#the gap between crack and thunder | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hier--soir · 1 year

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whole new can of worms

joel miller x f!reader

rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: two friends decide to blow off a little steam together. warnings/tags: [18+ minors DNI] fwb!joel, famous HOG joel miller lmao, age gap [20 years], language, alcohol consumption, established friendship, guitar playing joel!!, oral [f and m recieving], p in v sex, starts slow and careful and ends up rough oops. word count: 6.9k (nice) series masterlist | masterlist a/n: okay LOOK. i’m working on a final part to this little impromptu series, but I got very side-tracked with the idea of a prequel and then the most smut I’ve ever written just fucking spilled out of me. this is the first time they had sex, ladies and gentlemen. you get the beginning before you get the end. enjoy. also, this moment from tlou pt 2 game is what i was picturing for the beginning when joel is playing the song. dont watch if you don't want to, its from a cut scene very late in the second game. zero spoilers, just joel miller strumming that damn guitar in a way i'll never forget. this is part one of my fwb!joel series. you can find the other parts here: two, three, four.

“Play that one I like.”

Joel offered no verbal response, but sat up straighter in his chair, fingers adjusting along the fretboard of his guitar. You relaxed into your seat, closing your eyes and taking a long sip from your glass of amber liquor.

He began playing and you smiled happily, goosebumps breaking out across your skin as the familiar tune filled the air between you and your friend, melding with the sound of rain softly pattering against the roof of his veranda. You kicked your feet up onto the table between you, the tense muscles in your legs aching from the stretch.

“Get your feet off the table,” Joel muttered, fingers never ceasing on the instrument. “Animal.”

Your eyes stayed closed, but you stuck your tongue out in his direction, smirking a little and keeping your feet up, knowing he didn’t really mind.

Both of you had endured a long fucking day.

Winter was fading into Spring, and the trees and plants in Jackson were slowly but surely beginning to bloom again. It meant you were spending more hours in the green house than out on patrol, and you weren’t complaining. Tending to the garden relaxed you, connected you to nature and to one of the food sources in the commune that helped put a little bit of food on everyone’s plate each week. Working there made you feel connected to the town, and you loved it, truly. Except, for when a thunderstorm happened.

They’d scared you for as long as you could remember. Since you were a kid, thunder and lightning had made you want to crawl under the covers on your bed and hide away until the loud noises disappeared. But as a full-grown woman, you weren’t afforded such luxuries. Rain, hail or shine, the people in Jackson depended on each other, and you couldn’t duck out of a shift because of a silly little phobia.

When the rain started pouring down on the glass roof of the greenhouse you hadn’t been surprised. Only a few weeks into springtime, the town was still shaking off the remnants of a bitterly cold winter, and a little rain was still common. It was only when the first crack of thunder sounded that you’d stilled, hands frozen gripping a heavy pot, an unwelcome shiver racing down your spine. You’d had to work for hours, the sound of rain pelting against the roof accompanying you, with flashes of lightning appearing out of the corner of your eye all day.

When all was said and done, you’d trudged through the downpour to Joel’s house and arrived on his doorstep looking like a drowned rat, only to find out that he’d spent his afternoon stuck outside on patrol, in the very weather you were so upset about.

He’d opened the door with damp hair, bundled in warm clothes, the tip of his nose a light shade of pink from the cold.

“Whiskey?” he’d asked.

You nodded. “Whiskey.”

And so the pair of you had ended up on his porch, under cover from the residual spit of rain, forgetting all about the shit day through good company and good alcohol.

As Joel strummed the last few chords of the song you sighed glumly, cracking an eye open to watch him. He set the guitar down gently and reached for his glass.

“So beautiful,” you murmured. “Wish I could play.”

“And then what use would I be?” he chuckled. “Can’t have you learning guitar; I’d have no one to play for anymore.”

You watched him closely. Staring into his glass, you could see him mulling the words over in his head. Ellie had hardly spoken a word to him in weeks, and you could see the toll it was taking, although you never pried. Clearly, something had happened, and although you and Joel were close, you hadn’t wanted to insert yourself into whatever drama had consumed his little found family. It made your chest hurt though, to watch him miss that girl. He’d always loved playing for her.

“Good thing I’m lazy then,” you mused softly. “Swear I couldn’t play an instrument with a gun to my head. I’ll need to keep you around.”

“Works for me,” he said, refilling both your glasses. “You on the patrol roster tomorrow?”

You shook your head, accepting the glass with a grateful smile. A slight buzz warmed your insides, fighting to keep your body temperature up as the cool breeze licked at your exposed hands and face. “Nope, I’m a free agent tomorrow, no responsibilities.”

“God damn,” he rolled his eyes. “Gonna be stuck out there all alone with Tommy.”

“Devastating,” you grinned. “I’m way better company.”

“Too right,” Joel agreed. “What’s your plan for the day, little miss no responsibilities? Still reading that book I found you?”

Probably masturbate. The thought zipped through your mind so suddenly that you felt your chest warm, and you cleared your throat softly.

“Yeah,” you replied. “Probably just read for a while. Dinner at Maria and Tommy's, remember?”

You hoped he didn’t see through the lie, because the truth was that you were embarrassed by yourself. Only a few days before you’d been struck by the realisation that you hadn’t had sex, or even been touched intimately by another person, in months. In fact, you noted sullenly, it had been half a fucking year. And you were struggling. It was your longest dry spell in a while, and every night lately you’d found yourself tangled up in your bed with your hand in your underwear, wishing desperately that someone, anyone, else was there with you.

Trying to ward off the unsavoury thoughts filling your mind, you took a deep gulp of whiskey and shut your eyes, contemplating asking if he had any cigarettes laying around.

Suddenly, a deep groan pierced the air between you and your eyes shot open. What the fuck?

With wide eyes, you saw that Joel was gripping his right leg tightly, thumb rubbing deep circles into the skin above his knee cap, and you forced yourself to relax. A sound of pain, you realised. But your heart had stuttered in your chest, because as out of character as it would’ve been, with your eyes closed it had sounded like a vaguely sexual noise. You rolled your eyes, willing yourself to get a grip. But it had been so long, and the sound of a man groaning in any way was enough to light a fire in your stomach.

“It’s the cold,” he noticed your stare. “Makes my knee ache.”

You nodded knowingly, eyes watching as his large hand gripped his thigh, applying pressure to the tender area.

“What’s up your ass?” Joel asked.

“Huh?” your gaze flashed up to meet his and found him watching you closely, eyebrows furrowed.

“You’re frownin’,” he said. “Gone all quiet suddenly.”

“So are you,” you huffed defensively, face warming. “You always fucking frown, I can’t do it one time?”

“No,” he grinned cheekily, stilling rubbing his knee. “I frown enough for the both of us. You can figure somethin’ else out.”

You let out a begrudging chuckle and felt the indent between your eyebrows relax.

“Seriously,” he pushed. “What’s wrong? Is it too cold? We should move inside.”

“No,” you cringed, scratching the side of your neck awkwardly. Lowering your legs off the table you sat up a little straighter in your chair. “It’s good out here, I like it. I’m just… distracted, I don’t know.”

“What’s on your mind?” he sipped his whiskey.

Without needing any more prompting, you gave up on beating around the bush. “When’s the last time you had sex?”

A choked sound escaped him, and he swallowed quickly, coughing into his elbow. “Christ, what?”

“I’m not,” your cheeks were on fire. “I’m not thinking about you having sex, relax. I was thinking about me having sex. Or not having sex, to be more precise.”

He coughed again, an awkward expression flashing across his face.

You and Joel had been friends for a few years now, since he and Ellie returned to Jackson and decided to settle in the commune. After being friends with Tommy for a few years before that, you’d fallen into a natural friendship with his older brother. It was no secret that there was 20 odd year age difference between you and Joel, but in a post-apocalyptic world, it had never phased either of you. Friends were friends, and an age gap didn’t impact much. But sex was a topic that had seldom come up in conversation over those few years. Here and there maybe, but never in detail, and never so candidly.

“I almost walked in on Shae and Petra fucking the other day,” you continued plainly. “She was late for patrol, so I went over to see if she’d slept in, and I could hear them from outside the fucking house. Stood there like an ass for a minute, just listening like a creep.”

Joel watched you closely, and you noticed his hand gripped his glass a little tighter, fingertips white from the pressure “You… listened?”

“Don’t look at me like that,” you cringed, rubbing a hand over your face shamefully. “Just for a fucking second. Hadn’t realised how long it had been, and it was like my feet wouldn’t move.”

“I see.”

“You better not tell a soul about this,” you pointed at him threateningly. “I’ll end you if anybody finds out, Miller. I swear.”

“I believe you,” he snorted, holding his hands up in surrender. “My lips are sealed.”

You relaxed a little, relieved to discover that he wasn’t going to be as awkward about it as you’d first feared.

“How long has it been?”

Your eyes ticked up to stare at him again. “Like, six months or something.”

Joel let out a low whistle and nodded slowly, sipping from the crystal tumbler in his hand. “You poor soul.”

“Oh, come off it,” you scoffed in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you’re having sex and I’m not? This just keeps getting worse.”

“Fuck you,” he drawled mockingly, that deep Texan accent making you grin. “Would it be such a surprise if I was?”

“S’just bullshit,” you glowered, picking at your nails in frustration. Traces of soil still lined the creases in your palms and you rubbed at it furiously, in a fruitless attempt at cleaning them.

“I’m not,” is all he said, and you frowned at him in confusion. “Havin’ sex,” he added with a smirk. "And it's been longer for me, so quit your whinin'."

You raised your eyebrows, appreciating the honesty. “Well thank god I’m not the only one.”

“Don’t know when I would,” he shrugged simply. “And who would I be having sex with, anyways? Spend all my fuckin’ time on patrol listening to Tommy talk for hours, or I’m sleepin’, or I’m with you.”

The thought itched so suddenly at the back of your brain, and you fought against it, shaking your head ever so slightly to push it away. Don’t think that. But it was persistent, and after a few moments of silence, your mind was filled with thoughts of you and Joel Miller fucking.

Admittedly, it was something you’d thought about once or twice when you’d first met him. He was a handsome guy, and his arrival in Jackson had definitely caused a stir among the women in the commune. But you’d fallen into a friendship so quickly, so comfortably, that the thought had never reared its ugly head again. Until now.

You watched him for a moment. His hair was dry at that point, and short messy curls framed his face and neck. He had neat dark facial hair, with sweet specks of ashy grey mixed in here and there. That familiar scar on the bridge of his nose. Lips that had gone a darker shade of pink from the cold, that you’d never realised looked quite so… plush. Eyes trailing down, your gaze raked over his hands. Long, calloused fingers that wrapped around almost the entirety of his glass. the warmth in your stomach spread downward, and you knew you should feel embarrassed at where your brain was taking you, but you couldn’t stop yourself. Images flashed through your mind of his hands gripping you like that. Fingers leaving marks on your thighs, on your neck. You shivered, looking away quickly.

“Fuck,” you sighed quietly, not even caring if he heard.

“Hey,” he said softly, assuming you were upset. “Someone’ll come along. We could talk to Tommy about setting you up or somethin’.”

You hummed noncommittally and turned in your chair to face him head on. Joel noticed and adjusted his position to do the same, raising an eyebrow. “What’s that look?” he asked, eyebrows pinching together.

Jesus, here goes nothing.

“What if we fucked?”

Joel stared. His jaw clenched almost imperceptibly, and he put his glass down on the table with a soft clink.

“What?” he said lowly, his voice taking on a sudden gravelly quality.

“I mean,” you searched desperately for the words to explain yourself, licking your lips nervously. “You said it yourself, we’re so busy, right? Always working, or sleeping, or we’re hanging out, you and me. So, what if we just… blew off a little steam together?”

His eyebrows had raised so dramatically you thought they might disappear into his hairline. It wasn’t often you managed to shock Joel, and you laughed gently at the astounded expression that decorated his face.

“You want to blow off steam… with me?” he pointed lamely at his chest.

“Don’t sound so incredulous,” you joked. “You’re a catch, Joel. You know the teens call you a HOG, right? Hot old guy.“

“Shut up,” he held up a hand to silence you, his eyes squeezing shut tightly as you laughed at his embarrassment. “Don’t want to hear that shit.”

“It wouldn’t mean anything, Joel,” you reassured, veering back on topic. “We could just… help each other wind down after a long day.”

You watched each other in silence for a moment, and you noticed him shuffle slightly in his seat, hand gripping his knee once again. For a minute, you worried that you’d upset him. The friendship you two shared was strong, and you always known you could confide almost anything in him. He was trustworthy, and valued your word above so many others. But maybe this was over the line.

As you were about to speak again, about to take it all back and apologise for even suggesting it, he finally opened his mouth.

“It wouldn’t mean anything?” he clarified. “This won’t affect our friendship.”

You shook your head quickly. “Nothing at all. No strings, bud. Final offer.”

With a deep, rumbling sigh, Joel snatched his glass off the table and downed the remainder of its contents before standing up. “Alright then.”

You’d been in Joel’s room a hundred times over the years. Hauling him out of bed for patrol after he’d accidentally slept in, or rifling through his chest of drawers to steal a thick pair of socks. But never for this reason. The pair of you stood awkwardly at the foot of his bed, staring at everything other than each other, as the air crackled with palpable tension.

Joel scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, and you smirked, unfamiliar with seeing him being unsure of himself.

“If you don’t want to, we can just forget I ever sai-“

“Just taking your fuckin’ clothes off,” he grunted, staring you down suddenly. Wide eyed, you felt a rush of heat through your thighs.

“Jesus,” you breathed. “Romance isn’t dead.”

He huffed out a laugh and your shoulders relaxed, happy to see a crack through his tense façade. Your tugged off your sweater, and then your shirt, tossing them over the chair in the corner of his room. Working quickly, you undid the zipper on your pants and pulled them down your legs until you were left in your underwear, a thin white singlet, and your socks.

You reminded yourself that Joel had already seen you naked, thinking back on a time when the two of you had gone skinny dipping in a lake you stumbled across on patrol the summer before. But this was so different. This wasn’t a random moment of spontaneity. And at the lake he'd been a gentleman, averting his eyes for the most part out of politeness, but now? Now he was watching your every move.

Silently, he undid the strap off his watch and placed it on the top of his dresser, before working to undo the buttons on his shirt. After he had tugged it off, you let your eyes trail over his exposed skin, and with no fabric covering him, you could see how quickly his chest rose and fell.

“Hey,” you said quietly, stepping forward and placing a hand on his chest. You felt his heart race under the warm skin and smiled. “It’s just me. Let me help you relax, okay?”

His tongue darted out to wet his lips quickly, and you wondered what it would be like to kiss him. You didn’t dwell on it though, and leaned forward to drag your lips across the skin of his neck. He smelt like rain and pine needles, and you inhaled deeply, pressing soft kisses along his pulse point. One of his hands landed heavily on your waist and his thumb begun rubbing encouraging circles over your hip bone. You hummed against his skin, pressing your chest against his. Exposed to the cool temperature, your nipples pebbled underneath your shirt, and from his exhale you knew he could feel them pressing against his bare chest.

With a slight tremor in your hand, you trailed your fingers down his chest. Through the soft hair smattered there, over the thick jagged scar on his stomach, to his belt buckle. Joel shivered lightly, gripping your waist a little tighter. You worked quickly to undo his belt, and then you dragged his zipper down. With a low sigh, you rested your hand over the front of his pants. He jolted slightly, hand sliding around your back to hold you tighter to his chest. With your face hidden in his neck, you couldn’t see his reaction, but you took the firm pressure of his hand on your back as a clear sign to continue. You palmed him gently through his pants, listening to the little puffs of air that rushed out of his nose as he kept his breathing calm. A surge of confidence rushed through you, and you stepped away, letting your hand fall away from him. His arm dropped from your back to his side, and he watched with bated breath as you lowered yourself onto your knees in front of him.

You gripped the waistband of his pants and started to drag them down his legs, helping him step out of them. Wearing nothing but a tight pair of briefs, it was impossible not to stare. You could see the shape of him through the dark fabric, your mouth salivated. More, you needed to see more. Without wasting a second, you tucked your fingers into the band of them and pulled them down slowly, giving him the chance to stop you if he wanted to. But he didn’t. He watched you with hooded dark eyes, chest moving with deep controlled breaths, his bottom lip tucked into his mouth. With his underwear gone, Joel’s cock finally came into your sight. He was only half hard, you realised with awe, and your stomach tingled as you realised what you were in for. Reaching out, your traced your fingers slowly over his hip bones, smiling as goosebumps broke out across his skin, before gently wrapping your fingers around him.

A shaky breath escaped from his nose.

“Is this okay?” you asked quietly, hand stroking softly along his length. He nodded jerkily. “Why don’t you sit on the bed?”

Joel dropped heavily onto the edge of his bed, and you moved forward to rest on your knees in between his parted legs, placing your hand back over him. The air in the room had turned humid, and you could feel sweat forming on your back out of anticipation. The only light source came from the moon shining in his window, bathing the both of you in a pale light.

“You’re so handsome,” you sighed wistfully, gripping him tighter. “I’ve always known it, but seeing you like this is different. So handsome, Joel.”

He reached out and placed a hand on your shoulder, gripping your skin and massaging the knotted muscle at the top of your back. You groaned appreciatively, and without another moment’s hesitation, you leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his thigh. No more fucking around. You needed him.

Your hand stroked him firmer, tighter, but your mouth was salivating, desperate to taste him. So you dragged wet kisses along his leg until you reached his abdomen, and then you brought your wet mouth to hover over his cock. You heard his breath hitch and smiled devilishly, staring greedily at his ruddy tip, marvelling as a drop of precum leaked out of him. Painfully slow, you pushed forward and pressed a kiss to it, tongue darting out to swipe along him and taste his salt. Joel hissed in surprise, gripping your shoulder tighter as his other hand moved to the back of your head. Not putting any pressure there, just holding you. Lathing your tongue over his head, you moaned lowly at the taste of him. Salty and warm and masculine. You could feel your underwear sticking uncomfortably against you from how wet you were. Closing your eyes, you cupped his balls gently and pressed wet kisses down his length, dragging your tongue over the pulsing vein that ran from base to tip, and basking in the short gasps that flew out of his mouth.

“Stop teasin’,” he grumbled, and you looked up with a smirk to see his dark eyes glaring down at you.

“Sorry,” you lied, before taking his head into your warm mouth and sucking gently. Slowly, you pressed forward, taking more of him in. You felt him swell against your tongue, getting harder from the stimulation, and you hummed around him. He was so big. Maybe bigger than anyone you’d been with, and you struggled to take it all. He was so thick and heavy in your mouth, it was all you could think about. Consuming every thought, every feeling; all you could focus on was the weight of him on your tongue. You worked on creating a rhythm, bobbing your head and taking as much of him in your mouth as you could, while your hand gripped him at the base, stroking him at the same time.

And finally, finally, he made a sound.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, drawing out the vowel as a heavy breath he’d been holding escaped his lungs. His fingers dragged through your hair roughly, gripping the back of your head. You pushed yourself forward, taking more of him in until he was pressing into your throat, and you swallowed tightly around him. “Christ, feels so fuckin’ good.”

Seemingly against his will, Joel’s hips bucked upward off the bed and you gagged around him, tears springing into your eyes. He moaned lowly, cursing under his breath at the feeling of your throat contracting around him. Unable to help yourself, you removed your hand from him and lowered it down your body, slipping your fingers underneath the band of your underwear and dipping into the wet heat between your own legs. Breathing harshly through your nose, you moaned around him as your finger brushed your aching clit. You pulled back and worked your tongue over his weeping slit, enjoying the way his grip on your hair tightened as you paid close attention to the most sensitive part of him.

“You’re drivin’ me insane,” he ground out, and you glanced up to see him watching you reverently, eyes wide and glossy, cheeks flushed. “So fuckin’ hot. God, you have the prettiest mouth, how did I never notice that? Never fuckin’ thought about how good my cock would look between your lips until it was happening. I’m a fuckin’ idiot.”

Your cunt pulsed against your fingers and you whimpered, taking him back in your mouth as far as you could. God, the way he spoke made you fucking ache for him. after so many years of knowing him, hearing his voice every day, you’d never have imagined him saying things like that to you. But the weight of him in your mouth was delicious, and his words only spurred you to push forward, forward, forward, revelling in the way he groaned as your nose brushed the dark curls at his base. Tears leaked out of your eyes, rolling down your cheeks from the effort, but you didn’t stop. You slid a finger inside yourself and gagged around him again, eyes rolling back in your head at the intoxicating sensation of having something inside both your mouth and your pussy.

“Takin’ me so well,” his thumb brushed across your cheek, wiping away the tears. “God, I’m in your fuckin’ throat, baby.” The pet name made your stomach tighten, and you moaned as more slick formed around your fingers.

“Shit,” he choked out suddenly, losing all composure. “Are you fucki-“

You moaned, eyebrows furrowing as you fucked your hand and bobbed your mouth up and down quicker over his length.

“Stop,” he ordered, saying your name firmly. “I- Stop, I’m gonna come.” You ignored him, making a high-pitched sound around him as you felt the hot coil in your stomach begin to tighten. His hand gripped your hair tighter, and he pulled you off him.

You blinked lazily up at him, eyebrows furrowed dejectedly, lips parted. A string of saliva hung in the air between your bottom lip and his tip. You dragged your fingers out of your underwear, chest heaving with heavy breaths.

