; once, twice, then a third before trailing your lips along the sharp ridge of his cheekbone, along his temple, to his ear. “How about you take me home, Kei?”

Keisuke’s whiplash nearly hurts you. His eyes, big and brown and wide, stare like you’ve grown an extra head. His hands shakily splay against your back, as if he wants to keep you close but he’s not sure he’s allowed to. His voice wavers slightly when he asks, “but I thought… aren’t… I mean, isn’t this… what you wanted?”

Slowly, you nod. Even slower, you pointedly look at the space between you, bridged only by the tent of his black pants. You smile at the sweet way a blush covers his cheeks, and risk slowly trailing your hand along his belt until your fingertips are hovering over that stupid, shiny, obnoxiously big belt buckle you always tease him for.

“I want you, Keisuke, and I want you to take me home.”

He doesn’t need more encouragement.

Keisuke’s kisses grow fiercer. He devours you, never once breaking contact as his hands slide to find firm purchase on the back of your thighs. With ease, he lifts you atop his bike, setting you in front of him and stepping between your spread legs. The hem of your dress slides up with his calloused palms, collecting in a bunch then pooling down to protect your modesty as he finds two handfuls of ass. He gives a squeeze, eliciting a delighted gasp from you, then pulls back with a toothy smile.

“Then have me, sweetheart. Always been yours, anyways.”

Your stomach twists, the way it always does when he looks at you like that, and you like it. It makes sense, it feels right—and you don’t have to pretend to justify why it makes your panties wet.

“Gotta—gotta get home—“ you try saying, but Keisuke’s hands have a mind of their own. They’re the only reason you’re still upright as he starts kissing along your neck, carefully grazing his sharp teeth but never once digging in. Your arms lop around him, digging into his scalp and shoulders as he finds this one spot that makes you moan, and you almost curse him for what that smile has done to you.

“Fuckin’—insane—if you think I'ma make it,” he mumbles into your skin, and you think you finally understand how some people can climax from someone’s voice alone.

You laugh and intend to push him away and demand that he do, that you have to, that you need to, because this—isn’t like you, you’re not one to get hot and heavy like this, certainly not in public—

But you can’t think straight. Not when Keisuke’s hands are kneading your ass, pinching and releasing like he can’t decide if he wants to hold on forever or explore somewhere new. Not when his teeth nibble your neck, and you shudder at the unbelievably primal sensation running through you.

Not when the unmistakable hardness of Keisuke’s boner finds home between your thighs, and he starts bucking his hips. It’s subtle, and he doesn’t tease you for the pathetic way you start whimpering. He focuses on continuing to explore the expanse of your otherwise untouched skin, while all you can do is revel in the way your high starts building.

You’ve been kissed before, on the lips and neck and once a little lower, but no one’s ever done this to you; pressed against your collarbone. Moved your neckline aside to suck on the fat of your breast. Left a mark that’ll last longer than a minute. For a moment, you wonder if you should tell him he’s the first, but when the zipper of his pants starts catching your clit, the only thing you’re able to do is moan his name.

Loudly.

Breathy and passionate and different than before, and he pauses. Lifts his head from your collarbone, a thin tendril of salvia keeping his lips still attached to the sensitive skin you know will bruise. He lets one hand trail up your side and cup your face, staring like this might be the last time he ever sees you, all while his hips continue to rut against you.

“Say it again,” he breathes, thumb catching your bottom lip. “Just—just like that.”

“Kei,” you repeat, giggling at the way he brightens and starts kissing you, “we need to go home—now.” For good measure, you boldly let your fingers slide to the edge of his belt buckle, in case he needs some more convincing. His free hand darts to yours, but he doesn’t stop you. He laces his fingers in yours and guides you, letting you palm at his thick hard-on. He lets out a low groan and drops his head from your lips to rest at your chest, just above the collar of your dress. You card one hand through his hair, the other applying light pressure to the (you assume) very painful ache between his legs—and not at all because you know, if he kept bucking into your core the way he just was, the way he keeps doing against your palm—you wouldn’t be able to make it home, either. “Take—take me home, Kei—”

“Not—” he huffs. His grip on your ass tightens, but you can barely feel it. Not when Keisuke whines, low and needy, teeth coming out to nip at your breast, and all you can focus on is the ache between your own legs, getting even worse as his hips start moving faster, forcing the back of your hand against your cunt as you continue to palm him. His hips don’t stop; they push against you so fiercely, so desperately, that you cave, taking away your hand so there’s nothing between you but your clothes.

You’re on the precipice in minutes; hands digging into his shoulders as you choke on a sob, pleading with him to go faster, to not stop, to keep making you feel good—and it’s made all the worse when he does, pressing his throbbing erection even harder against your soaked panties, all the while pleading into your skin, “can’t—can’t—fuck, baby, I can’t—y/n—“

You gasp when his teeth break skin.

Keisuke’s hips still. Warm air saturates your chest as he groans into it, and for a moment you’re frozen. Your whole body aches, and you want to scream at the cruel way your orgasm was stolen—but you’re too in shock that he got you there that fast, that easily. Something warm trickles down your cheeks, between your breasts—blood? saliva? tears?—he doesn’t move. You don’t move. You’re not even sure he’s breathing, until his shoulders heave and your skin is warmed once more. A slight burn starts to spread across your chest, and when you open your mouth to ask him why the hell he stopped—all that comes out is his name.

You say it softly, then a little louder, but it’s not until you grab his face and force him to look up that he speaks—but his eyes are fixed firmly on the reddening bite mark forming atop your breast.

“M’sorry…”

A mean part of you wants to tell him he owes you a lot more than sorry, but the way his lower lip disappears as he nervously chews on it has you choosing otherwise. “It’s okay,” you comfort instead, “it didn’t hurt that bad.”

Keisuke grimaces. “No, I—”

He sighs, head dropping back to your chest. Both arms wrap around your waist, and he presses a light kiss to the place he’d just bitten; the only way he probably figures he can keep close without meeting your gaze. He mumbles something, but you only know because you feel his lips moving.

“Can’t hear you…” you try prompting, but it only makes him snuggle deeper. He sighs again, loud and warm and in a way you’re familiar with—the way that really means, I can’t believe I have to do this… “C’mon, Kei, don’t you want to take me home?”

“Ididntmakeit.”

You have never, ever, in your life ever seen Keisuke embarrassed. Not when he told you about needing Chifuyu to tutor him post-juvie; not when he failed his college entry exams; not even when you accidentally walked in on him showering (in hindsight, he was probably a little too comfortable with how long it might’ve taken you to leave).

This was the man who went skinny dipping for fun. He’ll order fruity drinks for his friends who are too embarrassed to do it themselves. His approach to a lost fight is to get a rematch, not pretend it didn’t exist, and even in mundane moments that have you at a loss for words, like mistaking someone’s name or forgetting a face, Kei’s always quick for a retort or defense or a smile that makes everything better.

Keisuke Baji doesn’t get embarrassed—but that’s the only word that fits. His cheeks are redder than you’ve ever seen, his breathing faster than his pulse. His eyes refuse to meet yours, and his fingers knead into clumsy, nervous patterns along the side of your thighs.

Then he takes a deep breath, and with one shaking hand, he slowly brings your palm to the crotch of his pants… that are now sticky.

Your eyes widen, and you’re almost too late to choke down a gasp. Kei’s eyes close, and he ducks his head in shame. “I didn’t—I mean, I haven’t—you're just—I’m so sorry—”

“Why?” It sounds curt, and you don’t intend it to. Better than laughing, you reason—although you will absolutely get him for this later… when it stops feeling like the most humiliating thing in the world.

Keisuke swallows. “I haven’t ever… you know.”

“What, cum early?” It’s cruel to tease, you know that, but you can’t stop the slight satisfaction that you—you—are able to bring a man like Keisuke Baji to his knees.

“No! I mean—no, I…” Kei looks out to the ocean, fingers still anxiously kneading into your thighs. The temperature drops, though you’re not sure if it actually does or you’re just feeling like it as you try to understand what’s happened, what’s happening—what you’re to do next. His jaw clenches and he tries to pull away from you, but you don’t let him. You wrap your legs around the backs of his thighs, keeping him in place.

“Kei…” you say softly. You don’t force him to look at you. Instead, you let your fingers trail up his abs, curling around his neck so you can rest your forehead against his temple and kiss his cheek. “I don’t care. Just means you gotta make it up to me—”

“I’ve never had sex before.”

You’re grateful he doesn’t look at you, because you’re not able to control the utter shock coloring your face. How is that possible? You’ve heard the whispers when you go out; you’ve seen the looks. At parties or bars or clubs, he’d find a pretty thing and disappear, and you assumed you knew what happened behind those closed doors—because why, why, why would you want to ask about that?

The others didn’t dispel it, either; in fact, they’d constantly rip on him for his… gift, and Keisuke never fought back. He’d just smirk and wink and say, “it’s never disappointed,” and by the time you’d turned red, thinking about when you caught him in the shower and knew what they were saying was true, they’d moved on to taunting someone else.

So how the hell is it possible that Keisuke’s a virgin—and, more importantly, how didn’t you know?

You’re not sure how long it takes you to recover. If he were to ask, you’d say you were just waiting for him—because when you do speak, it’s only when Keisuke turns to you with narrowed eyes, an apprehensive blush clear on his face.

“Wanna know a secret?” you ask, forcing a teasing lilt to your voice—though your stomach twists. This isn’t exactly the way you wanted to tell him, and for a flash, you think of how disappointed he might be to learn the truth.

But when he meets your gaze, eyes wide and focused entirely on you, somewhere between hopeful and nervous, you know it’s for the best. Your smile is sweet, but not as sweet as your lips when you kiss the crinkle between his eyes. He immediately relaxes, hands stilling as he leans into you. “Neither have I.”

He straightens and pulls far enough away so he can examine you. For a minute, your confession hangs between the two of you, then Kei starts floundering, “but I thought… you said… but he… what about your ex?”

You shrug, your own cheeks starting to flush. “It never felt right.”

Keisuke blinks. His mouth parts, eyes darting between yours like he’s waiting for the gotcha!, but all he receives is the embarrassed way you can’t meet his gaze, feeling as if you’ve somehow let him down. You squirm, his warm hands still atop your thighs sending butterflies to your stomach, and shrug again. “I dunno, I just—didn’t think it was fair. Doing that with someone, when all I could think about…” you swallow, lips twisting as you debate whether or not to tell him the truth.

He catches your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Think about what, sweetheart?”

The way he asks tells you he already knows; but like earlier, when you knew and had to hear it anyway, he needs you to say it, too.

So you take a steadying breath. You gently trail a finger down the side of his jaw, and you make yourself smile as you say, “you, Kei. It didn’t seem right if it wasn’t you.”

This time when he kisses you, it’s slow. He takes his time in tasting you, in savoring the moment. He lets you guide where his lips go, how his hands wander, and he waits for you to pull back before he suggests, “how about I take you home now?”

Your stomach flutters. Fingers knot at the base of his skull, and slowly, a smile spreads on your face.

“I’d like that.”

He presses a chaste kiss to your temple. You can feel the joy in it, one that doesn’t fade for either of you as he unhooks your legs so you can properly straddle the bike, then tucks the helmet on you and pops on himself.

“Hold on,” he calls as he revs the engine, “might be goin’ a bit faster than usual.”

“Don’t worry,” you laugh, and even though you know he probably can’t hear you, you add, “I’m never letting go.”

You make it to Keisuke’s apartment in seven minutes flat—which, normally, would leave you terrified, given his place is twenty minutes from your spot, but you doubt that’s what’s got your heart racing. He barely gives you enough time to take the helmet off before his hands are back on you, easily scooping you up and carrying you up the stairs. You bump into a few walls, and the way you’ve got a loose grasp on his helmet sends it craning into his back just as often, but neither of you care. Between fits of giggles and cautious glances to make sure he’s not about to walk you through a glass door (or down a stairwell), you kiss like it’ll be the last time you ever get the chance to.

“Anyone home?” you mumble into his lips. He slams you against the front door of his shared three-bedroom apartment, using his hips to keep you up while he tries to find the lock by memory.

“Nope,” he replies, lips busy with your skin, fingers fumbling uselessly behind you. “Stupid—fucking lock—told Tora to leave it—never fuckin’ listens—”

“Relax,” you laugh, although that’s rich coming from you. Your legs tighten around him as you break free from his kiss, instead sucking along the column of his throat. Freeing his face is supposed to give him enough room to actually look for the lock, so the two of you can stop dry-humping in the hall and finally get the privacy you need—but like always, Keisuke does the unexpected.

He throws his head back and moans, giving you more access to leave a matching hickey—and you’re not strong enough to resist the temptation. A whine starts in his throat, from where you’re sucking on his pale skin. The keys clatter to the ground.

“Keisuke,” you scold—but before you can tease him for being in a rush, his lips are back on yours.

“Never gonna make it,” is his only defense.

“Gonna—gonna have to,” you reply, but every time you try pulling away or reach for the keys yourself, he grabs you. Wraps your wrists in his rough hands, pins them to the door beside your head, and leans so far forward that, even with your limp legs, he’s able to keep you up himself. “Kei—“

“So help me sweetheart,” he warns, hips rolling against yours with a sense of urgency only outmatched by his kiss, “if you keep saying my name like that, I swear to the gods I’m gonna fuck you right here.”

“So help me, sweetheart,” you shoot back, breathy and hot as you try to avoid the way his lips chase yours, “if you don’t get me inside right now, I might let you.”

He freezes. Pulls away from the delightful bruise he’d just been leaving below your ear and stares at you with a mixture of awe and utter delight. “Really?”

You swat the back of his head. “No, dumbass, open the fucking door.”

Keisuke’s lips, pink and bruising slightly, twist in a pretend pout as he squats. He keeps one thick palm under your thigh, keeping your leg wrapped around him as he snags his keys. “You’re such a fucking tease.”

“Says the guy who does—that,” you try scoffing, but you’re cut off with a moan when Kei stands and bounces you against his hips. His boner is back and harder than before, pressing into your core, the messy, wet mix of your drenched panties and his earlier cum making a lewd sound in the otherwise silent hallway.

“Does… what, babe?” he teases. “C’mon, finish that sentence.”

You don’t know how he finds the focus to actually find the lock this time, but you thank every deity in the world that he does—because it takes just a second, a single, solitary second for him to jimmy it in, slam the door open, and you’re finally alone.

The door frame rattles. Something falls, but you can’t tell if it’s the mirror you insisted he hang above the entry table you insisted he get or if it’s the rickety old coat rack Chifuyu said would ‘class up the joint’; all you know is that as soon as the key is in, Baji’s hands are back to cradling your thighs for support as he crosses the threshold.

You reach for the door, but he catches it with his ankle and slams it shut, quickly spinning to pin you against it.

“Really—” you pant, “really got the place—to ourselves?”

“Mhm,” Keisuke confirms. He leans into you, palms rubbing along your thighs until they get to your knees, silently asking you to wrap tighter around him. You do, and the moment he feels your ankles cross at the small of his back, his hands move to your waist. “Told ‘em—needed space.”

“Oh?” you question, your hands reaching for the hem of his shirt and tug, tug, tugging—“And when’d you do that?”

He reaches behind his head and yanks his tee off, tossing it carelessly into the darkness of the apartment. You hadn’t even paused to turn on the lights.

“After I saw Tadashi.” You can tell he’s grinning, especially as you drag your nails along the chiseled plane of his abs. His hands slide up your torso, thumb rubbing your stomach through the thin cotton of your dress, grazing the underwire of your bra. “Told Tora this one wasn’t gonna work, either, ’n he said I should just tell ya the truth, 'cause he couldn’t watch me mope around all night again—”

“Mope?” you tease. Kei’s fingers dig in. “Kazutora accused you of moping?”

“Well—shut up!” he whines. “You try watching the person you’re in love with go out with guys who don’t deserve them and tell me you wouldn’t start moping either—y/n? Why… are you looking at me like that?”

Your eyes are wide. Your hands go limp, the helmet falling to the floor with a loud clatter. Your lips part to say… something, but you’re not sure what.

Keisuke’s told you he’s loves you a thousand times; the brief ‘kay love ya! before he hangs up; the gentle love you, see ya tomorrow whenever he’d bring you home; the drawn out gods I love you after you’ve surprised him with his favorite meal—but none like this.

None so… blatant. So unmistakable.

Kei stares at you curiously, as if he isn’t even aware of what he’s just said. He repeats your name, hands leaving your waist to catch your chin.

“You’re… in love with me?”

Keisuke blinks.

For a moment, you think you must’ve misheard, he must’ve misspoke, you must have misunderstood—but a brilliant smile breaks his face, and he nuzzles his nose against yours. “‘Course I’m in love with you, sweetheart. I’ve been in love with you, and I ain’t ever gonna stop loving you—”

You kiss him.

The gentlest one yet. The way you always dreamed your first one would be; soft, sweet, lips pressing together while your hands held him close. Heartbeats synching. The world falling away as it’s just the two of you, in this moment, endless and forever.

There’s only one thing to say when you pause: “I love you too, Keisuke.”

Your teeth knock together as Keisuke can’t contain his smile, either. Hands move, one around the small of your back and the other under a single thigh. Your lips never part as he carries you to his room.

