#unapologetic smut

[miasmaghoul]

Take Your Licks

Rating: E

Pairing: Swiss/Rain

Word Count: ~3.4k

Contains: stoned ghouls, Rain's hardcore oral fixation, lots of tongue kissin', oral, first time rimming, Rain being a pillow princess and Swiss being just fine with that

Summary: Swiss has something new in mind, and Rain isn't sure how to feel about it. He figures it out quick.

A little somethin' for our beloved @endopyre, whose ghoul designs give me heart eyes. Happy birth(yester)day Endo, I hope you like it!

On a chilly fall night, there's nowhere Rain would rather be than right here.

Kicked back on the couch with a belly full of Mountain's spiced cider, his head resting on Swiss's lap while wind rattles the ancient windows and the tv drones on. Everyone else has gone to bed, it's long past midnight, but Rain doesn't feel inclined to retire quite yet. Not while Swiss is massaging his scalp with one hand and feeding him the end of a joint with the other.

They'll get there eventually, though - he can feel Swiss's bulge slowly growing against the back of his neck. Rain chuckles as best he can with the press of Swiss's fingers against his lips, and the other ghoul shoots him a comfortably stoned grin.

"Feelin' good, starfish?" Rain hums through his exhale, offering his own dopey smile as Swiss chases his smoke, biting the air.

"Not as good as you, apparently," Rain teases, the slightest bit slurred. The seated ghoul raises an eyebrow and Rain turns his head, nuzzling his cheek against Swiss's zipper with a pointed look. Swiss snorts, gives a rude roll of his hips, and Rain purrs.

"Listen to you," Swiss coos, ruffling Rain's hair and dropping the burnt end of the joint into his empty water glass. "So noisy over my cock and I haven't even given it to you yet." Rain replies with a nip to the fabric of his fly and Swiss gives him a wink. "When did you become such a slut, huh?"

Rain chitters low in his throat, a pleased sound. His own semi twitches against the seam of his sweatpants, but the dark fabric hides the movement.

"'s that a complaint?" He drags his tongue over the place Swiss's shaft sits, saliva darkening the denim, and Swiss tilts his head.

"Nah," he says, dragging callused fingers along the pointed shell of Rain's ear. "Just surprised it happened so quick."

Honestly, so is Rain. It's only been about six weeks since his summoning, but he's certainly made the rounds.

Aether had been his first, an accidental thing borne of extreme need; a reaction to a full moon that had risen a mere six nights after his arrival on Earth. It had worked him into a frenzy, body and mind stuck at fever pitch, and Aether had been the first one at his door. An encounter filled with overwhelm, fear and a lack of control Rain truly couldn't wrap his head around.

He'd barely had a chance to explore this new body on his own, let alone with someone else while in the throes of the moon's influence. Aether had been as kind and gentle as he could, but Rain couldn't help his panicked reactions. He'd spent hours in Aether's arms once the gnawing need in his guts had dissipated, sobbing into his chest and shaking like a leaf while the other ghoul soothed him.

Something about it, though, had been intoxicating. Once the mental stress had settled, a new ache had flooded his body. Something deep and insistent, focused between his thighs, and the next morning he'd woken Aether up demanding they do it all over again.

He's given everyone a test drive since then, so to speak. They all have their plusses and minuses, their pros and cons.

Save for Swiss.

There's something to be said for every part of Swiss.

The shine of his golden eyes. The strong, angular cut of his jaw and the scratchy salt-and-pepper of his short beard. The breadth of his back and shoulders. The muscular but soft plane of his chest and stomach, all dusted in a delightful layer of very grabbable hair. The sheer size of his hands, of his fingers, and the expert way they move. The curve of his ass, the thickness of his thighs. The way his fat cock hangs between them, the way it flushes so dark when it gets hard.

All of Swiss is immaculate, really. But as far as Rain is concerned, nothing beats his mouth.

(Seriously, it's ranked number one in his little black notebook. The one that lives in his nightstand, right alongside the lube and a handful of vanilla flavored condoms. They're Dew's favorite.)

Rain stares at it while he laves at rough denim, at the plushness of Swiss's lower lip and the way his mouth curls up at the corner. It's open just enough that Rain catches glimpses of fang every few breaths. (Those are nice too, wonderful when dragged over his pulse point and sunk into the meat of his thighs.) Swiss's tongue pokes between them every now and again while Rain laps at his rapidly thickening length, and every time Rain spies that flash of pink his rhythm falters.

Swiss, ever observant, doesn't miss it.

Rain's eyes track every bit of the way Swiss drags his tongue along his bottom lip, entranced by the shine it leaves behind. It's like he's moving in slow motion, dragging it out, but maybe that's just the weed. Impossible to say. Either way, Rain's own tongue has gone useless in his mouth, lolling out the side of his mouth. He's drooling onto Swiss's crotch, but neither of them seem to care.

"You're staring," Swiss murmurs, gently flicking Rain's ear. "'s my tongue really that interesting?"

He knows the answer, but a reminder never hurts.

"Uh huh," he gurgles, pulling back his own tongue and unsubtly palming himself through his sweats. Swiss doesn't miss that either, and Rain shivers a bit at the way his lids go visibly heavier. "Since I know what it can do."

Swiss grins with all his teeth, his eyes flash with mischief, and Rain's stomach does an anticipatory flip.

"Speaking of," Swiss rumbles, relaxing back into the couch, "there's a certain tongue-related activity I've had in mind for you for a while now." A large hand comes to rest on his stomach and Rain groans when it slips beneath his t-shirt, warm against his skin. "You up for somethin' new, tadpole?"

Rain's head feels delightfully hollow. He isn't sure he's heard half of Swiss's words, the pressure behind his eyes stealing his focus, but the drag of rough fingertips along his waistband helps to ground him. His eyes follow Swiss's tongue once again, currently swiping over his fangs.

"Mmm," he hums with a nod, "sure, but can we do something I want first?"

"What would that be?"

"Gimme that fuckin' tongue," Rain demands, reaching up to grab the other ghoul by the back of the neck. Swiss's smile widens, and he doesn't fight when Rain drags him into a lazy, filthy kiss.