“Jesus, don’t fuckin’ look at me like that,” he groaned and broke eye contact, gripping your shoulder to pull you up off the floor. “Get up.”

Pushing gently on your shoulders, he nudged you forward onto the bed, and you crawled up before collapsing with your heads against the pillows. His bed was softer than you’d anticipated, and everything smelt like him. The pillows, the duvet. God, even if this was a one-time thing, you’d never forget that smell. He followed you, settling with his legs in between yours, and placed his palms on your stomach, pushing the thin material of your shirt up and over your breasts until it was bunched around your collarbones. Your heart pounded heavily in your chest, and you were aching for him, begging him with your eyes to just please, do something, anything.

And Joel was on you before you could speak, his fingers tracing and over your nipples, squeezing the weight of your breast in his palm before latching his lips onto you. He sucked your painfully tight nipple into his mouth, tongue lazily swiping across it, driving you insane. You sighed heavily, running a hand over the skin of his back and holding him to you. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin ever so lightly and your back arched off the bed. Moving over, he shifted his ministrations to your other breast, his eyes closed as he wet your skin with his slick mouth. And then one of his hands was drifting down your stomach, tickling over your skin, under it met your underwear, and he was cupping you through the fabric. Your hips stuttered upward, and he groaned into your chest, trailing his fingers over the soaked material.

“So fuckin’ wet already,” he muttered into your skin, and you nodded franticly against the pillows. “Did you get this turned on just from havin’ my cock in your mouth? Had to touch yourself?” Surprise zapped through you once more, ecstatic to learn just how much he loved to talk during sex. It was one of your favourite things, and it had always killed you to have sex with someone who was just silent the whole time.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Wanted you to finish in my mouth.”

He bit down onto your chest in response and you cried out quietly, eyes rolling back as he sucked a mark onto your skin with his fingers continued tracing feather light over your covered core.

“Maybe later,” his voice was strained. “Need to see you come first.”

He pulled the fabric of your underwear to the side, and then he was touching you with no barrier, and you trembled beneath him. You’d forgotten how good it felt to have someone else’s hands on you.

Joel groaned as he dipped his middle finger between your warm folds, gliding it up and down along your core, getting it covered in your slick. He swirled the tip of his finger around your entrance and you whimpered, hips grinding desperately against his hand. But he didn’t go inside you. His finger moved back up, all the way up, and swiped gently over your clit and you let out a pathetic moan. Such a small, miniscule touch had your stomach tensing painfully, ridiculously close to orgasm after so much time.

Bringing his face up to rest beside yours, he sucked your earlobe into his mouth gently, before murmuring in your ear, “I want to taste you.”

You didn’t say anything, too stunned by the feeling of his fingers against you, until he probed you for a response, purring your name into your ear.

“Need to hear you say it,” he encouraged. “Tell me what you want.”

“Please,” you begged, eyes shut tightly as he rubbed soft circles around your bundle of nerves. “I want you to taste me.” A grunt of frustration left your mouth as his hand disappeared and you opened your eyes to glare at him, but your mouth fell open, awestruck, when you saw him raise his soaked digits to his lips.

“Like this?” he goaded, sucking your slick off himself and groaning.

“Please,” you repeated, mouth dry as you watched him hum around his middle finger. “Need your mouth on me, your tongue, I-“

“Okay,” he soothed, moving down the bed in an instant. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

He spread your legs apart, fingers splayed as he held your thighs against the bed, displaying your weeping centre for him to see. A deep sound echoed though the room, and it took you a moment to realise it had been Joel. His dark eyes stared at the spot between your legs, and he dragged his fingers through the coarse hair that covered you.

His movements were torturously slow as he leaned down, pressing sloppy kisses on your hips, along the inside of your thighs, until finally his hot breaths were fanning across your core. You clenched around nothing, whimpering at how empty you felt but knowing it would have to wait.

It was like stepping into a warm bath. The second his tongue was on you, fire raced through your veins, warming your body from head to toe. A sound of relief slipped from your lips, and your eyes rolled back as he licked a broad stripe up the entire length of you. A raspy groan vibrated against you as he pressed a messy kiss against your pussy. You looked down and gasped at the sight of his eyes already on you, watching you and your reactions to him.

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he drawled against you and you twitched at the sensation of his lips brushing against your clit. His thumbs pressed against your folds, holding you open for him to see everything, and he lathed his warm tongue against your clit, circling it until you were moaning and tensing your thighs against his hold, muscles screaming at you to press against his head and hold him to you.

You whispered his name over and over as if it were a prayer. As if you’d forgotten all other words in the English language and his name was your only salvation. His tongue dipped inside your entrance, prodding firmly until you whimpered and begged him to please, please, let you come.

He ate you out like a man possessed. Like you were his last meal and he intended to savour every god damn second of the experience. He was ravenous, lips and tongue working together to make every muscle in your body tighten until you were gasping. At some point your hand had drifted behind his head and you found yourself tangling your fingers in his hair, pulling it tightly as his mouth moved against you.

“Joel,” you groaned. He hummed against you, movements never ceasing. “Oh fuck, Joel, I’m gonna come.”

His eager moan into your cunt was all it took for you to be catapulted over the precipice and drop into your orgasm. Your body was on fire, vibrating against him as you trembled through it, moans and cries leaving your mouth as your way of thanking him. His hands held your thighs in a vice grip, and there would no doubt be marks there tomorrow to remind you were his fingertips had dug into your skin. As your body relaxed into the mattress again, he pressed a final kiss to your clit before pulling back and dragging his face across your thigh, wiping the remnants of your slick off his facial hair.

“Fuck,” he rasped, grinning up at you with glistening lips.

“So good,” you agreed, nodding as you tried to catch your breath.

“Almost came all over the sheets,” he admitted and you laughed, beckoning him towards you. He stumbled a bit, one of his knees buckling below him on the bed, leading him to land awkwardly on top of you.

“Shit,” he groused. “Sorry, bad fuckin’ knee. You’ve got me all bent out of shape.”

You chuckled lowly, pulling him up to lay beside you on the bed. “Let’s not put anymore pressure of them then, okay?” He watched you carefully, curiously, as you turned on your side and then moved backwards, pressing yourself flush against his chest.

His cock pulsed against your ass, and he wrapped an arm around your waist, hand splayed on your stomach to hold you against him as he rutted forward. The feeling of his wet tip dragging along your skin reignited the fire in you and you whimpered, lifting your leg only to push it back and drape it over his waist as much as you could.

“You want it like this?” he asked urgently, hot breaths fanning across your sweaty neck. He pinched your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, tugging on it gently.

You nodded, and waited as he pushed his body a little lower on the bed. His hand disappeared from your chest, and you allowed yourself to pout a little, only because you knew he couldn’t see your face. And then his left arm slithered underneath your shoulder and wrapped loosely your neck, gripping your opposite arm to pin you against him. His free hand gripped his cock and pushed it forward until he was sliding his head between your folds.

Both of you sighed at the sensation and you gripped his arm in anticipation. You could feel his torso moving against your back as he breathed, the soft hair on his chest tickling your skin.

“You ready?” he asked and you grunted, pushing back against him again.

“Joel,” you said in a dangerously low tone. “If you’ve ever cared about me, you will stop teasing and fuck me right now.”

He laughed darkly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Yes, ma’am.”

He notched his tip at your entrance and you gasped as he pressed forward, pressing himself inside of you. It took what felt like minutes for him to bottom out, and when you felt his hips pressing against your ass, you tried to relax. The burn was intense, and you cursed yourself for not anticipating a little bit of pain after such a long dry spell. Joel held still, fingers stroking carefully over the skin of your shoulder, understanding that you needed a second.

“Fuck,” you choked out. “Joel, you’re huge.”

He let out a gravelly sound into the back of your neck, body shuddering against yours. “You’re takin’ it so well though,” he gritted out. “So tight around me, grippin’ me so good.”

He pulled back a touch before pressing back into you, and you moaned deeply. That was all the confirmation he needed to continue, pulling almost fully out of you before moving into you harder, stronger, and beginning a steady pace. Your body jolted forward with every one of his movements, but his arm around your neck held you firmly, never allowing you to go too far.

Curses drifted from your mouth, and you hid your face in his arm, biting down on the muscle of his bicep to stifle your sounds. You clenched around him suddenly and his hips stuttered forward, slamming into you in a way that made your stomach tense deliciously. He was so fucking deep, the angle allowing him to glide against your g-spot with every thrust.

“Fuckin’,” he moaned. “You’re so good, bein’ so fuckin’ good for me, aren’t you darlin’?”

You writhed in his arms, accepting the brutal pace he’d set. His skin connected with yours over and over, a satisfying smack, smack, smack sound filling the air.

“J-Joel,” you sobbed. “Oh my fucking god, I-“ He cut you off, gripping your chin and swiftly tugging your face upward so he could see you, and then his mouth was crashing down on yours. He groaned into your mouth, tongue pressing against your lips to part them and then tangling against yours. His lips were soft and wet and you didn’t even care about the odd angle your neck was twisted at as you moaned into it. His thrusts didn’t let up for a second, even as you murmured desperate sounds against each other’s lips.

“C’mon,” he grunted into your mouth. “Give me another one.” His hand dropped to grip your neck, the sensation only heightening the feeling of him inside you. Liquid heat was spreading in your abdomen, curling through your veins, turning your entire body into jelly. His free hand drifted down your stomach and then his middle finger was dragging across your clit, and a harsh cry spilled from your mouth.

“Shit,” you gasped, face contorting as you felt yourself near your end. He was fucking everywhere, holding you against him by your neck, pounding into you while his fingers circled your clit roughly, and the coil in your stomach just snapped. You yelled his name, body tensing up as he pushed into you, wet squelching sounds filling the air as he fucked you through your orgasm.

“Say my name,” his voice urged in your ear, and you happily obliged, chanting his name like a mantra as he worked your body through it. Within a minute he was groaning frantically, and then he pulled out, and you could feel his come coating your back as he finished. You glanced over your shoulder to see him. His mouth was ajar, soft curses falling from his lips as he gripped his cock, angling it towards you as he painted your skin with his spend.

“Sorry,” he rushed out breathlessly, wide eyes meeting yours. His shoulders shook with the intensity of his orgasm, adrenaline pumping through his veins, and you smiled at the sight. But he looked concerned, eyebrows furrowed as he looked at you warily.

“For what?” you frowned softly, rolling forward onto your stomach to free his arm that was trapped underneath you. “What’s wrong?”

“Came on you,” he clarified. “Should’ve asked first.”

A grin split across your face and his eyes lit up when he saw it, face relaxing again. “Ever the gentleman,” you chuckled. “It’s fine Joel, it was hot.”

His body relaxed and he dropped down to rest on his back, looking at you with a soft, curious expression. “It was,” he agreed quietly.

For a moment the pair of you just laid there, gazing at each other in a moment of wonder, before you suddenly became aware of how much colder the room was now that it was over. You shivered slightly, lifting to sit on your knees. Joel’s eyes trailed over your exposed body, gazing at your breasts, and your stomach, before resting on your face again.

“I’m gonna shower, and then hit the road,” you told him, cringing at the prominent ache between your thighs as you stepped off the bed. You picked your clothes up off the chair in the corner and turned back to look at him. “I’ll see you tomorrow night right, dinner at Maria and Tommy’s?”

He was watching you in a daze, eyelids heavy with drowsiness, but he nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he drawled. “Dinner at Maria and Tommy’s.” His eyes suddenly widened and he rolled over, reaching underneath his pillow before revealing a piece of small dark fabric. Your underwear. He held them out in your direction.

“Keep them big guy,” you winked, and he laughed deeply, dropping them back onto the bed.

You padded towards the door, ready to pop into the bathroom and then head home, before a thought struck you. Resting your shoulder against the doorway you looked at him again, smiling at the sight of him lying naked and fucked out on the bed, eyes closed as he breathed deeply. He looked about as relieved as you felt.

“Hey Joel,” you said quietly, and his eyes flashed open, raising an eyebrow at you. “Between us, right? Probably best if we don’t tell anyone else this happened.”

He nodded once, smiling lazily. “Between us.”

part two

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #fwb joel miller #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #the last of us #the last of us hbo #the last of us fanfiction #my writing #cat's outta the bag #don't cry over spilt milk #whole new can of worms

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stuck-writing-sickos · 3 months

Text

In Poor Taste [P5]

(Yandere × F! Reader)

[Warning: addiction, alcohol, ageism, sexism, misogyny, mention of bodily harm, religious trauma]

[A/N: its high time we show yuki some love 🫶]

[Series Link]

You were never crazy about spoiled rich men. They couldn't stand being unremarkable.

"Bless me, father, for I have sinned."

Silence. The stuffy wood walls felt as if it was contracting.

"It's been five years since my last confession, and I accuse myself of the following sin."

No answer yet as per customary. Lukas tugged at his tight collar, anxious. His blunt fingernails reached inside the gap, letting a puff of air hit his chest dripping with sweat.

"I am lost, father."

"And why did you say that?"

"I have nothing special about me. I never really had to try hard to get what I want, and now... I don't know which path to take."

"You walk with God, my child."

Something within his chest inflated, leaving him gasping for air.

"Is that all there is, Father?"

"We are all nothing without Him. He will show you the way."

Lukas wanted to get out of the booth, but he couldn't. His body was frozen in place. Panic set in as he tried to squirm only to find his strength redundant.

"I don't see it, Father!", he tried to scream, but his voice came out weak, "I don't see it... I need to forge my own."

"And how do you plan to do that, when you are unspecial and lost?"

The priest's voice wasn't singular anymore. It dissolved into a chorus of many, thunderous and firm. Lukas heaved, choking on the taste of pennies. He felt a weight from the other side pressing against the confession window, closing the walls in.

The curtain cracked open. Lukas could only look as a hand reached in and grabbed his collar, harshly yanking him forward as if he was a ragdoll. His body was then unbound, light and fluid like water.

He gasped, his eyes fluttering open. Lukas felt the cold sweat on his neck. Between dream and reality, he almost remembered the bruised knuckle and the familiar fingers that pulled him awake.

___

Yuki figured the newbie was a quick learner, but he didn't think Lukas would pick up on your introversion that quickly.

It was ironic that this newcomer was already half of the foreign staff present in the end-of-year dinner that the foreign dept threw. The other half was you. Together you and him sat, tall and quiet. The cozy private restaurant lounge was bustling with chatters, but not one peep from this pair. Far off from the other side of the long table, Yuki could only steal glances at you who only nodded and smiled at any attempts at conversations that went your way. He was worried that Lukas might try something weird tonight what with alcohol so readily available, but so far he had seen nothing but a rather impressive effort at maintaining social norms. He assumed that ought to clear his mind, yet any time he found himself letting his guard down, he was sorely reminded of the punk rock clothing site. Some parts of him were starting to manifest doubt - was he the weird one for fixating? Was it some... American norms he failed to consider? After all, Australian culture could very well be less intense than its riveting cousin. Deciding at last that he was overthinking, he tried to keep up with the conversations around him.

If something bad were to happen, you'd say something, right?

"Say, Sakamoto", he jumped at Tahara's voice, surprised to see she had her attention on him now, "are you ever gonna get married?"

Instantly, eyes were on him. Yuki shifted, laughing nervously.

"Yeah", another voice chimed in, "You're 26, you're earning good money, you got your family's name. Women must be flocking to you."

That voice would be Hanao, quite possibly his least favorite senior. 33, begrudgingly married and completely removed from the concept of boundaries, he could only get worse with a pint in his hand.

"I have some unmarried cousins who would look great on you", Tahara piled onto the mess she herself caused, "Do you want a blind date with her?"

"Or look around the dept", Hanao exclaimed, his ugly habit of getting loud when he got drunk seeping in, "so many young, beautiful ladies are lining up for you!"

Yuki couldn't help but notice the discomfort on the faces of the "ladies" in question, their gaze downcasted or unsubtly turned away.

"Hanao, that's not fair to them", Yuki finally interfered, treading carefully so as not to trigger another terrible habit Hanao got up his sleeves when alcohol got into his system - getting angry, "they are not lining up for me, I'm sure."

"Nonsense", the older man dismissed, waving him off. Yuki's back felt cold as Hanao fully turned to his younger female colleagues who had gotten stiff and awkward, walled in by the long table and the crowd of coworker.

"Wouldn't you ladies want him? He's a bit dull and quiet, but he's a good kid. He is handsome, and his wallet is thick, too. I'm telling you, if you want a chance you better be quick."

The young women politely tried to move on from the topic, but it only fueled his insistence. Stressed out that Hanao was stuck on talking about marriage, Yuki finished his drink painstakingly fast. Hazy now, he landed the pint harshly.

"Excuse me... I should go for a smoke."

"Hey, what's the rush? Are you embarrassed?", Hanao asked, "It's okay Sakamoto, men only get finer with age! Sit down, I think Ms. Sasaki is interested, right?"

Yuki was already standing up with a cigarette in his mouth by the time Sasaki meekly protested. Something about "Mr. Hanao, you're so mean. He will hate me now!"

He looked at the girl. Yuki barely remembered any interaction they had with each other. Did they ever even talk? She was smiley, cheerful, and she had a sweet voice, but he didn't find anything reeling him in. In fact, the expectant look on her face as she tried to make eye contacts made Yuki queazy. Nervous and tense, he excused himself without even acknowledging her presence.

Sometimes, the body remembers things the mind tries to forget.

The smell of food followed him outside. Yuki hurried to a street corner, anxious for that first hit of nicotine to cool his head. Tipsy and disoriented, he was fumbling with the lighter when he saw you. He must had missed you slipping out of the party when Tahara and Hanao cornered him with their tedious talk of marriage. You were on your phone. Your thumbs were still hovering over the bright screen when you. Clearing his throat to make his presence know, Yuki was startled by the blank stare you gave his way.

"Everything okay?", he asked and walked over to stand by your side. Your eyes didn't follow his movement. You looked straight ahead, your face drained of any expression.

"Yes", you tried to sound casual, but your voice were light as air, "everything is fine."

He finally managed to light his cigarette. The first pull was long and crisp. His flexed shoulders dropped as he leaned against the wall and sigh, satisfied. From the corner of his eyes, he could see you tapping on your phone, your fingers typing up a storm. Something was wrong, he could tell, but he didn't want to push. Beside, he was just drunk enought to feel content keeping your company in silence.

It was by the second cigarette that you peeped: "can I have one, Sakamoto?"

That messed with his buzz. Propping himself upright, he turned over to face you.

"No."

You didn't respond. Instead, you stared at him with desperate eyes and quivering lips. Yuki watched your fingers curling up and flexing. A twinge in his chest made him drop the stern tone.

"What happened?"

You hung your head. Your quiet, exasperated voice was almost swallowed by the city's white noise: "please..."

He sighed and fished out one, seeing that it was no use persuading you. His hand hesitated as yours reached over, starved.

"You've quitted for 3 years. You were doing good."

You didn't say anything.

"Are you sure?" He asked for the last time, and the ache in his chest tugged again as he saw you nodding. He handed over the stick and watched helplessly as you stuck it between your teeth. As a last ditch effort, he tossed his lighter into the nearby dumpster.

"I'm sorry", he sighed and took another drag, puffing smoke out his nose, "you can call me a hypocrite, I deserve it. But I just can't-

He was cut off by your cool skin grazing his own as you took his cigarette right out of his mouth. Gently, you placed the burning end onto your unlit one and pulled until you've successfully kindled.

"I'm sorry", you choked, handing back what you'd stolen. He took it, slow and bewildered.

"It's okay. I'm worried, though. Did Lukas do something weird? You know you can tell me."

Your shoulders closed in. You couldn't look him in the eyes.

"No, not Lukas."

Lukas didn't like the hot, crawling excitement his body manifested when you were near. He couldn't focus. After the concert, he didn't want to face you. He tried to tell himself many things: you weren't any hotter than the girls he had back in college, you were too independent, you didn't bother to act feminine,... Didn't matter. You had something else that he wanted.

That was why no matter how tedious and stressful the dinner party was for him, someone who didn't know a lick of Japanese, he would rather sit in silence than to talk to you. You were quiet next to him, as if lost in thought. The entire day, he had noticed you spacing out and getting distracted. It was out of the ordinary for someone as put-together as you to keep saying "I'm sorry, I must have forgotten". The final straw was when you blankly sipped on your drink only to spill on your skirt. You didn't even react, only sighing and wiping it off with the tissue he handed over.

"Excuse me", your voice was monotone, "I'm going to the bathroom."

He didn't know who that was directed at. Only him, he assumed, since everyone else were lost in their own coversation. Seeing that your beer had splashed on the floor near where you sat, he reached over to wipe it off. His hand was nearby the phone you had forgotten when it buzzed, its screen lighting up.

"He is going through an episode again"

Lukas never thought of himself as someone who would snoop - after all, he never really cared for any women to reach that point - yet that text from your mother stirred up a morbid sense of curiosity. He watched the bright screen blinking again as another text popped up.

"Please... talk to your brother. He's threatening to do it again."

The screen door slid open, snapping him out of it. Quicking resuming his position, he smiled at you who were carefully finding your way back to your seat, side-stepping your coworkers. Your weary smile was poorly faked.