He sets you at the foot of his bed and stands above you. His chest heaves, bare and flushed with need. Your hands slip from his neck to his bed to keep yourself propped up, legs still wrapped tightly around his waist. Keisuke’s hands travel to your knees, and he just—stares.

He loves you. How could he not, with the way that pretty dress puddles on his mattress, exposing nearly all of your leg but hiding what he’s been waiting for his whole adult life? How could he not, with the way his spit makes your collar glistens in the moonlight, filtering in from behind those sheer curtains you insisted he get? How could he not love the way you say his name, reaching towards him, fingers catching on his belt buckle as you ask him if he’s ready?

“Not yet,” he whispers. The hoarseness of his voice, the way it’s dropped several octaves from merely seeing you on his bed, sends a jolt of electricity through you. You’re about to ask why, but the reverence in how he’s looking at you makes you not want to break this spell.

He trails his fingers along your calves. Gently, he unhooks your legs from his waist. His fingers shake as he struggles with the straps of your heels, but when you go to help, he catches your wrist.

“No,” he repeats, “not yet.”

You keep quiet and merely watch as your best friend, the man of your dreams, takes his time in undressing you. One wedge, then the other, falling off your feet with a dull clank! on the carpet. Keisuke kisses your ankles, then starts kissing up your calves, then your knees, then your thighs—

The anticipation has you dripping. Your thighs instinctively clench when he gets to your hem, hands curling into fists by your sides. Your panties are uncomfortably glued to your cunt, sticky in a way you’ve never been before, and he’s not even lifted your dress to see yet.

Keisuke rests his chin atop your thigh. “Please,” he pleads—pleads—“Let me—baby, let me. I wanna taste you.”

Today is not the day you learn to refuse him.

Your muscles shake from anticipation as you slowly spread your legs, but that’s not enough for him. “Baby, no, I—I wanna hear you say it.” His voice is soft, shaky. A little hesitant, as if he’s not sure if this’ll ruin the moment but he knows he has to be sure—he has to hear you say it… if only to revel in the desperate way you say his name.

“Keisuke, please… whatever you want, have it. Just—touch me, Kei, please, I need you—“

“Need you too, sweetheart,” he praises, running his lips along your thigh. “Gonna—gonna have you now, okay?”

His fingers still shake when he lifts your dress, exposing the black lace of your panties to him. At first glance, he can’t tell that they’re absolutely soaked—but that doesn’t stop the way you start to squirm in embarrassment as he just… stares. His thumbs dig into the fat of your hips, broad palms keeping your thighs spread and pinned to the bed.

It takes you a moment to realize he’s not breathing.

“Kei?”

He doesn’t look up.

His grip gets tighter. His eyes narrow. Before you get the chance to ask him what’s wrong, he growls, “you wore these for him?”

You blink. That is not what you were expecting, but before you can defend with they’re my lucky pair, or I wanted to feel sexy, or it doesn’t matter, I’m here with you—Keisuke’s ripped them off.

You yelp when the fabric bites your skin, failing to wriggling away as Keisuke strips them off your ankle. “What the fuck—“

“I’ll get you a new pair,” he mutters. “Shit—I’ll get you a hundred pairs, but you get rid of every single set someone else has seen. Got it?”

Your lips purse. He’s being unreasonable, you think, and totally ridiculous… but no matter how much your brain tries to reason he’s out of line, your fluttering pussy doesn’t get the message. Your slick is evident now, exposed and iridescent in the moonlight, dripping down your hole and slowly saturating the sheets.

Usually, Keisuke wouldn’t let it go. Usually, he’d keep picking at it until you cave, or at least recognize you heard him—but usually, he’s not staring at your cunt.

Right now, he can’t focus on anything but how desperate he is to be inside you.

“Yeah, think ya got it… fuck, babe… seems like you like it when I say shit like that, hunh?”

You whimper slightly, having to bite your lip to keep it together. Slowly, he drags the tip of his finger from the sheet beneath you up along your wet folds. He barely touches you, but when he pulls his finger away, it’s covered in a layer of you.

He brings it to his face with a cocky grin, watching how the pad shines in the moonlight. “You always this wet, or am I special?”

“Shut up,” you shoot back, preparing to bring up how special he found you earlier—only to immediately throw your head back and moan as Keisuke buries his face between your legs.

There is no preamble. There are no more teasing quips or pauses; Keisuke dives in like a man starved, and the only thing that can sate his appetite is you.

He starts with broad strokes, gathering as much of your slick as he can. He’s messy, messier than you, and soon there’s more of his spit than your wetness between your legs. His arms wrap around your thighs, keeping them pinned and spread on his shoulders as he continues to feast, thumbs spreading your lips open so he can truly devour you.

When Keisuke starts suckling on your clit, your fingers knot in his hair. You moan, loud and whiney and plead for him to keep going as your orgasm starts to boil—faster than before, more powerful too, with greater ease than you’ve ever managed to pull from yourself.

Keisuke brings a hand to your clit, quickly swiping the puffy bud with the pad of his thumb as he focuses his tongue on your fluttering hole. In and out, up and down, the warm muscle drives you insane. Your grip on his hair must hurt, but he says nothing; he focuses on making you feel as good as humanly possible, never once letting up, not even when you start to choke, “Kei—I’m—I’m gonna—“

“Cum for me, sweetheart,” he commands. “C’mon, pretty girl, make a mess on my face, wanna feel how you clench, wanna make ya cry—”

It sends you over the edge.

With a scream of his name, your back arches. Your thighs try closing around him but still, he doesn’t let up. He keeps pace, tongue-fucking you, lapping up all the juice that spills out as his thumb continues caressing your clit until you do start crying and you do have to plead, “no—no more, Kei, can’t—“

“Can,” he corrects—but he stops. His hand stills, moving so that the warmth of his palm covers that sensitive bundle of nerves, and only then does he stop lapping at your hole. He presses a gentle kiss to your sex, then to your inner thigh. “But I’ll be nice tonight, sweetheart. Only ‘cause I love you, though.”

You stare at the ceiling as you catch your breath. The paint is peeling in the corner. The glow-in-the-dark stars you helped him put up when he first moved in are dim. The walls are covered in motorcycle posters. A calendar set to the wrong month hangs above a salvaged desk, covered with various veterinary textbooks, barely legible notebooks, a handful of empty beer cans, and a handful of DVD cases, one of which you know is Dyslexia; How to Read When Even Your Brain Doesn’t Want You To. A neon sign advertising Margaritaville is unlit beside his closet. A pile of clothes that didn’t make it to the hamper rests beneath it.

The room is so—Keisuke , you feel at peace, even as your limbs turn to jelly.

Your heart is racing faster than if you’d just run a marathon. “Thought—thought you said you hadn’t—“ you try panting, but it’s too much effort, too soon. You end up collapsing back on the bed, head swimming with euphoria.

“Said I hadn’t had sex,” Keisuke corrects as he stands, your limp thighs falling to the either side of his waist, “not that I’ve never eaten pussy.” He scoffs, as if that should’ve been obvious. “I’m not an idiot, babe. I respect women enough to know where the clit is.”

A little laugh escapes you. The fan motor is the only other sound. It’s cool, your nipples perk beneath your bra, but you’re still hot. Still hyper aware that Keisuke is just a few inches away, watching your bare cunt flutter and beg him for more.

Keisuke does love you. You know he does, because he gives you time to catch your breathe before he starts up again, only pressing soft kisses to the inside of your legs and quiet offerings of, “so fuckin’ pretty” and “can’t believe you’re here” and, your favorite, the only one you respond to: “so in love with you.”

“I love you too, Kei.”

He runs his hands along your sides, slowly taking more and more of your dress up with it until the entire thing is resting by your neck. He makes quick work of your bra, not even needing you to sit up as he unhooks it and lifts the cups away.

He says nothing; just stares at your naked body with the same adoration and awe he held when taking off your shoes.

“You’re—so beautiful,” he whispers. “Y’know that? So—so fuckin’ beautiful.”

He bends down and takes a pert nipple in his mouth. You whine, hate yourself for doing so, then whine again as his free hand starts tweaking your other nipple. He runs his tongue over every inch of your chest, making sure you’re covered with his spit and hands, traversing as much of you as he can.

When he gets to your face, he smiles. “You’re mine, yeah? All mine?”

Your fingers run over his jaw, over the bruise that’s barely discernible in the moonlight. No one’s touched you like him; no one’s even kissed you like him, either, and you’re not sure if it’s the “Keisuke” of it all making you feel like this, or if this is how it’s supposed to have felt all along.

The answer comes easily.

“Yeah,” you agree with a smile of your own, “yeah, m’all yours, Keisuke. Pretty sure I always have been.”

“Always, hunh?” He holds you gently now; a stark contrast to the hungry way he’d just devoured you. “That mean you’ve always loved me, too?”

Your breathy yes is lost in a gasp when his hand slides between your legs. Gently, he prods a single thick finger into your virgin hole, shallowly dipping in and out. “Never had someone else in here, hunh? M’gonna be your first?”

“Y-yes,” you repeat, voice cracking. Your eyes flutter close as he keeps fingering you. You’d had fingers in there before, but none like this. Your own couldn’t compare, two of yours barely able to stretch the way one of his does… and he’s not even going all the way. Not even knuckle deep as he explores only the shallows, letting you adjust.

Your face scrunches when he adds a second.

“This okay?” he asks. You look at him, hand wrapping around his neck as you bring his forehead down to meet yours.

You nod, then remember what he said earlier, how you could feel his cock jumping when you were sweet and needy for him. “Yeah, Keisuke. Yes—yes, I want this. I want you.”

He cups your face and trails soft kisses from corner to corner, breaking apart only to lift your dress and bra over your head. They’re carelessly thrown to the floor, you have half a mind to scold him that it’ll wrinkle—but when he goes back to your cunt, two fingers halfway in, all you’re able to say is the harsh inhale of his name.

They’re shallow, never pushing in deep enough to hurt, slowly stretching your rim to its max. He goes a little deeper, then starts scissoring them, and it becomes nearly impossible to believe he hasn’t done this before.

“No—no way you’re a virgin,” you hiss when Keisuke’s lips travel to your breast. He alternates between sucking hickeys and kneading them while staring at the way your cunt sucks him in, never stopping his ministrations.

Keisuke lets out a short scoff and shifts. “You literally made me cum my pants like a teenager.”

“Then how—“

“I told ya, babe, I respect women,” is his only reply. The only one he’s willing to give, at least, because he starts paying more attention to your tits than what questions are spilling his way.

You feel like you’ve got to be ready when he adds a third, and you say as much—only for Keisuke to meet your gaze with a cocky grin. “Trust me, sweetheart. You’re gonna thank me for this.”

It can’t be much longer until he deems you ready, but it feels like forever, even if he keeps you distracted from the slight burn between your legs by playing with your breasts, sucking on your throat, praising you.

“Taking m’fingers so well, pretty thing. You’re such a good girl f’me, can’t believe you made me wait this long…”

“You didn’t tell me either,” you scold. He curls his fingers mid-way through your sentence, rubbing against a sensitive spot you’ve never been able to find on your own. You keen his name, hand snapping down to catch his forearm. He pauses.

“Too much?”

Slowly, you shake your head, eyes watering. “Please, Kei, I—I want you to fuck me.”

Keisuke presses a chaste kiss to your forehead. “Never could say no to you, sweetheart.”

If you could think clearly, you’d start listing all the times he has denied you, starting with just a few seconds ago—but him withdrawing his fingers leaves you feeling too empty to do much but pout.

When he pulls away, you chase after him, only for him to shake his head with a fond grin. “How am I supposed to fuck you if you won’t let me take my pants off?”

With hot cheeks, your lips twist. “You were the one who wanted to fuck on your bike, and then in the hall—what, were you planning on stripping naked then, too?”

You’re rewarded with a very rare, very endearing blush. He sits back on his knees and rubs his neck, eyes dropping from yours—then his lip curls in a smirk. “With how wet you got, seems like you wanted me to. What—you like the idea of that? Getting fucked in public? Don’t worry, sweetheart, maybe we’ll try that one day…” He laughs at the way you squirm, but he’s not wrong; your cunt clenches at the thought.

“You’re such a dick.” Your hands reach for his belt, fumbling slightly as you try to undo it. Keisuke’s hands take over, getting rid of the black leather in seconds.

“Your dick,” he corrects, hands back on you, gently laying you back against his pillows, trailing over your now completely naked body, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. You roll your eyes but say nothing, heart in your throat, pussy pulsing in anticipation.

He straightens, taking in the display in front of him. Taking in you.

You sit up slightly, chewing your lower lip. He’s beautiful, but even more so in the moonlight. It illuminates his pale skin, almost making him glow in the darkness of the rest of his room. Obsidian hair falls in a straight sheet around his flushed cheeks, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Violet and red marks adorn his neck and chest. His abs flex when he watches the way your eyes trail down; down the inlet between them, down the stern jut of his prominent v-line, over the faint trail of dark hair that disappears into the band of his jeans.

His fingers—the ones just inside you—hover on the button. They’re covered in your slick, resting just above a bulge that looks absolutely delicious, one that you know he can’t wait to bury inside you—but still, he hesitates.

“I love you, Keisuke,” you say. He smiles. It’s the only further confirmation he needs before he’s pushing off the bed and pulling down his jeans and underwear in one go.

The others have lied about a lot—like Baji’s lack of virginity—but the size of Keisuke is not one of them.

Your jaw drops as you push to your knees, staring at Keisuke’s cock like it’s the first you’ve ever seen. It’s not, and technically speaking, it’s not even the first time you’ve seen his—but that time in the shower, when it was hanging heavily between his legs and you only caught a glimpse… apparently, that was him soft.

Keisuke hard is more impressive than any porn you’ve seen. So heavy that it can barely support its own weight, even with all the blood rushing through it, and so wide around even Keisuke, with his broad palms and lanky fingers, doesn’t dwarf it.

A thick bead of pre slips out the tip, trailing along the bulging vein that disappears under Keisuke’s hand as he starts to stroke it.

“This… is where the others tapped out,” he says slowly, taking in the way you watch. “I mean—not that I’m thinking about them—but I just—“

“You’re big.”

Keisuke chokes on a laugh. “So I’ve heard. Pretty virgin like you wouldn’t know any better though, would you?”

You give him a withering glare. “I’ve sucked dick before, asshole. You’re big.”

Keisuke’s jaw clenches. “Yeah? Go on, then. Show me how you’ve sucked dick.”

Later, you’ll tease him for how jealous he got, and later, you’ll revel in the possessive way he determines to erase every other touch from your memory—but now, you obediently crawl towards him, one of your smaller hands overlapping his, and you take control.

You press a soft kiss to his flushed tip. It’s larger than your lips, his pre a salty gloss as you kiss again and again—Keisuke grips your hair. “Suck.”

It’s as much a plea as it is a command, one you can’t ignore. You take him,—just the tip—in your mouth, tongue swirling over his warm head as your hand replaces his on the rest of his dick. Your fingers barely touch, and no matter how you adjust, how you lay your palm or spread your fingers… there’s still at least an inch of him exposed.

He hisses, nearly drowning out the lewd, wet sound your pussy makes as it clenches around nothing.

“This—turning you on?” he says, as if his cock isn’t twitching obscenely against your tongue. “Fuckin—sucking on a big cock making you wet?”

You let go with a wet pop! and bat your eyelashes at him. You know exactly what you’re doing when you say, “No, Kei. I’m this wet ‘cause of you.”

With a groan, Keisuke pulls your head back to his dick and thrusts in, sliding as far as you’ll let him before you start to gag. “That’s—that’s it, sweetheart, get it nice and wet.”

He holds you there for a moment, waiting until you tap on his thigh before sliding out. Your eyes are teary, saliva dripping down the corner of your mouth. Deftly, you twist your wrist while catching your breath. His fingers go from knotting in your hair to petting the back of your head.

“You keep doing that, I’m gonna bust,” he warns, but his fond smile gives him away.

You merely smile. “Telling me you’ve never had your cock sucked, Kei?”

His lip curls in a snarl, which disappears with a groan when you take him in your throat once more. Slowly, lips pursing around him, tongue flicking along the sensitive underside of his cockhead as you try going as far as you can. Your jaw is already starting to ache, but you’re determined to prove yourself.

“Not—like this,” he moans, pushing your head a little further down. Your lips split in a smile, and you raise your hand to start fondling his balls—a trick that’s always gotten you success before—but before you make contact, Keisuke is sliding out and grabbing your jaw. He’s breathing heavily, pupils blown out with lust. He stares at your lips then leans forward, not flinching at the taste of himself on you.

“Wanna fuck you now,” he mumbles. You wrap your arms around his neck and start to lean back, nodding.

“Want you to fuck me too,” you agree. One of Keisuke’s muscular thighs slides between your legs, easing them apart. He keeps kissing you, letting you fall softly against his pillows while he keeps stroking his member, slick with your spit.

He taps the tip of his cock against your clit. You hiss in surprise, eyes closing shut at the sudden sensation of pleasure that rushes through you. “Let me know if it hurts,” he says quietly. He grips his cock right beneath the head, guiding it through your slick folds, getting as much of your fluids on him as he can.