He refuses to let Swiss's tongue leave his mouth - licking at it, sucking it, giving it sharp little nips that tinge the kiss with copper. Distantly, Rain feels himself being moved, lifted, but he really can't be bothered to open his eyes and see what's happening. He's far too busy trying to eat Swiss alive.

"Easy," Swiss pants, voice thick, "let a guy breathe, we don't all have gills."

Rain chirps, burying his face in Swiss's throat instead. The spell of his tongue seems to be breakable by lack of sight and contact, and Rain comes back to himself enough to realize he's being carried. His arms slung over broad shoulders, long legs around narrow hips, Swiss strides down the hall towards his room. Rain feels his cheeks heat. He must have been really out of it to let someone carry him this far without realizing it.

"Let me down," he mumbles, lips rasping against Swiss's stubble. "I can walk, you don't -"

Swiss shushes him, kisses his horn.

"Nah," he sounds so pleased, "you're indulgin' me, I can let you play princess tonight."

Swiss's hands squeeze his ass and Rain's cock throbs, trapped between their stomachs. He gives his hips a wriggle, chasing stimulation, and Swiss gives one of his cheeks a slap instead.

"Stay still," he says, firm. A tone Rain rarely hears, but goes straight to his balls every time. He repeats his little grind anyway, and his reward is Swiss grunting and getting a solid grip on his slender waist. "Rain," he rumbles, and Rain's head swims, "patience. I don't want to trip and fall on top of you."

"m sorry," Rain mumbles, not sorry at all, "can't help it. You feel so nice." He rocks again and Swiss sighs.

"Look at me, Rain."

It's an order, and Rain thinks they won't get very far tonight if Swiss keeps sounding so authoritative. It's doing funny things to places he's still learning about, and he can feel where his dick has started to get his pants wet. Still, though, he meets Swiss's piercing gaze. The sparkle there betrays his calm demeanor. He opens his mouth and Rain immediately zeroes in again.

"Stay."

So much fang.

"Still."

So much tongue.

Rain's jaw drops and Swiss catches him in a wet, nasty kiss that serves to switch Rain's brain right off. All that matters is Swiss invading his mouth, the warmth of it sensual in the best way. He tastes like weed, like cider, like whisky and black pepper, and Rain has the sudden desire to taste nothing else ever again. Nothing but Swiss.

He doesn't come back to himself so easily this time, not even when Swiss pulls away for air. The other ghouls makes sure their tongues stay in contact always, and something in Rain's chest burns with it. But soon enough their lips meet again and Rain loses it all again, content to float in a space not quite anywhere. The breaks start to get longer, but Rain only notices in the most cursory way.

He doesn't come back in any meaningful way until Swiss's mouth disappears from his for minutes, and as the cobwebs filling his skull begin to fall away several things become apparent.

One, he's on a bed. Whose bed? Swiss's probably. It smells more like him. Either way, not important.

Two, he's naked as the day he was summoned. On his back, blinking at a dimly lit ceiling. He moves his legs only to realize they're folded, his feet planted on the mattress an his thighs spread. He can't get them to close, something's in the way. Which brings him to,

Three, there is something warm and wet and the juncture of his hip and thigh. Sucking pressure, it makes his bones vibrate. There are whiny, feminine sounds bouncing off the walls. Are they coming from him? Rain shakes his head in an effort to return to his body, managing at length to lift his head. It still takes a moment for him to focus enough to make out Swiss's prone form.

He's between Rain's newly marked thighs, shoulders pinning them open while he mouths at a twitching muscle in Rain's groin. There are bites all over - his chest, his thighs, his hips - in a dozen shades of purple, and he doesn't remember getting a single one. Fuck, how out of it was he? The thought makes his cock throb so hard he grunts, and Rain watches the blurt of pre it spits join a not-small puddle on his belly.

"So whaddaya say, sweetheart," Swiss sounds like he's far away, but the words feel familiar. Like this isn't the first time he's heard them. "You ready for somethin' new?"

"Yeah," Rain rasps, and his own voice surprises him. "Show me." It feels like he's been talking for a while, his throat feels sore, but he can't recall. What has he agreed to? Swiss purrs, low and lustful, and Rain thinks it may be the best sound he's ever heard.

"Good boy," he murmurs, licking his lips. That fucking tongue again. Rain blinks away the encroaching haze, forces himself to at least try to pay attention. Swiss shifts enough to get those large fingers on his thighs, patting them. "Gonna open you up now, okay?"

Rain blinks, nods without really meaning to, and Swiss gives him another wink. Before he knows what's happening those hands are at the backs of his knees, and Rain gasps when his legs are pushed apart and up towards his chest. It shocks something in him, and snippets of conversation come with it.

"You want to what?"

"Lick you out," Swiss's phantom voice echoes through his memory. "Get the tongue you're so obsessed with on you and make you sing real sweet."

Rain wonders if his stomach swooped like this the first time they had that exchange. The memory perks him up enough to catch his breath, caged by his own legs and Swiss's strong arms. Swiss gazes at him past the flushed, slick length of his cock, bobbing rigid over the flat plane of his stomach, and Rain flinches when he feels warm air ghost over his very exposed hole.

"You're so pink here," Swiss coos, "Pink and wet. All for me? I think it is." He shimmies down the bed - if Rain were able to focus on anything, he wouldn't have missed Swiss grinding into the mattress along the way - placing a wet kiss on each of Rain's balls along the way. Each one has him gasping, but the more he remembers about the things he's forgotten tonight, the clearer his head gets.

"You're gonna lick me...there?"

"Only if you want me to," Swiss had said with a shrug. Casual. "Think you'll really like it."

"Does it go...like..." Rain had made a middle school gesture, one finger stuck through a ring of two others. "In...inside?"

The sudden flash of a fox-like grin has Rain's eyelids fluttering, even just as a memory.

"Only if you ask very nicely."

The press of warm lips against his taint snaps him back to the present.

"S-Swiss," Rain hisses, grabbing on instinct for his wagging cock, achy and purpled. "W-wait, wait -"

The words are little more than a whisper, and Rain is somehow completely unprepared for the hot slide of that tongue over his slick, twitching hole.

Rain gasps, loud and shocked, as Swiss licks up to his balls and back again, pausing to circle that tight pucker. The feel of it is singular, electric jolts up his spine and deep in his pelvis. Every slow, wicked pass of that rough tongue rips utterly involuntary sounds from his throat. Quicker than he can make sense of, the hesitance and reluctance simmering at the back of his mind evaporate.