Lukas' heart beat fast. He was itching to ask you about what he saw, though he decided to hold it in. He didn't know how to begin the conversation without admitting that he had violated your privacy...that would warrant a strong reaction. Yet, within his curiosity, Lukas caught a glimpse of anticipation. How would you look at him, if you were to get mad? He tried to imagine you scowling, your jaw flexed and fists clenched. He wonder if you would curse him out. Maybe, you would even hit him.

God, he hoped you would.

Lost in a fantasy, he was grounded again when you softly excused yourself out "for some fresh air". Nobody paid any mind when you rushed off, your feet barely touching the ground.

Maybe now wouldn't be a good time to test out the validity of his craving. Lukas drew his attention to the rest of the party, trying to forget about it. He didn't understand a single thing, but Sakamoto's side was getting loud: he saw the guy bashfully trying to get through a coversation before excusing himself shortly thereafter with a cigarette in his mouth.

Anxiety bubbled in his guts as he sat alone and confused, bothered by the mental image of you and Sakamoto outside, bumping into each other. Would Sakamoto notice something was up with you? He might - the senior was sensible and keen-eyed. Lukas wasn't in love with small details, but he had seen the way the man covered for your lies on the spot. Short on breath, he caught his own fingers playing with the hem of his button-down shirt. Lukas tried to remind himself that whatever fixation he had on you should come to a stop, but amidst a feverish daze he couldn't resist the instinct to insert himself into your narrative. He didn't care if your mood would worsen. In fact, he hoped it would. He hoped you would take it out on him. Pulling himself up, he hurried after you.

By the restaurant entrance Lukas looked left and right, his heart racing. He didn't like that the reason he chose to be out was to interrupt your conversation, so he convinced himself that he was looking for something else, like a convenient store to get a pack of smoke. After all, he had a bad habit of craving them when he drank. Maybe, he could even look for Sakamoto and ask for one.

Lukas walked down the street, his eyes scanning faces of strangers. They didn't look his way, blurring past him like shadows. He wondered if he looked the same to you - a flash of color that breezed by, flat, voiceless, inconsequential. He didn't have time to let that thought eat him away when he caught Sakamoto's tall form leaning against a wall, half of his body hidden in an alleyway. Lukas took a long stride toward the man only in time for the buildings to move to the backend of his vision, revealing you who were giving a lit cigarette back.

#yandere oc #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere male #yandere reader insert #yandere x reader

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spurbleu · 2 months

Text

mouth, reprieves ♛︎

[ken sato x afab reader]

S. Ken Sato is a bitter loser. And you are patient- if not a little giving.

warnings: mdni, blowjob

word count: 2k

࿓༚︎︎‧⁎︎✳︎⁎︎‧︎༚︎࿓︎

A pity bloated between your lungs.

The loss wasn’t significant, only by a point. But you supposed that’s what made it sting - the stain of ‘so close’ and ‘almost’ near wicked in the grooves of the bat hold, or the home plate- plastic patched in rifts of dust and dirt (hard to swallow, all of it). Its grief was visible- slumped shoulders and buckling knees stuck to the grime on their uniforms, the announcer’s voice coming in- static and lame.

“And that is a wrap for the Giants 3rd game of the season. First loss this year- what does it mean for the future?”

It rattled the stadium- the echoing disappointment. It folded in the gaps of the chairs, salting the air in a bitter, frustrated sigh. You were unsure if you wanted to join the chorus or curse it.

The memories seeped through- distinct. The pull of his lips when they met yours. The twitch of his knuckles when he held his liquor. His light heels after his last physical therapy session (when magnified- wings. Stamped on the bone of his ankle- fluttering- impatient). The thrum of his snore, thick with anticipation- and expectations (never met).

Kenji’s first game of the season- a loss.

You didn’t take the frigidity personally. You knew the clouds in his iris, the roll of thunder from the back of his throat and off his tongue, was just an indication he cared. The breakage of his indifference, esteem cracking through its steel walls. He had learned to remove blame from his teammates- but as a result the weight on the breadth of his own shoulders grew immense.

It simmered- his insecurities. Boiling beneath the thin patches of skin where he slid on his knees- tender and spiteful. Drives home were borderline silent, aside from the heavy breath against his philtrum and the shifting of his shirt as you rubbed the tense muscles connecting his shoulders. Sometimes, it felt like talking to a wall- resistant to reassurance- as if the letters in ‘you did just fine’ and ‘I’m proud of you’ were venomous (fearful of the gentleness in cyanide).

But it was how he was. Equally as accepting of praise as he was averse to it. A paradox at home base.

You stood on the balls of your feet, swallowing dry air in timid gulps, watching the entrance to the locker room doors. Other wives and girlfriends- some children- and family members stood there in tense guilt- hands itching to embrace the men in a hug that promise ‘next time’.

Eventually, the belly of the stadium spit the players out, slick in its drooly chagrin.

There was a drop to the regular sharpness of his cheeks, ending at the base of his lips- dry and cracked. His hair stuck to his forehead- wet with outlines from the notches of his helmet- which was tucked under his arm (it looked more like a burden than a prize- its frequent glimmer dimmed by dust). The valley under his eyes a depressing shade of plum- his eyes dimmer yet festering.

But it was his brows that exposed the loss of immunity. Pleats in the center of his face, furrowing so low, that if you weren’t close enough, they would have looked joint with the shadow they caused.

When he found you amongst the hushed comfort, the rigidity in his shoulders collapsed into a softer word, striding towards you like a kid who broke a window (baseball myth, but maybe you’ll let him live in it for now).

“H-“

He curled into in gap of your shoulder and your neck, arms lazily embracing the small of your back and pulling you into his chest. You felt the hairs of his brows sink deeper into your shoulder, his breath fanning on your collar bone.

Your hand came to fill its gaps with the tangle of his hair, palming his temples. This embrace was familiar- not because he lost often, but because you found it somewhere in every day. The mornings during breakfast, pillow talk under plains of insomnia, the after-sex glow. Touch tugged a heart string in you both, and although there was no proof, you swear you could feel his heart slow when it kissed yours.

(He made you a romantic, and even after years the shoe still feels too big)

You pull away, placing a gentle kiss on his lips. He didn’t kiss you back, but you didn’t mind. It was more of a reminder anyway- a way for you to say I’m here.

“Let’s go home.”

▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎

Looking from a doorway in the movies always appears more tranquil than it actually is.

There is nothing peaceful about watching your partner blister under their own defeat. The bounce of his knee, a desperate attempt to relax the tension that mends his muscles to the bone. You, left in your own uncertainty, bit the bumpy flesh behind your bottom lip, legs flinching with the impulse to do.

Comfort, rally, motivate. Your mind searched for a better plan of action in the rise and fall of his shoulders, as he scrutinized the recordings of the game in dim light under a magnifying glass (ants in summer heat).

The body talks. Yours was saying thousands of things at once- none resonating. Dry hands, calloused by hourglass sand and the gruff reality of your own exhaustion, would do nothing but stir him from his own brood then bring him deeper into it. Your mouth would say filtered words with little connotation, leaving you both in a spell that felt purposefully blundering.

Then a spark, somewhere lower than your hips. A blushing growth- spoke in deep tones of arousal and charity.

Alone, your hands and mouth proved useless.

But together…

You pushed yourself off the wide wall, shuffling over in your pajama set loud enough that he could hear you coming. He didn’t move, eyes still trained in silent remorse as he watched his tapes. Your heart dragged on the surface of your ribs- pity.

You came to stand in front of the television, reaching behind you and grabbing the remote before forcing his chin up with your other hand. His jaw rested on your curled fingers, vulnerable. His eyes looked burned at both ends, the wick of his iris without fire, or rebuttal.

You took a seat on his lap, wrapping your arms on his slumped shoulders. A beat, before he caved into you, pulling you into the crook of his hips. You molded into him, taking a moment to turn the television off, dowsing you both in a dark, somnolent ease.

You familiarized yourself with every version of this pose. In his lap, drowse eating at both of your guts, limbs pulling each other closer still. It wasn’t a planned routine- just comfortable. You’d heard the line ‘we were made for each other’ about a dozen times in different movies and books- and although you found it cliché- there was a truth to it.

Good love can be cliché. Done over and over because it feels right. Kenji- his arms and his heart- feel right to you and they always have.

(Again, he makes you a romantic).

“You were amazing today, baby.” You said into his ear. He huffed- but you took his grip on your thighs as encouragement.

You kissed his cheek, then his jaw, and with each purse of your lips you tried to make a point. “You are the best baseball player in the league,” you continued down to his neck, hands coming to rest on his collar bone, “one game doesn’t change that…”

You felt his throat rumble, and it took you a few kisses to realize he had spoken.

“Keep…going.”

Fuck.

It was embarrassing to be aroused when you’re supposed to be comforting someone, but God. The timbres of his voice, their effortless depth and coon, pleading you of all people to do more was enough to make you start riding his thigh.

You reminded yourself that tonight was about his pleasure, and your own would have to be on the back burner.

You slipped your hands under his shirt, cool flesh meeting his hot abdominal, twitching under your nails. You traced the shadows of his muscle, enjoying the mumble that shook his adams apple as you kissed under his jaw.

“You’re talented and everyone knows it,” down the dip between his collarbones, “you’ve carried the team and brought them together…” your hands made your way to his chest, where you could feel his heart beating under the grooves of your palm. Good. You tapped his shoulder from underneath his shirt, and he understood, immediately shedding the shirt and throwing it carelessly into the dark.

You continued down his stomach, sending occasionally glances up. His face was veiled in something rounder now- the earlier layers of woe and its harsh lines drawn by the furrow of his brow replaced by something a little more sanguine. It peaked from behind the whites of his eyes and glowed under the plush of his cheeks in a blooming pink.

You dragged your lips further down, navigating the narrow of his waist, “You’ve got a handsome face to match your wit,” you kissed the band of his sweats, before you curled the digits of your fingers over, peeling it back to reveal the near painful tent spring from the cotton of his boxers, “and…fuck your big…”

You swallowed, massaging the cusp of his cock, feeling as he curved his hips into your palm, a soft moan breaching the clench of his teeth. You looked up at him- beautiful in the light of his own rousing. His throat bobbled; words caught in his tonsils.

You didn’t need him to speak- you knew what they were.

You brought back to his boxers, cock slapping the underside of his stomach. He sucked a breath through his teeth above you- desperation in the discoloration of his bottom lip- bruised. The shroom cap was weeping your name in a pearl of pre-cum, which you massaged with your thumb. You slowly pumped his length in your hands, hand moving in slow, tight swells at the base of it.

You knew it well- you had felt it a dozen times over. The vein that crawled from its root on the right side- thick- spelling your name in morse. The deepened pink as it ran up to his tip, the glans warm in hot colors of desire. The velvet that patched its stiff underside was particularly memorized- molded in the walls of your cunt.

But there would always be that stutter in your breath- your body talking in haphazard beats- a need he fills to the brim. It wasn’t shock, it wasn’t admiration, but you settle for somewhere in between.

“You’re so strong- from your injury, to protecting the city,” if felt somewhat strange- authentic compliments paired with the pumping of his cock, the tip of his jaw and buck of his hips begged your fruition in low moans, “there is no other man like Kenji Sato…”

A gruff groan from the pit of his lungs made your own sex thrum with a familiar density, and you let a soft moan escape your own lips as you slipped them down his cock.

Hypoxia bloomed in the back of your throat- bright purple capturing oxygen. You let your maw clench and reel at the pressure- familiar but desperate for accommodation. Your breath came out in a single syllable against the base of him, nostrils flaring.

He moaned above you, the tremble of his ecstasy rolling down his shoulders and to the bridge of his cock, rattling your tonsils with an unflattering gag. His hands came to hold your hair, grip massaging the back of your scalp with a needy grip.

“Hah…shit…you’re too good to me…”

You bobbed your head in protest, tongue flattening to cup his front. Your fingers worked what your mouth couldn’t, fondling the sensitive bonds of his groin- slick in saliva. He let out a gruff growl, holding your head with a fatal grip- pushing you down to swallow more of him.

You held his thighs for balance you kneeled between them- tears pricking your eyes. You swear you feel him at the ends of your tongue as he rolled his hips into your mouth- hollowed cheeks to take the grit of him- avoiding grazing teeth.

You glanced up at him- met with the bend of his jaw- mouth open as he moaned your name like a mantra. It was so melodic- and for something so lewd it was sweet. Honied in the places that we were taught filthy- buried beneath the stickiness of arousal and sex was something warmer.

You sped up your pace- promising a song from him as you pushed your tongue to the roof of your mouth, tightening the plunge of your throat.

“Ohshit- fucking hell you feel so good baby…so good to me,” His ruts were becoming sloppy, breaking under the weight of his own overstimulation, “I’m gonna cum down that perfect mouth of yours…”

You loved him like this. Goo in your hands, the sharper edges of his jaw and his tongue softened when laid next to you. Saying your name like he’d forget it- hoping it brands into his flesh, maybe his bones. It brought your own weeping hole thrilling pleasure- the puff of your heart rapid.

Lost in rapture- the smaller moments and the forgotten words- somewhere in the craters of your bodies. You’d accepted it- becoming idyllic- eased into a life where love could mean so many things at once and all be right.

As in- the kiss goodnight is just as important as the blowjob after a loss.

You were made ugly- snot drippling down your lips in blunt weeps, tears wetting your lashes in asphyxiation. You were positive the round of your cheeks was rosed- glossed by the precum and spit that wetted your lips as you slipped up and down, tandem rhythm with his hips.

You could feel strands of your hair being ripped from the sensitivity of your scalp- his hands gripping hard enough it felt as though he’s trying to hold your skull. His moans were restless now, a wet and sickening chorus to the hymn of your nose hitting his stomach.

“Shit-shitshitshit oh fuck I’m cu-cummm uhmm…”

It painted the cave of your throat, the cap of your tongue, the roof of your mouth- ruthless. Filled your throat in hues of stress, lost to the compassion of your molars and the crest of your mouth. You could feel the excess ropes peel back the corners of your lips as it bubbled to meet his pelvis, which was still fucking your mouth in a noisy, orgasmic frenzy.

It slid from your fissure with a quiet pop, and you took his wrists, pulling them limply from your head as you stood, sitting back on his lap, softening cock resting behind your ass. You kissed his throat, feeling the shuddering breaths that fogged the air around you, catching his expression- knotted brows and tight nose- compressed in a vague expression of lust- and thanks.

You ran your fingers through his hair- kissing up to his ear, “I meant everything I said, earlier, y'know.”

You felt him nod shakily. “I know…sometimes I just like to hear you say it.”

You snorted- there he was. “Cocky bastard.”

He chucked, pulling you into his chest, smile soft against the indent of your shoulder. “Well, you had it down your throat.”

You pulled back, giving him his first real kiss of the night. Admittedly, it was to shut him up, but when he pulled you closer still, lips molding to yours in the way they always do, you both knew it was because you wanted to.

You pulled away, eyes opening to his face- lips pursed and eyes closed (adorably stupid, stupidly adorable- somewhere between the two) you laughed, pressing a kiss between his brows.

“Okay Mr. Romance let’s get you to bed.”

You began to slide off his waist before he pulled you back down, eyes open and revealing something much more earnest. The harsher edges of his face seemed to smooth over (rock eroded, calmed), and he leaned his head to your chin.

“Thank you.”

You sighed into his hair- deep down you wanted to say he didn’t need to thank you. But he had enough about him tonight.

“You’re welcome- my throat is going to be sore because of you.”

His head came up to meet yours, and you knew he was back when you saw his classic smirk pull at the corners of his lips. “Should I loosen it up again?”

You rolled your eyes, sliding off his waist before grabbing his hand and pulling him up. You wrapped your arms up to base of his shoulder blades and he returned the embrace, body molding to the shape of your front.

The sensitive part of you wanted to stay like this forever- pushing into him- held- safe. If you closed your eyes, you could, and somewhere in your forever you heard,

“I love you.”

#ultraman rising #oneshot #fanfic #kenji sato #ken sato #kenji sato x reader #kenji sato x you #ken sato x reader #ken sato x you #fanfiction #f!reader

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kolyubov · 6 months

Text

Rises the moon.

✧ pairing. Doa3 x gn!reader

✧ word count. 2k.

✧ contents. fluff, ooc doa3, relationships are not specified (this is not necessarily romantic, take it as you please <3), mostly self-indulgent. if I missed anything, please tell me.

✧ author's note. it's been so long since i posted anything,,, i hope this is good enoughwaaaaeuxjwunxsk

It was past midnight and the apartment was enveloped in silence. You couldn't hear anyone talking in the living room, meaning everyone was asleep.

To be able to enjoy a quiet rest in this place was rare. Midnights are the most bustling hours, when everyone gathers to discuss “important” business until early in the morning, before leaving for whatever they have to do.

Considering this, you could have had a nice sleep for once… if it wasn’t for the rain storming outside.

A sudden thunder crash caused you to abruptly wake up in the middle of your dream— Your heart thumping quickly against your chest and your breath coming out in heavy gasps. You felt disoriented for a few seconds until you eventually calmed down.

Usually, storms don’t scare you, in fact, they’re quite enjoyable along with a lecture or a movie, but not now when you're alone in your room and in the middle of the night, surrounded by the darkness and with your vision barely helping you to perceive your surroundings.

Among the dark, shadows shape into tall monsters lurking from the corner of your room, seemingly waiting for the right moment to lay their ghostly hands on you before disappearing after each lightning. The brief second of luminance makes you realize that those shadows are just that, no one was going to actually hurt you.

Yet, going back into the land of dreams was difficult under these circumstances.

You tried by closing your eyes, ignoring the “monsters” and the loud rumbling of the thunderstorm, and taking deep breaths to calm your unsteady heart but you just couldn't fall asleep. The unsafe sensation wouldn't go away, perhaps until the sun rises again.

However, you had some kind of idea that could help you sleep.

You sat on your bed for a while, contemplating the storm through the window that doesn't seem to end anytime soon and trying to gain the courage to leave your room.

Maybe this idea wasn't the best one you could have, but it was the first thing that came to your sleepy brain, and it's not like you were in the mood to think of any consequences due to what you were going to do.

With a light groan, you leave the comfort of your bed and grab your fluffy pillow in between your arms. The wooden floor cracks under your feet as you make your way to the door of your room then carefully opening it, peeking through the small gap, making sure no dangers are around before stepping outside.

Luckily, the hallway was slightly illuminated with one lamp that hung from the ceiling— The old wooden floor cracks under your deliberated steps as you make your way to his room. Once you stand in front of it, and just as you place a hand on the knob, another sudden thunder makes you jerk in surprise.

Was that a sign from God to not do this?

Without properly rethinking —also too tired to think of any potential risks— you twist the knob, and immediately your eyes land on his sleeping peaceful form; almost completely wrapped with a blanket but letting you see his face. His lips barely parted and his eyelashes rested over his cheeks.

It's not every day when you see Fyodor sleeping on a comfy mattress…

Until now, you had always seen him working day and night underground, sitting in front of his bright purple monitor screen and typing away weird codes or messages that seemed impossible for you to deceive. And if he was not working underground, instead, he was taking a stroll through the city or drinking tea in some restaurant that picked his curiosity.

But sleeping didn't seem to be like a normal activity for him to do.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, hm?”

Fyodor's groggy voice makes you snap out of your thoughts. Now he’s looking at you with a gentle smile as you stand on his doorframe, gripping your pillow awkwardly as you wait for some type of permission— And almost as if he’s reading your mind, he motions for you to come closer with his hand.

The mattress sinks under your weight as you get into the bed and place your pillow just beside his. Wasting no time, Fyodor wraps his blanket around your frame. And it takes some time for you to realize that he's gladly sharing his personal space, which adds to another unusual thing he's doing tonight.

“I couldn't sleep.” You mutter, as he pulls you closer.

“Why's that, dearest?”

“The storm…”

A small chuckle escaped his lips, finding adorable the fact that you needed company just because of a mere storm. Though, he knew the answer even before you said it.

One of his hands —usually cold— is now warming up your cheek, cupping it and rubbing small circles with his thumb as if to soothe you, to tell that he’s there for you without any words needed, simply light touches and whispers shared in between the two.

And for a small second you return the gesture, gently tracing the dark circles underneath his eyes as you scan his features; his thin eyebrows, his purple eyes, and his nose before finally stopping at his lips— His lower lip a little bitten and red.

Unconsciously, your own lips twitch upwards as your mind clouds with the idea of kissing every inch of his pale skin, having him softly laughing underneath you.

To hide your smile, you rest your head against his chest, pressing your ear to where his heart is. The soft thud makes a gentle symphony, a calming sound, that allows any tension left in your body to slip away. Fyodor’s presence fills your senses, making you forget about the rain violently storming outside. Something pulls you closer as your arms wrap around him.

Fyodor doesn’t complain of the proximity, instead, his slender fingers play with your hair, twirling it around his digits or untying knots that were made while you were sleeping before the thunder strike woke you up.

It’s not a surprise that your eyelids eventually start feeling heavy, with all the sweet caresses and the warmth provided, your body is ready to resume your sleep, enveloped in the most comfortable shelter you could ever ask for—

“Oh…”

One of Fyodor's hands cups the back of your head tenderly, pulling you flush against him as if to avoid someone from snatching his most precious thing.

“…What’s wrong, Fedya?” You want to pull away, but a high-pitched giggle comes from behind you, accompanied by the sound of rustling the sheets.

Seems like we have company.

“What are you two doing sleeping without me? That's mean… Leaving a friend out is not nice, dovey.” Nikolai grumbles as he climbs to the bed, lying on his side and hugging you from behind, “Why not come to me when the storm startles your peaceful sleep, hm?