He’s torn between needing to see the way you suck him in, and the need to squeeze his eyes shut. The sight of you alone, legs spread on either side, pussy gushing because of him, covering in marks because of him, mewling his name as you beg him to fuck you—it’s almost enough for him to cum on the spot.

Faintly, honks echo from the street below. It’s amazing that in this instant, as your world is about to change forever and for the better, everyone else is going about their business like nothing’s happening. They’re catching a late-dinner with their partner; walking home from a late-night meeting that could’ve been an email; swinging by the grocer’s to pick up snacks and drinks to share with their friends… The whole world is continuing on, just beyond that window, but for you and Keisuke… it’s as if time’s stopped.

The world is only real for the two of you.

He bends down to kiss you, making sure to pour every ounce of love and care he has into this one. You respond just as sweetly, reveling in the power of this moment, this one decision that will irrevocably tie you together forever, the way you were always meant to be.

He loves you, you love him, and there’s nothing else that matters.

“Ready?” he asks. You nod, then echo, “ready,” and he puts it in; just the tip, spearing past your tight hole. The two of you let out a synchronous gasp.

It’s even more than three of his fingers; warm, too, and thick, softer but also harder and full—you’re so, so, so full as he slowly edges in. It hurts—it feels good—it burns—you need more—

“Baby,” Keisuke pants. He’s let go of his cock, letting just the first inch or so rest comfortably within your walls. You feel him twitch, feel how tight his fingers dig into the sheets on either side of you so he doesn’t add more bruises to your ever-growing collection. “Baby, talk to me. Tell me—are you—are you okay?”

You whimper slightly when he sinks a little further. Eyes scrunching, your fingers digging into his thighs as you try to even your breath. “It—it’s so—“ you try saying, but it’s like you can feel him in your stomach, the pressure tightening all the way up your throat and cutting you off.

“So—good,” Keisuke gasps. He does the best he can, really, but you—you’re so—warm, and wet, and inviting—the place you’re joined might be the best thing he’s ever felt–ever seen. He slides a little further, presses a kiss to wherever he can reach as he waits until your chest stops heaving as horribly. He tries telling you he loves you, he really tries telling you how amazing you are, how perfect you are, how good you feel—but all that comes out are choked, half-sentences that fade into groans.

Tears prick at your lash line by the time he’s securely sheathed in you. Your fingers dig into his back, trying to pull him flush to your chest and bury his head in your neck so he can’t see. You know how he’ll feel; he’ll pull out and say he’s sorry, that he never meant to hurt you and it’s not worth it and he won’t try again–and that’s not what you want. You just need some time to adjust, that’s all.

You never realized how empty you were.

Keisuke lifts up from the crook of your neck when the first tear slides against his cheek. “M’sorry,” he breathes, kissing one eye, then the other, licking the tear tracks and kissing you again. “M’sorry, I don’t wanna hurt—“ His arms shake on either side of you. The urge to start shifting his hips is sinful, but he doesn’t. He can’t, not until you're okay, not until you tell him it’s okay.

“It’s—okay,” you breathe. Your face says otherwise, but really… it’s okay. You play with the hair at the nape of his neck, offering him a little smile as you shift your hips ever-so-slightly against his. “I’m—I’m okay, baby, really. Just—just go slow.”

Keisuke kisses you. Slowly, deeply, spreading your lips with his as he gently pulls out and slides back in, heeding your directive to go slow. It hurts, it still hurts, is it supposed to hurt like this—but right when you’re about to give up, right when you’re about to tell him it's too much and maybe you should stop… it starts to feel good.

Not just full, but satisfying, bumping against the back of your messy cunt with every stroke. The ridge of his cockhead catches your insides in a way that makes your toes curl, and before long, your legs are wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer.

“Gods—fuck, Kei, fuck—“ you hiss, burying your head in his shoulder, biting his collarbone to keep yourself from screaming. “Just—there, like that, don’t—fuck—“

“Thought you said you were a virgin,” he hisses. Your broken pleas of, I am, I am, I am—go unrecognized as he slowly picks up speed. “Virgin pussy—heh—always feel this—fuckin’ good?”

You moan, loud and unreserved, nails digging into the muscle of his shoulders. Your stomach burns. Your pussy clenches, but for the first time, there’s finally something to hold on to, finally something to fill you up—you’ve never been so full, never felt so good. The coil tightens in your stomach, made all the more tense by the fact there’s something inside— “Gonna— gonna cum, Kei, don’t—don’t stop, please—“

“Yeah, sweetheart? You gonna—gonna cum for me? Go on, cum f’me. Cum on my cock, baby, show me what we’ve been—been waitin’ for—“

You cry when your orgasm finally washes over you.

You’ve never climaxed this powerfully before, to the point that you’ve felt like—this. The world is empty besides the two of you. Bells ring in your ear as you struggle to keep your eyes open, your whole body floating. You feel everything and nothing; like you’re weightless but have never been so heavy in your life.

You gasp for air, fingers digging into Keisuke’s shoulders as his hips stutter a few more times then still. His moans into your ear as his own orgasms consumes him, painting your insides white, shooting so much it drips out of your spent pussy and starts to puddle between you.

He stays there for a moment. Lets his lips trace lazy patterns beneath your ear, still half-hard inside you, one hand gripping the back of your neck and the other holding your breast. Even though you’re spent, your hands delicately trail up and down his spine. Your breathing is heavy and your smile bright and you think you could stay right here forever.

The plastic stars one his ceiling smile down at you, and you imagine the ones outside are doing the same. ‘About time!’ they seem to say. After all these years, about time. There’s a shrill whistle of bus brakes, screeching to a halt; a muffled shout from one pedestrian to another. The fan creaks slightly, the cool air washing over you and helping calm the raging fire on your skin. The clock on Keisuke’s lopsided nightstand, made even with a stack of textbooks he never got to put to use, beeps at midnight: the end of one day, the start of forever.

Kei takes a deep breath and slides off, hissing as his sensitive cock is exposed to the cool air of his bedroom. He lays on his back, taking a hand and placing it over his eyes as he tries to calm his racing heart.

Your legs are sticky. They’re already getting sore. Your hips ache, your spine stretches, your chest burns—but you relish it. Kei’s breathing evens beside you.

Glancing, you check if he’s asleep—but with the way his forearm covers his eyes, you can’t tell. He looks even more like an angel now. Light, from a city just waking up, creeps past the curtains, illuminating slivers of his pale and flushed skin. He looks–relaxed. Content, even with the blush still coloring his high cheeks bones. His lips are parted, shallow gasps of air being sucked through them, but the longer you look, the more it looks like they’re curling in a smile.

His chest rises and falls steadily, and just when you start to think he might actually be asleep, the hand beneath your neck starts playing with your hair.

“Think it’s—always this good?” he asks breathlessly, pulling you in a little closer.

You pretend to think. He tilts his head, cracking an eye to look down at you curiously. You smile. “I don’t know. Think we better try again—y’know, just to be sure.”

Kei barks out a laugh and pulls you to his chest, looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. And right now, with the gentle light filtering through his open window, sweaty and smiling and with his cum dripping from between your legs to make a mess of his thigh, you are.

You play with the edges of his hair, sprawled lazily across his sweaty forehead. With a soft smile, he reaches for your fingers and pulls them to his lips. “Do you actually like it? My haircut, I mean. Pretty sure you liked the other stuff.”

You answer with a laugh, pressing a kiss to where the edges fall. “I love it.”

He grins and rolls over, pinning you to the mattress. The short locks make a curtain, hiding the two of you from anything but each other. “Good. Did it f’you.”

“For me?”

He hums and buries his face in your neck, delicately kissing the bruising skin. “Noticed your type. None of them had long hair, ’n I thought…”

With a pealing laugh, you grab his cheeks and bring his face to yours, smothering him with kisses. “Keisuke, you are such an idiot.”

He pretends to frown, but kisses you all the same. “Weren’t calling me that when I was making you scream earlier.”

“Kei,” you say, forcing him back so you can really meet his eyes, “short hair, long hair. No hair. The only kind of guy I’ve ever truly wanted has been you.”

Keisuke blinks. Short, thick lashes bat against those endlessly high cheekbones of his, and then he smiles. He lowers his lips to yours once more and gifts you a kiss; deep, slow. A kiss that’s been years in the making, that says all that your words have and then some.

“I love you,” he says, and you barely have time to say the same before he’s kissing you, hardening cock easily gliding back through your sticky folds, and you go for round two.

So... happy adventuring :) thank you for reading! if you made it this far… pls reblog, drop a comment, or leave an ask if you enjoyed!! I worked really, really hard on this, and it would mean the absolute world to me that, if y’all enjoyed it, you told me why. if you hated it, tell me why. if i made you cry or scream or fall in love or fierce fiercely full of disappointed rage, tell me why!! i won’t bite (unless you ask)!

hopefully the next adventure gets even better. thanks for reading!

#baji #keisuke baji x reader #baji x reader #baji smut #keisuke baji smut #baji x reader smut #tokyo revengers smut #tokyo revengers x reader #keisuke baji x reader smut #tokyo rev smut

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magicbystarlight · 7 months

Text

Venomous - Part Eleven

Masterlist, Part One

Summary: A wife. A mother. A witch with someone else's name. That’s the life you didn’t want. So Tom offered you more.

Word Count: 3K

Warnings: 18+, a bit of an angsty one, arranged marriage, age gap relationship, ptsd, war. Minors DNI.

A/N: Our poor reader can't catch a break.

The last days at the Manor passed mechanically. Wedding appointments set for Easter Break—dress, cake, invitations, dinner. A book left unread despite the pages turned. Smiles that didn’t reach your eyes. Laughs that were hollow. Unanswered letters. No word from your brother. Nothing in the papers about the Muggle war.

Abraxas was at your side, arm slung too casually around your shoulder as you walked through Platform 9 ¾. Your trunk somewhere behind being dragged along by the Malfoys’ oldest house-elf Honey. Or was it Bunny? An unsubtle reminder to the growing crowd that you were a Malfoy, even if not in name yet.

At least your mother hadn’t come.

His goodbye was drawn out. You smiled and dutifully let him kiss you again and again until he couldn't keep you any longer. You hoped your own face didn't betray your joy as you stepped onto the train. The compartments were full as you dragged your trunk. It took longer to find Larissa and Abigail than usual thanks to the added weight.

Their concern felt wasted on you when you stepped into the compartment. Too much of your friendship had been spent on your petty problems when their families lived in constant danger that you knew nothing about.

You insisted you were fine, that it had only been a bit of stress, and everything was okay now. You brushed off concerns about Abraxas’ behavior, rewriting his jealousy as protection. You were fine, everything was fine.

The conversation veered to them and you listened intently. A funny story about Larissa’s mother getting on the wrong train in the underground. Talk of Abigail’s father’s wonderful cooking. Love letters they found under her little sister’s pillow. It made your heart ache.

“We should set up a dinner or something for the Easter holiday,” you said as the laughter was starting to subside. “So I can meet your families.”

Your friends shared a look that didn’t look pleased with the idea. “Won’t you be too busy? With all the planning? We don’t want to add to your stress.”

“Too busy for you? Never.”

“It’s just,” Larissa said slowly, trying to find the words to say, “well, we know how your family feels about half-bloods. You might not mind, but they’re not gonna be happy with it.”

“They know we’re friends, it’s not that big of a deal anymore. Maybe they’ll be upset if they find out one of Abby’s parents is Muggle, but we can go somewhere Muggle and they’ll never even know. Make a day of it, a real day, show me more of the Muggle world. I’ve never even seen London past the windows in the Leaky Cauldron.”

Larissa went to say something else, another argument against it from the frown in her face, but Abigail cut her off, face lacking its normal color. “We’ll see. I’ll need to owl my parents and ask if they can make the time for it. Easter’s pretty busy for them.”

Your face fell before you could catch it and school it into something false.

“We can do Cambridge instead!” Larissa offered quickly, too eager compared to her hesitation a moment before. “I’m sure Mum would love to have you both over. And it gets so pretty in the spring there—”

She continued, naming reason after reason Cambridge was the place to be for Easter. You worked your smile back, though it was as hollow as it’d had been at the Manor. A tentative date set for the Tuesday after the holiday—you had no appointments set and Abigail would be too busy helping out around home before then. Color still hadn’t returned to her face.

When enough time had passed, you excused yourself to use the restroom. They didn’t offer to join you.

Scalding water splashed from the tap, causing your hands to retract with a hiss. You waited for the temperature to correct itself and tried not to scratch at the pain.

Abigail didn’t want you meeting her family. Larissa could spend a week with them and you couldn’t even have dinner. You always knew they were a little closer. How could they not be when you barely put any effort into the friendship? They may have been your best friends, but today you realized you weren’t theirs.

That was okay, you told yourself. You would do better.

You looked up into the mirror as you scrubbed your hands. A crack cutting diagonally down it you hadn’t noticed before. How poorly were these restrooms maintained?

The door swung open.

“—almost punched Ralph McLaggen in the middle of Diagon Alley! Over her? Can you—“

The Slytherin girl from Potions cut off abruptly as her gaze met yours in the mirror. The one who loved to tell people about your torrid affair with Slughorn. You’d have to remember her name eventually.

Her grin was sickly sweet. “You looked great at the Minister’s ball.”

“Thanks, but,” you said, matching the acidic tone. “I don’t remember seeing you there?” Then you laughed, shaking your hands dry and turning to see her now scowling face. “Oh right, you must have seen me in the paper! I’d almost forgotten.”

You walked to the door, eyebrow raised expanctly at her friend who still stood in its way. She squeaked out an apology before moving aside. “Well lovely to see you, Judith. Hope your holiday went well.” Maybe you didn’t have to learn her name.

—

Dumbledore wasn’t at the welcoming feast. It wasn’t unusual. Since First Year he’d been in and out of class aiding in the fight against Grindelwald. But you felt the absence more now. You’d wanted to talk to him about Warrick.

There were eyes on you. More than usual it seemed. You kept your back to the Slytherin’s table.

Abigail had recovered, at least.

Her smiles were warm again as conversation swirled at the table around the next Quidditch match. Ravenclaw had only had one match the previous semester and it left them at an advantage, same as Slytherin and it was expected the match would be tense. You listened attentively as some of the team’s players explained how many points they’d need to rack up to gain the lead. It surprised you how attentively they listened when Larissa started dissecting Slyhterin’s weaknesses and strengths. Her insight was, well, insightful.

“We’ve got the pitch on Thursday, you’ll be there?” Erin Lockhart, this year’s captain, asked her as you all made your way back to the tower.

Larissa’s face was bright. “Haven’t missed one yet, have I?”

It was past midnight when the three of you finally clambered up the stairs to your dormitory. Normal. A truly normal night. Not a mention of engagements or wars or stalkers. Filled instead with Quidditch and school worries and silly little jokes. So many new things noticed about people you’d known for years. Funny how that can happen when you’re not existing solely in your own head.

Larissa was giggling about how good Henry Higginbottom’s hair looked when she stopped abruptly after opening the door. You thought maybe the ladies at Twilfitt and Tattings had outdone themselves and delivered early, but a melodic chirping drowned it out.

On your bed, in a rather large and intricate gilded cage, was Ravenclaw’s emblem. A Golden Eagle.

Their eyes were such a familiar shade of brown.

“When did you get an eagle?”

“I didn’t.” You felt cold. “I’ll take my chances with whatever gilded cage awaits me rather than whatever crate you’re offering.” Could Tom never stop with his fucking metaphors?

Abigail was the one to investigate. She plucked an envelope from the bed, turning it over. Your name was on the front in familiar handwriting and an even more familiar teal seal.

Of course Azar was still doing Tom’s bidding.

Anger seized as you took the letter she handed over. Blood splatters marred the parchment.

Found her in Astrid’s owlery.

A likely story.

Apparently she’d been there a while and now she seems a bit confused about what she is. Thought getting her out of there was for the best,

You scoffed. Of course he would decide what he thinks best.

but the dungeons aren’t a good place for her. She needs to spread her wings.

One thing he wasn’t wrong about.

I know Selene said no to getting you an owl, but she never said no to an eagle.

He remembered that? It’d been years since you’d asked.

Dippet was happy enough to approve her as a pet for you. Unsurprisingly, you’re one of his favorites.

It was a surprise to you.

She prefers hunting for herself, so she won’t be a bother. She’ll even take the post for you. You’ll have to give her a name though. Our aunt only ever called her örnen.

That sounded like Aunt Astrid.

Sinc Love,

Uggy Az

P.S. There’s no excuse. I’m sorry.

P.P.S. She was perfectly tame until I put her in the cage. You’ll get along well, I think.

The anger had dissipated by the end. Not gone entirely, but less. You still weren’t convinced it wasn’t some new trap laid, but for now you’d let it be what it seemed. A sincere apology. Those were so rare.

“Uggy Az?” Larissa questioned, reading the letter over your shoulder.

“It’s what I called Azar when I was really little. It was supposed to be Uncle Az.” You reached for the latch, pulling the door open. “Mum hated it cause it sounded like I was calling him an ugly ass.” Cautiously the bird stepped out, stretching her wings and legs. She was beautiful.

You knelt at the end of the bed and she met you there. This close you could see the gold speckled throughout her eyes. When you reached your hand forward, she bent her head and let out a chirp at the contact.