"Fuck."

It's good.

"Oh, fuck."

It's...it's so good.

He's being so loud all of a sudden. He knows it, his own yelps and whines echo around him, broken up only by the filthy sound of Swiss licking at him with what can only be called perverse reverence. Their eyes remain locked through it all, hazy cerulean with sparkling gold. Swiss looks amused, the corners of his eyes crinkles and his lips curved. Maybe more smug than amused, but Rain doesn't really care right now.

"Like it?" Swiss asks, his voice low and dark.

"Uh huh," Rain nods, breathless. He moves his leg and - oh, when had he started holding them? Had Swiss asked? "Keep going, please keep - oh."

It's faster now, just a little, but rougher too. Swiss punctuates his licks with full, messy kisses right on his hole. Every one has Rain's cock kicking and pouring pre, his skin slick and shiny with it. He can't look at it any longer, has to let his head thump back against the mattress so he can loose the deeply pained groan caught between his lungs.

"Knew you would," Swiss breathes, dragging careful fingertips along quivering thighs. He brushes soft knuckles over Rain's tight sack, and it draws all of Rain's attention back to the righteous ache between his legs.

"Fuck, touch me," he spits between grit teeth, drowning in the way Swiss worships him. His cock pulses in time with his racing heart, sways in the air. "Please, please touch it Swiss, please - fuck!"

Rain's tight pleas melt into high, hurt cries when Swiss does just what he asked. Wraps a large hand around Rain's straining shaft, grips it at the bottom and gives it a nice shake.

Swiss gives him a single stroke, a firm lick, and Rain's eyes roll back in his skull.

"Oh fuck," he gasps, "oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck -"

He's chanting it, a pained mantra pouring from between kiss swollen lips as though he can't believe any of this. He's sweaty at his hairline, and the more Swiss works him the more he shakes. He laps away like a thirsty dog, milking pre and slick and pleasure from him with each swipe. He twists his wrist just so, rubs his thumb over the frenulum, and Rain's whole being goes tense.

"Oh fuck," he squeaks, tight and almost panicky. He knows Swiss can feel the way he gets harder between his fingers, his abdomen going taut and his back bowing off the bed.

Swiss nudges at his pucker, twists his wrist, and it spells Rain's end.

He cums with a stuttering, breathy groan, spilling hot and heavy over his own chest and belly, coating his marked skin with stripes of pearly white. Swiss tugs him through the whole thing, milks him with short strokes and soft licks.

Rain barely feels any of it, at least at first. His mind has gone to soup, liquidized and useless, lost to pleasure and overwhelm. He doesn't feel it until he really feels it, sudden overstimulation that has hip dropping his shaking legs and grabbing for Swiss's horns, his hair, anything.

Swiss pulls back on his own, though. Releases Rain's slowly softening cock and presses soothing kisses to his thigh. Swiss smiles up at him, deceptively sweet.

"So, whaddaya think?"

Rain wants to tell him several things. Wants to say how good it was, but how overwhelming. So much pleasure being derived from an act he had never considered until maybe twenty minutes ago. One he had nearly panicked over when realization hit. He still has no idea how much time he lost when he was hypnotized by Swiss's tongue.

He wants to, but then Swiss licks his lips. He licks his lips and Rain notices that he's wet from nose to chin. It's a sight he's only been privy to on the few occasions they've shared Dew; Swiss always insists on burying as much of his face in the little ghoul's cunt as he can, until he's drenched and sated.

To see the same look on his face, the same wetness, just from licking him...it's enough to have Rain's body buzzing all over again.

"Again," he slurs, tucking his hands behind his thighs and folding himself. Exposing himself. "Do...do that again."

Swiss gives him a cheshire grin, nods, and for some reason Rain's fried brain has trouble processing why Swiss is hovering higher instead of slipping back down. Why he's moving to run that impossibly perfect tongue over his still-twitching abdomen. He doesn't quite manage to put it together, though.

So imagine his surprise when Swiss ducks between his cheeks, spits Rain's own mess onto his already slippery hole and dives in for seconds.

"Swiss," he chokes out, once his own stunned shout fades from his ears, "I - I want -" Rain's chest heaves, the attention being paid to his most sensitive spot hurtling him straight back into the realm of overstimulation. "Need...need - fuck!"

Swiss stares up at him, gaze heavy with pleasure, and Rain's soft cock gives a valiant twitch. He swallows hard, clenches around nothing, and forces the words to come.

"Stick it in," he demands, breathy. "Gimme your tongue. Put it - Lucifer - push it in and...and fuck me with it."

The last words are breathless and whiny, and Swiss huffs out a laugh. It blows cool against his heated rim, and Swiss pulls back just enough for Rain to catch sight of his tongue.

"Whatever you want, baby."

Rain's tired eyes go wide as he watches Swiss's tongue bifurcate and extend, the other ghoul dropping the slightest hint of his glamour. Goosebumps rocket up all over his trembling body, that flexible appendage slips inside his winking hole, and Rain keens.

It's going to be a long night.

[valve-ports]

Spikes with see-through parts you can see filling up with hydraulic fluid/transfluid as they pressurize/approach climax.

Spikes that expand and contract in pulses from the base to the tip in increasingly rapid pace as the bot is getting closer to an overload.

Spikes that adjust their shape to hit all the right spots in partner's valve to maximize pleasure.

[doomsdaybby]

Five Pounds & Sixty Pence (steven grant x female reader)

what to expect/warnings: switch steven (whiny subby/slightly possessive), mutual pining, steven needs to shut his dirty mouth, squirting, fingering, developing relationship.

I slightly blue balls you at the end but don’t worry about it.

word count: 3.8k

!!EXPLICIT!!

You had been on a few dates with Steven Grant over the past couple of months. The shy, charmingly awkward, beautiful man that worked in the museum gift shop encapsulated you like no other had ever done before.

“That’ll be - uhh - five pounds and sixty pence” his warm eyes glimmered, a polite smile graced his kind face, and you just about melted into a puddle on the floor. You had visited the museum for the first time with some friends early February that year, and were stupidly close to veering away from the gift shop, when the alluring man behind the till caused you to almost trip over your own feet.