The jester seems not afraid in the slightest to have physical contact with Fyodor, or anyone really…

You can feel his hand removing Fyodor's from your head before he nuzzles against the crook of your neck; the tip of his nose brushes up and down your skin purposely to tickle you. Oh, how much Nikolai loved hearing your giggles as you squirmed around his bear hug, it made his heart almost beat out of his chest.

“I do not recall asking you to show up in my room, Nikolai.” By the tone of his voice, Fyodor doesn't seem pleased with the additional company taking space on his bed and ruining your peaceful encounter.

Nikolai’s hands trail up your ribs, and without any warning, he begins tickling you— not stopping even as you try to pry them away among laughs.

“Dove, you’re not gonna make me leave, are you?” He whispers against your ear, voice whiny and you are almost completely sure that he's pouting right now, hoping you at least feel pity for leaving him out, “Tell Dos that you want me to stay…”

But just by eyeing Fyodor, the answer is more than clear on his face. Refuting his words to let Nikolai sleep with the two of you is most likely ending with you and the jester being kicked out.

“C'mon, C'mon! You're scared of the storm, aren't you, birdie?” Nikolai pecks your cheek and pets your hair dramatically. “Poor baby! Shouldn't we help this frail dove together, Dos?”

“There's no need for that.” Fyodor's patience is going thin.

Nikolai clicks his tongue in annoyance, sitting up on the bed with his arms crossed like a child and glaring at Fyodor for a while, trying to convince him just by holding eye contact until he gives up, knowing there’s no room for negotiating.

“Fine, I'll leave… Gosh, you're such a killjoy.”

As he slips out the bed, muttering curses under his breath, Fyodor sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. It's not the first —and definitely not the last— time he has to put up with Nikolai’s behavior.

God blessed him this time, it seems. He didn't need to make too much of a fuss to make Nikolai leave.

When the door opens and the jester intruder is ready to leave in order to resume the calming moment that Fyodor was truly appreciating, instead of leaving, Nikolai throws his arms up in the air excitedly.

“Dear Sigma! What a great surprise!”

The casino manager stands in the doorframe, rubbing one of his eyes. It appears like his sleep was interrupted as well.

“Uhm… Could you guys keep it down, please? I woke up because you're so noisy and I'm trying to—”

Sigma didn't have time to finish speaking before he was dragged by Nikolai, tugging on his sleeve and pulling him to the bed. Fyodor’s bed. Then pushing him down to the mattress as if he was nothing but another plushie added to the collection.

“Gogol! I didn’t come here to have a sleepover!” Sigma complains, rolling his eyes before meeting your gaze, and giving you an awkward smile.

Then meeting Fyodor's.

Something didn’t seem to add up.

“Am I… missing something?”

“This little dove needs our help, my dear friend! You see, the storm ruffled their lovely feathers so they needed to shelter in our embrace.”

Sigma raises an eyebrow at the jester’s words, and even if he's stuck in this —unwanted— situation it's not difficult to understand the message. He sighs, lying back on the bed and holding your hand, “It’s going to be okay, angel.”

He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze before bringing it to his lips and placing a soft peck on the back of it. He cares about you more than he hates having to deal with Nikolai.

The four of you managed to fit in Fyodor's bed with little space in between. Nikolai's head is now resting on your chest, him in between your legs, his arms around your waist. On the other hand, Fyodor and Sigma were lying on each side of you, either playing with your hair or stroking your hand. Any soft touch brings you closer to dozing off.

Fyodor mutters a small apology because of his "friends" behavior. His fingers graze your palm before he locks his fingers with yours as well. Silence slowly begins flooding the room; you feel perfectly safe with them around, so you close your eyes, letting your body relax.

“Oh! I have the greatest idea, how about we have a sleepover and do our nails and—”

“Nikolai.” The three of you called his name almost as if grounding a child; making the jester frown and pout.

You couldn't suppress your giggles, thinking that this might be the first —and the last— time you'll have the three men from the same dangerous organization sleeping together in the same bed only because they care about you, in their own way.

The storm slowly fades away, forgotten in the warmth of their embrace.

When waking up the next morning, you'll have to face the pain in your limbs from being entangled around them… And wondering how you and Fyodor ended up in between Sigma and Nikolai's hug.

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01zfan · 3 months

Text

midsummer | o. sh

ballerina!shotaro x violinist!reader | 8.4k words

first commission ever LETZ GOOOOO. this was so fun to write and yes it took me back to my orchestra days heh.

contains: unprotected sex (she’s on birth control yassss)

rain kept falling outside—the water gathered on the glass of the window before combining to become a droplet heavy enough to slide down. you kept taking peaks behind you, craning your neck every time a flash of light followed by a crack of thunder stole your attention. each time you looked at the rainfall you were amazed, murmuring something to yourself about how it was really coming down. summer showers weren’t uncommon, but something as sudden and hard as this in the middle of june was peculiar. you were happy practice was cancelled for the orchestra chamber as you looked at the stormy shadow of your window pane. you knew that you would’ve been trapped underneath scaffolding somewhere in the city getting wet from the torrential downpour.

after the rain went back to being steady and the thunderclap passed through you focused back on the music stand in front of you. a sigh filled the air as you remembered this part of the show—the timing during this part was tricky, something your section struggled with. as first chair you had to have the metronome engraved into your mind, relying on your knowledge of the music and the conductor. you couldn’t even use your feet to keep time due to everything else in the show being too quiet. during the last rehearsal the conductor looked over his glasses at the sound of someone tapping their foot on the hollow surface of the stage. you still remember feeling ridiculous for bringing your section member to the side after and telling them not to tap their feet. everything about the situation felt absurd, telling a musician to not keep time. you even struggled with the time signature; you developed the habit of nodding to yourself to start right on beat and counting in your head meticulously while letting your fingers drift between first and third position. each time you got it right during your practice you rewarded yourself by slouching against the back of your couch, and each time you failed you would grumble to yourself and watch the rain fall. for the past hour all you seemed to do was look at the rain while your exasperated sounds were drained out by the patter.

you knew you had been practicing for too long. when you started three hours ago in your designated practice chair next to your couch, you sat with perfect performance posture and silently ghosted over the strings of your instrument. not pressing your bow hard enough to the strings to create sound was something like a courtesy to your neighbors, an effort to not play too loudly in case the sound of your violin passed through the walls of your building. you only hummed the notes the notes, occasionally looking down the wooden fingerboard to make sure you were in the right place.

you first took quick peaks towards your door when you started standing up and walking around your apartment. you played what you knew from memory without the sheet music in front of you, occasionally pressing your bow just hard enough to bring tiny squeaks while you imagined the correct tune. what you didn’t know you filled in the gaps, trying to recall your endless weeks of practice.

by the time you sat on your couch you were full on looking towards your door, thinking every single bump or movement of your building was someone on the other side. even though the sheet music was in front of you it was only an afterthought, your eyes were scanned the same line over and over and over again. the horsehairs on your bow were fully being pressed into the strings of your instrument now—but you still weren’t trying to disturb your neighbors. you could shamelessly admit to yourself and yourself alone that you were trying to grab the attention of the person that lived across the hall because you told yourself it was all under the guise of wanting to practice. you looked to your door again, bringing out the loudest sound you could possibly muster from your instrument.

you didn’t always practice with a partner. you actually preferred to practice alone. when you practiced with other people in the orchestra you always became unbearably aware of your habits. the way you obnoxiously tapped your feet when going over a section, your constant sounds, your chicken scratch in the margins of your sheet music. people leaned over your shoulder and ask what does that say? one too many times. so you only practiced with someone when they requested your help. you never lingered around the theater after rehearsal and you never went into the soundproof practice rooms where people convened. you always went straight home with your instrument strapped to your back as you navigated through the city.

one day during your commute home you felt someone occasionally taking peaks at you. you weren’t a stranger to looks from people on public transit while you annotated music. usually they would take one look and see that you were doing something so insignificant to their lives they would look away. they would stop typing on their phones for a second to see what you were doing, just to go right back to their devices. but this person kept looking at you, almost like they were trying to figure you out. eventually your resolve of benevolence won, not once looking up from your annotations made the person lose interest like everyone else and they stopped looking at you.

when you made it out of the station and to street level, you felt the same look from the train. this time you looked up from your phone with your meanest scowl, hoping to deter any further interaction. even when you looked at shotaro with furrowed eyebrows and downturned lips he looked at you with a smile. his eyes were wide only for a moment, instantly warming when you made eye contact with him. your frown faltered and he took a step towards you, failing to talk above the music that blasted in your ears.

“what?” you asked once you moved one side of your headphones off your ear.

“sorry,” shotaro looked apologetic, but still had a wide smile across his face. “we are in the same theater production company.” he clarified.

instantly you nodded, recognizing the second soloist of the midsummer night’s dream ballet performance your company was putting together. the few times you practiced with the dancers you recognized the man in front of you, helping the demi-soloist and the other ballerinas with steps they might’ve missed.

you realized that shotaro was holding out his hand for you while you still had remnants of your scowl resting on your face like a mask. instantly you bowed and reached your hand forward. he grabbed your hand firmly, shaking it repeatedly while he continued to smile.

“i’m sorry.” you continued shaking his head as you wracked your brain for his name “shotaro right?” you guessed.

shotaro was beaming in front of you as he nodded his head.

“yes. that’s me!” shotaro said, still smiling.

he continued shaking your hand for another beat before pulling away. people filtered through the two of you as you were both completely still on the crosswalk. no one seemed to notice but you suddenly felt like you had nothing left to say. the music playing through your headphones switched to the first piece of the show, the overture written by mendelssohn. your mind started going over the sheet music in your head while you looked at shotaro. you blinked a few times and shotaro’s smile somehow got even wider before he pointed in a random direction.

“i just wanted to say hi.” he pulled his hand back from yours and readjusted the duffle bag across his body. “it’s nice to see you.” he said.

you were only able to nod before shotaro turned away. you debated on running across the street before running out of time but the blinking orange hand on the opposite side of the street made you stay in place. you waited behind shotaro waiting for the incoming traffic to pause so you could cross the street again. suddenly the path you had been taking for the better part of a year was jumbled in your mind, you had to look up at the street names to remember where you were. you felt embarrassed for seemingly no reason waiting behind shotaro for the street to let you cross. you prayed he didn’t notice you lingering behind him. you wanted to skip the awkward interaction of shotaro knowing you were still behind him while you desperately tried to focus on the music playing in your headphones rather than the bright attentive smile he gave you while he was speaking. but just like you felt shotaro staring at you on the train he felt your eyes burning holes into his back. he turned around again when the street was finally good to cross, and purposefully slowed down sos you two were walking side by side.

“i guess we are going to same way.” he said cheerfully.

you were expecting shotaro to walk down the street with you then turn on the next block. when you two kept walking side by side down the road you started finding your situation more and more ridiculous. by the time you made it to your apartment you and shotaro were still side by side looking at eachother in disbelief.

“there’s no way.” shotaro said, laughing.

“you live here too?” you asked.

“yeah.” shotaro unzipped his duffle bag to pull out a key that matched yours. “i live on the fifth floor.” he said.

you watched shotaro’s eyes widen when your lips parted. his expression matched yours second later, and he laughed in disbelief as both of your took the elevator to the fifth floor. it was hard to hide your shock when you went into your apartment that was across from shotaro’s.

in the beginning, knowing that shotaro was across the hall was anything but comforting. you thought you were quiet practicing before, but after that you were even more silent. for the first hour of your practice you didn’t even take your instrument out, you only read the sheet music and fingered the notes on your thigh. you weren’t planning on playing your instrument until shotaro knocked on your door, dressed in his usual practice attire. you opened the door only wide enough to see his almost apologetic face.

“sorry to interrupt, but do you think you could help me?” he asked.

you still kept the door closed most of the way, but you adjusted your body against the doorframe to let shotaro know you were still listening. he took your silent cue as permission to keep going. quickly shotaro looked at the phone clutched in his hand. you saw remnants of the notes app, how he had a list of the pieces in performance in a checklist.

“i’m having trouble with opus 61 number three.” he said.

shotaro looked up from his phone to you and you nodding your head, knowing instantly what he was talking about.

“the song with the choir?” you clarified.

“that’s right.” shotaro nodded and turned his phone off. “well i’m having a little bit of trouble with this part. and my instructor says that live music helps best. but i can’t find a live rendition of it anywhere so maybe i thought—“

when you opened your door and invited shotaro in, muttering a quick i can help you, you would’ve never thought it would lead to him becoming your unofficial practice buddy. there was something unspoken between the two of you, several times a week you would play your instrument a little louder than usual and shotaro would cross the small hallway and knock on your door. you would play for him and he would dance for you, showing you a type of grace you could only dream of. you two bonded through your shared love for theater and your similar habits when practicing.

you could never outwardly say that you started looking forward to practicing with shotaro, that you felt your heart seize in your chest when you saw him pirouette around your living room while you played him incidental music. the only thing you could admit to yourself is that you started growing developing the habit of playing your violin loudly, letting the sound ring in your apartment hoping that it would bleed over across the hall and bring shotaro knocking at your door.

that’s why you were shamelessly playing the same opus you knew shotaro was struggling with. you were the most alert you had been all night, no longer focused on the sheet music but looking at your door. you played over the sound of the thunderclaps outside and over the sound of rainfall that was no longer a gentle patter.

the sound of the weather outside and your playing was so loud you almost missed the sound of someones heavy steps. you swore you heard them hesitate in front of your door, before heading down the hallway. you had your face pressed to the peephole of your door in a second, trying to get a view of whoever passed. through the tiny glass hole you saw shotaro ruffling through his duffle bag in a panic. he had every pocket unzipped, he even had some of his clothes on the floor next to his feet as he ruffled through the bag. you thought you saw him press the pockets of his pants a million times before you saw his shoulders sag in defeat. while still looking through the peephole you turned the deadbolt of your door to the right obnoxiously, letting the sound fill the hallway. you saw shotaro snap his head towards your door before running his hands through his hair. you lowered from the peephole and fixed your own appearance, smoothing out your pajama shirt and clearing your throat before opening the door.

you started developing the habit of finding his eyes first, wanting to see the way they’d crease in the corners when he smiled at you. but when you opened the door a tiny crack just like the first time you ever let shotaro in, your attention instead was pulled to his chest and his wet shirt that clung to it. you had to pull your eyes away to look at shotaro in the face, trying not to focus on his hand that pushed back wet strands of hair that clung to his forehead. shotaro was sopping wet looking frazzled with his open duffle bag and the contents strewn around his feet.

“you got caught in the rain.” you said simply.

shotaro nodded shamefully before laughing. he ran his hands through his hair again, this time successfully pushing it back from his forehead.

“i left practice early to avoid the rain.” shotaro looked inside of his bag one more time before letting it loosely hang in front of him. “i think i forgot my keys at the studio.” he said.

for a moment both you and shotaro were completely silent. you leaned heavily on the door, your nails picking at the chipping white paint on your side.

“what are you going to do?” you asked, shuffling on your feet.

shotaro checked his phone, seeing that it was incredibly too late to wake up the superintendent of the building. it wasn’t an option to go back to the dance studio either, evident in the thunderclap that booked in the hallway.

“i was going to call one of my friends. i can hang at his place until the storm blows over.” shotaro said.

watching shotaro pick up his phone filled your mind with the sense of finality. for a moment everything still before you held out your hand to stop him.

“that’s not necessary.” you said quickly. “you can just stay here.”

instantly shotaro shook his head, holding out his own hand.

“i can’t ask you to do that.” he said quickly, still looking at his phone.

“shotaro please i insist.” you shyly opened your door the rest of the way, trying to inconspicuously pick out the paint that stuck underneath your nail. “don’t wake your friend up.” you said.

shotaro pulled his gaze away from his phone before grabbing at the strap of his duffle bag nervously. you move backwards into your apartment and beckon to him as a lightning bolt illuminates your apartment. shotaro steps inside but stays in the entryway of your apartment, swaying back and forth on his feet like he’s never been here before. you look at his wet clothes that still cling to his body like a second skin and motion towards your bathroom.

“if you want to change.” you said, suddenly feeling embarrassed.

shotaro understands, because he nods and quickly makes his way to your bathroom. you stand in the same place, your violin and bow still in your hand as you look at the light underneath the crack in your door. you look at the trail of shotaro’s wet socks leading towards the bathroom. you can’t stop yourself from thinking about shotaro in your bathroom, how he’s probably undressing himself to change into dry clothes. you imagine him shirtless, how his skin probably looked dewy from the rain. you shuffled on your feet thinking about him, how he was on the other side of your door peeling off another article of clothing.

you were so lost in your thoughts that you were oblivious to the world around you. when shotaro emerged from the bathroom in sweatpants and a black shirt you had to blink to refocus. for the second time that night the two of you were in a silent and shy staring contest, both of you too afraid to say something. shotaro clasped his hands together and bowed lightly, showing his appreciation.

“thank you so much. seriously.” shotaro said, taking a step away from the bathroom

you began walking forward straight for your couch, shaking your head profusely at his constant gratitude.

“it’s nothing.” you assured.

when you made it to the couch you sat down, looking over the back to stare at shotaro. he walked casually around the couch, passing in front of you before sitting on the opposite end. you felt ridiculous holding your instrument in your hand, but at the same time you were grateful to have something to hold onto. having shotaro inside your apartment to do anything besides practice made you anxious. loosening and tightening your grip on your violin and bow was the only relief you got from the anxiety you felt sneaking up your spine.

“can i try holding it?” shotaro asked.

you looked from your end of the couch, eyes wide as you tried to comprehend what shotaro was asking. when he saw the lost look on your face he pointed to your violin like a child.

“oh.” you hesitated for a moment, trying to think of the last time anyone who wasn’t you touched your instrument. even if something in you was telling you to turn down shotaro, a larger part of you could never say no to him. so you scooted closer to the center of the couch and shotaro did the same, moving to less than an arms length away from you as you handed your instrument to him. “here you go.”

shotaro took the violin slowly, almost like he was expecting you to take it back at the last second. he tried to remember the way you held your instrument during practice and replicated your pose.

“am i holding it right?” shotaro asked.

you watched as shotaro held your violin entirely too far away from his collarbone and his hand didn’t support the fingerboard. if anyone else was to hold your instrument the way you watched shotaro hold it now you would’ve snatched it away—maybe it was the rain that calmed you down or maybe the look of pure confusion on shotaro’s face as he realized how uncomfortable his current position was. instead of taking your instrument back you only giggled and shook your head.

“not at all.” you said lightly.

your hands flexed at your sides before your fingers spread apart. you were quick running your palms down the fabric of your pants before bringing them up to shotaro’s hands. you were slow when you corrected his bent wrist, pushing out his flexed wrist until it was relaxed and his arm created a relaxed line. you were more timid when you went to his head, suddenly something was stopping you from bringing your hands to shotaro’s chin. you instead moved your own head, and you watched shotaro mimic your form. when you straightened your back he did the same, and when you prepped your hand shotaro moved his to the peg box. his form was perfect, but your eyes kept going to the slight slouch in his back. your hands flexed again at your sides, and shotaro looked to you again with confusion on his face.

“okay, how about now?” he asked.

shotaro asked the question so honestly you started to feel bad. he was showing genuine interest in what you do, but all you could think about was what it would feel like to touch him. your mind drifted to when shotaro showed you the different starting positions of ballet. how gentle his soft hands felt on your extended arms as he corrected your form. you felt like you were on fire, and you nearly shivered feeling the cold metal of his rings graze your skin. you were so tense shotaro had to work apart your clammy hand that balled into fists. he teased you by asking if you were nervous and your voice cracked when you quickly said no. looking back to that moment you don’t know why you would put yourself in that same position again. you felt so many butterflies in your stomach you thought you were going to be sick, and you felt something akin to embarrassment dust across the planes of your face.

you saw shotaro’s hold on your instrument falter, and just like when he showed you his ballet technique the space around the two of you stilled. the rain continued to fall silently as shotaro offered you the violin back.

“can you show me?” shotaro asked.

you slowly took your instrument back, purposely grabbing the opposite side shotaro held so your hands wouldn’t touch. you already knew the smell of him would stick to the stained wood of your violin and that he would be looking intensely at you as he took in every detail—you didn’t think you could handle touching him.so you purposefully moved your violin to the side of your body that wasn’t facing shotaro. the tiny amount of peace you got in the form of your separation on the couch dissipated as shotaro scooted closer.

you tried focusing away from shotaro, trying to be oblivious to the way he took in every part of you. he didn’t look at you with the strictness he had during rehearsal. he wasn’t scanning for errors in your posture, or your bent wrist. he was looking at you with tenderness. when he leaned forward to look the collarbone your violin rested on you thought you were going to snap a peg off in your grip. you forced yourself to remain calm, smiling back at shotaro when he finally looked into your eyes again.

“does it hurt?”

the sultry tone shotaro sudden had made words get trapped in your throat. it was the same voice he spoke to you all those months ago, when you were standing in front of your couch and shotaro was guiding your arms above your head. just like that is what he said to you then, and you had to swallow thickly and adjust your body to regain your bearings just like you were doing now.