“What should we name her?” you asked, stroking her.

“Princess?” Larissa offered before her face immediately went sour and shook her head. “She needs something more classical. Aethon?”

That made you shudder. Would that make you Prometheus?

Abigail’s fingers joined yours to stroke the brown feathers. “How about Drein?”

The eagle let out another chirp.

“You like that?” you asked. “Drein?”

She chirped again and seemed to nuzzle against your hand.

“Well,” Larissa laughed, joining you and Abigail in your affections to the bird, “Drein it is.”

—

Sweat covered you as you shot up from bed. A nightmare. You couldn’t remember much beyond explosions, screams, and a hand around your throat.

The hands of the clock pointed to a quarter past five. Too early to start the day and too late to try to sleep. Not that you’d be able to sleep anyways.

Drein stirred from her perch atop your wardrobe when you moved. It was odd how comforting it was when her eyes followed you to your desk. Being watched by a predator was normally so unsettling, but for once you didn’t feel like prey.

You took a piece of parchment and your quill and began to write. It wasn’t right. You scratched it out and started again. Still wrong. Dashed through the new sentences and tried again. No.

Curiosity got the best of Drein, her wings fluttering softly as she landed on the edge of the desk. Her head cocked as you ripped off the bottom, bare part of the parchment.

Why? You wrote. Your quill hovered for a moment more. I miss you. A few tears landed on the parchment before you wiped away the rest. Drein crept forward, pushing her head against your hand.

“Can you do me a favor?” you ask her. She blinks. “Take this to my brother.”

—

Drein had returned by that night. There was no reply. A week passed. Days that weren’t quite bad, but exhausting.

Transfiguration was the easiest. An essay to write from the substitute instead of hands-on practice. Astronomy. History of Magic. Ancient Ruins. Herbology. Arithmancy. Potions. Care of Magical Creatures. None of them required a wand often.

But Charms and DADA?

Horrible.

Abigail thought you were sick. First you fainted and now you were struggling in class? You’d gone and gotten checked just to ease her concern. You weren’t sure how no one noticed the crack in your wand, but you powered through. It did seem to work a little better as the days passed. Less resistant. A few more days, maybe a week or two, and it would be fine. Like nothing happened.

Whispers followed as they always did. Some with pity, but more with glee. You’d walked into a room more than once to be greeted with hurriedly hushed voices. Thankfully your housemates were more akin to pity.

Saturday afternoon you sat alone in the common room, where you’d been since after breakfast. It was a dreary day outside, but you couldn’t pull your attention away from the window. There wasn’t anything else to do. Abigail had left for some Divination project she had to work on with a Gryffindor and Larissa was serving a detention she’d gotten the last day of last semester. Abraxas had planned to visit, but something had come up and he postponed for Sunday. Homework was done and you didn’t feel like tracking anyone down to occupy time.

Why hadn’t Warrick written you back?

A very nasally, high pitched noise came from beside you, breaking your concentration. Myrtle Warren stood there, nose high in the air. She held out a folded piece of parchment. “Avery asked me to give this to you?”

Your eyebrow shot up. Myrtle was muggleborn. Azar didn’t like interacting with that sort, let alone entrusting them with anything.

She cleared her throat again impatiently and wriggled the note.

With a muttered thanks, you took it. She still stood there. It simply read: Library?

“He told me to wait for a yes or no. Wants me to walk with you there for some reason if you say yes. Very odd, I think, but he’s paid me ten galleons just to bring this, and it’ll be another twenty once I get back to him with an answer.”

Ten galleons just to get you a note. Thirty in all to get an answer. And an escort.

“Was there anyone with him?”

She shook her head. “No, he was all alone. Just like you. And me.” She shrugged. “Probably why he asked me.”

Azar must be hoping to apologize in person. There hadn’t been any chance to catch you alone throughout the week. You’d ensured that. While Myrtle wasn’t your first option of a companion, she was better than nothing. And talking it out with Azar was better than staring out a window. You needed to thank him for Drein, too.

Myrtle was surprisingly patient. You’d had to put your things away up in your dorm and she waited without a single complaint. It was unlike her. She hadn’t gained the nickname Moaning Myrtle for nothing.

It was probably the promise of galleons that kept her so quiet as you walked down the staircases.

“Do you mind if we stop by the restroom?” she asked as you landed on the second floor.

Had she not been so patient before, you’d have said no. But she had been. So you relented, eyeing the staircase wistfully and hoping she’d be quick. You wanted to see Azar. Know if it had been real.

Her favors weren’t over. “Could you check if there’s anyone in here? I don’t like an audience.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes and did as requested. It was empty, thankfully. “All clear,” you called from the end of the stalls.

“Well that is very,” Myrtle’s voice changed, the nasally high whine turning deep, honeyed, and unmistakable, “convenient.”

You twisted, wand in hand, to witness as Myrtle’s face bubbled. Her robes stretched to accommodate the added height and width, its blue yellowing to green, Ravenclaw’s emblem contorted into Slytherin’s. You’d meant to Stupify him, but nothing came. A red jet of light shot from his. With horror, your grasp on your wand loosened involuntarily and it shot from your hand. He caught it effortlessly.

“I’m not here to fight,” Tom said evenly. He eyed your wand, surveying the damage. “Not that it seems you’d be able to put up much of one.”

“Fuck you,” you hissed, despite the pounding in your ears.

He smiled. “I have missed your quick wit.” When you said nothing, he sighed. “I wanted to apologize.”

You repeated, “Fuck you.”

“That’s fair.” Your wand clattered on the floor as he threw it back. “I deserve worse.”

You don’t move. You consider it for half a second, hand tensing to reach for your wand, but you don’t. It’s useless.

“I didn’t understand how horrific what I did was. But I do now. And I’m sorry.”

Lies. Lies lies lies lies lies.

“I don’t want your apologies. They don’t mean anything. You regret nothing. You understand nothing!” Your voice rose, angry panic outpacing your ability to quell it.

“Forgiveness will take time, I know. I’ll be patient.”

Tears seared your cheeks. “Forgiveness?” you questioned. “Forgiveness for what, Tom? For—for trying to kill me? For stalking me? For ruining my life?” Yanking the Malfoy heirloom from your finger, you held it up. “I only have this,” you threw it, aiming for his frozen face that didn’t even flinch and missing by a yard, “because of you. If you’d have left me alone, none of it would have happened. You took everything. And for what? What has it gotten you in the end?” Your arms were shaking as you gestured to the lavatory he’d trapped you in. “Downing polyjuice to corner me here and listen to me tell you that I hate you.”

Quaking shoulders. Terrified and angry and devastated. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“I don’t know.”

It came out so soft, yet the words thundered in your head. He’d been so confident months ago. Spewing nonsense about power and freedom and breaking traditions. Now he stood there and said he doesn’t know why he continues to torment you?

“You don’t know?”

Cracking sounds reverberated against the walls.

“You don’t fucking know?”

Glass shards fell to the floor as the mirrors over the sinks shattered.

You crumbled.

Next Part

Your thoughts & reblogs are always appreciated 💕

HP Tag List: @bamboozledflamplant @squishytomatoes @benonlinear @byelannie @itsccc

Venomous Tag List: @pearlsofme @fck-this @ambria @sheeple @strangunddurm @weirdowithnobeardo @emberenchanted

#tom riddle fanfiction #tom riddle x reader #abaraxas malfoy x reader #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle x fem!reader #tom riddle x ravenclaw!reader #ravenclaw reader #venomous

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llamagoddessofficial · 2 years

Text

Thank you for the commission, @silcatian! Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think this might be the first time I've written a Swap Sans! 👀 I went the true himbo route

---

“TSK! HONESTLY!”

...

Huh. You perked up, at the sound of your boyfriend’s voice- he didn't usually sound frustrated when cooking. Unless his brother had walked in with takeout. You closed your work laptop, getting up off the couch and heading into the kitchen.

“What is it?” You poked your head in. Sans was wearing his post-workout gear, fresh out of the shower, he looked remarkably handsome dressed in just shorts and a loose white top with ‘AWESOME DUDE’ written on the front in very faded black marker. He was holding a still-sealed packet of gnocchi and glaring at it; the stovetop was decorated by a saucepan of almost-boiling water, and a second shallower pan that contained some kind of pleasant smelling creamy sauce.

He narrowed his sockets at the packet, as he put it back on the countertop. “THIS GNOCCHI IS ENCOURAGING THE CONSUMPTION OF CARDBOARD AND PLASTIC! CARDBOARD AND PLASTIC IS NOT HEALTHY FOR HUMANS. THAT, I KNOW. I SHOULD’VE MADE MY OWN PASTA FOR OUR ROMANTIC DINNER! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO WOO YOU IF MY COOKING IS FULL OF CARDBOARD AND PLASTIC?”

“... Erm...” You were trying not to laugh. You hadn’t been aware tonight was supposed to be a romantic dinner. “Explain a bit more...?”

He jabbed a finger, accusingly, at the packaging.

“THE TEXT HERE CLEARLY INSTRUCTS ME TO ‘ADD BOX TO BOILING WATER’!”

...

Oh my Stars.

You tried not to laugh. You really did. But you couldn’t help it, a little giggle came out.

“Sans...” You said, moving over to the countertop and picking up the offending box. “I’m pretty sure it means add the contents of the box.”

He glanced over at you, with those beautiful sky blue eyelights. “... REALLY?”

“... Yeah.” You scanned the package, and it just confirmed your suspicions. “You’ve bought a two person gnocchi serving. And you’re reading the part about ‘to serve two’. It just wanted you to use all the gnocchi in the box, boo.”

“HM.” He scratched his chin, but his happy aura didn’t lessen at all. He always took these things in stride. “WELL, I SUPPOSE THAT DOES MAKE A LOT MORE SENSE. I DID THINK IT WAS ODD.”

Your boyfriend was the smartest person you’d ever met, by no stretch of the imagination. But simultaneously, he was one of the most blunt, and easily confused.

He had multiple PhDs. That wasn't a joke, they were framed on the wall, he collected them mostly just for the fun of it. Statistics, mathematics, ‘puzzleology’ or something, a lot of space related stuff you didn’t understand. Numbers went through his head like he was a living calculator, his propensity for puzzles was absolutely unmatched and his eyelights merely had to scan something for him to make the most incredible difficult conclusions with total ease. A Sherlock in his own right. He explained astrophysics, both theoretical and non-theoretical, as easily as if he was explaining the answers to the morning crossword.

... And yet. He once asked you how to spell YMCA. On your first date, he pondered why humans got salmonella from raw eggs, because he thought it came from salmon. The two of you were watching a documentary about a lion pride and he asked if it was ‘based on a true story’.

Honestly? You just loved him more for it. It was funny and endearing. His line about salmonella had made you so giggly (much to his apparent delight) you’d thought about him all day- every Sherlock needs a Watson, right? You were not mathematically gifted, but that was okay. Sans did yours and his brother’s taxes because he just enjoyed crunching the numbers, and meanwhile, you could explain that when the recipe said the steak needed to ‘sit’ for half an hour, it didn’t mean on a chair. The two of you covered each other’s weaknesses.

Your running theory was that he was just too smart. Day-to-day stuff went over his skull, just like academic stuff went over yours. And that was okay. You knew he wouldn’t judge you for struggling with numbers, let alone for not understanding his long enthusiastic tangents about incredibly complex mathematical theories, he knew you wouldn’t judge him when he openly questioned why the plural of foot was feet but the plural of boot wasn’t beet.

...

... To be fair, you didn’t get that one either.

Sans opened the gnocchi and put it on to boil. It only needed a few minutes before it was already done, ready to strain. Sometimes, you just didn’t understand; he was an absolutely incredible cook, on your first date at his place he’d made seared ahi tuna steaks with some kind of delicious sweet lemony sauce, full of complicated flavours you didn’t understand, pulling out all the stops to impress you. It had completely blown your mind, especially when he openly admitted he wasn’t familiar with cooking with human food.

... And at the same time, when he made tacos for his brother, he filled them with glitter.

Non edible glitter.

You strained the gnocchi for him. It always surprised you, how fast the stuff cooked. He added the pasta to the sauce, tossing it all together and throwing in a little sprinkle of something green, then setting it down to reduce.

You leant back against the counter.

“... You know I’m already wooed, right?” You said, softly. “And not just by your cooking.”

“OF COURSE, BOO.” Confident as ever. “BUT I LOVE YOU VERY MUCH AND IT IS VERY IMPORTANT TO MAKE SURE YOU ARE RE-WOOED REGULARLY, TO ENSURE YOU FEEL APPRECIATED.”

You felt your cheeks get pinker. “Is that one from your dating manual?”

“NOPE.” He winked. “THAT’S A SANS ORIGINAL. MWEH-HEH.”

He held his hand out. You took it, linking your fingers with his bones and giving a gentle squeeze.

“... Well. Consider me feeling appreciated.”

He beamed. “EXCELLENT! MY DATE NIGHT WAS SUCCESSFUL, AND IT HASN’T EVEN STARTED YET!”

He had you giggling again. He always seemed to.

“Do you wanna eat on the couch? That new black hole documentary is on in twenty minutes.”

“ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO WATCH IT TOO?”

“Absolutely. You might have to explain some stuff to me, though. Like... the whole ‘time slowing down as you fall in’ thing.”

“WELL, IT’S VERY SIMPLE, ACTUALLY!” His eyelights flared up into stars, infectious grin spreading across his cheeks. “IF YOU WERE AN OBJECT APPROACHING A BLACK HOLE, IT WOULD APPEAR AS IF TIME WAS SLOWING AROUND YOU...”

You let him continue, allowing yourself to indulge in another of his tangents. You just liked hearing him talk about something he was interested in.

... He thought it was his cooking, good looks and dating manual advice that had won you over. And they certainly helped. But really... it was this sort of thing that had ‘wooed’ you, in the end.

#commissions #hes dumb but not stupid #and youre stupid but not dumb #a match made in heaven amiright

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notroosterbradshaw · 2 years

Text

The Relationship Experience - four

part of: The Boyfriend Experience universe

three.

It was Friday.

Babies had been born, threenagers refused to sleep, and the world kept spinning but it was finally D-Day. Your first date with Rooster was approaching and you had no idea what was coming. Hard to say his last text didn’t exactly expel any confusion.

Rooster 🐓: This is super late notice, but I need you to wear something comfy tonight. I can’t wait to see you. I’ll be there at 7 x

Looking at the dress freshly steamed in the bathroom, you panicked. It certainly didn’t look like it fit the comfy bill, but it filled the ‘wine me, dine me, fuck me’ bill…

It had been a day: the majority of it spent primping and priming yourself, and fuck,you were exhausted. But you were brought to a halt, thinking you were prepared until Rooster’s text told you not to go too OTT. Your new shoes - you know, the ones that might not see the electric bill be paid this month - laughed raucously at you. Heading back to your cupboard, you considered how to casual down the drape dress you were certain of only moments earlier.

Really, the heels were the star and Rooster could fucking piggyback you if it didn’t suit his first date aesthetic, you deliberated indignantly.

“It’s not like he’s going to take you to a hoedown,” you reasoned to yourself, knowing that the outfit and shoes were going to happen regardless of his requests. Rooster would tell you if it was completely inappropriate. But right now, all you wanted to do was make his head explode. He wasn’t going to be far away, and you needed to knock his socks off when you answered the door. Procrastinating and talking yourself out of an amazing outfit wasn’t going to help you –

Hearing the faint knock at the front door, you paused. There was no way he was this early… it was a few minutes to 7pm and you were needing every single moment he had promised you, and maybe a few more. Still half-dressed and shoeless, you weren’t going to take the air out of his sails in your flannelette dressing gown. “Fuckkk,” you whined, hearing him knock again.

You breathed, needing to center yourself.

“Okay, he will just have to wait,” you acknowledged as you walked to the door, giddy to see him for the first time in days. You opened it with a smile, hiding behind the protection of the dense wood. “Hi,” you said as he bit back a grin. He looked so fucking delicious. Linen navy blue dress shirt rolled to his tanned forearms, camel khakis, brown boots, freshly shaved, smelling incredible. “You look fetching,” you teased.

“Thank you,” the tips of his ears flushed. “Are you dressed back there?” he tried to take a cheeky peek. Pushing back the door, you presented yourself as he chuckled quietly. “I’m either early or you took my ‘wearing something comfy’ literally…” his voice laced deeply with mirth.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re early,” you confirmed. “Sorry, I just have to change. Come in?”

“Sure,” he gave you a gentle kiss on your cheek as he passed. “Cute,” he mocked your get-up as you rolled your eyes; you weren’t supposed to be cute. “Just give me a few minutes. Go make yourself comfy,” you said, ducking back to your bedroom and inhaling sharply. You put the dressing gown back on the hook behind the door and gave yourself a once over in the mirror of the lingerie you’d picked for the night. Not your usual style, but it cost a pretty penny and if he didn’t cum in his pants the moment he saw it, that was on him because it felt incredible against your skin. And not one to toot your own horn, but you could admit this worked for you.

Running through some scenarios in your head, you went for your heels first, not knowing how simple it would be to put them on after the dress. Sandals buckled,you slipped the dress over your shoulders, finding the hidden buttons. “Okay. End him,” you hyped yourself barely above a whisper, pointing at yourself in the mirror. “Wait, no - don’t endhim. Make him really happy to see you,” you corrected yourself.