“Taweret,” he exhaled a jittered chuckle as you fumbled through your purse, pointing to the small statuette of the goddess whilst his other hand twitched as if he wasn’t sure where to put it, to then clumsily settle on the counter. “Excellent choice”.

You paused and lifted your lashes to gaze at him, his expression bright although he was far from comfortable. He always lost the very little nerve he had around divine women. “She’s pretty,” you said after humming in agreement. Truth be told, you didn’t quite care, your only motivation being that you had to buy something, so that you could linger around the shelves and marvel at the enticing gentlemen behind the counter without making it too obvious.

You smiled back at him when his grin grew bigger, his tousled dark locks bouncing as he nodded eagerly, and you could have sworn his pink cheeks deepened in rouge. ‘Pretty’ maybe wasn’t the word Steven would use, but be it that it was coming from your mouth had him blindly agreeing.

You could tell from the praising comment that he was holding back from explaining why he thought you made a good choice, and if you weren’t being beckoned towards the exit by your friends, you would have enthralled him. His eagerness, the excited glimmer that lingered behind his chocolate irises drew you close, and you wished for more time.

“Thankyou-“ glancing at his name tag that sat slightly lopsided on the pocket of his navy button up, “-Steven” you smiled, handing him the array of pound coins and loose change. “With a V,” he stuttered, pointing to his name badge as if you hadn’t already looked at it. The alluring stranger was now a little less strange, and you silently cursed him for turning your legs to putty for doing virtually nothing.

Steven. How could he make such a generic name seem so endearing?

His gaze scanned your flushed face, lids sitting slightly lazy as you witnessed him slip into a visible small daze. “Oh- uh, yeah. You’re welcome” he stood up straight in a rush, stunned and a little embarrassed upon the realisation that he had drifted.

From then on, you made every excuse to visit the museum every so often, spending days off you would usually squander in your one bedroom flat stealing greedy glances at Steven from between the shelves.

In your free time, with no one there to unwillingly drag you away, you would stand head in hands propped up on your elbows on the other side of the till, listening to him with undivided attention rivet spellbindingly on about the Egyptian Gods and Goddesses.

“Starting a collection, are we?” he grinned, and you recognised that same gleeful glint behind his eyes. You had sparked the conversation once another small statuette, of Isis this time, graced his palms over the counter. “Will you tell me about her?” you requested politely, your feet rooting to the ground beneath you when he began gushing about the major Goddess.

Two months passed before you worked up the courage to ask him out, having talked yourself out of asking him sooner too many times. His reaction to the proposal of drinks after his shift made your heartbeat flutter a little faster; his face automatically brightened whilst blinking at you in almost disbelief.

“Is… that a… yes?” you prodded, unable to stifle the schoolgirl-esque giggle that wormed its way out of your chest when he was rendered mute. There he was again, swimming in that ditsy daydream that he would often visit when he was around you, a far off gaze that made his eyes twinkle.

Steven shook his head, coming to his senses quicker than he would if you had drenched him in ice water, “Oh! Yes! -“ he cleared his throat, “Yes. Absolutely! Give me uhhh…,” he glanced at his watch, “Half an hour?”.

The first date was even more wonderful than you could have imagined, never tiring of his over enthusiastic gleeful voice laced with more delight than you had ever witnessed when you prodded him more about his knowledge on ancient Egypt, surprised that he wasn’t already a tour guide.

“You’re wasted at that place, they don’t deserve you” you told him with utmost sincerity, after becoming excessively annoyed by his heavy sigh once you asked why he was still working in the gift shop. Not at him, of course, but at his stupid boss. Why did they not see how wonderful he was?

Though it settled your heart when you practically saw the sunken purple under lethargic eyes bore a healthy glow to match the warm tan of his skin, realising that he probably didn’t have somebody to tell him how great he actually was. His lips curled into a small smile, settling there as his cheeks turned to that familiar rouge.

“Will I… will I be able to see you again?” he asked apprehensively as he helped you with your coat, stumbling slightly almost as if he expected a refusal. You turned to him, enjoying the way he would evidently allow intrusive thoughts to sway his body language and facial expressions, his eyes furiously scanning your face for some sort of cue, praying to every God that the answer wasn’t no.

You straightened the collar of his shirt, resisting the urge to run your hands over his strong shoulders that were hidden underneath the oversized geometric fabric, that you quickly caught on was one of his favourites.

And like a moth to a flame, you couldn’t resist.

So now here you were, two weeks later curled up on Steven’s grey fabric couch in his dingy London flat, chowing down on some noodles from the local Chinese takeaway. It was a battle within itself to wiggle your way into his flat in the first place, stunting the tried and true trusty puppy dog eyes and pouty lip that had him practically melting in front of you.

Glancing beside you, your stomach pooled with an overwhelming warmth. “God, this is amazing!”, the delight coating his words snapped you out of a trance you didn’t realise you were in, watching how his face would twist into gleeful smiles and theatrical gasps. Who knew a movie about hobbits and wizards would have him so enthralled?

He was so innocently sublime, overwhelmingly beguiling to every degree and beyond, and somehow he was interested in you. At least that’s what you would like to think, as every time he made the smallest move he would proceed to hastily back out at the last second.

If your hands touched he would allow his fingers to linger there for a moment, before whisking it away as quickly as it appeared amidst an awkward clear of the throat.

“What?” he laughed when he noticed you staring, cheeks stuffed full of noodles and eyes glittering with wonder. You clocked the steal of a glance at your lips, which only made your smile grow wider and your cheeks flush a deeper pink. “Nothing,” you replied, returning your attention to the film, relishing in the sensation of his gaze raking across your face.

You would kill to know what he was thinking at that moment. Hoping that he shared in your desire; as if he were to give you the green light, that god awful geometric shirt would be ripped from his torso and cast to the floor quicker than he could say ‘Hathor’.

But you wanted Steven to be the one to take it further, as you already felt that you had to step on his throat to even get past the first date, let alone hold grapple him in a chokehold to get through his front door.

You couldn’t be the one to hold the reins forever, and if either of you wanted there to be a forever, he would have to pluck up the courage to take it that one step forward.

There was a kindling fire behind those dark chocolate eyes that screamed for a spark; a match, a fan to the flame, anything, to transform into a raging inferno. You savoured the anticipation, relishing in the fact that at any moment, the embers would ignite.