“does what hurt?” you speak so quietly it’s almost drowned out in the sound of the rain.

shotaro’s body was so close to yours you could feel the warmth of his thigh bleeding through the fabric of his sweatpants. even if there was two layers of clothes separating you if felt like skin-to-skin contact. with shotaro this close you could see the how the ends of his hair was still wet from the rain. he smelled like soil after light rain, the comforting petrichor scent and sandalwood filled your nose. he overwhelmed all your senses simply by sitting next to you. you felt hyperaware of everything, so much so that you snapped your head to shotaro’s shoulder that leaned into the upholstery of your couch as he came a little lifted his hands. your eyes were wide taking him in, and your heart was beating so fast it reverberated in your chest and went all the way up to your head. all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears when shotaro spoke into the air almost as quiet as you.

“can i?” he asked.

his hand was heading straight for your protruding collarbone, waiting right above the bone as he looked to you for approval. you still held your violin tightly in place, as if you were trying to hold onto a reason for shotaro being so close to you. when you nodded you convinced yourself it was only for educational purposes, even when he dragged his finger slowly up to the base of your neck. your form fell apart slowly when shotaro added another finger to glide at your neck. you completely crumbled by the time he got to your jaw, just in time for his other hand to gently grab the violin away from your loosening grip. you let shotaro grab it without a second thought, and you watched him carefully put the instrument on the couch behind him. he other hand stayed on you and when he was done placing your instrument down he let his hand rest on his thigh. you didn’t know what to feel, or what to do. your hands were balled into fists on your lap, trying desperately to get shotaro to keep touching you despite not moving an inch.

when all of shotaro’s fingers settled on your jaw he turned your head slowly, looking the most serious you’ve ever seen him.

“is this alright?” shotaro asked.

you didn’t hesitate to nod your head. shotaro brought his other hand to your lap, resting over your clenched fist. you knew your hand was clammy when you intertwined your fingers with his, but your focus on shotaro’s parted lips coming closer and closer to yours was more important. you squeezed his hand tight and shotaro leaned in closer as his other hand gently pulled you in. when you felt his gentle lips press against yours he invaded your senses further, pushing you past the point of no return. you felt your mind endlessly replay all of the moments you thought you were reading too much into—all the lingering looks and treats he’d pick up for you on his way home from practice. the flooding of your senses pushed what would’ve been a simple peck into something much more. when shotaro’s lips stilled you tilted your head and pressed deeper into him. he reciprocated and when you caught another inhale of his parfum your hand flew up to clench his shirt. shamelessly you pulled him closer by the balled up fabric of his tee and shotaro smiled against your lips before kissing you back with the same fervor.

he guided your hand on your lap to his shoulder, and shotaro brought his hand to bring you closer by the small of your back. you brought your hand from his shoulder to his cheek, stroking the skin the same way he stroked yours. you scooted so close until you were practically in his lap, but you still felt shotaro’s hand pulling you closer. you pushed into shotaro and he pushed back. when both of his hands went to your face you let him fully lean into you, moving your body backwards until the armrest of your couch prodded your back. you were catching quick breaths of air in the short moments shotaro pulled away from your lips completely. when you tugged at his shirt a final time you felt shotaro’s hand suddenly leave yours to grip the back of your couch. you heard the worn leather dimple in shotaro’s harsh clutch, and you preened further into his mouth wishing he would hold you the grip you the same way.

when shotaro pulled away from you, your lips subconsciously chased after his, and your tongue peaked out past your lips. you felt the remnants of shotaro’s chapstick and you felt your eyes drift closed as you tried to lean into him again. he pressed his smiling lips against yours one last time and pulled away again to your dismay. he smiled while caressing your cheek, and you were breathing so deeply you thought your vision was going to start spotting. you were always so shy to look directly at shotaro, but now it felt like that’s all you could do. you looked at his curling eyelashes and the smile on his face, you looked at his hand that still gripped your couch and the thin silver necklace that dangled in the air as he leaned over.

“i’ve wanted to do that for so long.” he said.

“what was stopping you?” you asked.

shotaro looked like he was thinking for a sec before he brought the back of your hand to his lips. he placed a chaste kiss there and you felt more heat rush to your face.

“i wanted to take you to dinner first.” he admitted.

shotaro’s straightforward answer causes you to be sheepish. you look down and giggle like a schoolgirl to yourself at the thought of shotaro taking you on a date. you don’t try to hide your smile as he comes closes the space between your lips again.

when shotaro leans further into you and starts guiding your back to rest on the couch you remember your violin that sits behind him.

“wait, taro.” shotaro pulled away from you instantly, eyebrows raised before you pointed behind him. “my violin. i need to put it away.”

before you could move underneath shotaro to get off the couch he did it first, crawling off of your body to go to your padded instrument case on the floor. he gently grabbed your violin and moved terribly slow when he heard you draw in a sharp inhale. he held your instrument in both hands and looked back to you as he looked at the violin-shaped soft indent in the case.

“like this?” he asked.

shotaro was careful, fitting your violin perfectly inside of its case. when you opened your mouth to tell him what to do next he was one step ahead, slightly loosening the taut horsehairs of your bow before putting it in its place as well.

shotaro did the rest quickly, closing the case and zipping it up all the way. it seemed in the blink of an eye he was back to his original position, hovering above you as his hands touched you gently all over. you parted your legs, one of them sliding over the edge while the other pressed into the back of the couch. shotaro fit his body between your legs, slowly spreading them further apart while he touched the exposed skin of your neck.

nothing about the touches were timid, you could feel the effort he put in letting you know how badly he wanted you while checking on you first. before he dared to clutch or paw at you shotaro searched for a head nod or a breathy yes. shotaro leaned into to the naked plane of your shoulder while his hand drifted up from your hips to your chest. lightning touched down somewhere the same time shotaro laved your bare skin with his tongue and his warm breath fanned the area. you leaned your head against his and arched your back to move your chest further into his hand. the thunderclap shook your apartment when shotaro applied force behind his hand and started sucking the your neck.

your head leaned against the headrest as shotaro kneaded your chest, alternating between pressing his palms flat to your sensitive skin before fisting the flesh. you felt shotaro still above you when your first whimper slipped past your lips. you moved your hand to press against his shoulder blade, and shotaro moved his hand that was holding your face to drag it down your body. you shivered from his touch and started gripping his shoulder when you felt his hand press into your stomach.

when shotaro found out that sucking your neck and holding you firmly coaxed sounds from your throat he didn’t let up, he only started grabbing at you more. before you knew it shotaro’s hands found their way underneath your shirt and pushed your bra up to expose your bare chest. you were already squirming underneath him by the time he was lightly pinching your nipples. the view of shotaro’s hands underneath your shirt was dizzying, and the feeling of his sighs against your neck made you more desperate. your had your legs wrapped around his waist, trying to satiate your need for friction, but shotaro was unmoving above you—he didn’t grind his hips into yours, he even pulled away when you pathetically lifted your hips to try and satisfy your selfish desire. when you started pawing at his shirt and your quiet whines turned into pouts, shotaro finally pulled away from your neck.

“not yet.” you felt his fingers break past the waistline of your pajama pants and they tugged at the elastic. “let me take my time.” he whispered.

shotaro knew that to some extent he was being cruel, or at the very least he was being a tease. he could only hope that you understood his desperate need to draw the pleasure out from you slowly. he need to go slow, to examine every piece of you to make up for all the lost time he could’ve been doing this. all the pent up emotions came bubbling to the surface hearing and feeling you underneath him. the neck he spent so much time thinking about he was kissing, and the bare skin of your waist and chest he dreamed about was underneath his fingertips. shotaro needed you to give him grace before he gave you everything else. when he felt you nod your head and loosen your grip on his shoulder he let out a shaky breath before experimentally tugging at the waistband of your shorts. shotaro smiled against your neck when you instantly responded to tug, even bringing your own hand to your pants as you pushed them lower.

he pulled away from your neck to rest on his haunches as you impatiently pulled your leg from your pants. shotaro’s view of you from above was intoxicating. you already looked so bothered, the wet look in your eyes from lust as you did a quick look of his body. shotaro felt himself strain in his pants as you bit your lip to uncomfortably bend your legs in an effort to get your pants off the rest of the way. shotaro helped you, and he let himself be cruel again when he stretched your leg a little to far. he smiled when you let out a tiny hiss of pain, and he held eye contact with you when he playfully pushed your leg a little further.

“i’m not flexible like you.” you whined.

shotaro stopped applying pressure and guided your leg to wrap around his waist again. he affectionately squeezed your chin at your pout, wondering if you knew what you were doing to him right now.

“that’s alright baby.” shotaro cooed.

he traveled his hand from your calf then up your thigh, stopping at the trim of your panties. shotaro was tempted to tease you further, like telling you something about stretching you out. he decided to take mercy on you seeing that you were already nervously pulling at his arms to make him come back down to you. shotaro brought his body back down to you, but instead of going to your neck he went to your chest. he let his head rest in the valley of your breast, kissing at the fabric of your shirt as if it wasn’t there. one of your hands flew to his head, gripping his brown strands of hair while you let out a shaky breath.

“keep kissing me.” you sighed above him.

shotaro looked up from your chest to find you looking up at the ceiling. he saw you thickly swallow nothing, almost like you were contemplating what you just said. he pulled your shirt up to your chest and placed a kiss on your bare stomach.

“where?” shotaro asked after placing another kiss.

“everywhere.” your voice was already shaking as your fingers rubbed at shotaro’s scalp. “please. everywhere.” you said.

shotaro pressed his hand into your clothed pussy and felt you jolt before melting into his touch. he felt the pinprick sensation of you holding his hair too tight.

“can i kiss you here?” shotaro asked, pressing his hands deeper into your pussy for emphasis.

you nodded your head vigorously before he heard your mewls of yes’s and please’s. as he made his way down your body he felt your legs move to rest on his shoulders. when all the space was used up on your couch you compensated by moving more into the headrest. your shoulders were awkwardly propped against the side of the couch, but your sacrifice gave shotaro enough space to be eye level with your clothed pussy. you swear you saw hearts swimming in his blown out pupils when he leaned forward to place a wet kiss on your panties, right where you needed friction.

shotaro was purposeful with his hands. the same precision he had while dancing he applied to your body. he quickly swiped down your clothed folds with grace, taking the time to press into your hole to see the slick that was gathering at your entrance. he blew cold air on your skin that felt like it was on fire, watching how it sent a shiver up your full body. he did the same motion over and over, like he was doing reps in a practice room. but instead of looking at his body he looked at yours, the way your stomach jumped and how your hand was holding onto the back of the couch for stability. he watched your hips lift off the couch when he hooked his middle finger underneath the fabric of your panties to pull them to the side.

shotaro watched you weakly lift up your head from the headrest, only to let it fall back down with a dull thump after seeing him get closer to your pussy. shotaro pressed his hand into your thigh to give himself a better angle, and he could feel the heel of your foot beginning to dig into his back.

“can i kiss you here?” shotaro teased, talking directly at your wet clenching hole.

he felt you tug at his hair again and he took a quick look to see your begging eyes.

“please.” you mewled, so sincerely it made shotaro grind into the cushion.

he wasted no more time placing a wet kiss to your entrance. your loudest moan ripped through the air, seemingly silencing the rain. everything was drowned out when shotaro plunged his tongue into your heat, and when you closed your thighs around his head he was blissfully unaware of the world around him. he tilted his head despite your legs effort to keep him in place. he was making out slowly with your pussy, flicking and pressing his tongue wherever it caused you to make a sound. he purposely made a mess with his spit and your slick, just so he would have something to clean up. each time you shook or gushed more shotaro lapped it up, all while pressing sweet wet kisses to your heat. he felt your hand in his hair, and could feel you trying so hard to control your random body jerks.

when he wanted to pull away he pressed a hand to your thigh, adding just enough pressure so he could move. with a flat tongue pressed to your heat he travelled upwards, collecting all of your precum and his spit that he could. you coated his mouth and laid his tongue like honey. by the time shotaro made it to your clit you felt like gloss his lips, and your moans sounded heavy.

shotaro pulled at your arm as he buried his head in the soft plush skin of your thigh. shotaro intertwined his fingers with yours, and he loved feeling the callouses on the pads of your fingers press into his skin. he pressed your joined handsd into your lower stomach, and he could practically hear you clench around nothing. you brought your head up from the side of the couch to look down at him, weakly leaning against the back of the couch to keep yourself upright. when shotaro knew he had your attention he pressed your hands deeper into your stomach and lifted your lower half by his grip on your thighs. he latched his lips to your clit and he felt you tug at his hair again. the pain spurred him on, and your moans that turned into pants made him let go of your thighs to plunge two fingers into your clenching hole. your leg left shotaro’s back and hooked over the top of the couch. you were already shaking, squeezing his hand even tighter because you couldn’t tell him how you were feeling with words. shotaro kept blazing eye contact with you as he continued his ministrations, feeding off of your weak voice.

when you started preening your hips into his mouth shotaro pulled away to flick his tongue across the sensitive bundle of nerves.

“taro.” you said it weakly, and started pressing your own hand into your stomach.

“mhm.” shotaro hummed in acknowledgement, too focused on bringing you pleasure to tease you more.

“taro.” you whined pitifully, back arching off of the couch.

“i got you.” he said it quickly while switching his fingers that were inside of you with his mouth.

when shotaro started rubbing tight fast revolutions on your clit and fucking you with his tongue you came undone. taro must’ve fallen from your lips a million times, broken apart with whines and heavy breathing. your body shook and jolted but shotaro kept his face buried in between your thighs. nothing could’ve pulled him away from you, not even when you closed your legs around his thighs. the more you gave him the more he took, he was completely lost in a trance of smelling, tasting, and hearing you. the only thing that stopped shotaro was feeling your hand push against his head and the tension in your body completely dissipating.

you used the last of your strength to pull shotaro up to you. you had to dig your feet into the cushions of your couch to get enough leverage but you did it, bringing his body to press against yours. you deepened the kiss while wrapping your legs around shotaro’s waist again.now it was his turn to sigh and whimper pathetically into your mouth as you took control, using your hands on his face to tilt his head. when he pressed his hips against yours you broke away and lifted your own hips to meet his. you two quickly became messes, rutting against eachother like you had all the time in the world. when it became too much shotaro retreated to the crook of our neck, planting his arms on either side of your head as he continued pushing his hips against yours.

“i don’t have condoms.” shotaro let out a sigh when he pressed deeper into you. “i can cum just from this though.” he groaned.

“i’m on birth control,” your hands started pushing at shotaro’s waistband. “i’m not seeing anyone either.” you added.

“me neither.” shotaro said.

you let out a moan at the thought of you being the only person to have shotaro like this. the girls that whispered and stole glances towards him during rehearsal could only dream of being where you were now—hastily pushing shotaro’s pants down his legs while he pushed your shirt up to your neck. he kissed and sucked on your chest and torso as you used your feet to push his pants off the rest of the way.

“can you take your shirt off for me?” shotaro asked between kisses.

you got up from underneath him just enough to pull your shirt over your head. when you were down you let your body flop against the couch again as the sweat across your body made you stick to the synthetic leather. shotaro followed close behind you, taking off his shirt with one hand before balling it up and throwing it somewhere in the room.

you ran both of your hands down shotaro’s chest, letting your nails graze his dewy skin. he put his hands on your wrists but didn’t guide you, he only basked in the feeling of you touching him so intensely. you felt his dick rest heavy against your thigh, twitching each time you moved.

“please fuck me.” you whispered, voice still weak from your orgasm.

“right here on your couch?” shotaro asked while bringing his body to hover over yours again.

instead of responding, you grabbed shotaro at the base of his dick and guided him to your entrance. he froze in your hold, only sighing and jerking his body slightly. you touched his tip to your clit a few times, causing both of you to let out exasperated moans. shotaro’s hand that was still wrapped around your wrist grabbed his dick at the base so he could lazily slap his dick against your pussy.

“don’t be afraid to be loud, okay?”

shotaro delivered his order with a smile and a lift to his voice, one that you tragically failed to respond to. all the words were taken from your mouth when shotaro slid into you easily, all the way in until his hips pressed against yours.

“shit.” shotaro pressed a kiss to your parted lips before pressing the side of his face against yours. “you feel so good.” he hissed.

“so deep.” you babbled, pressing your nails into whatever part of shotaro you could reach.

shotaro used his hand to go to the underside of your thigh, unwrapping it from his waist to press it to your chest. you cried out when shotaro pulled out and thrusted back inside of you. the stretch combined with the new position had you screwing your eyes shut and pressing your nails deeper into his skin. shotaro groaned when you clenched around him and traded the long deep thrusts for desperate ruts. you started lifting your hips in tandem with him, both of you chasing after a high you spent too long avoiding.

“i’m not gonna last.” shotaro said, pressing your thigh closer to your chest.

you could only shake your head, stilling underneath him because you were hurtling too fast towards euphoria again. you laid underneath shotaro squirming, moaning carelessly at everything he was giving you.

“it’s okay.” you whimpered.

he pressed his lips towards your forehead again, and you felt the tears welling in the corners of your eyes. after pulling away shotaro pressed his sweaty forehead against yours, the sweat keeping you together like glue. you swore you could feel shotaro’s eyelashes fan your face each time he blinked, and you saw yourself like a mirror in his eyes. lightning striked down again and you could see shotaro’s flushed face. for a split second your saw his rosy cheeks, and the white knuckle grip he had on you as his thrusts got harsher. when you started seizing around shotaro his eyes lit up knowingly, and his hand started sinking between your two bodies.

“you’re close again?” shotaro asked.

“yes.” you said. “taro i’m so close.”

you tried keeping your composure, but when you felt shotaro’s hands on your clit again your resolve crumbled. you couldn’t stop your body from swaying with shotaro, and before you knew it that coil in your stomach broke in half.

while pleasure ripped through your body and your cries hit the ceiling shotaro cooed, giving you sympathetic hums and i know’s while your overstimulation slowly turned to pleasure in pain’s body. when you were at the height of it all shotaro’s hips became desperate, filling the room with the sound of your squelching heat and skin slapping against skin.

“can i come inside?” shotaro asked quickly.

you nodded your head and pulled shotaro closer to you as he drew his hips back a final time. you felt him deep, and his body above yours stiffened as he let out a heavy exhale. you preened your lips into shotaro’s swallowing his moans and whimpers as he continued twitching inside of you. you felt your walls flutter around him, pulsing like a heartbeat as you milked him.

when shotaro came back to earth, youu saw him out of breath for the first time of the night. he still stayed inside of you, and let out a tinny ooh or aah each time either of you moved. you were both sensitive to the touch, your lax bodies twitching anytime there was movement. shotaro had to gather the strength to pull out of you, but decided he was too weak to separate his body from yours. he laid on top of you for a while, his weight resting lightly on yours provided comfort.

shotaro pulled your attention away from the falling rain by kissing your cheek. you looked down at him and tried patting down the strands of hair you unintentionally mussed. he closed his eyes contently feeling you massage his scalp, and opened them again when you stopped.

you watched shotaro’s eye’s light up as he gentle caressed your face, bringing you to make burning eye contact wit him. you say a playful smile on your lips, and before you could ask him what he was smiling about he spoke.

“shall i compare thee to a summer’s day?” shotaro said with a fake posh accent.

you groaned and swatted his arm as he continued the terrible rendition of the sonnet, telling him that it wasn’t even in the play with a smile on your face.

#commissionz #01zfan: shotaro #shotaro smut #riize smut

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angelbaby-fics · 1 year

Text

Safe Haven

Pairing: CG!Steve Harrington x Little!Reader

Word Count: 1.4k

A/N: my first stevie h. fic!! my wonderful ♡ anon inspired me not just to write for him but also to rewatch season 3 which i forgot how much i loved 💕 i wanna start writing for robin because even the little bit that she appears here was so fun to write tbh!! warning for an almost swearword lol but other than that i hope its super fluffy and that you guys enjoy!!

You didn't mind the days that Steve worked. Most days, you called up Dustin and the gang, or Nancy, or Eddie, or you just stayed home by yourself and kept busy with any number of hobbies and activities. Today was different though; lightning ripped through the skies of Hawkins, rain spitting down so hard it nearly drowned out the cracks of thunder that interrupted your every thought. You could feel the anxious regression creeping up on you, and although you'd normally be fine being in little mode unattended in the safety of your home, but with the storm outside turning the daylight black, home didn't feel so safe anymore. Before you could get too little and before the storm could get too heavy, you were grabbing your bag and pulling on your heaviest hoodie, tucking the laces into the sides of your shoes to avoid the stress of tying them as you set out on your journey to Starcourt Mall.

Just the walk from your house to the covered bus stop had you soaked through to your shirt, and you shivered in the seat as the bus trundled down the slick streets towards the mall. You blinked your eyes, and repeatedly made fists and unfurled them, desperately trying anything to distract you from crying before you could make it to the back rooms of Scoops Ahoy. Normally you didn't like to bother Steve at work, no matter how many times he reassured you that you were always welcome there, but you felt this was rational option for you given the situation.

When the bus pulled up to the front of the mall, you lined up with the other passengers before sprinting the gap between the bus and the covered entrance. Once inside the dry safety of the indoors, your body mindlessly guided you to Scoops, the illuminated sign shining like the sun you needed so desperately today. Despite the weather being anything but summery, it seemed like everyone in Hawkins was getting ice cream this afternoon, and with your fear of being a bother far stronger than your need for comfort right now, you opted to sit at an unoccupied table in the front corner of the shop, furthest away from the counter.