Grabbing your clutch, you cautiously entered the living room. He’d poured himself a glass of scotch (okay. So, you’d thought ahead and brought him a bottle. Clearly, he found it), sipping it as you came into his eye line.

“Made yourself comfortable now, hmmm -”

He looked up. “Oh, shit,” he stammered and you were before him. “You look incredible.”

Giving him a tense shrug, you replied, “Am I overdressed? Your text kind of…” you dreaded the answer because there was no backup.

“Well,” he considered it for a moment before a strict, “No,” escaped his lips. “You’re…”

“I hope this sentence ends well,” you bit back your smile.

“You’re everything.”

And again, with just a couple of words from Bradley, your heart raced.He stepped towards you and gave you his hand to twirl under, his gaze not missing an inch of your body.

“Fuck,” he guided you into his arms and kissed you gently, not wanting to wear your lipstick. “I can’t formulate the words.”

“That must be difficult for you,” you said smartly, taking his glass and a sip (it was still hard to take, but he seemed to appreciate the effort you made to enjoy what he did) as he smiled wide. The tension was fever pitch and if he touched you just right, there wouldn’t be a date at all. Whatever he demanded, you’d deliver dutifully. “I thought you were taking me on a date?” you gently reminded him.

Blinking back to you, Rooster nodded. “I’m just trying to not ruin everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“By ditching our plans and just taking you right here.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I feel exactly the same,” you confided, heat creeping to your face.

“Well, we got the sexual tension down,” he joked, and you smiled. “For what it’s worth, you do look beautiful. I’m finding it a little hard to concentrate,” his eyes boldly took in every curve, while his hand gripped your hip in urgency.

You laughed soundlessly as the hand that still held yours drew around you, his palm flat against your lower back. “You look handsome yourself, Bradley.”

He hummed, staring at your lips and licked his own in anticipation. “If we don’t leave now, we never will,” he reminded himself more than you.

“Okay,” you took another sip before he finished the glass in a single gulp and placed the tumbler on the coffee table, guiding you by hand to the door. You loved being led by him, watching his shoulders and back move fluidly, he let you lock up and directed you to his pride and joy, his Bronco. It didn’t impress you much, but it seemed to make him happy. He opened the passenger door and helped you step in, a strong hand firmly on your hip. You didn’t need the assistance; you were perfectly capable of getting in yourself, but you figured he was looking for an excuse to touch you. While you buckled up, he scooted to the driver’s side and hopped in.

“All good?” he asked.

“Not my first time buckling up,” you retorted gently.

“I can see that,” he huffed a laugh. “Just making sure, it’s a bit glitchy.”

“Worked fine for me,” you shrugged, giving it a secure wiggle. “Hey, Bradley?”

He hummed, raising an eyebrow, and starting the engine. “Yep?”

“If I forget to tell you later… I had a wonderful time tonight,” you gently grasped his thigh, his eyes watching the movement closely.

He smiled and leaned across to kiss you, your lipstick marking him, and you smoothed it away with your thumb. “It’s only getting started.”

And you didn’t know if he meant tonight, or forever, but it sure as hell felt like good things were coming. Very good things.

Parking at the beach, Rooster gave you a friendly smile as the sun was starting to set. You both unbuckled and he jogged around to the passenger side while you grabbed your purse, a little shocked to see him opening the door for you.

Oh, shit. He really was holding on to this gentleman's schtick, which you weren’t prepared for. “Thank you,” you said as he offered his hand. Looking towards the restaurant across the road, he shook his head, steering your gaze towards the sand. Oh, no.

“Down there,” he said. Spotting nothing in particular, even if he promised the unexpected, getting drunk on the beach with him would still be all kinds of incredible. “As sexy as those heels are, do you want to wear them in the sand?” he interrupted your thoughts.

Ducking your eyes to the heels that were already giving you hell and you’d only been in them an hour, you smiled, uncertainly. “Let me take them off.”

“I’ll help you,” he offered, walking you to a nearby bench and helping you sit. He knelt to unstrap them, his palms pressing into your ankles, finding a pressure point and you were a puddle. Once both were done, he smiled, taking them in his hands so you could hold your clutch. “Can I ask what these shoes cost?”

You shook your head, meekly. ��If I said a month of rent, would you believe me and not tell Grandpa?”

Rooster laughed. “Well, they’re worth every penny. They are very sexy.”

“I think you have a heel thing, Bradshaw,” you taunted. He laughed, standing back to his full height (so tall and handsome as hell) and took your hand. You loved how he laced your fingers between his, it felt so intimate the way his thumb tickled your palm.

“Nah, I just have a thing for you in heels.”

Not other women, you. He liked you in heels. “Where are we going?” you asked, noticing he hadn’t grabbed anything from the car, so he was either taking SD’s public booze warnings to heart, or you were going empty-handed.

The breeze off the water surprised you and you wrapped your arms around Rooster’s torso, which flooded your senses with his cologne. He took the hint and wrapped you under his arm, his hand resting comfortably on your hip, keeping your body close to his. You wandered on the warm sand a few hundred meters between families enjoying the last half an hour of the sun until it finally set. A glow flickered near a rock break to reveal a small professionally kitted fire pit with blankets and cushions laid out with a cute charcuterie board and champagne on ice. Extra blankets were to the side in case it got chilly, and some music player was hidden somewhere, playing something Motown-inspired but with the waves crashing and your senses overloaded, the music seemed irrelevant.

“Oh,” you said, slightly taken back. So, he was unapologetically romantic, and this was just out of this world. The sun was setting over the water in contrasts of purple, orange and pink and Jesus… it was perfect but there was no way he did this himself. You knew he was at work today. “You did good,” you whispered before you could stop it. He grinned, with a pleased nod. “Don’t think badly of me but I phoned it in,” he admitted. “Do you really like it?”

“This is beautiful,” you said, kissing him gently, catching him off guard but he smiled. “It’s a lovely thought. I’ve never had anyone do something like this for me before,” you kissed him again and he flushed slightly this time.

“Good, now you won’t forget it,” he rasped softly. “Champagne?” he asked, pulling the bottle out of the ice, and bringing the glasses closer. You nodded, spying on the familiar yellow label of your favourite. “Only the finest of plastic,” he muttered as you snorted.

“How’d you know about the champagne?”

“This wasn’t on me,” he laughed quietly, carefully popping the cork into his palm. “This is what came with the package.”

“Lucky you,” you said with a smile, as he poured and handed you a glass. “Thank you.”

Pouring his, he jammed the bottle back into the ice chest. “Cheers, sweet girl.”

You took an eager sip, the cool liquid welcome on your tongue. “So, what gave you this idea?” you asked as he kind of shrugged, moving to his knees and taking a seat facing the ocean, stretching his lean legs out before him. He offered you his calloused palm to sit with him, close to the food, and grabbed a grape in earnest. “Thank you,” you took back your hand to smooth the skirt of the dress from creeping any further upwards than what was considered proper.

“Well, you love the beach, the water. Tell me what’s better than the beach at sunset?”

“Being on the beach at sunset with you,” you told him earnestly.

“Oh,” he said. Sometimes your confidence overwhelmed him in the best possible ways, and he lived for it.

“This is special.”

He smiled. “I’m glad you like it,” he offered you his hand which you gladly gave him, and he kissed the back of it tenderly.

“How’s the champagne?” you nudged him as he took a wary sip. He’d told you he wasn’t a champagne guy but he raised a piqued eyebrow and nodded.

“This is actually not so bad.”

“Real champagne. I think the wedding the other night was trying to convince us they weren’t serving sparkling wine,” you scoffed.

“You know your stuff.”

“I know this,” your toes pointed to the bottle in question. Rooster laughed.

“God, I feel like I dodged a bullet,” he pretended to loosen his collar.

“You did good,” you promised him. He put his glass on the small stool and used the same hand to cup your cheek, adjusting his posture to look at you. He melted your soul with those eyes, and it pained you how he made it all seem so easy.

“I want to make you really happy, sweet girl,” he breathed and kissed you, softly. “I’ve enjoyed getting to know you better this week. Thought I knew all I needed to know and now I kind of feel like I don’t know anything.”

“Isn’t that what the getting-to-know-you part is?” you teased gently.

“I was pretty arrogant to not think about that,” he admitted as you grinned.

“You’ve probably learned a lot more about me that you didn't want to know.”

“I want to know everything, baby,” he said firmly. “I need to know everything. What makes you smile, what’s your favourite smell, what turns you on? All of it.”

You wanted to joke the answer to all those questions would probably be him, Bradley. You hummed, preferring to keep your trap shut. “I didn’t take you for a romantic, Rooster,” you declared.

“I don’t think I am a huge romantic,” he conceded. “I did want to put on a bit of a show for you, though. I want to impress you, make you feel special.”

“Well, consider me impressed,” you confided. But as gorgeous as the beach was in front of you, with the waves crashing violently on the shore, the sun disappearing behind the clouds and the colours of the sky gradually fading to black, thanks to the low light of the fire pit dancing across his features, all you could see was him.

And tonight, you knew, you were falling in love with Bradley Bradshaw.

He made you feel alive. You didn’t realise you were just bumbling along until he figuratively swept in and changed it all for the better. It was fast, it was sudden, and something that couldn’t be explained. You weren’t one to fall quickly, but he caught you each time you tripped.

“Can I tell you something?” you asked lowly.

“Anything,” he said, easing back on his forearms and watching you.

“I had a bit of a crush on you when we were kids.”

He grinned widely, his eyes lighting up. “Can I tell you something?” You nodded. “I knew,” he told you modestly.

“What?” you exclaimed as he chuckled quietly. You were mortified.

“You weren’t exactly subtle about it. You kind of gave me these puppy dog eyes every time I was around. You were a bit young for me though,” he reminded you. “What were you, 13, 14?”

“You were 17!” You wanted the ocean to drag you out and never be seen again. “I’m so embarrassed,” you laughed weakly.

“Don’t be. Feel vindicated!” He winked. “You’ve got me falling over myself for you now. You got what you wanted.”

You laughed a little louder. “You know, I had no idea about how you ever felt.”

“You forced yourself to deny it,” he corrected you, nudging you with his knee, and you looked at him with a slight frown. “You knew,” he continued.

You stayed silent for a moment, and there was no refuting it. Maybe you did know. You always acknowledged his sweetness, but never allowed yourself to think any more of it in case it led down a path that would ruin everything. “I guess I did.”

“Why didn’t you reciprocate?”

“Because I liked our friendship and keeping you at arm’s length when you do what you do seemed like a safer option. I know what’s at stake. What if I was wrong about you?” you asked softly. “Putting myself out there and having my suspicions confirmed? It would have crushed me.”

“So, you choose to close yourself off?”

“You did,” you reminded him.

“Um,” he raised a finger to correct you. “I shipped out.”

“How convenient,” you teased.

He nodded, licking his lip. “I suppose.”

“Was it just Nat asking you about the wedding?”

“I knew I was ready to do something to get your attention. It was good timing, I guess? But I just didn’t think… you were into me the way I was into you? And I’m still not sure you are… but I think you’re starting to believe that whatever this is between us is real.”

It was so sincere, and so right, that you kissed him again.

“This isn’t all too much for you, is it?” he asked slowly.

You shook your head. “No.”

“What’s changed?”

“You showed me what it could be like for us and I started to imagine it was possible.”

“It’s only getting started, baby,” he told you confidently, invading your space and he eased his body over yours, his palm under your head gently protecting you from getting too sandy. “I’m never gonna let anything happen to you, okay? Even if this nosedives, I’ll always be there for you.”

He watched you settle on his words and palmed your cheek before kissed you deeply.

“I’m so crazy about you,” he confided, your name falling like a mantra on his full lips.

There was no way he was ready to say the words that lingered on his tongue. Not yet, not tonight. He wasn’t that guy that tossed those words out freely. But he was certain of how he felt and when the moment was right, he’d let you know. And he was sure you’d return it with every fibre of his being.

It turned out to be a beautiful night. You had a few drinks, ate way too much delicious food, and shared a few cute stories with Rooster.

It wasn’t too deep, but the tone changed when he told you about his papers being pulled for the Academy, how after all these years he was still speechless as to why Maverick, the man he’d looked upon as a father figure after his own father’s death, who had steered him into adulthood, could betray him so deeply.

New ground was being covered.

You told him you remembered the night he came to Grandpa’s house and demanded if he knew why Mav had done him so dirty. You told him you remembered Grandpa holding him, restraining him as he wept openly, angrily, frustrated, devastated that the only thing Bradley wanted in his life was to fly, but now he’d have to go about it another way. A series of devastating blows in such a short amount of time. Losing Carole, flying… Maverick.

It was hard to watch him so deeply betrayed, and even now, so long after, you could feel the sting in his words, “If I never see Mav again, it’ll be too fuckin’ soon,” he muttered as you leaned into him.

“I’m sorry, Rooster.”

“Like, adding to the sting, Mom never wanted me to be a pilot either,” he confessed. “But it’s the only thing that ever felt right, you know?”

“She would be so proud of you, and what you’ve achieved,” you said simply.

He sighed, his fingers squeezing yours. “Ya think?”

“I know.”

He shrugged. “Guess we will never know though, huh?”

“Bradley… you had to do what made you happy,” you continued. “Yeah, it’s taken you a bit longer to get there. But you’re one of the best and there is no denying it.”

He nodded, solemnly. “Mom assumed the same thing would happen to me - that I’d share my dad’s fate.”

To yourself, you knew the risks. You remembered Grandpa, and to an extent, your old man. You forgot how it felt to hold your breath that long until they came home. Now you’d have to add Rooster to that special list. The risks of your friends were always there, but Rooster was in another category: The ones you couldn’t lose at any cost, and you kissed his cheekbone. You could feel his smile under your touch.

“I guess,” he shrugged. “I mean, I got over having to get through it all the long way. College was great, but maybe I wasn’t ready for it? Mom had just died, I was about to roam free, you know?”

“I imagine you were pretty good at it. Breaking hearts left, right and center.”

He giggled quietly. “Nothing could be further from the truth.”

“I call bullshit,” you sang as he grinned at you, relieved for the turn in the conversation. “There was no way you weren’t whoring yourself out all over UVA. God, there must have just been mass destruction and panty-dropping.”

He laughed again. “You think this is what I was like at 18? My nerves were shot. I was an orphan. I went to a school where I didn’t know anyone to try and get my opportunity. I was probably a bit of a nerd as a freshman. I got over that quick though,” he smiled.

“There ya go,” you laughed.

“Tell me something,” he said softly. You gazed up at him, the champagne just giving you the right kind of buzz and his cologne adding to it. “The night of the bonfire...”

Blinking, but not quite catching his drift, you shrugged. Always an innocuous night for you.

“You don’t remember much, huh?”

“I remember being hungover the next day. Like, one of the worst of my life. But it seemed like a fun night. Why? Did I embarrass myself?” you ask, paranoia etched all over your face.

He shook his head with a fond grin. “Can I tell you something that happened that night? Since you’ve clearly blocked it out. It’s kind of instrumental to everything in my life right now.”

It seemed so deep, you feared his words. “I don’t think I want to know.”

He laughed. “I told you that your smile was what won me over. But it’s always won me over. I’ve always loved your smile,” he said as you dreaded his words. “You were in a bit of a state, so I took you for a walk to try and sober you up. You were rambling about wanting to travel again, that there was nothing here in town for you. You had work and you were grateful, but nothing else was trapping you to stay.”

“Sounds like me,” you conceded. Not much had really changed.

“I said that night that I was considering a transfer to be stationed here.”

“You guys move a lot. It sucks. I hate missing you all.”

“You said exactly that.”

You giggled quietly. “I still don’t know where you’re going with this.”

“You told me that if I came back, you’d stay so I’d have someone to take care of me - all in your drunken ramble,” he laughed quietly.

“I did?” you giggled quietly. That didn’t sound like you.

“And then!” he said, chuckling. “You told me that this was my home. That it was where I belonged, where the people who loved me were and that I’d always have a home with you, your family…”

“Well, that’s true,” you acknowledged as he smiled.

“I got my transfer the week before the wedding. There’s been some political bullshit surrounding it all, but it seems to be sorted. I’m moving home.”

Wide-eyed, you couldn’t find the words.

He nudged you. “So, it looks like you’ll just have to put up with me now. Permanently.”

You wrapped your arms around him tightly. “Bradley! That’s amazing. I didn’t even know this was a possibility.” You kissed him fondly and he nodded, adjusting his posture to hold you.

“That okay?”

You nodded, cupping his handsome face in your gentle hands. “This is the best news.”

He grinned. “You’re stuck with me. So, this kinda has to work, this being a small town and all,” he joked. You tenderly held his face and kissed him lightly and a slight chill ran down your spine, the wind changing and getting a bit cool. “Blanket?” he asked, reaching for it but you stopped him.

“No,” you told him, bringing him back to you, kissing him again, a little force behind it and you gently caressed his face. “Bradley… take me home.”

Rooster let you take his hand as you got back to your apartment. You knew there was no stopping tonight. No detours for a polite glass of water to settle nerves bubbling under the surface. No need to tease each other unmercifully on the couch. Just a direct line to your bedroom.