You could cut the thick tense blanket that swallowed the atmosphere with a knife, the longer Steven stared the quicker your heart would beat, spiralling exponentially towards concaving in your chest. “You’re not watching,” you told him, pretending that you didn’t just want to pounce on him there and then.

“Yeah… yeah” he nodded dizzily, admiring the curve of your lips and the slither of collar bone that peaked out from under your cotton t-shirt. He audibly swallowed, a small shake of his head as he too returned even a morsel of attention back to the screen, having to unbutton the collar of his shirt.

And for the next two hours you sat in near complete silence, a comfortable silence at that, eventually sitting parallel knee against knee, two spoons shovelling into one bowl of raspberry ripple ice cream. You both shared the odd glance and smirk when the other gasped at the tv screen, cannily drinking in the look on Steven’s face when he was consumed with laughter.

Becoming slightly tired of dangling on the edge of expectation, you shuffled over towards Steven’s side of the couch and rested your head on his shoulder. You could call it a bold move, as his bicep clenched under your touch, but would soon relax when your arm snaked through his to curl into a comfortable link.

He smelled so good. Like coffee beans and that generic cedarwood aftershave every man on the planet would wear. But it was like new when it came from him. You found yourself leaning into him, heart fluttering and head promising sin. If your eyes could take the shape of hearts, then they would have done at this moment. It was almost too much to bear.

“This was fun,” Steven said sheepishly whilst leaning against the doorframe of his front door, another perfect example of the fact that he never knew how to place himself, always appearing so self-conscious and fuelled by unease. “I like spending time with you,” you admitted, the first time either of you had explicitly informed the other that you actually valued when you were together.

Another bashful grin, both rows of teeth on full display as he glanced at the floor. You had half expected him to lift a leg up behind him like the lead female role would do in a rom-com. “We should do something again soon, yeah?” his eyes connected with yours, and your ribcage splintered. You didn’t want to leave. Not right now.

But it was obvious he didn’t want you to stay, and you lingered there for what felt like an eternity, screaming at him in your head to let you stay with him a little while longer.

“See you soon, Steven with a V” you turned to begin your walk to the uber waiting outside of the flat block, the lack of offer to, at the very least, walk with you resonating a painful sting.

But you barely even took a step, having only turned your back before you felt a strong grip of calloused fingers along the nook of your elbow. Spinning around, you didn’t have a chance to utter a single syllable before his lips were on yours. You leant forward towards him again, hands flying to his curls whilst his glide over your sides, mesmerising every curve and dip of your padded flesh, twisting around your back.

One hand settles on the small of your back, the other pressing frightenglingy harshly between your shoulder blades. He held you there, rooting you to the ground and suddenly feeling fragile and small in his grasp, waiting to be consumed and devoured. If he pressed any harder you would surely combust under the pressure.

Every shared glance, every hover of delicate fingers on skin, and every heartfelt compliment shattered and swelled all at once within this kiss. You had wanted it from the moment you saw him, with his lopsided name tag and dishevelled brooding appearance.

Your stomach flipped, lungs knotting themselves together amongst the sheer disbelief that you finally got to touch him, possessively and obediently. From your shoulder blades his large palm skates to hook around the back of your neck, forcing you closer as your teeth chattered against one another.

As much as you could stand here forever with him, consuming his taste and touch in every way possible, you couldn’t fuck him out in the corridor. So mustering up the might to push him back, he whimpered as your lips disconnected, his pink tongue chasing your mouth in a desperate attempt to keep you sealed together.

With the fabric of his shirt wadded in the palm of your hand and his shaking breath brushing your nose, you walked him back and shut the front door, not wasting another second before tugging on his shirt to pull him right back in. Steven jolted against you, swiftly lunging himself forward as your tongues twisted together before your lips even had the chance to reconnect.

He tasted of raspberry ice cream, so sweet, and you felt the stretch of his lips as he smiled into you. His large hands found your hips, digging fingertips into the soft flesh underneath the sheer fabric of your dress to quickly smooth over the hurt when you winced.

The awkward, sunken-so-far-down-in-his-chair-he-near-folded-in-on-himself, unimpeachable Steven had been flung out of the nearest window. This new form of himself that held you with such ferocity was uncharted territory, and you liked it.

He was desperate. And so were you.

“Oh god… is this okay?” he questioned against your lips as his fingers fumble with the hem of your dress, returning to those stuttering words and unsure wandering hands that were crying out to explore your body.

“Fuck, Steven, of course it’s okay” your voice dripped with arousal, a twinge of annoyance simmering behind your tone at his apprehensiveness. “Do whatever you want. It’s okay. This-“ you seized his hands and brought them up to harshly squeeze the tissue of your breasts, “-is okay”.

His eyes widened in a spectacular fashion as soon as his clammy palms kneaded the tender flesh, again frantic when they flickered between your chest and your face, unsure of where to look but knowing exactly what to do next.

Green light.

“‘Do whatever you want’, yeah?” his lips curled into a blood curdling grin, every cell in your body crystallising when you physically witnessed his eyes transcend darker. “Oh, darling. I will” and your heartbeat skyrocketed, much did the second one south of your hips that thumped with wicked urgent intent.

His kiss-bruised lips latched to your throat, and you felt yourself titling your head back against the door to give him easier access. As he nipped at the sensitive skin of your throat, one hand suctioned to your breast, resonating an ache that paired with the brutish force of his palming.

He wasted no time to send the other prowling up underneath your dress; nimble quick fingertips ghosting over the skin of your belly, sparking an array of goosebumps in their wake, tracing over the rolls of your sides along your ribs, settling against the cushion of your naked bosom.

Steven groaned against your neck, the rumbling adding to the multitude of sensations that had your breathing latch and heartbeat frantic. The only thing you could do was to hang onto him for dear life, your hands grasping to the roots of his curls as he had you pinned against the doorway, belligerently sucking welts of blue and purple against your skin.

“Fuck, Steven…” his name rolled off your tongue with an embarrassing simplicity, ready to fall to your knees if he commanded you to do so. You tightened your grip on his tousled curls, enough so that you winced at the mere thought of how it felt, but Steven only omitted a delighted groan in return.