Opening your backpack, you pulled out your notebook and a gel pen, hoping to distract yourself until the crowds died down. You could hardly keep your attention on the page for more than 15 seconds, flicking your eyes up to the counter and hoping to catch Steve's sooner rather than later. Your prayers were answered as he handed a double chocolate cone the next woman in line, his gaze scanning the remaining customers just as you'd popped your head up to check on him for the fiftieth time. His eyes got wide when he saw your distraught face silently pleading for his attention, and he intended to give you just that. Steve gave you a reassuring nod before holding a finger up to the next customer in line, and then disappeared into the back room. Moments later, he returned with Robin, who took over cash register duty while Steve circled around the counter and speed-walked over to you.

"Honey bun, you doing alright?" He asked softly, already recognizing your fragile state and not bothering with pleasantries as he slid into the booth next to you.

"Yeah," you nodded, "just wanted to see you, that's all."

"Are you sure? Is there anything I can do to help you?" Steve took one of your hands in his .

"No, its okay." You lied. "You can go back to work, I'm alright just sitting here."

Steve saw through you instantly. He knew exactly what you were feeling and exactly what you were needing now. He looked up at Robin, capably handling the next customers in line, and stood up with your hand still in his.

"Yeah, no, that's bull, come on baby." He started to tug at your hand.

Not wanting to argue, nor to be left without the warmth of Steve's grip, you gathered your things and stood up with him, letting yourself be led to the back room of Scoops Ahoy.

You'd never been back here before, and although you didn't really have any expectations to begin with, they certainly weren't exceeded. The employees only break area was bleak and grey, a single table in the center of the room, a big industrial sink, several humming freezers and fridges, and wiry metal shelves were the only things there; but it was quiet, and it was unoccupied. Steve brought you over to sit in at the table in a cold metal chair, digging through your bag and setting out all of your pens in a colorful array, and opened your notebook to a fresh page. Then, he went over to one of the fridges and pulled out a cold water bottle, as well as a bottle of apple juice, and he set them both on the table as well. Finally, he crouched next to you, taking your chin softly in his hand.

"I gotta go back to work now, okay baby? But I'll be back before you know it."

You nodded, and Steve continued speaking to you.

"We close at 8:00pm." Steve grabbed one of your gel pens and drew a little picture on the corner of the notebook page. "So when the clock looks like that, we can go back home and cuddle all night long. You can even help me lock up the shop if you want, how's that sound baby?"

"Okay dada," you whispered, and Steve pressed a soft kiss to the tip of your nose.

"That's my little bumblebee. I'll just be through that window right there if you need me for anything at all."

And with one more kiss, Steve was back to work. After a few more reassuring glances from him through the partition window, you finally felt at ease enough to start drawing in your notebook, now comfortable passing the time until Steve was off work. With the tension finally released from your anxious body, you lost yourself in your art, coloring little animals, stars and planets, flowers, bugs, and ice cream cones. Before you knew it, you heard Steve's voice call out to the customers still enjoying a late evening treat.

"Alright everybody, Scoops Ahoy is officially closed. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here!"

Sure enough, the clock on the wall matched the picture Steve had drawn. Your attention was drawn to the door as Robin walked into the back room, grabbing her bag and a soda from the fridge.

"See ya, kiddo!" She said, flashing a peace sign at you as she went back out to the front of the store, waving to Steve as she exited. "Thanks for closing up."

Steve waved back as Robin mingled into the crowd of shoppers all on their own way back home, then turned to you.

"I just gotta clean up a few things before we go," he said, leaning through the window, "but before I do, may I take your order?"

You grinned widely before turning back to your notebook, scribbling out a drawing of your favorite ice cream flavor absolutely covered in toppings. You ripped out the page and handed it to Steve.

"Coming right up baby!"

You happily munched on your ice cream while Steve closed up boxes of toppings and stacked them on the shelves. When the back room was clean, he helped you put your pens away and carried your backpack and ice cream out to the front of the store so you could stay close to him while he wiped off each of the tables, mopped the floors, and closed out the cash register. Finally, Steve helped you throw away the trash from your ice cream, hoisted your backpack onto his shoulder, and held your hand as you slid out from the booth. You walked together to the front of the store, where Steve stopped and turned to you.

"Would you like to do the honors, honey bun?" He asked, motioning towards the big light switch that controlled the fancy neon sign in the entranceway.

You nodded, reaching up on your tiptoes to flip the switch, and suddenly the empty mall became a lot darker around you. Steve noticed you tense up and immediately, his hand was back in yours.

"Don't worry baby. I've got you. You're safe with me." He said, holding you tight as he led you to the garage, and not intending to let go of you for a very long time.��

#steve harrington x little!reader #steve x little!reader #cg!steve #cg!steve harrington #cg!steve x little!reader #steve harrington #daddy!steve harrington #daddy!steve harrington x little reader #stranger things agere #chloe's fic

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storyshark2005 · 4 months

Note

snippet of the next chapter of ur carraville fic pleak 🥺👉👈

(ask and you shall receive 💕 Excerpt below: Saturday morning! Teh lads are in the car (what beats car talk!Carraville???) on the way to Scholes Gym. Bonus: SHAKIRA!🎶 )

youtube

“Shit—” Gary suddenly slips the clutch and the car lurches unhappily. “Sorry—”

“You forget how to drive or something?!” Jamie jokes, shaking his head clear.

“Just got distracted.” Gary coughs weakly, nodding in the direction of his phone. “Why don’t you put some music on.”

Music is good. Less chance of Jamie saying something nonsensical or stupid.

“Okay right, what d’you fancy?”

“I don’t care, whatever’s fine.”

“Shakira?” Jamie jokes, and then searches for ‘Waka waka.’ The little tribal-y horns sound off, and the WA-KA! WA-KA chant. He sets Gary’s phone down in the cupholder and bobs his head in time.

Gary snorts but Jamie can already see his fingers tapping the steering wheel in time with the bass drum. By the time the chorus comes around, they’re both laughing and singing the ‘waka, waka, eh! eh!’ bit out loud. The bits they can pronounce, anyways.

“What’s she saying?!” Gary asks. “The part right before she says, ‘This time for Africa’?”

“Not a clue, I make something up every time!”

They crack up laughing, and Jamie gets a hand on Gary’s knee, which Gary can’t really do anything about on account he’s gotta have a hand on the wheel and one on the stick.

“Behave,” Gary murmurs, as if he disapproves.

Jamie gives his knee a squeeze, right at the swell of his quad, and lets go. Whatever weirdness he’d felt earlier was quickly evaporating. Something to do, maybe, with the deft movement of Gary’s hand on the gear shift. Or the high morning sunlight filtering down through the tinted windows, casting him in a kind of overexposed splash of pink and sepia. Or the little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The stupid sunglasses, too. He looked good in those.

The music changes, nudged via algorithm back to Gary’s usual mix of U2, James, Oasis, and Springsteen. Jamie looks out the window for a while, and lets his mind drift. Thinking again of last night, of the deep part of the night when Gary had let him in close.

It’s strange, probably, to be excited about something like this with Gary, after the week he’s had. There’s probably something wrong with him. Twenty-five years with Nicola ended overnight, and he doesn’t even feel that bad about it. A couple of nights out on the ale with Micah, a little cry, and what was left to do? Call a lawyer? Was that really it?

“Is this really the first Salford game I’ve brought you to?” Gary asks suddenly, pulling Jamie from his thoughts.

Jamie thinks. “Yeah, except for that Class of ‘92 friendly youse put on a few years back.”

Gary laughs, “You had an absolute howler that game.”

“Yeah,” Jamie admits. “It was the keeper’s fault, though!”

It wasn’t, really.

Gary makes one of those high-pitched, amused little hums in the back of his throat. “I hope you bought him a beer afterwards. He deserved it, after such a shambolic performance from his defender.”

Jamie groans at the memory. “Even Phil was laughing at me!”

“Thank God those days are over, eh?” Gary sighs. “Honestly. If I don’t kick a ball again the rest of my life, I’ll be alright with it.”

“You sure?” Jamie asks, on impulse, like a knee jerk. “Thought you might try and score tonight.”

The car slows to stop at a red light. Gary doesn’t answer, and Jamie thinks maybe he’s pushed too far again.

It’s terrifying. Thrilling. Overnight the whole of their dynamic has shifted. It’s still the same basic material, still Gary and Jamie; but it’s a bit like someone had pulled the carpet up, given it a big shake, and laid it down again, this time with new wrinkles, a slightly different shape to it.

The light turns green, and Gary shifts smoothly into drive, engine rumbling with a rough, sporty little growl to it. He looks unfairly cool in his stupid sunglasses, driving his luxury car.

They turn off the main road. Gary slows the car, and suddenly they’re pulling into a compact, shady little carpark in front of the gym. It’s not nearly as big or grand as Jamie had expected. There’s a bus stop out front, and an uninterested teenager wearing earbuds slouching against the clear plastic shelter.

Gary pulls around to the back, parks up against the building next to a slick black Mercedes SUV, and cuts the engine. His arms sag. He throws his sunglasses up on the dash and runs his hands down his face.

“Fuck,” he says. “You know, my whole fuckin' life, I’ve—”

He stops, cutting himself off, staring through the windshield like the barrel of a gun.

Jamie doesn’t say anything. He thinks he could ruin it with the wrong words.

He wants to tell him to forget the gym, to find a hotel. He wants to climb over the console and tolerate the dig of the steering wheel in his lower back. He wants his full weight settled on Gary’s lap, and most of all he wants to rip the sunglasses away and have all of Gary’s attention, every little micrometre of those big brown eyes focused solely on Jamie. Gary’s attention is a rare, flighty thing; constantly being torn at, pulled in every direction, and at any given moment, usually only a fraction of it is on Jamie.

Suddenly, desperately, Jamie wants all of it. Now.

#carraville #fic excerpt #the gap between crack and thunder

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watchyourbuck · 10 months

Note

6. "I didn't think you'd find out." <3

Buck walked behind Eddie like a kid in trouble; with his hands behind his back and his head low. He glanced at the man ocasionally, waiting for him to say something first.

Eddie leaned against the counter, ignoring the comical realization of how often they fought in kitchens. "Imma need you to explain a little bit," he said, closing his eyes and squeezing the bridge of his nose with the tips of his fingers.

Buck could practically see the headache forming around Eddie's head, so he made it a purpose to be concise. “It’s not what you think.”

“It isn’t?” Eddie asked, turning his body towards Buck. “You didn’t buy lingerie for your girlfriend with my credit card?”

Buck opened and closed his mouth, unsure how to proceed. Yes, but also no. “Eddie, it’s not-”

“You know, it’s bad enough you were using my card,” he mumbled, dropping the arms that had been crossed over his chest and staring at him in the eyes. “But to buy presents for this… girl you’re seeing?”

Buck bit his bottom lip, analyzing every word in the English dictionary in search of a way to say what he wanted to say properly. He must’ve been quiet for too long.

“That’s so cheap.”

Eddie’s words were echoed with laughter that swayed between dramatic and disapproving, and Buck’s chest started feeling oh, too tight, for all these demons inside.

“It wasn’t-”

“There’s no denying it, Buck. I saw the receipt,” he said, looking at the outer corners of Buck’s eyes, so as to avoid his gaze. How wasn’t he embarrassed? “It was sent to my email.”

“Eddie, they’re for me!”

Buck’s voice resonated throughout the kitchen; it bounced from the cabinet to the fridge, then to the ceiling, landing back on the ground next to them.

By the time Eddie realized his jaw was on the floor, a tiny speck of drool was already formed in the corner of his mouth. He swallowed it, blinking up in shock. “For… you?”

Buck’s neck turned pink. He shifted where he stood, scratching the back of his head. It’s not like he had kept his own secret very safe. “Yes,” he admitted, “I’m the one who wears it.”

The addition was unnecessary, but there was a blinding feeling of shame running through his veins that was rendering him insane.

“With your-”

Buck shook his head violently, putting his hands up this time. He couldn’t take it anymore. “There’s no girlfriend, there’s no- not any woman. There’s no one, really.”

Eddie frowned. He tried to decided whether to lean forward or push himself off the counter, but ended up doing a weird mixture of both. He licked his lips, processing information that seemed way too relevant to hide under the rug. “You- you wear… panties?”

“Oh, god,” Buck mumbled, covering his face with his hands. This had to be the worse way he could’ve chosen to reveal a kink.

“Why would you buy them with my card, though?”

Buck uncovered his face slowly, letting himself see through the gaps of his fingers. He frowned. Eddie didn’t even seem preoccupied, he mostly looked confused. “I didn’t think you’d find out.”

The confession stung him somewhere in his body, like a phantom itch. It felt awfully familiar to digging himself a deeper grave.

He could’ve lied and said he had confused the cards - it was plausible enough now that they lived together -, but he didn’t feel like deceiving him. Go big or go home, he guessed, so he added “I can’t come without them.”

This time, Eddie's entire face changed. Buck could have sworn he saw a thunder strike his features with the strongest of wills. He felt himself turn small under his stare.

"Buck," Eddie called, this time supporting himself on his own two feet instead of the wood. "Are you being- are you serious?"

Not that he could change anything now. "Deadly," he whispered, as if he were cracking his heart open right here on the marble floor.

A few seconds passed. Buck started wondering which kind of apology he’d need to get out of this, but then Eddie’s voice drew him out from the pit. “Put them on,” he said, hoarse, and dark, and serious.

“I-,” Buck tried. He couldn’t possibly- “What?”

“Go put them on,” Eddie repeated, taking a step closer to Buck, making him infinitesimal. “Go put them on and I’ll make you come.”

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

please take this as my fuck it friday! tagged by @thewolvesof1998 @jamespearce9-1-1 @daffi-990 @hippolotamus @theotherbuckley @wikiangela @malewifediaz @fortheloveofbuddie @lover-of-mine @wildlife4life @disasterbuckdiaz & @loserdiaz 💗 thank you all so much!

tagging @spagheddiediaz @princessfbi @911-on-abc @callmenewbie @honestlydarkprincess @honestlyeddie @bucksbirthmark @housewifebuck @honestlydarkprincess @evanbegins @mattsire @giddyupbuck @buckdefencesquad @butraura @prettyboybuckley @smilingbuckley @buckleyobsessed and anybody else who’d like to participate!💞

#fuck it friday #buddie #911 fox #911 #eddie diaz #evan buckley #911 tv show #evan buck buckley #buck x eddie #buck and eddie #911 abc #buddie 911 #buddie fic #buddie ficlet #buddie wip #eddie and buck #911 on abc #911 oneshot #buddie oneshot

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knivestothroats · 4 days

Text

In The Woods Somewhere + Professional//Victim Crossover AU

@victimeyez and I like to play with our OCs together like dolls. We came up with a number of ways Tommy ends up with Fletcher but this is a "my mom sold me to one direction" type AU where Fletcher buys Tommy to basically replace Buck.

CW: long term captivity/human trafficking, withholding food (in past), physical violence, burning, dubious consent sort of, guns in places they shouldn't be

read In The Woods Somewhere here || read Professional//Victim here

Scene 1

Tommy hadn’t experienced a thunderstorm in years.

It rained sometimes when he was on his way to a client, but having lived in a basement for the last five years, he had forgotten their intensity. How loud the incessant, arrhythmic rainfall echoed down from the roof. How lightning could suddenly illuminate the whole room in a flash. How he could feel the house shake with the roar of thunder. Or maybe it was just him shaking. He felt like a dog on the fourth of July.

It was stupid, after everything he’d been through, to be afraid of the weather.

A bright flash through the window again, followed shortly by a crack of thunder that he could feel in his chest. They were getting closer together.

There’s no way Tommy could sleep. He was sitting up in his bed in his new home, knees to his chest with his arms wrapped around.

As much as he loathed Caius, he did provide comfort at times. It was twisted, but it was something. Fletcher… he wasn’t sure about. They had been more reserved so far, treating him with a sort of casual amiability. But Tommy was well aware how Fletcher reveled in inflicting pain. He just hadn’t figured out yet when and why they shed the wool to become the wolf.

Another flash. Tommy tried to brace himself, but he still jumped at the thunder.

Tommy swung his legs off the bed. He stared at the door for a second before going through into the hallway. It was still strange to not be locked in.

He walked gently down the dark hallway. He knew where Fletcher’s room was - they had pointed it out on his first day with a strict do not enter.

Tommy stood outside Fletcher’s bedroom door. He rubbed his hands over his arms.

This was ridiculous. Going to Fletcher for comfort? Like a child waking up their parents after having a bad dream? During a thunderstorm of all things. He should just go back to -

Flash. Crack.

Tommy knocked on Fletcher’s door. He tried to listen for movement over the sound of the rain. They probably hadn’t even heard him over the din. Maybe he should knock again, or maybe he should go back -

Fletcher opened the door, wearing just a t-shirt, gym shorts, and bed head. They squinted at him in the dark.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” was the first thing out of Tommy’s mouth. “I, um. I can’t sleep and, um…”

Fletcher was silhouetted as their room lit up. The thunder followed so quickly behind, rumbling through the house, that Tommy didn’t have time to count.

Fletcher saw Tommy flinch hard, drawing his shoulders up by his ears.

“You’re scared of thunder?”

Tommy felt his face redden, in spite of himself. He should be incapable of embarrassment at this point, after all the humiliation he was put through, but he just felt childish.

“Alright, come in,” Fletcher said with a yawn, moving aside to make way. “Don’t try to kill me in my sleep.”

“Really?” Tommy asked, perking up. He took a hesitant step into the room. “Can I, um, do you mind if I share the bed?”

“Yeah I assumed that was what you were asking,” Fletcher grumbled, shutting the door behind him.

Fletcher took their side first, and Tommy took the other. He laid stiff in the bed, making sure they had a gap between them. Tommy had wondered if sharing the bed would come with a cost, putting himself in a vulnerable position within Fletcher’s grasp. But Fletcher had turned their back to him, sleeping on their side.

He was still on edge. Was sleeping beside Fletcher really better than being alone?

There was a flicker of lightning, followed by a grumble of thunder. Not as loud this time, but enough to make Tommy nervous.

Tommy turned on his side as well and carefully scooted over until his back was brushing against Fletcher’s. He held his breath, but they didn’t react.

Tommy could feel their warmth seep into him. He let out a slow breath. It was definitely better than being alone.

Fletcher had managed to tune out the storm into white noise, but they were a light sleeper, forever on edge. They opened their eyes in the darkness, listening to Tommy murmur and shift in his sleep.

Fletcher rolled over and draped their arm over Tommy’s middle.

“Shhh,” they hushed gently.

Tommy’s shirt had ridden up, and he whimpered when Fletcher made contact with his skin.

Fletcher tensed up at the noise. Tommy was definitely asleep, but that whimper was perfect. They wondered if he practiced it for his clients. It was difficult to resist the urge to wrap their arm tight around him and squeeze, trying to elicit the sound again.

Fletcher moved their hand over Tommy’s bare torso. They could feel his ribs too distinctly beneath his skin. Caius and the others probably had him skipping meals. Whether to keep up his waifish victim aesthetic, to keep him weak, to punish him, or just from neglect. Fletcher figured he would put on weight quickly here. He was going to need to, if he was going to keep up with the work Fletcher had for him to do around the lodge.

“Get up.”

Tommy gasped awake as a hand jostled him from his sleep. He looked around quickly, getting his bearings, and saw Fletcher leaning over him.

“I’m getting up, you can’t stay in my room alone,” Fletcher said.

“Oh,” Tommy rubbed his eyes. “Right. Okay. Thank you… for letting me sleep here.”

“Uh huh,” Fletcher said. “I’m making breakfast.”

“Do you want me to help?”

“Mm, I’ll let you know.”

“Okay… do you want me to make your bed?” Tommy offered, trying to show his gratitude.

“No,” Fletcher said flatly. They gestured to the door.

“Right, sorry.” Tommy hurried out of the room. “Um, would it be alright if I took a shower? Or do you want me to wait?”

“All yours, bud,” Fletcher said, closing the door shut behind them. “Just don’t take too long. You want to get the breakfast while it’s hot.”

Tommy turned the water up as hot as he could stand. It staved off the chill that seemed to linger in the lodge. He allowed himself a few moments to just stand under the stream after he had washed, but Fletcher had told him not to take long, and he didn’t want to push it.

Tommy dried and dressed quickly, scrunching his hair with the shirt he had slept in and finger-combing it out of his face. He made his way to the kitchen, which was already calling his name with rich, savory smells.

Fletcher was standing at the stove, stirring one pan with a spatula while another sizzled away next to them.

“What smells so good?” Tommy asked, trying to peer into the pans.

“Onions and bacon, mostly,” Fletcher said.

“Do you need any help?” Tommy offered.

There was a pop, pop as a pair of bagels sprung up from a two-sided toaster.

“Yeah, grab those bagels for me and add butter and cream cheese. There’s plates in that cabinet, silverware in that drawer.”

Tommy moved swiftly to do as he was told.

When he had plated them, Fletcher carried over the first pan.

“Okay, get out of my way.”

It was said lightheartedly, but Tommy still leapt back.

“Just take a seat,” Fletcher nodded to the kitchen table. “It’s ready.”

Tommy sat down and watched as Fletcher assembled the plates, but their body was blocking his view. It wasn’t until they set his breakfast down in front of him that he was able to take it in.

Scrambled eggs with multicolor peppers, strips of bacon, a sausage, and the bagel he had prepared.

He couldn’t believe how much his mouth was watering.