You’d left the warm light of the bedside table lamp on to greet you when you returned, making it easy on your eyes. Thankfully, the condoms Rooster had left behind earlier in the week were left undisturbed in your nightstand, leaving everything you needed together for easy access.

“I like your room. Feels like home,” he admitted quietly, stepping behind you and his fingertips grazing as he moved your hair to kiss the base of your neck. Not prepared, your knees gave out a little as you reached up to knot your fingers into his soft curls.

“Don’t stop,” you said, and he smiled into your skin. He’d made no secret that he would be a devoted student to learn everything about what made your body weak for him. “That’s so good.”

He hummed, acknowledging it and banking it for next time. “Where else do you want me to kiss you?”

You turned to face him as you clutched his shirt, bringing him down to you. “I don’t care, just don’t stop.”

“Thatta girl, exactly what I needed you to say,” he tenderly held your hips as he sat down on the edge of your bed. His thighs were wide and he ushered you between them.

“This dress is not conducive to this position,” you confided, and Rooster nodded, knowingly.

“Then ditch it,” he said simply, his voice so low you almost didn't catch it.

“Can you help me?” you asked softly.

“Just tell me how,” he told you, fingers roaming the material for a zip.

“Buttons. Here and here,” you hinted, moving your arms from his search, while he found the dastardly fasteners, slowly opening the front. One by one, his eyes only on yours, he brushed the dress back off your torso, only to be greeted with lace and soft skin. Getting a peak at what was underneath, Rooster swallowed hard.

“Can I take it off?” he begged quietly. You nodded as he stood up to brush the shoulders of the dress away, the material slipping to the floor. “Jesus Christ,” Rooster’s mouth went dry as the dress you wore now pooled around your feet. Bathed in the lingerie, that frankly left absolutely nothing to the imagination, Rooster chewed his tongue, almost tasting blood. “I am so scared I’ll cum before I’m even in you,” he confessed, his hands pushing back your mussed hair and dragging you to him, fingers digging into your hips, the pressure of your body against his firm cock giving him a momentary respite.

“That’s exactly what I hoped for,” you said, staring at the buttons of his shirt as he pulled it over his head when it was loosened enough and he gladly tossed it away. Your fingers drifted across his soft, golden skin and down his toned abdominals, nails scratching lightly against the firm muscles as he flinched.

“Ticklish.”

You’d forgotten, but it was too fucking late now. “Gee,” you said wistfully. “I know you have to stay in shape for work and stuff, but your body is crazy.”

He laughed quietly. “Thank you, I think?” He took your face in his hands as you found the button and fly of his pants, widening the waist to push them down. “Go ahead,” he instructed gently and watching your hands lower the slacks to his ankles and he kicked them off.

Remembering your derailed plans from earlier in the week, you knew that if anyone tried to disrupt this revelry, you would just have to kill them. Simple as that.

“Come here,” he said, sighing deeply before he kissed you again.

His kisses were different now. No demand, no urgency, just slow. Exploring the taste of your tongue, his hands drifted down your back, massaging your hips and he moved you towards the bed. He guided you to the mattress first, laying you down and he hovered over you, his thigh nudging yours apart. He carefully lay his weight on you, and fuck, you’d forgotten how much you craved it.

His lips left yours, trailing a mess of wet kisses down your chin, your throat and splayed across your clavicle. “I need this. I need to taste you, baby,” he told you, holding your ribs and lightly pinning you down. His usually warm eyes watched you, hauntingly dark in his longing. Reaching for the cup of your bra, he drew it down, and his skilled mouth caressed your nipple, which you’d freely admit was desperate for some attention. He huffed a small laugh, picking up on the hint as you pushed your chest into it. “Good girl, tell me what you like,” he whispered into your skin, moving to give the other side the devoutness it deserved, using his palms to massage the soft skin, his fingers pinching, his tongue circling and your eyes drifted closed.

He sat you up for a moment, and bringing your attention back to him, his hands drifted around your back and unclipped your bra (in only a few seconds, good for him), dragging it down your arms and letting you fall back against the mattress. “Just beautiful,” he breathed deeply, face hovering over yours again. “Hi,” he smiled.

“Hello,” you traced his lower lip.

“You good?” he asked softly, licking his top lip and caging you in his strong embrace. He knew you didn’t need to be asked.

“If you keep doing what you’re doing, I think I’ll forget my name.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge? Because I’m willing to make that bet.”

You laughed with a languid shrug. “You promised me a 12, Bradshaw...”

He hummed, amused. “You’ll get your fuckin’ 12...” He kissed you, his tongue warm and wet against yours, his weight relaxing on you, and you wrapped him up tightly, never wanting to let him go but he had other thoughts, leaving your lips again, working quickly down to your ribs.

Your toes were curling.

It was hard not to keen into his ministrations with how desperate you were to watch him discover your body. You dug your nails into his scalp as he looked up with a lazy grin, letting you know he appreciated that too. You softly massaged and tugged at his unruly curls as he breathed deeply against your tummy, continuing south on his trek. He released your ribs and moved his body towards the end of the bed, your legs still splayed wide as he licked his lips.

His fingers traced the seams of your underwear, tickling the soft skin on your belly before they looped under. He stripped the flimsy material down your legs, unconsciously tossing them over his brawny shoulder.

He licked his lips and exhaled sharply. “Beautiful.”

Getting to his knees, he planted single kisses from your belly button to the neat patch of hair at your mound and his long fingers opened you to him. It was bold. He didn’t want to make you tense; he wanted you proudly on display as you lost all control for him. He didn’t want you to hide, be shy, just fucking let loose and leave the rest up to him.

Unless you wanted that control, because fuck. Take it.

Knowing how well he kissed would be a problem if he went down on you the same way. He swirled his tongue around your clit, going hard early as you almost jolted off the bed, a quiet squeal of surprise escaping your lips. His large palms pushed you back down as he huffed a quiet laugh at your expense, but you gave in and tried to relax for him. You were so pent-up and overwhelmed, everything already felt so good, and you were so sensitive, you knew if he kept doing exactly what he was, his pretty face would be a goddamn mess.

“Jesus,” you cried, your nails ripping into the tanned skin of his shoulders, and he grunted in reply. He released your hip and trailed his hands across your skin, the pads of his fingers dancing across your inner thigh as he focused his lips on your clit, giving himself the room to fill you with his fingers. One, two - you could hardly be sure, but Rooster was so fucking good at this and fuck.

“How’s my girl?” he rasped, voice deeper than you imagined you’d heard, fingers not ceasing, looking up to view you writhe under his touch.

“Good God, Rooster,” you manage as his fingers scissor inside you.

“How hard are you gonna cum?” he hummed thoughtfully. “You taste so good; I could stay down here for hours.”

“Oh, my God,” you managed, his words swirling around in your head, you were so dizzy, you almost felt you could pass out as his lips left their workspace, kissing between your thighs, his teeth gently leaving their mark as he bit you gently and goose pimples exploded over your skin. He wanted to own you and have his mark on you, and you were in no predicament to argue. “Bradley?”

He gazed up at you, eyes lidded. He rutted against your mattress, seeking his pleasure as his lips enclosed you again. Fuck - he was a sight for fucking sore eyes. He would never be as sexy to you as he was now (lie, lie, bald-faced LIE). It was for you; it was all for you and your body just couldn’t resist.

You had to come, as much as you could have watched him like this forever. The dam burst, coils snapped, and tears sprang from your eyes as you came. And came and came. It was shameful, but he didn’t give you a reprieve. He was going to drag every ounce of pleasure from you and there wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it. You tried pushing him away and you could hear his laughter amid the blood pumping in your ears. He let you go, his body skimming up yours, jolts of electricity catching you on more sensitive body parts as he met your lips.

He kissed you wildly as you flung your arms around him, tasting yourself on his tongue. You felt mostly like a bag of bones, but you couldn’t let go of him. “Bradley.”

“That was beautiful. I could watch you come undone like that every day, sweet girl,” his tongue traced yours and he peppered your face and decolletage with sweet kisses, although the abundance of warmth careening through you was still so strong.

“Holy shit,” you pressed him to you, breathless.

“You okay?” he murmured.

“If only you could get a commendation for that…” you managed. He laughed quietly.

“Fuck, you did so well. Do you need a minute?” he asked, resting his cheek on your breast. Your breath was still labouring as you traced his spine and he curved into you. You shook your head as he smiled up at you and you stroked his face. He pressed the side of his face into your palm, and you asked him what he wanted. “I’m in no rush. You decide what’s next.”

You gently moved him off of you and rolled him to his back. Arms splayed above him, he watched you and your next move. He was so hard and hefty, and you were desperate to take him in your mouth. Return the favour, taste every inch of skin, grasp every muscle and ridge, he was there, and he was willing. This man, who you never knew needed you so carnally, was just as desperate for you, too.

“Lift your hips,” you said quietly and pulled down his boxer briefs.

Not a real surprise, Rooster was big, heavy and thick. He wrapped his muscular arms behind his head and watched you debate your next move. There was nothing left for you to hide, it was time to put up or shut up. And Rooster deserved the best.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t wanna,” he reminded you.

“But I do want to - I want you,” you reassured him and he held back his smile. “Is our friendship over?” you asked suddenly.

“Well, yeah,” he laughed quietly. “I just ate you out and made you cum pretty hard, so there’s really no going back from here.”

You covered your mouth with a laugh. “Shut up, this isn’t the time for jokes.”

“This is entirely the time for jokes,” he corrected, his smile a little bit wild. “Don’t take this so seriously. We’re here for fun. A lot of fun,” he corrected himself. “Just relax,” he moved to sit up and sat on his knees before you. He gently took your face in his palms. “We got through the hardest part. From here on in, it’s all about us and how we enjoy ourselves, okay?” he kissed you. “You want to stop?”

You shook your head.

“Words?”

“No. Definitely don’t wanna stop.”

“That’s what I thought,” he kissed you again, resting his forehead against yours, his fingers skimming through your hair. “Get outta your head.”

Placing your hands on his shoulders, you massaged his traps and kissed him again. “You always say the right thing. It’s incredible.”

He pulled you to him tightly, kissing you furiously, his hands pressing into your ass and he sat you on his lap. He adjusted his long legs out in front of him and you were straddling him. “Just kiss me. That’s all,” he encouraged as you took his words and put all the passion he deserved into your kiss.

You adjusted your posture and reached between your bodies. Rooster jerked lightly as you gently took his length into your palm, slowly dragging your palm up and down, thumb swirling around the wet tip. He sighed against your mouth, his kiss falling from your lips as he breathed deep, your touch enough for now for him.

But not for you. You needed him, his words of encouragement spurring you on and you crept to your knees. “Condom?” he asked quietly. “I’m clean,” he raised his hands in gentle protest.

“I’m on the pill,” you replied as he watched your hands keenly and strangled a breath as you sheathed yourself on him, filling yourself with him to the hilt. His breathing was shallow as he muttered how warm and wet you were, how he longed for this, how he needed to see your body move. He let go of you and carefully relaxed into the mattress, not wanting to break your momentum.

Rooster grasped your hips as you found the rhythm you desired and he watched your body, the way your hips circled and drove him into fucking oblivion. “You were made for this,” he encouraged. “I wish you could see what I see.”

You felt like you were levitating. You knew it’d be good, but Rooster Bradshaw’s body was made for you. His strength, his masculinity, his unwavering self-assurance that he wanted your first time together to be something you’d never dream of forgetting.

“Holy fuck,” you managed, as he pressed deep into your belly, his strong hands keeping you sturdy as you rode him. It was supposed to be good, but everything was so much more than you could have ever expected. Bradley Bradshaw had figuratively ruined you for others, after him, there would be naught. Nada.

So, stop thinking about it like there could ever be anyone else, your brain ordered. It’s only getting started, wasn’t that what Bradley has said earlier?

“I don’t know how much more I got left in me, sweet girl. I need to cum,” he told you, his fingers stinging you. It was only fair, you’d cum. If you were lucky, you would again…but he was due to explode. “Do I pull out or…” he asked you, eyes searching yours.

“Cum, baby. Cum,” you told him.

“Okay… but not yet,” he said, his fingers creeping to open you up to him again, you knew the friction was enough to get you off, but he needed this. “Wanna feel you cum on me. Need to…” he hissed, the pad of his thumb writing his name on you as he tried to restrain himself, chewing his lower lip and hissing in desperation. You banked the pleasure on his face, he’d never been sexier to you.

“Jesus,” you kicked your feet, knowing that you were close again. It didn’t take a mathematician to know there were certain factors to get you over the line. Rooster filled you, he knew exactly where to touch and taste you as he raised his hips deep into you, meeting your rolls. “I don’t think I can…” you shrieked. It was all too much. You were too sensitive, too turned on.

“You can,” he told you sternly and you believed him instantly. “Let go, baby. I gotta feel you.”

You leaned towards him in your exhaustion, and he reached for your nipple, sucking, biting, swirling along with his skilled touch, groping roughly and that was it. You were coming, you were coming hard, just like he wanted.

He groaned, eyes drifting closed as he tried to hold on, ride out your orgasm that threatened to tear him in two. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, yes,” Rooster breathed as you tried to keep fucking him through your second orgasm, sloppy and unable to control your movements. Rooster’s hips were like pistons, screaming into you, wanting to steal every piece of you for himself. His strong hands gripped your hips, forcing you on him harshly as he fucked hard into you, coming white hot, groaning into your mouth as he pulled you against him.

A mess of limbs, sweat and bedsheets, he kissed you deeply, your body’s soothing with the others. Rooster dragged his hands down your back soothingly, smoothing your hair.

“Baby, you did so good,” he promised. “So fucking sexy.”

You kissed him quickly, and he gave you a gentle smack on the ass, forcing you to swallow the kiss in surprise. You sighed, absolutely spent and he chuckled lowly. “You good?” you asked him.

He sighed deeply, a dreamy smile on his wet lips. “That was fuckin’ fantastic. Jesus Christ, you can move,” he settled you against his chest, his heart thundering in your ear.

“12.”

He smirked, crudely. “Don’t act so fuckin’ surprised.”

You gently dozed on Rooster’s chest as he tenderly stroked your hair, the other tucked around you firmly, the pads of his fingers drawing small circles on your hip. So worth the wait, having you here like this in his arms. He gently kissed your forehead.

While he was exhausted, he was still wide awake. Buzzing still, flashes of earlier in the night swirled through his mind. Finally witnessing you lose all resolve with him, the sounds you made, your touch on his skin. It was still all very real and incredibly vibrant.

“Why are you still awake?” you mumbled against his chest, adjusting your posture to roll to the pillow. Rooster hummed, following your lead and rolling to press up behind you, his intentions bold. He wrapped his arms around you and left a trail of wet kisses between your shoulder blades. You whimpered lowly and couldn’t resist the smile that tugged at your lips. You were completely at his mercy.

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

“No,” you replied, biting back a yawn against his chest. “Dozing.” He smiled against your skin, hard and harsh against your ass. “The one per cent,” you muttered, giggling quietly.

“I’m not going to lie and say I don’t have a high sex drive,” he admitted, kissing across your shoulders. “That gonna be a problem for you?”

Looking back at him over your shoulder, you told him, “That will never be a problem for me.”

Pouting, Bradley hitched his body over yours, his hips rolling into yours, delicious friction found, and he kissed you deeply. “Good - because it’s only getting started.”

five.

masterlist.

#notroosterbradshaw #rooster #rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster imagine #rooster fanfic #rooster fluff #rooster bradshaw #rooster x female reader #rooster x oc #rooster x you #top gun fanfiction #rooster bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley rooster bradshaw imagine #top gun fluff #bradley bradshaw fluff

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atmilliways · 1 year

Text

Wrong On The Money (15)

part 15 of ?? | 637 words | Teen+

Blackmail fic on Ao3 | on tumblr

Summary:

For the most part, Steve tries not to lie to Robin about why he never has money anymore. . . . But he doesn’t go on many dates anymore because dates cost money, and he lies his ass off about that.

15.

For the most part, Steve tries not to lie to Robin about why he never has money anymore. He’s still paying his parents off for the car: true, because any dips in the payment plan will prove that he’s not ‘responsible enough’ for a car and they might take it away. He’s trying to save up to move out: kind of true, in that he has an emergency savings account that he puts a couple dollars into every week and never, ever withdraws from. He’s trying to watch what he eats: true, just not in the way that casually saying it usually implies.

But he doesn’t go on many dates anymore because dates cost money, and he lies his ass off about that.

“She’s chewing bubble gum,” he mumbles about one of the girls that Robin points out. The girl keeps eyeing him from around a cardboard cutout of Arnold Schwarzenegger; it's not subtle. “I can’t go out with a girl who chews bubble gum. One bubble pops wrong on a windy day and bam, it’s in my hair. That’s nightmare material right there, Robs.”

Or, “Yeah, I heard her laughing with her friends earlier and I’m pretty sure giggles that high-pitched could shatter glass. Thanks, but no thanks.”

Or (and he’s not proud of this), a hissed, “If you think she’s so cute, why don’t you ask her out?” Robin doesn’t talk to him for an hour after that one, until Steve gives her the apple from his lunch. Even though the apple was his lunch.