He wedged himself against you, rolling his hips against your thigh where you quickly became aware of his own arousal, cock straining deliciously in his jeans. “Poor baby…” you cooed, reaching down to glide your hand over his clothed erection. He whimpered, a needy sound you had never quite heard before, fingers digging into your skin again so harshly you were bound to be bruised.

He melts against you, dragging a hand down to tease the waistband of your panties as your palm flattens along his apparent bulge. His head is buried into the crook of your neck, hot trembling moaning breaths fanning along your collarbone and chest. From this angle you could kiss along his glistening hairline, travelling towards his temple as you allowed him to drift again, savouring every little touch and squeeze in between.

“That’s it, darling” he drawled in response when you opened your legs for him, right on cue for his fingers to dip below the cloth concealing your modesty. Drawing him closer, ragged breaths seared the back of your throat as thick fingers discover how soaked you are for him. Ready and waiting, utterly dripping, for him.

“Fuck,” he runs his fingertips over the mound of your clit, breathing out a laugh of almost disbelief when you squeak. He must have felt your heart skip a beat; pulling his head back now to peer at you with a new wanderlust daze of sheer awestruck and admiration, a smirk painting his stupidly perfect face when those same fingers slid down to your slick entrance.

As if your state of arousal wasn’t obvious enough, as Steven teased your folds over and over again, the sound of it was a dead giveaway. “So fucking wet for me…” that familiar delight lingered behind his words, as if he had been presented with a professionally wrapped gift on christmas morning, satin bow and all.

“All for you…” you made sure he knew it. How devoted you were to him, how you would do anything he said at the drop of a hat. You had been hooked since the beginning. His thumb pad finally began to circle your clit, clumsily at first but he soon found his rhythm.

Now it was your turn to melt against him, fighting clawing urges to both hold his gaze and also throw your head back and squeeze your eyes shut amongst the pleasure. Just as you thought you were as close to heaven as you could get, Steven pushed a thick ring finger into your aching heat, catapulting you to a place otherworldly.

“Jesus! Steven!”, although you were more than prepared for him, the sudden sensation of becoming so full by just a finger was a jolting surprise within itself. He stared at you slack jawed, running his tongue absentmindedly over his bottom lip, watching you spurred with sacrilegious intent.

You ground down against him in a stupor, silently begging for more. Of course, Steven wouldn’t leave you hanging, as much as the thought of you pleading for him danced in his head, he wasn’t about to deprive this sweet sweet Goddess of the pleasure she deserved. There was plenty of time to practice those fantasies he pushed to the back of his mind.

He slips in another finger with ease, the initial shock of his presence within you settling, the familiar warmth pooling at the pit of your stomach. “That’s it, angel. Such a good girl” he cooed in your ear, returning his lips that glimmered with saliva to your reddened throat, purring buttery sweet nothings against your skin.

“Oh my fucking god,” you squirmed away from his touch, the firecrackers rippling along your spine teetering on the edge of too much to bear. But in this position, trapped between a wooden door and a man that was built as if chiselled from polished marble, you had nowhere to go.

And jesus fuck, you were glad to be caged.

Steven pulled his fingers back out of you again, and this time you whimpered in the same desperate tone he adorned only minutes ago. But with a shift of his posture and a curve of his wrist, he curled his fingers up into you at a new unrelenting angle that had you chanting with no cohesion.

He suckled at your flesh, the bulging arteries that pumped mercilessly with hot blood beckoning him like a siren call. “Oh god, Steven. Steven!” your whimpers became cries, cries became muffled screams that were stunted by the weight of his free hand that clasped rapidly over your mouth. The last thing he needed was a noise complaint from his shitty neighbours.

“Are you going to cum for me, angel? Such a pretty baby, falling apart all because of my fingers? You have no idea what my cock can do to you” the filth that stringed from his lips were enough to tip you over that edge, his voice as sweet as honey yet cold as ice. You never imagined such vulgarity to bubble from the throat of someone so… well, someone like Steven.

Your throat splintered under the weight of your cries, moan after moan ripping from your chest as you flooded the palm of his hands. You faintly heard what can only be described as rain in a thunderstorm hammering down south of your hips, head fuzzy and brain buzzing.

You noticed Steven’s bewildered and exhilterated expression as his focus dipped to his fingers that ploughed you through your high, slowing to a steady pace as your cries dwindled into soft moans. “Bloody hell, can you do that again?!“ his boyish pitch had returned, and it was when you fully came to your senses that you realised what had happened.

Titling your head down to follow his wide eyes, your chest began to cave in once again through the panic of realisation. You saw the front of Steven’s jeans first, splashed with the result of your orgasm, then; the tips of his fingers still aligned with your entrance, his palm and wrist dripping with your cum.

And the floor. God. The floor had become puddled with more arousal than you had ever seen. You knew you were capable, but goddamn, you had never squirted this much before.

“Oh jesus, I’m sorry. I didn’t-“ but you were cut off by his lips sealing with yours in a flurry, quickly shutting you up and snuffing out any doubt that has risen in your head. “Don’t you dare apologise,” he warned, tone so buttery and genuine as he kissed away any shame or uncertainty.

“I'm going to make you do that again”.

—————————————————————————

woohoo! my first moon knight fic.

feedback is always appreciated! 💖

should I do a second part? I think that’s fair lmao.

[kristannafever]

Second Chances

Kristanna Modern AU Rated: Explicit (See tags) WC: 3163

Summary: It's been eight months since Anna's ex broke up with her in a brutal way. Her concerned sister sets her up on a date, and when she meets Kristoff, it does not go well. Afterward, upon getting an earful from Elsa, Anna realizes her mistake and goes about making things right. What happens between them afterward gives them each a second chance at love and the life they both want to have.

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

“Anna, I am breaking up with you.”

Anna nearly choked on the sip of coffee she had just taken.  She stared at her boyfriend with wide eyes, not sure what she had just heard.  “What?”

“It’s over.”

Panic began to well in the pit of her stomach.  Her hands started to shake as she set the coffee mug back down on the table.  “What do you mean?”

He heaved a dramatic sigh.  “You heard me.  We’re done.”

“Where is this coming from,” she pleaded, getting up and walking over to where he was standing in the kitchen.   He’d just gotten back from his run.  When he left the house, it was as if nothing was any different.  And now he was telling her that they were done?