“It’s veggie sausage,” Fletcher said. “I only had a couple left. Oh - you want coffee?”

Tommy looked up at them wide eyed. Fletcher had told him on the first day that he could help himself to food in the kitchen, but he had been too afraid to touch their coffee maker. Even when there was a pot already made, he had been too anxious that he wasn’t supposed to take any.

“Yes, please.”

“How do you take it?” Fletcher asked, getting a mug from the shelf. It was designed to look like a can of Campbell’s tomato soup.

“A lot of sugar and cream,” Tommy said. “Please. If you don’t mind.”

Fletcher heaped two spoonfuls of sugar into the mug and then looked in the fridge.

“Mm, I just have oat milk right now.”

“Okay, that’s fine, thank you,” Tommy said, even though he had never tried it before.

Fletcher splashed some into the mug before pouring the steaming coffee on top. They gave it a stir and set it down in front of Tommy.

Tommy hadn’t touched his food. He stared at the spread before him, not quite believing it was really for him.

Fletcher settled down across the table with their matching meal and began to eat.

“I don’t know where to start,” Tommy said in a small voice.

“Eggs,” Fletcher provided.

Tommy scooped up a forkful of the scrambled eggs and took his first bite.

It wasn’t just peppers, there were onions and cheese mixed in as well. The texture was perfect - they weren't dry or runny.

“Wow,” Tommy said. He followed it with a long sip of coffee. It wasn’t as sweetened as he would have made it for himself once upon a time, but it was hot and rich and maybe the best cup he’d ever had.

He might actually start crying.

“The secret is cream cheese,” Fletcher said, gesturing to his eggs with their fork. “And to scramble it in the pan. How’s the coffee?”

“So good,” Tommy said. “Thank you.”

“Mhm.” Fletcher started to pile their eggs and bacon onto the bagel. “How often were you being fed before?”

“Um, twice a day, usually,” Tommy said. “Sometimes… less.”

Fletcher nodded. “Figured. You need to start increasing your caloric intake. I need you to do work around here and I don’t want you passing out after an hour in the garden.”

Tommy took a bite of the bagel. The layer of butter under the cream cheese felt so indulgent.

“If it means I get to eat like this every day, I am more than happy to oblige,” Tommy said.

“Well, I’m not cooking every meal for you,” Fletcher said. “But I want you to eat.”

I want you to eat.

Even if it was to work him like a dog, it was so much better than being worked like a dog on an empty stomach. Despite Fletcher’s generally cold aloofness and passing threats, despite having been the victim of their bloodlust in the past, Tommy felt oddly cared for.

He took another bite of the eggs and hoped he could get Fletcher to teach him how to cook like this.

Scene 2

Fletcher had their sleeves rolled tightly up above their elbows. On their hands they wore black disposable gloves. Tommy watched as those hands deftly sectioned the chickens into pieces, their well-sharpened knife effortlessly cutting through the flesh.

Tommy had to let his eyes drift away. He watched Fletcher’s arms instead. They tended to hide their form under layers, but every time they rolled up their sleeves, it revealed their muscle tone. Tommy wondered why they didn’t show it off - most people would. He noticed as well, as he watched, that Fletcher had some lighter lines on their skin - old scars haphazardly slashed into their arms. He imagined them getting into knife fights. He imagined them holding someone down by the throat with both hands, arms tensed, as their victim clawed at their skin to no avail.

Fletcher moved the chicken pieces into a bowl of marinade. Spice bottles were cluttering the counter around it.

Fletcher covered the bowl and set it aside. They cleaned up, discarding their gloves and disinfecting their work space.

Tommy had been tasked with washing the potatoes he and Fletcher had harvested from the garden. Fletcher had asked him to take his time, making sure each one was free of dirt in the divots, as they wouldn’t be peeling them. He was worried, when Fletcher turned to him, that they would be angry he hadn’t gotten through the whole crop, but they merely began to take from the clean pile and start cutting them into chunks.

“When you’re done with that can you go through the green beans and just make sure to snap all the stems off?” Fletcher asked.

Tommy nodded. “Sure.”

They had picked the beans together as well. It felt nice to be doing something actually productive for a change.

When they were done, Fletcher dumped the potatoes into a big pot of water but didn’t light the stove. They sighed, looking at the clock and chewed their lip a moment.

“I should’ve started this earlier. I’m already starting to get hungry,” Fletcher said. “I just want everything to be done at the same time.”

Fletcher shook their head like they were hoping the thoughts would fall into place. They took a baking sheet and returned to the chicken, laying the pieces out.

“I’m done,” Tommy said from his spot at the table with his bowl of beans. He swept the stem pieces into his hand and got up to dump them in the trash.

“Ah-ah!” Fletcher waved their hand at him, causing Tommy to stop abruptly. “Compost.”

“Right, sorry.” Tommy ducked his head.

“Just give the beans a rinse and then you’re done for now,” Fletcher said. “I’ll call you back when it’s ready.”

It was a while later when Fletcher called Tommy back into the kitchen. He was sitting out on the back deck, just feeling the sun on his skin and listening to the birds, when Fletcher opened the door and leaned out.

“I need your help,” they said.

Tommy jumped up and followed them in.

“I forgot to make fucking gravy,” Fletcher growled. “I just need you to mash the potatoes for me while I whip this up. And just shake the pan with the green beans occasionally to move them around.”

The kitchen was hot now, and Tommy quickly shrugged off his sweatshirt before taking over the potatoes. Fletcher was mixing ingredients when there was a thud above them, followed by an indiscernible shout, followed by, “Fletcherrrrr!”

“Jesus Christ,” Fletcher rolled their eyes. “Okay in like two minutes you need to take the chicken out of the oven and check it. 165. Don’t forget to shake the pan.” They rattled off instructions as they marched out of the kitchen.

Tommy kept an eye on the clock, rolling the beans in their saute oil. They looked kind of brown? He looked closer, not wanting Fletcher to come back and find them burned. Hm, no, he was pretty sure it was whatever they were being cooked in. Balsamic maybe? There were chopped onions in with it as well, and those similarly looked a little brown but not burnt.

He checked the clock again. Okay, two minutes. Tommy looked around the counter, seeing the thermometer but no oven mitts. There was one pot holder laying out, and he folded the towel hanging off the oven door to go with it.

The tray was heavily laden with the chicken, heavier than Tommy expected it to be. He tried to adjust his grip so it didn’t tip backwards, but his adjustments shifted his fingertips off the towel.

Tommy quickly pulled his hand away from the heat. Now holding the tray with one hand, it began to go sideways. Instinctively he tried to catch it, only serving to touch the hot metal again. This time, his brain - desperate to keep him from making the same mistake a third time - drew back his hands completely and the tray clattered to the floor, scattering the chicken.

Tommy’s heart leapt to his throat. He dropped to his hands and knees and picked up a piece of chicken, dropping it immediately.

It’s hot, it’s all fucking hot, he berated himself. He started using the towel to scoop up the chicken. He didn’t know what to do with it, so he piled it back onto the tray. His heart was beating so loudly in his ears he didn’t hear Fletcher’s footsteps. It wasn’t until he saw their boots that he looked up.

As if they had materialized before him, summoned by his fuck up, Fletcher stood glowering down at him. They held a bloody rag in their hand from whatever they had been dealing with upstairs.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy said. “I’ll… I’ll…” Fix it? How was he going to fix it?

Fletcher closed their eyes and dug the heel of their palm into their temple.

“Do you have any idea the amount of effort that went into this dinner?”

“I know, I’m sorry-” Tommy started again.

Fletcher cut him off. “You don’t know. I had to drive an hour and a half just to get these chickens. Every time I have to leave the lodge it’s a fucking ordeal. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but there’s not much around here. I can’t run to the grocery store without making a day of it. I can’t order fucking take out to fix this. You do know how long this took me today to put together.”

“I do, I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

Fletcher reached down and slammed Tommy’s head against the cabinets.

“Stop fucking saying you’re sorry! I know you’re fucking sorry! What happened?”

Tommy held his head, trying to blink his vision back after it whited out.

Fletcher crouched down on their haunches and grabbed Tommy by the front of his shirt, giving him a quick shake.

“Hey! What the fuck happened?”

“I, uh, I burned my hand…” Tommy said, keeping his eyes low. He held back another “sorry.”

“You burned your hand?” Fletcher repeated unsympathetically. “Where?”

Tommy glanced up at them and hesitantly opened up his hand to them. Fletcher grabbed his wrist with more force than necessary.

“You think this is a burn?” They snarled. “I’ll show you a fucking burn.”

Fletcher took Tommy’s hand and pressed it down against the still hot metal pan.

Tommy screamed and Fletcher allowed him to jerk his arm away. He cradled his hand to his chest, tears escaping from his eyes.

Fletcher stood again, looking down on him.

“Don’t bother getting up. You’re going to be scrubbing the floor.”

Fletcher turned around to storm off, only to see the three trainees leaning around the doorway to observe.

“The fuck are you looking at?” Fletcher snapped.

One held up their hands and made themself scarce.

“Does this mean there’s no dinner?” Another asked.

“There’s potatoes,” Fletcher grumbled. Then they suddenly turned back and dashed to the pan of green beans, taking it off the heat. They inspected the vegetables, ignoring Tommy sniffling on the ground, trying to scoop up the chicken with one hand. “Yeah, these are fine. There’s also green beans.”

Scene 3

Tommy had experienced more types of pain than he could count, but burning was usually off the table to clients. Too much deep tissue damage. It was scary to think that his hand may never be the same. And if it was to recover, it was going to do so at the slow, agonizing crawl of natural healing.

Tommy did his best not to flinch as Fletcher applied the cream to his burns. He just had to suck air between his teeth and not complain.

“How’s it feel?” Fletcher asked once they had finished wrapping the gauze.

“It stings,” Tommy said pitifully. “It feels like I’m still being burned. Do you think… do you think it’s going to be okay? Eventually?”

“Well, if you want to give me the information of that doctor you used to see, I’m sure he can give you a magic healing potion or whatever the fuck. Once I decide you’ve suffered enough.”

Tommy’s stomach flopped. He would take a burn any day of the week if it meant he never had to see Sam again.

“Please don’t take me back to him,” Tommy begged softly.

Fletcher raised an eyebrow, but said no more on the subject. They peeled off their gloves.

“Then here’s how it will go. It’ll hurt, and then it will blister, and then the blisters will pop. You have to keep it clean so it doesn’t get infected. If you find yourself unable to do simple tasks because you can’t use one of your hands, you can come find me…” Fletcher took his chin in their hand. “And beg for my help.”

Tommy slept with his hand cradled against his chest. There was a brief moment of peace when he awoke before he began to feel the throb of the burns.

He kept his arm close to his torso as he walked to the kitchen, trying to think of what he could make for himself. Surely he could manage a bowl of cereal with one hand.

The box was easy enough. Tommy got the milk from the fridge. Oh yeah - oat milk. He held the container between his arm and his side, twisting the cap off with his good hand. Looked like milk.

He thought about pouring some into a glass to try, when Fletcher walked in, carrying dirty dishes to the sink.

They glanced in Tommy’s direction, then away, saying nothing.

“I can-” it came out quiet and hoarse. Tommy cleared his throat and tried again. “I can wash those.”

“Can you?” Fletcher asked without looking back at him.

“Um, I can, well, I can try…” Tommy offered.

Fletcher turned to face him now, leaning back on the counter. “If you drop something, and it breaks,” they said, “I am not going to be happy.”

Tommy paled. “Is there - is there something else you would like me to do?”

“Not really,” Fletcher said. They walked out of the room.

Tommy wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. They hadn’t told him not to do the dishes, just not to break them. And if he misinterpreted their response as a no, and they came back to find that he hadn’t washed them, they might be angry.

His strategy for washing dishes with one hand was to lay them in the sink, scrub them there with one hand as best he could, and then move them into the stream of water.

It took longer, and was more awkward - they kept sliding around - but he was able to do it.

When Tommy found Fletcher next, they were out behind the lodge chopping wood. He watched them raise the axe over their shoulder and swing down on the log, cleaving it easily in two.

“Do you want any help?” Tommy called out, keeping his distance.

“No,” Fletcher called back, setting up the log again.

Tommy hesitated. “Is there anything you would like me to-“

“What the fuck did I just say?”

Chop.

Tommy left them alone the rest of the day. He kept to his room, trying to give Fletcher space now that they had made it clear they didn’t want him around. For a while he tried to read, but he struggled to find a comfortable way to both hold the book and flip the pages. He ended up pacing the floor, filled with anxious nerves that urged him to do something.

He had been having such a… if not good, unquestionably better time here than he’d had with Caius and the rest. This was a bad turn. It didn’t have to be like this. He just had to make it up to Fletcher somehow; get back in their good graces

He had tried to make himself useful around the house without much success. It was true that what he could do would be limited while his hand was injured. Which meant he had to rely on other skills to make himself useful.

Everyone else had gone to bed. It was just Fletcher sitting on the couch, illuminated only by the fluctuating light of the TV screen. They had a beer in one hand, resting on the arm of the couch.

Tommy approached slowly, tugging on the hem of his shirt with anxiousness. Fletcher didn’t acknowledge him, even when he was standing in front of the couch. He kept to the side enough not to block their view.

It was only when Tommy lowered himself to his knees that Fletcher said, “What?” without taking their eyes off the screen.

“I’m really sorry about the dinner,” Tommy said. His stomach rippled with anxiety.

“I know,” Fletcher said flatly. “You’ve said.”

Tommy swallowed. He hesitantly leaned in and nuzzled his cheek against Fletcher’s leg.

Fletcher finally looked down at him.

“I would like to make it up to you.”

“How’s that?”

Fletcher said it flatly. Disinterested, still annoyed. There was no flirtation nor cruel amusement in their voice.

Tommy swallowed. Was this a bad idea? Or was he not making it obvious enough? Most people would jump on him at the mere suggestion.

Tommy put a hand on Fletcher’s knee and ran in gently up their thigh. Not far, not overstepping. Just trying to give them the right idea. He looked up at them with his best wet dog expression.

“Okay,” Fletcher said.

They set their beer down on the end table and shifted their pose, spreading their legs a little more. Tommy dutifully shuffled in between.

Nothing you haven’t done before, he told himself. It’ll be better afterwards.

“Close your eyes.” Fletcher said. And once he had, “Open your mouth.”

Tommy opened his mouth, sticking his tongue out a little. He waited, listening to Fletcher shift on the couch. Probably opening their pants. A click, that must’ve been their belt buckle.

What entered his mouth was too big, too hard, too metallic.

Tommy’s eyes flew open as the barrel of the gun forced his jaw wider. He tried to pull back, but Fletcher snatched a fistful of his hair and held him in place.

Tommy whimpered that beautiful whimper, but it was more rounded, more frantic.

“Breathe through your nose,” Fletcher said.

Tommy squeezed his eyes shut and followed the order. He tried to breathe deep and slow through his nose. He tried to keep his tongue down as far as he could, to not gag and to not taste the oiled metal.

“I want you to look at me now.”

Tommy slowly opened his eyes. Fletcher was staring down at him impassively.

“Don’t try this shit with me again.”

Tommy couldn’t nod, so he did his best to make an “Uh huh” noise.

Fletcher withdrew the gun. Tommy doubled forward and hacked. His mouth was left with an awful taste.

“Don’t spit on the floor,” Fletcher said. They picked up a magazine from the cushion beside them and slid it back into the gun. “Go.”

Tommy clamored to his feet and ran off. He managed to get to his room and close the door before fully breaking down into sobs, sliding down to the floor.

He had just been trying to make things better.

Tommy cried himself to sleep. Nothing new. He had just hoped to break the habit.

He shuffled into the kitchen in the morning, and froze when he saw Fletcher sitting at the table, nursing a mug of coffee.

Tommy dropped his gaze quickly. He tried to decide quickly whether he should leave now, or grab some food and then leave.

“Hey,” Fletcher said. It was softer than Tommy expected. “Sit.”

No running now. Tommy drew out the chair across from them and sat down, still avoiding their gaze.

“I recognize… that I have been harsh,” Fletcher said.

Tommy slowly lifted his eyes towards them, trying to read their expression. Was this a trick? Was he supposed to tell them he deserved it all? Was he supposed to believe them, and be lulled into a false sense of security?

“I didn’t give you a concussion, but, you know, the head can be tricky. And your hand…” They looked for the words. “I try to - I want to keep you in working condition. Nothing that’s going to really put you out of commission for a while. So that probably won’t happen again. Not to your hands. And the gun…” Fletcher ran a hand over their face. “The gun was a lot. That was uncool of me because, you know, gun safety rules.”

Tommy’s mouth was hanging slightly ajar. Was this an apology? At least, as close as Fletcher could get to one? He had expected something closer to, I recognize I’ve been harsh, but if you behaved I wouldn’t have to do these things.

“I know how it feels to have a gun on you,” Fletcher continued. They were the one to look away now. “And I… forget, I guess. That most people aren’t used to it. Can’t shake it off.

“Look, I’m not… not gonna say it will never happen again, but it probably won’t be this bad most of the time. Plenty of days will go by without incident, I’m sure. But I am… a violent person. I have violent tendencies, and I get angry. And I’m not trying to curb these tendencies because I enjoy indulging in them. So…” They tapped their knuckles on the table and shrugged. “That’s the situation. We’re square, for now. So you don’t need to be skulking around anymore. And… nevermind, I was going to say something mean.”

Tommy shifted uncomfortably. “About last night?”

“Yeah.”

“What, I’m not your type?”

Fletcher chuckled. “I was going to say when I want to take sexual advantage of you, I’ll let you know; you don’t have to initiate.”

“Right,” Tommy muttered, looking down again.

“I’m joking,” Fletcher said. “You can tell from my lighthearted expression.” They pointed at their face, purposely putting on a grumpy look. “Anyway, I’m planning my lesson for today. Might have to throw you around a bit for the demo. Nothing personal.”

“Oh,” Tommy said. “Okay, um…”