Suffice it to say, Steve’s dating life is hooked up to a ventilator and the doctors are thiiiiiis close to pulling the plug.

“So,” Robin says the morning after the championship game, leaning against the counter next to him during the dullest part of a dull shift. “How was . . . I want to say Belinda?”

“Brenda,” Steve corrects, and sighs. “I don’t know. First thing she said when we got to the gym felt like a shot at how I never got the team to the playoffs, so. Not feeling great about that.”

“Not feeling great about Brenda,” Robin reflects, nodding.

The nod continues long past her words, like one Dustin's perpetual motion doohickeys. Her eyes flick over to meet his, calm but concerned.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Steve?” she asks gently. “You kinda seem like you’ve been phoning it in for a while now. And I’m not saying that because you’re supposed to perform to a certain standard or whatever, just . . . it seems like you’re kind of giving up on things, a little bit, and I’m worried that maybe there’s a reason. And if there is, I want to help, okay? Not that you have to tell me or anything, but I’m here if you want to.”

Steve takes a deep breath.

What if he told her some of it? About how his TBD situation is a little less TB and a little more D these days. (Ha.)

No specifics. This doesn’t need to be a full on ‘I wanted Tammy Thompson to look at me’ confession. He’s not sure if he wants Eddie to look at him like that—if Eddie is willing to blackmail him, he probably hates his guts, right? But Steve wants to look at Eddie, sometimes. (Last night, when he’d made a final payment, fingertips brushing against Eddie’s warm palm during the hand-off behind the gym.) And has dreams about his hands, and eyeliner smudged around his waterline to make his big brown eyes positively huge, sometimes. Whatever all that means, he still needs time to sort things out in his head.

He opens his mouth to try and say something—

—And Dustin bursts into the store with Max in tow, demanding to know if they’ve seen the news and how many phones they have.

#steddie blackmail fic #steddie #steddie fic #stranger things fic #steve harrington #robin buckley

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sadsimp · 1 year

Text

Skate Date

I have not seen much for Leland x reader :(( so I figured I’d try :,) still haven’t played the game, just watched different videos so my interpretation might be a bit off. Sorry about that before hand :(

Not edited either and idk if they’re any warnings?? It’s pretty light and fluffy

~~~~~

It’s crowded, loud and honestly overwhelming but Leland’s presence helps a bit. Our shoulders and knees bump occasionally as we tie up our skates, me taking a bit longer since I want to make sure the laces are tight and that I don’t fall.

I’m nervous, I’ve been skating before and my balance is terrible. I warned him of this before I agreed to go out on a date with him, said I’ve never been and I would probably fall on my ass the whole time but he waved me off.

He reassured me that I didn’t need to be good, that he just wanted to spend time with me and said if I really didn’t want to we could do something if I wanted. He’s always so respectful and polite so I figured why not try?

Worst comes to worst I fall flat on my face and he leaves me right?

“Are you ready?” He nudges me playfully and I look up. He smiles at me and nudges me again to which I nudge back. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” I nervously grin up at him as he stands and holds out his hands. “C’mon I’ll be right here.” He reassures.

I grip his hand, take a deep breath and then try to stand as he pulls me up. I immediately lose my balance, giving a quick yelp as I fall flat against his chest and clutch on his arm and shirt for dear life. His arms quickly wrap around me, keeping me semi steady, “Woah!” He exclaims chuckling. “Sorry, you okay?” He questions with a concerned tone and face, he’s blushing.

Oh my god oh my god oh my god

“Yeah I’m fine I think.” I nervously giggle and letting go of his shirt to grip his arm. “I got you don’t worry.” He moved backwards and holds my arms, pulling me with him onto the skating floor. (Only ever been rollerskating once so I don’t know the correct words, I just know it was popular in the 70s. I’m sorry😩)

I let out shriek earning glares and weird looks at us but Leland doesn’t seem to mind, just focusing on me it seems. He smiles warmly at me as we finally get on the skating floor and turns to go along with the crowd, still pulling me along. I don’t move my legs at all but try to straighten my back.

I wobble a bit and squeal while Leland laughs and tells me it’s okay. He explains what to do and how while he drags me along with him. He’s actually really good, he doesn’t stumble or shake.

He makes sure I don’t fall and if I start to his grip tightens and he pulls me closer. Every time he does so he blushes and apologizes and I tell him it’s okay.

He starts talking maybe to distract me or just to talk but it’s nice: We talk pretty much about everything, college, work, our other plans stuff like that. I wobble every so often but he keeps me from falling.

The music is loud and people are constantly bumping into us but for some reason it doesn’t bother me as much as it normally does. Maybe because I’m not alone? Maybe because Leland wouldn’t let anyone do anything? His presence is nice and he’s so sweet.

He tries to get me to let go and try skating on my own but I much rather prefer holding onto him. He moves to my side and wraps an arm around my side and holds my hand, “Is this okay?” He asks and I nod. “Yes don’t leave me to do this alone.” I jokingly whine. He laughs shaking his head, “Never.”

We joke and laugh for the rest of the night while the music continues to blare and people come and go.

~~~~~

I’m sorry if the ending is kinda lackluster 😭 I lost motivation and ambition:( I wanna write more for Leland honestly 😩

#leland mckinney #leland x reader #tcm #tcm game #Leland McKinney x reader

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scp230kinnie · 2 months

Note

HIII!!I just saw the goth reader head cannons I was wondering if you go to more (or a fic thing up to you😭) with hunter sylvester?‼️ -anon🕷️

I CLOSED AND FORGOT TO SAVE SO IM REWRITING THIS FOR THE SECOND TIME (kill me😻)

Hunter Sylvester x goth! Reader hcs PART 2!!!!

Once again guys I am not goth though I am alternative, so if I get any information wrong or that should be removed, please comment or dm me and I will correct myself as soon as I can

Also sorry if some of these are the same as the other one I’m not rereading it

He honestly doesn’t care how you dress, but I mean the fact that you’re wearing all black is a major bonus

It honestly depends. Sometimes he'd love it, and other times, it'd give him anxiety. Like, on one hand, it's super cute, and he loves how it looks, but it also makes him *noticeably* nervous, since he's worried that people are staring at "his" person. And yeah, there *is* obviously the chance that they're just wearing it to look cool, but he'd still be a tad paranoid, lol.

He absolutely adores you. He loves seeing you in those long flowy black dresses

I’m pretty sure I wrote this in the last one, but he loves to watch you do your makeup

He does complain about how long you take to get ready though

And if he’s feeling REALLY REALLY NICE (rare) he might (KEYWORD MIGHT) let you do goth makeup on him. Makeup here being used loosely. Trad goth.

Only if you let him do corpse paint on you

Sharing makeup with ur boyfriend LMFAO

The movie is set in Oregon, idk if you’re changing that based on ur head or if ur shifting or something, but that place is full of “normal” people I’d say

So before you started dating, if you were in the same school at least, you were one of the only “alternative” people in school, and he noticed that

This guy doesn’t usually get crushes okay.

He’s married to metal

But he liked your look

You can decide how you guys meet/start dating cause there’s infinite ways

He appreciates your individualism, and that’s a part of why he likes you

He’s definitely called you emo a few times (I’m so sorry)

Teach him somethings about goth culture.

He won’t sit down and let you lecture him, but occasionally if you say some comment about the culture he’ll probably retain that information

He doesn’t really care, but he wants you to be happy, so maybe he’ll do a bit of his own research

He loves concerts, so he will accompany you to goth concerts even if he doesn’t listen to the music

He uses his dads card to buy you clothes and accessories

He will come to thrift stores with you.

He’ll say he thinks it’s stupid

Something about how he wouldn’t wear someone else’s clothes

Just force him to go through t shirts and maybe he’ll find some good band tees (neither metal nor goth but I have found sws and mcr shirts at thrift stores)

Even if he does buy some thrift store band tees, he’ll probably complain about how he could get them new from concerts or online or something

But he’ll buy you whatever you want

Imagine doing that one tiktok trend that’s like “guess whos outfit is whos 😁” and forcing him into some black dress LMFAO

speaking of tiktok, social media, whatever, he doesn’t like posting. He’ll scroll through and look and metal memes or something, but he doesn’t like posting himself and is hesitant to let you post him

But if you do post videos/pictures of him and compliment him and do couples trends, he’ll say it’s embarrassing but he secretly likes it

I imagine him telling someone about you and the other person is like “goth girl *lip bite*” or something thinking you’re like an e girl

First off, he’s a little possessive of you

Second off, (assuming you’ve taught him some stuff about being goth) he yells at them and tells them off and something about how e girls are weird

If you teach him how to take good pictures, he’ll be your personal photographer, especially if he really likes your outfit

If you actually go and ASK him to take pictures of you he’ll complain and tell you to do it yourself but he’ll do it for you anyway because he loves you

If you wear those long boots, (same goes for emos who wear knee high converse) sometimes he’ll untie them, just pull the laces or whatever just to fuck with you

He’ll go to record/cd stores and see one of the bands you like and he’ll buy it for you

He loves you no matter what you look like. I mean maybe not if ur a country person but… for the sake of fiction he loves you

———————————————————

Leave sweet home requests if you’re reading this

Also what piercings do you guys think I should get (I already have septum, navel, industrial, and ears)

#headcanons #fluff #scp230kinnie #tumblr #fanfic #metal lords #hunter sylvester #hunter sylvester x reader #hunter #hunter sylvester headcanons

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lavendori · 2 years

Text

[MP100] TSUBOMI: FINAL BOSS

if mob is about a powerful esper trying to navigate the struggles of adolescence and social acceptance, then tsubomi, despite being hardly present in the series, is The Main informant of shigeo’s latent power and thus, mob & ‘???%’s final boss.

the first times we see her, it’s through the idealized lens of mob pining for her from a distance. they were childhood friends but he barely talks to her anymore. she is reportedly the school idol & based on other’s reactions, she seems like a far-off unattainable dream.

throughout the series leading up to season 3, we get a sizable amount of hints of her character. most notably, she doesn’t seem to care for mob’s powers, which causes mob to conclude that psychic powers don’t make a man appealing. ritsu also says she’s the kind of person (manga) who would just go home if she got bored. when we first met dimple, his “get a clue” line really triggered mob, and we get this vision of younger takane saying it to him (not entirely sure if it was a flashback or projected image due to mob’s interaction with dimple, tbh.. someone can correct me if i’m wrong!)

based on these things, at least for me, my first impression is that she’s a bit shallow and possibly even a little mean. mob obviously has amazing qualities + so much compassion beneath his middle school awkwardness & is SO powerful but she’s not really impressed by it. why would mob like her and let himself feel so bad about his powers being less appealing than an athletic guy who can run fast?

later on, in season 2, however, we get a bit more hints of what she’s like. we see her observe mob when mob uses his powers to fix emi’s writing notebook (i’ll come back to this). we also see a moment of her and her friend in reigen’s office where the friend asks reigen for romantic advice. takane asks him something too and it’s concerning, especially for ritsu, who now believes she’s interested in some guy from cram school. (ritsu is also trying his best to hide the fact that mob is associated with reigen LOL). but then, we see a scene where she tells the friend she made up a story to test reigen. this definitely gives more edges to her character. it’s now clear that she’s not just an airheaded popular girl who’s into superficial things like dating and gossip. she might be a little shallow, but she’s not superficial. she has the intellectual capacity to test reigen.

so yeah, maybe she is a little shallow, but i think rather than superficial, tsubomi is image-focused and puts a lot of thought into how she presents. while this might be a different form of shallowness, she’s not an airhead who only thinks about mundane things. rather, she cares about her image and how she comes off to others. when she sneezes in front of her friends, her first thought jumps straight to “they will make a laughing stock of me in the school!” - she must be pretty self-conscious to assume this. you either have bad choice in friends who aren’t real and laugh at you when your time comes OR, as mezato suggests, she simply doesn’t feel like she can trust anyone and therefore guards herself quite diligently.

mezato, who has proven herself to be a sharp observer of people, says that tsubomi holds her real feelings back & doesn’t let them show. guys only like her for her looks but nobody seems to really Know her. she doesn’t seem interested in other people. even her friends don’t seem to notice or see her true colors behind the mask of her pretty smiling face.

and then there’s the comedic line of guys who don’t really know her, all waiting to confess to her before she officially moves out of school. here we also see clear moments of her brutal honesty. of course, being asked “why don’t you like me” is an uncomfortable situation to be in, but she could’ve responded in other ways for example, i know people who feel bad and might sugar coat the truth a bit more (especially in middle school!), or might have been shown more visible discomfort bc it’s hard for them to hide their feelings. instead, she doesn’t bat an eye and remains impassive when she tells them straight up she’s not interested. the most emotion she really shows is just cringe @ the boys lol. this honesty says a lot about her & also is reminiscent of the past where she tells child mob “i’m bored of that.”

these qualities are also affirmed by dimple during the divine tree arc. although dimple was provoking mob, his description of tsubomi lines up with everything else. she’s honest about her values & doesn’t conform to others, even when her friends offered the divine tree food. she cares about her image but doesn’t trust anyone, not even friends. all of this paints a picture of tsubomi as a cold guarded person who is brutally honest, extremely aware of her values, & stays true to those values + herself.

ironically, this is actually kind of the direct opposite of mob, who is a gullible softy and has a hard time putting weight to his own convictions (of course, due to trauma, but i digress). right from the start, we see through reigen, dimple, and tome that mob is still developing his own views/opinions.

but you know what, maybe that’s one of the reasons he likes her. they’re childhood friends & she has all the qualities he lacks. she also doesn’t make a big deal out of his powers, which he seems to subconsciously appreciate— (being treated as normal, that is). likewise, others make a big deal of her & don’t treat her like normal either. she clearly doesn’t trust others & one has to wonder if that’s a related (& partially a self fulfilling prophecy. she doesn’t show her true self & therefore doesn’t get treated like normal either.)

they’re both just normal people who knew each other as kids. mob wasn’t even aware she was the school idol. even if tsubomi doesn’t realize it, i think part of her appreciates that mob is someone that still treats her earnestly for who she is.

this is mostly evidenced by the few shots of tsubomi observing mob. for one, the fact that she was watching mob patch emi’s writing back together, and had thoughts on it, seems kinda different from the usual stuff we see of her. she’s also ready to give reigen the benefit of the doubt after seeing mob’s photo in the office. ultimately, although she does not trust a lot of people, she does trust in mob’s earnestness, even to the point of waiting for him despite evacuation orders, despite the earthquake and heavy winds from ???%’s power swirling around her. she noticed that his voice was shaky & (at least mentioned in the manga) this was the main reason she stayed behind. despite how far they grew apart from each other, she still really trusts him & believes he’s a trustworthy guy.

also, still not sure why they took this part out but given what we do know about tsubomi, it would appear this sort of dynamic would actually be possible between them. which is ??? interesting???

anyway, all this is to say: despite how little we see of her, her relevance to mob’s growth & confrontation to ???% is HUGE. neither mogami nor suzuki could bring out mob’s full strength, even if they challenged him to his limits. mob was only able to fully snap out of mogami’s created headspace after dimple mentions tsubomi. even when teru awoke ???% that one time, it didn’t cause nearly as much damage as this final arc. tsubomi is mob+???%’s first love, and ???% has a LOT of feelings about that!

(tl;dr) and that is why tsubomi is his true Final Boss.

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fandomfluffandfuck · 8 months

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S, I’m struggling.

I can’t stop thinking about the first time Seb and Chris get a night alone ;D

Maybe they’ve been dating for a month, and their schedules have been so chaotic, so this is the first time they really get to be alone together. They’re sitting on the couch, not even bothering to put on something, knowing damn well they won’t watch it. Seb is straddling Chris, and he’s honestly in heaven even though they’re just making out. But shit, the way his big hands are gripping his waist makes his head go fuzzy, and the little groans that are slipping out below him are probably the best thing he’s ever heard. He can’t even process the way his beard scratches against Sebastian’s skin, let alone the way he can feel the tent in Chris’s pants.

Soon, Seb is a whiny, whimpering mess, pure putty in Chris’s strong arms. He’s been kissed stupid, and Sebastian didn’t even realize that was possible. But Chris makes him feel and do things he didn’t think he could. Such as the high pitched, breathy moan that he pulls out of Sebastian when his hand moves down to cup him through his pants. It feels so good, he can’t even believe it. Fuck, why did they wait so long to do this?

“C-Chris, oh god, please…” He whispers, and the way Chris grins into his mouth has him wanting to drop down to his knees right now.

“Yeah, baby? You feelin’ a bit needy for me?” His Boston accent is getting thicker and it very well might be the death of Sebastian. He just nods quickly, biting his lip trying to hold back the embarrassing noises trying to force their way out of him.

“Alright, sweet thing. Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you. Anything for my prince.” Chris’s voice is slow and gravelly. At this point, Sebastian just gives up trying to hold himself back, too far gone to care about the downright feminine whimper that is pressed into Chris’s neck.

“Ugh, dumnezeu, please, Chris! I just- Please fuck me, please.” He’s aware he definitely didn’t say at least one of those words in English, but again, he doesn’t fucking care. He just needs Chris arguably more than he needs to breathe, and Chris keeps his promise. He picks up Sebastian by his thighs, carrying him to the bedroom while sucking bruises that Sebastian will surely get a stink eye from the makeup team for.