He rolled his eyes.  “Oh come on, Anna.  We haven’t had sex in weeks.  And when we do, you’re so…” he moved his hands around like he was fishing for the word, “…uninspired.   I mean, you don’t even give good blow jobs.”

Tears welled up in her eyes.   She had thought the problems they were facing were just a bit of a slump.  Just the day before she’d gone out and bought some sexy lingerie to surprise him with after the romantic dinner they had planned for that weekend.   Was that not happening now?

“Oh, and just so you know,” he said casually as he turned away, “I’ve started seeing other women.  So I can get… you know… taken care of.   You don’t even know how to kiss properly.”

Anna felt sick to her stomach, watching helplessly after him as he walked towards their bedroom to take a shower.  Despite having said some mean things to her from time to time, what he had just said was downright cruel, and she felt ashamed of herself.  She felt stupid and pathetic. 

Wiping her eyes, she went back to the table and sat down slowly, staring into her morning coffee that she’d actually been enjoying only a moment ago, trying to figure out in her mind what had just happened.  The long and short of it?  She didn’t please him and he’d been seeing other women. 

How had she not known this?  She had thought everything was just… normal.   He had never been a very enthusiastic lover, and he always met his end while Anna had to often take care of herself, and now she had to wonder if it was because she was just that bad at pleasing a man?

He'd been her first serious boyfriend.  Her first real love.  The first guy she’d ever moved out with.  And now all that was coming crashing down around her.   Three years of her life, gone, just like that.

Anna buried her head into her hands and sobbed.

~   ~   ~   ~   ~

“This is a nice place, Anna.”

Anna didn’t respond, she just let her sister in without a word.  The apartment had been his, of course she had to move out when he dumped her. 

Her sister turned around at Anna’s silence.  “You know I hate that man for what he did to you.”

“I know,” Anna said through a sigh.  “I hate him too.”  She told Elsa that he had cheated on her but she did not tell her sister the awful things that her ex had said to her.  And they hadn’t ended in the kitchen that day.  She had begged and pleaded with him for hours afterwards and was met with yet more harsh comments on what an awful woman she was.

Anna led them into the living room and poured them each a glass of red wine from the bottle that was sitting on the coffee table.   She watched her sister as her eyes went around, taking in the small apartment before settling onto her gaze.      

“So, have you been on any dates?”

“Elsa…” Anna sighed with frustration.  “Why won’t you drop it?”

“Anna, it’s been what?  Eight months?  You need to move on.”

Anna was silent and looked down into her wine.  She knew she needed to move on, but how could she do that?  Apparently, she had nothing to offer a man.  What possible hope did she have of making something work.

Elsa set her wine glass down on the table and turned towards her on the couch.  “I’m so sorry I haven’t been able to get out here sooner.  Work has been incredibly demanding, only now that I see you, I feel like that is a pathetic excuse.”

She frowned.  Did she really look that bad?  “It’s okay, Elsa.  I know how important your job is.  And you still call me almost every night.”

“I do, which is probably why you’re tired of telling me you need to get back out there.  You have to see that it’s time to live your life again, don’t you?”

Anna did know that.  And she wanted to, desperately.  But what man would want her?  She’d been hit on a few times only to brush the guy off knowing that she would end up disappointing him in the end.   If she was honest with herself, she didn’t think she’d be able to stomach going through that again.

“Listen, Anna.  I have a friend who’s fairly new to our firm who happens to have moved from here.  She has a brother, and she says-”

Anna’s eyes went wide.  “No way, Elsa.  I am absolutely not about to be set up right now.”

“Please, Anna.”  Elsa reached out and grabbed her free hand.  “For me?   Please?  You can’t be afraid to start dating again.”

She pulled her hand away from her sisters and set the wine down on the coffee table as she got up.  “No.  Absolutely not.”

Elsa followed her as she walked into the kitchen.  “Give me one good reason why you won’t?” her sister demanded. 

Anna pursed her lips.  She would never breathe a word of what her ex had said to her to another living soul, and that was giving her little option for an excuse.   “I… don’t want to.”

Her sister put her hands on her hips.  “It’s just one date.  Who knows, maybe you’ll get lucky.  Maybe what you need is a night of hot sex to get back on the horse.”

Her face lit up with heat.  “What the fuck, Elsa?  I do not need to hear that coming from my sister.”  Not only that, she did not need a reminder of how awful she was in bed.  It was a constant source of shame that hung over her head.

Elsa gave her a gentle smile.  “Sorry.  I was just trying to make a point.  You have to stop keeping yourself from things that make you happy.  You haven’t even gone to the gym or hung out with your friends since you left your ex.”

“He dumped me, but yeah, I know I haven’t.”

“You need to start living again.”

Anna heaved a deep sigh.  Perhaps it was time.  She’d certainly seen plenty of men who she thought were attractive.  Enough that she’d pleasured herself to the thoughts of being with a man again.  That at least she knew she wasn’t bad at.  In fact, she was practically an expert at getting herself off now. 

“Can I tell my friend yes?”

Anna looked to her sister’s pleading eyes.  “Fine.  One date.”

~   ~   ~   ~   ~

The bar was packed, making it hard for Anna to pick out the man that she was supposed to meet.  She’d been given a general description.  Tall guy, big build, blond…  Anna had formed many mental pictures in her mind of what he might actually look like.

She was told that he’d be somewhere in the bar waiting for her, and every blond Anna looked at seemed to already be on a date or clearly out with a group of friends.  The guy Anna was looking for was supposed to be alone.

She muscled her way to the bar where groups of people were gathered around the stools and talking, waiting on drinks.  Then she spotted a blond man sitting at the end, surrounded by women.  The guy was absolutely huge; his t-shirt stretched tight over his biceps and chest.  And he was gorgeous.  His rugged handsomeness was undeniable.  That was why there were women all over him.

Thinking that couldn’t be her date, Anna went to turn away, when his eyes caught hers and widened with something like recognition.

“Hey, are you Anna?” he called to her over the music and loud conversations

She nodded, not wanting to shout back to him, and he got up from his stool and approached her.  Every single woman he was surrounded by watched all of his movements with lusty interest.

His imposing height loomed over her. “I’m Kristoff,” he said, sticking out his hand.