Fletcher was already up, carrying their coffee out of the room. “Get some breakfast,” they reminded him. “Three meals a day.”

~~~

hm i kind of thought our taglists would overlap more. good luck everyone.

@suspicious-whumping-egg @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

@2in1whump @sparrowsage @apokolyps @whumpinggrounds

@morning-star-whump @leviiio @alexmundaythrufriday

@defire @jumpywhumpywriter @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@light-me-on-pyre @slighlydisturbedbeans @dislexiher @paperprinxe @desert-dyke

@just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @whatwasmyprevioususername @cursedandtired

@whump-only @misspelledwitch @redstainedsocks @thehopelessopus @im-just-here-for-the-whump

@thatsthewhump @aqua-blogging @utopian819 @whumpinggoodtime @pretty-face-breaker

#in the woods somewhere #itws #professional//victim #writings #original #i feel like oat milk kinda came on the scene like 5-6 years ago right?#i remember trying it for the first time at my job that i quit in 2019 #so i dont think tommy would have had oat milk #unless the boys™️ drank it #seems like something rory might do

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candycandy00 · 1 year

Text

The Trade Part 4 - A Dabi x Reader Zombie AU

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Smut. 18+. Mentions of attempted rape. Final part!!!

Touya’s grip on your hand was almost crushing as he pulled you into both a figurative and literal storm. Thunder cracked above your heads as the rain became heavier, dousing both of you. Rotting arms reached for you, cold and clammy hands grasping at your shoulders and thighs. Even being right next to him, you could barely hear Touya’s angry yells as he swung his bat one-handed, completely lopping the head off one particularly decomposed zombie and smashing the skull of another.

You remembered something Toga had taught you: if it starts raining, run! Rain, and especially thunderstorms, could be loud and make it harder for you to detect threats, plus it reduced visibility. These were both issues you and Touya were dealing with as you battled your way back to the van.

A zombie’s hand grabbed your arm, and you broke free, using your knife to stab it through the ear. The best you could do was watch Touya’s back and make sure nothing attacked him while he was mowing down the corpses in front of him. You swiped the blade in an arc, slicing through several faces but killing nothing. A hunting knife really wasn’t a great weapon for crowd control.

Finally, Touya’s efforts opened up a big enough gap between the zombies for the two of you to run through, your hand still in his vice like grip.

The woods were chaotic. Shadows everywhere, many of them moving, the sky growing darker by the second, lightning flashing, and the rain pouring as if from a bucket. It was hard to find the van even though you remembered exactly where it had been parked.

But you did find it, and curiously, there were no zombies around it. So what had disturbed the cans and alerted you? There was no time to think about it. You and Touya climbed inside and he started the engine just as the first of your zombie pursuers appeared behind you. Touya drove out of the woods and onto the road, then sped ahead so fast that no zombies could ever hope to follow.

Several miles later, he pulled back into the woods and parked. Being on the road for very long was dangerous, and Touya had told you two days ago that he was low on fuel. So the two of you sat in the van, watching the rain beat the windshield.

Thunder rumbled loudly, making you jump. Touya looked over at you and said, “The storm is making too much noise for the zombies to follow our sounds.”

“That’s comforting,” you said, rubbing your arms to try to warm them up. You were soaked to the bone. Your thin, flimsy white shirt was basically see-through at this point, and you couldn’t help noticing Touya’s eyes shifting to your chest.

“We need to warm up,” he said, shutting off the van’s engine and opening the door. “Let’s get in the back.”

You climbed out of the front seat, remembering that he had sleeping bags and blankets back there. But when you met him at the back of the van, you found him stripping off his wet clothes in the rain.

“Can’t get warm like that,” he told you, gesturing toward your clothes.

He was right. You blushed a little as you pulled off your own wet clothing, leaving only your damp panties, then hurried to climb into the back of the van with him.

He was fully nude, water dripping down his body as he rummaged through boxes. He pulled out a nylon duffel bag and dropped it on the floor, then tossed you a towel and dried himself off.

“What’s in the bag?” you asked, blotting your hair with the towel.

He unzipped the bag and pulled something out that was rolled up. It only took you a moment to realize it was an air mattress. He hooked an automatic pump to one end and pressed a button, then watched as it inflated and subsequently filled up almost the entirety of the empty space in the back of the van. It was flocked on top, and looked very soft.

“Sorry, I only have one,” Touya said, pulling out a blanket. “Not that there would be room for another one.”

You looked from him to the air mattress then back again. “You wanna go to sleep?”

He gave you a flat look. “No, I wanna warm up. Figured we could share body heat.”

“Oh,” you said. It made sense. You were in the first days of autumn and the air was getting a chill to it. Your own body was shivering. But cuddling up with Touya in a bed while you were both naked? It seemed awfully intimate, even if it was in the back of his van.

You watched him crawl onto the mattress and spread the blanket over himself. Then he held up one side of it and said, “Come on.”

It didn’t take you long to decide. You got onto the mattress and scooted over until you were under the blanket with Touya. His body was warm against yours, despite being wet and cold just a few minutes before. Did he really need to warm up? Or had he just noticed that you were shivering? Despite your bodies being pressed together, Touya’s hands never touched you. He probably didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.

Your mind was racing. What exactly was your relationship? You’d done several sexual acts with him, and were now traveling with him. He occasionally made flirty or suggestive comments but never touched you without a trade taking place. And there had been no trades at all since he’d asked you to stay with him. He shared his supplies freely now.

Did that mean there would never be another trade? Were the two of you in a relationship now? You weren’t sure, but you knew one thing: you wanted to touch him and be touched by him again, regardless of any trade.

You rolled over on the air mattress, turning to face him. He was on his side, facing you. His beautiful eyes were staring into yours. Neither of you spoke or moved. Then, slowly, you reached one cool hand up to touch his face, where scars met healthy skin. He leaned into your touch and then wrapped one arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him.

Touya kissed your neck, then moved down to your shoulder, his hand sliding down your back and tugging at the waistband of your panties. You let him pull them down, and you kicked them off your ankles. Then his hand was between your thighs, his middle finger stroking your clit. All the while, you were face to face. His eyes never left yours, as if he wanted to watch every little expression you made as he pleasured you.

You could feel his erection pressing against your abdomen, and all you could think was that you wanted it inside you. Your eyes slid closed as he withdrew his hand, and you let him gently roll you onto your back. Then he was on top of you, his face flushed, his eyes watching yours for any sign that you wanted him to stop. You leaned up and kissed his lips, making your own desires clear.

He shoved the blanket aside and rose up onto his knees, straddling you. Then he bent down and positioned himself at your wet entrance. He shoved all the way in, making you wince and close your eyes. When he pulled back out, he looked down where your bodies met with surprise, then his eyes flew back to your face.

“Are you…?”

You nodded, knowing what he wanted to ask. You were embarrassed, but he didn’t say anything else. He just eased himself back in, more slowly and gently this time. You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, looking up at him and into those eyes. He began pumping in and out of you, carefully, and very gradually moved deeper and faster.

His face hovered over yours, and he leaned down to speak right into your ear. “Are you okay?”

“Yes!” Your voice came out a little louder than you intended, and sounded a bit like a moan.

Touya smiled warmly at you, then kissed you, slipping his tongue into your mouth. He was using one hand to brace himself while the other moved from the side of your face to your neck, his thumb rubbing your throat.

His thrusts became deeper, but still slow and deliberate, as if he were savoring the feel of you around him. He was beginning to hit a spot within you that made your toes curl. Your hands moved to his shoulders, one of them gripping scarred flesh and marveling at how it felt beneath your fingertips. Did it hurt him? He didn’t say, but he groaned in pleasure as he plunged into you.

Outside, in the distance, thunder rumbled through the sky. You were vaguely aware that the storm was passing over, even as the rain slowed to a gentle thrumming upon the roof of the van.

Finally you felt delicious pleasure race through your body like lightning. This was so much more intense than the other times you came in his presence. You were moaning loudly, crying out his name as you clenched tightly around him. He was breathing hard, his own voice making sweet wordless sounds, and you could feel him twitching.

He suddenly pulled out, and hot cum spurted across your stomach. He looked down at it, panting. “Sorry,” he mumbled, “I forgot to put a condom on.”

You shook your head. “It’s fine. It all happened pretty suddenly.”

He sat there above you, on his knees, for a minute while you both caught your breaths. Then he stood up and found a towel to clean up the mess he’d left on you.

You understood why he pulled out. Risking pregnancy in this world was something two people would have to thoroughly discuss beforehand, and you certainly weren’t ready for that discussion. But you kind of wished you could have felt him cum inside you.

Ah well, maybe you could find something to help with that later.

Regardless, you felt exhausted but satisfied. Blissful even. Touya was grinning at you as he pulled some clothes on and tossed you yours.

Once you were both dressed, he stepped over to the door. “I think the rain has stopped. I’m gonna check the situation, make sure no zombies managed to follow us.”

You walked over as well. “I’ll go with you.” If there were any zombies, you didn’t like the idea of him going alone, even though you knew he could take care of himself. Both of you were pretty tired after the run through the zombie herd and then the workout you just had in the van.

He opened the door and you both listened. Hearing none of the telltale signs of zombies, you jumped out first and walked around the side of the van, toward the front seat.

And you froze dead in your tracks.

Standing there beside the van were the two men who’d tied you up, each of them holding their rifles up, pointed at you.

“Hey, what are you two doing here?” You said it loudly, hoping Touya would hear you and know something was up before he came around to this side of the van. Apparently he did, because he hadn’t appeared yet.

“We have business with you, girlie,” one of them said. You noticed that the one who didn’t speak was pale, his gun unsteady in his hands. Your eyes moved down, and you saw that one pant leg was cut off. The exposed calf was covered in red, angry burn wounds, some of them leaking puss. You had no medical knowledge whatsoever and even you could tell the wounds were badly infected.

“Look what you did to my brother, cunt!” The man’s voice was near hysterical as he gestured toward the other man’s leg. “You set him on fucking fire! When we try to bandage it, it rips off the skin when we try to take it off!

“It’s infected,” you say, unable to take your eyes off the leg.

“No shit, Sherlock! We’re gonna have to chop it off! But he insisted we track you down and kill you first, while he can still walk.”

You looked at the wounded man’s face. He looked dazed, like he was barely conscious. There was a sheen of sweat on his pallid features. You didn’t say it, but to you it looked like they had already waited too late to cut off the leg. You almost felt sorry for them, but then you remembered the grotesque glee in their voices when they’d talked about their plans to rape you, and all pity evaporated.

“So the zombies in the woods…” you started.

“Yeah, that was us. Lured in a nice little herd for you. Had to when we realized you were traveling with him,” the man said, then paused. “Wait, where’s your boyfriend?”

“He went to the river to get water,” you lied. “But when he comes back, he’ll kill you both.”

The man laughed even as he scanned the area. “He probably will. He’s got a reputation you know. Everyone knows not to mess with the scarred man in the van. But I think we can kill you and be gone before he comes back.”

The wounded man just stood there, his gun drooping toward the ground. He probably didn’t even know where he was. The other man leveled his rifle at you. “Shame we don’t have time for some fun first, but we’re in a hurry.”

Just as his finger began to pull the trigger, Touya suddenly leapt down from the top of the van, bat in hand. He swung with such fury that the rifle was knocked out of the man’s hands before he could fire, and his hands were utterly smashed. The man screamed out in pain and fell to the ground.

The wounded man’s eyes snapped wide open, as if he suddenly realized what was going on. He tried to lift the rifle up, to point it at Touya, but you ran over and kicked his injured leg. He dropped immediately, screaming in agony and holding his leg, the rifle falling uselessly to the ground. You kicked it farther away from him and looked over at Touya.

He was standing over the other man, holding his bat in both hands. “I think we’ve got time for a lot of fun,” Touya said with a maniacal grin. Then he swung the bat down on the man’s crotch. You heard a crunching sound followed by screams, and you had to look away. You heard several more hits, and finally the screaming stopped.

All that remained was the wounded brother. You looked down at him and realized he wasn’t moving anymore. His eyes stared up at nothing. The infection must have killed him.

“You okay?” Touya asked, walking over to you.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for the save.”

The sound of broken groans drifted from the trees. All the screaming and commotion must have tipped the zombie herd off to your location. You and Touya hurried back into the front of the van and drove out of the woods.

Once on the road, he spoke up. “The woods are too dangerous now. Way too many zombies. We should think about another place to go after we grab some gas.”

You noticed he said “we” and smiled. He was apparently including you in whatever plans he had. You nodded and asked, “Got any ideas?”

He ran a hand through his hair as he drove. “I got one, but I’m not sure you’ll like it. I know you don’t like groups.”

“You know a group?”

He shrugged. “I never met them in person, but we were online friends. We agreed to meet up when all this shit started but I didn’t go. Thought I could make it alone. Now I’m not so sure.”

You gaped at him. Could it be? It had to be. You hesitated, then asked a very important question. “Are you… Dabi?”

Touya almost swerved the van in his shock. His eyes darted between you and the road. “Where did you hear that name?”

You grinned. “That’s a long story. The short version is I heard it from Toga.”

“You know Toga? Okay, you’re gonna have to spill this story.”

You laughed and then began recounting how you’d met Toga and the others, how you’d liked the group and sometimes regretted leaving them.

Touya listened intently, then he asked, “Wanna go back to them?”

“Sure,” you said with a smile, “as long as you go with me.”

He smiled back. “Anywhere. Always.”

The dark storm clouds had passed over, leaving a beautiful autumn sky overhead as the two of you drove down the highway.

Tag List:

@crunchtits @jabberwocky-92 @myst1cfish @missrosegold @dreamybxnny @hotvillainapologist @faetheral @touyasmaid @dabislittleprincess @cutebutdelulu @snowprincesa1

#dabi x reader #dabi smut #dabi #touya x reader #todoroki touya #dabi x you #x reader #bnha x reader

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ohtobemare · 3 months

Text

Cradlerobbing, Norman Nordstrom x fem!OC | Part 1

a Don't Breathe au short fic arc.

summary: She bought the house to the left. Expecting a quiet neighborhood, not the man next door. But Norman has quite a way of showing up when you least expect it. As a matter of fact, so does fate.

warnings: canon divergence, pregnancy, age gap, romance, surrogate to lovers, violence probably.

pairings: Norman Nordstrom, "The Blind Man" x fem!OC

“Well, looks to me like she’s pretty shot to shit, missy honey. Lookin’ at a total replacement, I think.”

A total tear down. Frickin’ fantastic. “Oh, no no—you can't be serious! Really? Are you sure there’s nothing you can—”

“—nope, not a thing. Shame, really.”

A flick of a business card between arthritic, knobby fingers and the stranger named Val managed the thinnest, most disingenuous smile a man of his age could probably muster. Dentures, maybe as ancient as the threadbare flannel jacketing his waifish frame, shifted ever so slightly as his tongue clicked off the back molars. Mentioning something about the “office gal Donna”, he all but shook his head as curling fingers scratched through left-behind-from-what-was-probably-last-week’s shave.

He all but assaulted her with the business card. Thrusting it into her hands, Millie McAffery could’ve sworn his skeleton cracked in two as he moved to retrieve his worn, strictly-80s briefcase from the floor. Welded in place, her feet cool from the half-stained walnut floor, her eyes trailed him as the man named Val exited the way he came–the kitchen’s dutch back door. Attempting to whistle, of all things.

Mille bristled at the light crick of his dentures even across the room—until the roar of his oversized diesel pickup grumbled its way out of her driveway and down the street. Though, if you’d asked her, she wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference. The low hum of the heavy engine matched the blood pistoning through her ears beat for beat, both seeming to rattle her bones.

Seventeen days.

She could hear her father all the way from the Twin Cities, clicking his tongue and shaking his head. Hardly different than he had the first time he’d smacked eyes on the old Victorian, nestled quietly on the once-beautiful, presently decaying, Buena Vista Street. “I told you, Millie honey—”

Looking at the card Val had passed into her hands, numbers to the office woman named Donna swam. Fresh tears bubbled up behind her lashes, herculean willpower funneling into attempts to keep her hands from trembling. Instead, her nose began to burn with the hot need to sniffle, stomach suddenly empty of anything but the stones that seemed to drop down the length of her throat and into the hallow chasm it had become. Rattling with every cardiac rhythm, for a moment she was concerned her heart had broken loose from behind her ribs.

Swearing she was able to feel her stomach acid jostle as she lifted a hand to massage around her mouth, Mille managed a shaking breath. Seventeen days she’d been parked in her—her, mark that her—very own house. In her very own plot of grass and dirt, her very own story. Her closet wasn’t even unpacked, still eating out of the same bowl with the singular spoon she’d left unpacked from her boxes. Had just managed to position the couch exactly where she wanted it two nights ago when lightning had cracked across her bay window. Thunder opened the floodgates of a brutal downpour.

Right into her living room. Mad dashing to catch water from ruining her freshly mortgaged walnut floor, she’d used everything from pots to the rolling carry-on Samsonite she’d opened and emptied to her mattress. Not daring a look to the scatter of makeshift catches on her floor, her eyes instead fell back to the card in her hands, Val’s estimate rolling through her brain like unforgiving, expensive lava.

A whimper assaulted the back of her throat viciously. Burning and acidic, like it wanted to rip her uvula fron the back of her throat and use it to beat her bloody. Headache blossoming from her temple, she pushed her glasses up into her hair to rub at her eyes with the heel of her hands, eyes pinched close in an attempt to will the entire events of the morning into nightmare status. Where it wasn’t real, simply bad fiction. Like that book her sister had gifted her for Hanukkah last year.

Twenty-six thousand dollars. Running average for a roof, sweet cheeks. Val’s look of sympathy almost drove her over the edge; ready to hand him the keys to her pickup and ask him to just end her and get it over with already. Use the life insurance to fix the roof and sell the house, send her back to Minnesota finally at peace and without burden. Instead she’d just gaped like a wobbly, hardly-with-it foal, knees all but shaking as Val had flitted his hand through the air, throwing out numbers as if it were bingo.

No way about it. She needed a new roof—money. I need so much frickin’ money—

—knock, knock. Two hard thunks at the front door, which was through the living room and just off the stunning foyer and open-banister staircase leading to the upper floor. Jumping, Mille’s hand flew ot corral her rabbiting heart behind her ribs, stomach flipping as the house seemed to rattle at the effort of whoever had knocked at her front door. Swallowing, which felt painful, she reached to pull her pajama robe tightly around her middle, channeling all her anger into a closing, tight knot.

Padding into the living room, dodging the scatter of water collection vessels across her floor, she worked the deadbolt and the chain lock off the door before opening it a sliver, squinting into the galactically-invasive light of day. Blinking, she scrunched up her nose before wishing whomever–face blocked by stabbing morning light—a less-than-genuine good morning.

A few seconds ticked by, her gaze corrected. The silver-fox of a stranger, standing rod-straight on US Bank’s mortgaged front porch, stared straight ahead as if she wasn’t even there. Millie recognized him instantly, the neighbor right across from her—she’d seen him walking his gorgeous Rottweiler the same time every morning she’d made herself coffee. Blind, her head had tipped to the side with a kind smile as she watched him not miss a beat, pounding concrete like he owned the world. And he might as well have, nobody lived on this street.

Until her.

“Norman, hi,” she tried punching energy into her voice, but it flopped—just as tired and flat as she’d feared. To his credit, Nordstrom’s expression only flickered for a moment; a light wrinkle of his brow, the faintest shift of his eyebrows up. Unmoving, his hand motioned for his companion to come up alongside him, Shadow shifting to accommodate with a lopsided little look on his face.

Eyes immediately moving to the Amazon package in his hand, the corner of her mouth ticked up a little. “That’s mine, I guess?” Lifting the package, he passed it to her with the quietest smile and nod, shifting a shoulder lightly. Opening the door wide, she stepped aside to welcome him in. “Doors open, like always. You want some coffee? It’s hot and strong.”

“Something bothering you, McAffery?” Norman’s perception amazed her, even after only a little over two weeks of acquaintance. He’d clocked her every time—that one day she’d been crying, homesick after the lock on the bathroom door had broken. When the dishwasher had stopped working, the light outside her door had flickered to a paralyzed nothing and she didn’t have the first clue how to remove the glass housing to change the bulb. She’d been over to Norman’s no more than half a dozen times, asking for tools. Once that awkward, high-I’m-you-neighbor-can-I-borrow-a-cup-of-sugar had breezed out of the way, she’d bounced herself over to Norman’s stoop every time the wind kicked up sideways.

Slipping in through the door, he stilled. Uncomfortably close proximity, she could smell the mint on his breath. A bite of aftershave, the glisten of dewy, freshly-shaven skin along his jaw. His side profile was extravagant, devilishly cut and attractive in a way that should’ve been illegal for men his age. Because even well old enough to be her daddy, Norman was handsome. Chiseled, strong. An Adonis, truly–her but Icharus flying too close to his wisdom and bronzed, might-as-well-be-carved-from-stone, arms.

Gently nudging her with one of his corded, ripped-with-muscle arms. As if he weren’t even challenged to see, the corner of his mouth lifted in a light, nearly teasing, smirk. For a man who lived alone, Norman was roughly flirtatious—with his expressions, anyway. “Y’don’t sound like yourself, Millie,” his hands slipped into the pockets of his perfectly-tight Wranglers, “Bubbly and shit-grinning and all that,” his smile was quicksilver, almost devilish. “What’s eating you, kid?”

“Thanks,” she mumbled, trying not to chuckle. Choosing to ignore the probe, “Watch yourself, there’s stuff all over the floor.” A sharp whistle from the corner of his mouth sent Shadow trotting through the door, weaving through the collection across her floor to plop himself in the kitchen, right on the this-morning-unrolled rug.

Toeing the door closed, she shrugged and reached to rub the back of her neck. Halting at her caution, Norman paused and checked her over his shoulder. Frowned severely. He looked genuinely puzzled—all the light, whatever could manage through the milky haze across his damaged eyes normally, evaporated. Simply standing there, he waited for her to come up beside him, one ear turned to her movements. Explaining her flooding disaster from two days ago, she toed aside the half-full Samsonite luggage parked in front of him.

Water sloshed over the size, landing in a fat plop on the walnut floor. Immediately keyed into the intrusion, he looked, amazingly, to the suitcase and then back to her as she came up beside him, looping her arm through his casually. Like old friends, like she hadn’t known Norman for less than ten days. A regular fixture already, in their otherwise ghost of an avenue that was Buena Vista Street.

“That can’t be good,” he said, low, then looked up. “Could’ve told you it needed replacing though, McAffery. Jack and ‘Livia didn’t do a thing the last twenty years,” he shook his head, a low rumble settling in his chest, “Kids wanted out of the place, fuckups from Chicago.” Gaze still turned upward, as if he could see. Could make sense of the water stains littering the popcorn ceiling of her living room.

“Yeah,” was all she managed.

Swelling emotion flared hot behind her ribs, stung the back of her throat like a splash of acid. Swallowing back a shaking breath, her toes curled into the floor for a heartbeat before she stepped to guide Norman into the Victorian’s small breakfast nook, a used baker’s table and two barstools Goodwilled from her mother. Stopping at the table, she explained the barstool at his 11 o’clock, and went to slip her arm from his to see to coffee.

Norman tugged her to a soft stop. Pulling up, her eyes moved from his hand, suddenly covering hers with a gentle, calloused squeeze to his face. Unreadable, as usual, though he managed to hold her gaze, again, like a seeing man would have. Half their brief relationship, she would’ve never guessed Norman was actually disabled—at first blush, she’d thought he’d been lying, he was so keen. But, when he’d counted the steps up to her front door just-so-slightly under his breath, she’d recanted her judgments.

Hand inexplicably warm over hers, Norman stiffened up the corded muscle of his arm. Giving her a light smirk, his hand moved to clap her shoulder, lightly. “You’ll figure it out, McAffery. It’s just life.” His hand moved to cup her cheek for just a breath, before his fingers brushed lightly across her features.

Reading her, as he’d asked to do when she’d showed up to return his toolbelt, eyes burning red and swollen from the sobbing session she’d had on her bathroom floor. The infancy of their hardly-mature acquaintanceship. But it had felt like she’d known Norman her entire life, the handsome stranger across the way anything but. And she wasn’t sure if that was ok–if that was normal, if the odd hammering of her heart against her breastbone at his hand over hers was acceptable neighbor-like behavior.

It didn’t matter, not really. Norman was here. She wasn’t alone.

“Smile, kiddo. Increases your facial value.”

tags: @itsgoghtime @horserad-ish@mongoosesthings @sarahsmi13s @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @kmc1989 @strawberrylemonadesoda

@strawberrylemonadesoda

#don't breathe #don't breathe 2 #norman nordstrom #stephen lang #norman nordstrom x ofc #horror #horrorfic #not really but for the tags #slasher #mare writes

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