But the way he ends up being railed straight into the mattress, moaning loudly into the pillows while Chris gives him a new reason to live is something that makes everything worth it. He’s aware he’s just not even speaking English, which he’s pretty sure hasn’t happened since he was in his twenties, though the way Chris can still anticipate what he wants makes his heart go all weird.

Should I turn this into a fic?

In response to possibly turning this into a fic and, in general, crazed response to this drabble:

I understand the struggle, though. I can't ever stop thinking Seb and Chris getting time alone because you know they can't keep their hands off of each other. Chris can't help but grab and hold, his hands biting into Sebastian, keeping him exactly where he wants him, meanwhile Sebastian's hands can't seem to stay in one spot, restlessly scrambling, trying to find purchase on Chris as he gets more and more flustered.

That first night, though... that is something fucking 🤌🏻special🤌🏻

And you are so correct, it absolutely starts with a fucking killer makeout session. Sebastian melts in Chris' lap, overwhelmed by, just, him. He isn't expecting to lose his head so fast. It's the same for Chris, though, he's so caught up in the way Sebastian reacts that he just chases that. He can't control him. Gripping him hard and letting all these filthy, hot words drip from his mouth, spilling over Sebastian just to see the way his skin stains pink and his back arches, kissing forcefully him to feel him squirm, and, of course, sinking his teeth into that tempting neck, marking him up like he's been dying to. They both revel in the way Sebastian's hips jerk forward in response, a sharp cry getting shocked out of him.

Fuck yes.

They barely make it to bed, but, yeah, when they do... Seb gets railed. Just like you said.

Thank you so much for these words™️

#asks #sillysickly #chris evans #sebastian stan #evanstan #rpf #real person fanfiction #dom chris #sub seb #subastian #sub sebastian

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tellthemeerkatsitsfine · 1 year

Text

Okay, let’s talk Taskmaster. Season 16 must get a release date soon, and it’s a really exciting lineup. I’m mainly excited for Sue Perkins (as I think most people on this site are) and Sam Campell (as I think most comedians are, based on the way every Taskmaster podcast guest who’s been asked for their thoughts on the lineup immediately gravitate to Campbell as the most exciting one). But I think Lucy Beaumont’s comedy persona might be an absolutely perfect fit for Taskmaster, the more I think about it the more I think she’s tailor-made to be hilarious in that format. The other two I know less well, even though I realize Julian Cleary is very very famous, I’m afraid “camp, gay, rude” are the extent of the words I can associate with him. I’m sure he’ll be fun though. And Susan Wokoma was good when she played that role in Crazyhead, which was a fun show, but I’ve not seen her do anything else and watching her act out someone else’s script doesn’t really tell me what she’ll be like on a panel show.

We don’t even have an exact start date yet (got to be soon, though), so I hate to bypass that already and start talking season 17… but I’m going to start talking season 17. For the last couple of seasons I saw definite spoilers of the lineup weeks before the announcement, and I avoided mentioning them on Tumblr, because I guess it’s not great to draw attention to stuff like that, even though I really wanted to talk about it I held off until the announcement. If I see spoilers early again this year, I will similarly pretend they didn’t exist in all my public posts until they’re officially announced.

However, that doesn’t mean I can’t speculate, before any spoilers appear. So that’s what this post is. Not any leaks of official stuff, just speculation based on publicly available information. But some people want to be entirely surprised by the lineup, so I’ll put a cut here just in case. Don’t click on this link unless you want to see… not definite names for the next Taskmaster, but educated guesses. With the warning that in previous seasons, educated guesses made with similar evidence to this have turned out to be correct, according to the ones I’ve seen, approximately 75% of the time.

The main evidence people use for this stuff is gaps in schedules, and the more specific the gap, the more likely. If someone isn’t performing during the whole month that the studio records are happening, then they might be in it, but it’s not all that likely (on the other hand, if someone is performing the night of a studio record, you can rule them out entirely). If someone is performing around that time but has the nights of every studio record free, then it’s more likely. Other stuff gets used as well, like social media posts. In season 12, there was a lovely bit of detective work where some people predicted 4 out of 5 people on the lineup by working out who’s recently added who on social media (because those people met each other through the show and then followed each other online – if you think about it, season 12 did have a pretty disparate group of people who mostly were not already social media friends). But as far as I can tell, suspiciously specific gaps in a performance schedule are the most reliable way to guess.

They’ve recently announced the season 17 recording dates as September 25-29. Here is some information I’ve collected from the Taskmaster subreddit, where a bunch of people did the work of looking things up so I don’t have to. Basically, the only point to me making this list is it collates the information in that that thread, which is a bit easier than reading it post-by-post. Here’s who they’ve ruled out, by finding that these people have shows that clash with the recording dates:

- Tom Allen

- Chloe Petts

- Amy Gledhill

- Rhys James

- Ed Byrne

- Ria Lina

- Tom Davis

- Larry Dean

- Kiri Pritchard-McLean

- Jack Whitehall

- Richard Ayoade

And here’s who they’ve found have that week free:

- Sarah Keyworth

- Catherine Bohart

- Maisie Adam

- Bill Bailey

- Suzi Ruffell

- Harriet Kemsley

- Daniel Sloss

- Miles Jupp

- Bec Hill

- Jason Manford

- Kevin Bridges

- John Robins

Having that week free doesn’t mean all that much, it’s worth noting. Especially since, annoyingly, the filming takes place right after the Edinburgh Festival. A lot of comedians take a bit of time off right after Edinburgh, so most of them wouldn’t be on tour anyway. But it at least leaves the possibility open. Having said that, here are some people who didn’t come up in the Reddit thread, but I’ve ruled them out through looking them up myself:

- Isy Suttie

- Shaparak Khorsandi

- Michael Legge

- Alasdair Beckett-King

- Josie Long

- Simon Amstell

- Jen Brister

- Jimmy Carr (to be clear, I was happy to rule that one out)

And here are some people I looked up myself and they were not ruled out:

- Ahir Shah

- David O’Doherty

- Andy Zaltzman

- Alice Fraser (yes I realize she lives in Australia, but she spends like half her time in the UK for work anyway, and if Sam Campbell can do it…)

- Chris Addison

- Jessica Fostekew

- Huge Davies

- Stewart Lee (I mean, it seems incredibly unlikely, but according to some very reputable tabloids Stewart Lee’s been doing a number of things I’d not have expected from him lately, so many he’s changed his policy on panel shows too)

- Paul Foot

- Susie McCabe

Now, on to a couple of specifics. First of all, here’s the big name that at this point is a relatively heavy spoiler: John Robins looks very likely. He doesn’t just have that week free. He had gigs on a couple of those recording nights, and then he canceled them. Which isn’t a guarantee, but it makes it very likely. About as likely as a piece of speculation can be in the absence of actual information.

I am fucking excited about this. I just read the news about John Robins canceling those gigs earlier today, and it has already gotten me so excited about it that at this point I’ll be very fucking disappointed if it turns out he’s not on the season. So I need this, Taskmaster, my hopes are up now. Give me John Robins. Give me John Robins in all his fucked up wildly competitive self-loathing glory. And yes, I hear he might be doing a bit better these days, and that is unequivocally a good thing, I’m very pleased for him (I also hear his Edinburgh show this year was excellent, both objectively good and the specific sort of thing I love in comedy, I really hope he records and releases it at some point). But also, I’m sure we can still get some of the solidly self-loathing and emotionally unstable John Robins we know from his previous stand-up shows. Just a little bit of emotional instability, as a treat. In a man whom I hope has got his shit together and is less miserable overall.

I was going to start writing about why I specifically want John Robins on Taskmaster so much, but then I remembered I already wrote some of that down in a post earlier this year. I dug up that post instead of writing it all again - it's from March 2023 - here's some stuff I said there:

I mentioned recently that I think it would be cool to see John Robins on Taskmaster, because among other things, we haven’t had enough of the properly self-loathing comedians on there. By coincidence, today I was reading something on a different site that discussed potential future Taskmaster contestants, and I saw something that made 100% sure I want him on there. It was someone saying his pedantry and competitiveness might annoy everyone, and someone else saying he would definitely ruin the show, with his tendency to not let a single thing go, and be too serious about it.

...

I’ve recently heard John Robins’ stand-up shows from 2014, 2015, 2016, and the big award winning Darkness of Robins one from 2018. I really liked all of them, especially that last one (understandably, I think, that’s why it won the awards). This makes me think I could maybe really love his radio work with Ellis James, but the problem with that is my brain has difficulty getting into a bit of something but not starting from the beginning and hearing/seeing/reading all of it, and I’m pretty sure there are about 15,000 hours of Ellis James and John Robins on the radio. So John Robins is a dangerous entity for me, I really like him but if I get too into him it could lead to me losing 15,000 hours of my life. However, I somewhat recently read a negative opinion on his stand-up. Someone who said they liked him on the radio, where he seemed like a nice and upbeat guy, so they checked out his stand-up, and were disappointed that that was quite a bit darker and less nice than his radio stuff. That comment made me think I’d probably still enjoy his radio shows, but I’m not missing out on the best parts of him by not getting into that.

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I just really want to see John Robins ruin Taskmaster with his pedantry and competitiveness that would annoy everyone, with his tendency to not let a single thing go. Come on, Alex. Cast your angry fucked up golf buddy. I didn’t get really into following comedy to see people’s palatable sides. …I do realize this might be, like, problematic. It’s not ideal to specifically want to see comedians who will do damaging things due to some psychological problem. I’m very pleased for Jon Richardson that he got married and had a child and went to therapy and worked some stuff out, and I at times feel genuinely guilty that I preferred him before all that. Because the idea that people should suffer for art is a bad one. It’s a better world, now that Jon Richardson is happy. But I still want to see if John Robins can equal the James Acaster level of self-loathing destructive fury on Taskmaster, maybe break a camera with a golf club.

So I really hope that one pans out. I hope John Robins films his 2023 Edinburgh show, gives us a good solid run of wild over-competitiveness borne of deep bitterness and anger on Taskmaster, and then rides off into the sunset to be happy and healthy and emotionally mature for the rest of his life. Let him have that eventually, just give me his Taskmaster performance first.

I realize I said a few paragraphs ago that canceled gigs on the filming dates are as good as a guarantee. I need to amend that a bit, because times have (slightly) changed since I wrote that. While I’ve been writing this post, someone sent me the information that Alfie Brown has just canceled gigs on the Taskmaster filming dates. And that… that has me hoping that canceled dates aren’t a guarantee, even though that might mean no John Robins.

For those who don’t know, Alfie Brown is a comedian who was the subject of some controversy earlier this year. I actually quite liked him before that. He has a special on that Soho Theatre Live thing on Amazon Prime, called Sensitive Man, which I enjoyed. He has a couple of specials on YouTube, which are funny. And I’ve also heard a couple of other recent things he’s done. And I liked it. I didn’t like all of it. I found some of his material a little over the line. He’s dark and bitter and fucked up – which I’ve just established is something I like in a comedian. But then earlier in 2023, there was a reminder that there is a good reason why “fucked up” is often considered a bad thing. Turns out there’s a thin line between “expresses taboo emotions like bitterness and admits to less-than-savoury thoughts and actions”, and “terrible person”. A thin line. And basically, I liked Alfie Brown when I thought he was on the good side of it. Then some stuff came out about how he’s on the bad side of it.

There was a whole barrage of resurfaced clips, a couple of which I do know the context for, and actually, I think they are okay in context. There was one particularly bad one that he did apologize for when it came up this year, it was from 2015 – not ancient but old enough for it to be fair if he claims he’s a different type of person now, and he didn’t stand by it. To be honest, I was ready to forgive that one, due to the apology. Until I looked more closely and saw just how big a pattern it was, and for so long. Also, there were a couple of stories about him being a dick offstage, particularly to London Hughes, a black comedian who tried to tell him his racist routine was racist, and he told her he didn’t care, as far as I’m concerned, that makes it a lot worse. It’s worse to be told you’re being racist and be racist anyway, than to do it possibly out of ignorance. Also, I learned that one of the routines was about how all adult men want to fuck teenage girls, which would be horrifying enough even if he hadn’t built a whole lot of his career around stories of his toxic mess of an off-and-on relationship with comedian Jessie Cave (also she was Lavender Brown in Harry Potter), who has talked before about how she was raped as a teenager by an adult man.

So… those are the cliff notes. Also he’s the son of comedian Jan Ravens and that guy who played Glen Ponder in Knowing Me Knowing You with Alan Partridge. Fun fact. It was a weird fucking story when it came out earlier this year, and I avoided posting about it much, though I think I mentioned it a couple of times. It’s not great. The whole thing’s not great. But it is possible that Taskmaster season 17 may have been cast before that stuff came out.

I don’t think Alfie Brown is on Taskmaster season 17. Even if they cast it before his “cancelation” in March (maybe February? Around that time) 2023, I think they filmed the tasks in the spring/summer, so they’d have had time to recast the season before filming it. When this happened, lots of venues canceled their Alfie Brown gigs, saying they didn’t want to support a comedian like that. I can’t imagine Taskmaster would have stuck by him. I think if they had cast him, they’d have fired him and recast his spot in March. That’s what I really, really hope, anyway. But I’m still writing about the possibility, because like I said, canceled gigs on those specific nights do seem like almost a guarantee.

If only one of those two comedians with cancelled gigs is on there, then there are lots of reasons why it’s more likely to be John Robins. John Robins has the relationship with Alex, doing that golfing show. John Robins did not get roundly canceled earlier this year, leading to him probably getting fired from any TV spots that may have been in the pipeline too. John Robins doesn’t seem to have non-Taskmaster-related reasons for canceling those gigs, while Alfie Brown’s venue spots are precarious at this point, it’s quite possible that the venue just decided they no longer want the controversy of hosting him. So I’m going to really, really hope all those reasons mean we get John Robins but not Alfie Brown.

Okay, there’s one other thing I have to mention. It’s still very, very unlikely. But it’s technically possible, more possible than it’s ever been before or likely will be again. And if I don’t mention it and then it happens, I’ll be really annoyed with myself for not pointing out the possibility.

…John Oliver’s got a gap that’s almost exactly the size of those recording sessions. It’s not just that he’s free for all of September. He’s doing this stand-up tour up until the week before those recording sessions start, and then picking it up again just after.

I first learned this from @lastweeksshirttonight ’s post earlier today, and my first thought was – it can’t be. Someone would have noticed. He’s world famous, there are people out there who know where John Oliver is all the time, in the age of social media you can’t just be a big celebrity in America who goes to a whole different country without people noticing.

But then, my helpful friend @lastweeksshirttonight informed me that there was talk on non-Tumblr social media that while he was visible on the picket lines for a long time, he was notably absent from them for a stretch near the beginning of the strike. Which means it is possible that he was away filming tasks at that point. And I thought that surely, if John Oliver were walking around England, someone would have taken a picture and put it on Twitter. But maybe not. He’s not as famous over there, and he could have filmed the tasks in just a few days, been in and out without much time to be seen in public. And the British tabloids have more important people to follow around, like Stewart Lee and women who are half Stewart Lee’s age.

John Oliver has been described, by himself and by many who know him, for many years, as a workaholic. No one was surprised when he announced this stand-up tour during the strike, even though he cannot possibly need the money, because he’s always described as a person who will constantly take work if it’s out there. The writer’s strike is still on. He can’t do American TV. He has to be doing something. John Oliver allegedly has to be doing at least eight projects at all times, and this stand-up tour is only one.

I Googled whether it would break strike rules, and I don’t think so. At first I thought it was okay since it wasn’t an American production, but then I did find something that said:

No, you cannot write for a non-signatory foreign producer. Guild Working Rule 8 prohibits members from working for non-signatory companies. This rule applies at all times but is particularly important during the strike because of the potential that a non-signatory producer could be used as a subterfuge to have work performed for a struck company. During the strike, all Canadian waiver agreements are terminated, and therefore you are not permitted to continue writing on such projects during the strike.

So that doesn't look great. But what I didn't find on that page was anything that prohibited non-writing work. John Oliver wouldn't be writing for Taskmaster. Obviously he's not prohibited from working at all, he's doing the stand-up tour. I think he might be fine for Taskmaster as long as he doesn't, you know, write the autocues.

And we know he knows Alex Horne. We know he's had recent contact with Alex Horne, to make the Horne Section TV show. We know he's willing to appear in Alex Horne projects, like the Horne Section TV show.

I've written before about how maybe John Oliver will be on Taskmaster, and I've always been joking. Completely joking, like when I say my dream Taskmaster lineup is Daniel Kitson/Demitri Martin/John Oliver/David O'Doherty/Adam Hills so we can have a task where they destroy the Taskmaster cow live on stage and we find out who's really the best at that twenty years on (it is quite important that people know about Cowgate for that one, that there is at least some context for why my dream Taskmaster lineup, even one I say as a joke, would be five white cis het men). But right now, for the first time, seeing that Taskmaster-sized gap in his schedule... it looks maybe technically possible. Slightly more likely than the full Cowgate lineup, anyway. Obviously, it would be the dream.

All right, that's what we've got so far. Let me know if anyone else has thoughts/speculation/people I've missed who are or aren't free on the relevant nights.

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