“Nice to meet you,” Anna responded, shaking it and thinking it wasn’t nice at all.  Not after he’d been hanging out with all those stunning women while waiting for her to show up for their date.  What the hell?  Who does that?

“They’re super busy and wouldn’t let me grab a table until you showed up,” he said.

He already sounded bored.  What the hell had Anna gotten herself into.  “Okay.”

Kristoff shrugged and took off to find a table.  Anna followed, kind of hoping they wouldn’t find one.  The guy was clearly someone who could get whoever he wanted and probably often did. 

Towards the back of the bar near the bathrooms, he spied an open table and made a b-line to it.  Anna sat on the stool across from him and put her purse on the edge of the high table.

He smiled.  “It’s quieter over here too.”

There was nothing but cool confidence behind that smile and Anna squirmed again thinking of how many gorgeous women had been salivating over him moments before.  “You sure didn’t waste your time talking to the other ladies, I see.”

He frowned.  “They were talking to me.  I wasn’t talking to them.”

Anna rolled her eyes.  “Sure.  A guy like you must just hate it when women hang all over him.”

His unhappy face turned into a scowl.  “What are you saying?”

“Look, I agreed to go on this date, but not with a player, okay?”

Kristoff became emotionless.  “Have me pegged, do you?” he asked evenly.

Anna could only shrug.  “It’s not that hard to figure out.  The reason a guy who looks like you is single, is that he wants to stay single.”

He stared at her, expression impossible to read.

“Lets just save us both time.  I refuse to be a conquest, so you can just go back to all those ladies at the bar who can barely keep it in their pants.”  Anna got up, keeping her eyes off his unreadable face, feeling relieved.  She didn’t even want to go on this date in the first place.  She was almost glad that this guy, as hot as he was, wasn’t going to work out.

Anna spared him a glance as she turned away and was a little shocked to see profound sadness in his eyes.  It was almost enough for her to turn back around and say something. 

Almost. 

~   ~   ~   ~   ~

Anna looked at her ringing phone.  It was Elsa.  She let out a long sigh and answered.  “Hello?”

“What the fuck, Anna?  Why the hell did you brush off that date last night?”

She groaned inwardly.  This was not a conversation she wanted to have.  “He wasn’t my type.”

“Bullshit!  My friend talked to her brother and he told her what you said to him.  That was pretty awful, Anna.”

She frowned.  Had it been?  She was only speaking the truth.  “Well… you didn’t tell me the guy was a total player.”

Elsa huffed with frustration.  “He’s not!  He hasn’t been on a date in a year!”

“Elsa, he had women, and I mean gorgeous women, all over him when I arrived at the bar.”

“And he was what?  Flirting with them?”

Anna thought back to the scene at the bar.  One of the women had her hand on his arm and was talking his ear off, another one giving him fuck me eyes from his other side, two behind him waiting for their turn, and he was… sitting there.  He was staring at something.  Or was it nothing.  Then he’d looked over and his eyes had widened… they kind of looked a little… well at the time it looked like recognition but thinking back, they seemed a little more… relieved?

Anna gasped.  “Oh no, what have I done?”

Her sister sighed.  “Anna, you might need to talk to someone.  I don’t know what Hans did to you, but it was something.   I have doubts that he was never abusive to you even though you assured me that he never was.”

“He said some mean things, Elsa.  That’s all.”  Anna would give her that much, no more.  Not ever.  No one would ever know of her humiliation.

There was silence on the other end of the line for a beat.  “So maybe you said some things you didn’t mean to a nice guy because you are still so scared of putting yourself out there?”

Anna’s stomach rolled with unease to think about the hurtful way she’d brushed Kristoff off.  “Yeah.  I guess I am.”

“Well, at least you can recognise that.”

“Elsa, I feel terrible.  Is there any way I can get his number?  To apologise?”

“Well…I can ask my friend, although I have to warn you, she was pretty pissed that you treated her brother that way.”

“Please try, Elsa.  I feel awful and I need to tell him that I am sorry.”

“Alright.  I’ll call you back in five, okay?”

“Okay.”  Anna hung up the phone and rung it in her hands.  She could not believe she’d been so mean to someone and tears sprung in her eyes.  It made her feel terrible to think she’d said something hurtful to someone.  It reminded her of what her ex had said to her, and that Kristoff guy did not deserve that, even if he was a player.

Her phone rang in her hands and startled her to the point she almost threw it across the room.  “Hello?”

“Okay, I got the number.”

“Oh, thank you, Elsa.  Thank you so much.”  She sniffed.  “And tell your friend-”

“Anna, are you crying?”

She nodded and started to sob.  “I feel so bad, Elsa.  I was so mean to that poor man.  Please tell your friend to tell her brother that I am so sorry and that he can expect me to contact him to say so that I can apologize and-”

“Anna… Anna!”

She sniffed and reigned in her emotions.  This was insane.  She needed to get a grip on herself.  For all those months she carried all that hurt when her ex broke up with her and it was all starting to come out after treating someone else poorly.  It was becoming a little clearer to her that there were some issues she was going to have to deal with, and soon.

“Anna?”

Sniff.  “Yeah?”

“You need to stop beating yourself up about this, okay?”

“What if he doesn’t accept my apology?” Anna asked, wiping her damp cheeks. 

“Well, then I guess you just have to live with it.”

She shoulders slumped, suddenly exhausted.  “Yeah.  I guess I made the bed I have to lie in it.”

Her sister was silent on the other end for a moment.  “Whatever happens, Anna… it’ll be okay.  Everything will be okay.  You’ll have plenty of other chances.”

Anna nodded to herself, steeling her emotions for the text she was about to send.  “I know.  Thank you, Elsa.”

*****

Kristoff looked at the text from the number that he did not know, and set the phone down in contemplation.

He knew it was coming.  His sister had called him and given him the heads up she’d passed his number along to the woman who was so rude to him last night.  To say he was conflicted was an understatement. 

He hadn’t been hurt like that in a while.  Which was weird because he didn’t know this woman.  It was just that she passed him off so easily that it made him second guess himself a bit.  In retrospect, he should have been ruder to the women vying for his attention at the bar.  Why couldn’t this Anna understand that he had absolutely zero interest in them.  Instead, she’d taken one look at him and decided he was one of those pigs that used women as conquests.  And that fucking hurt.

That was why he’d agreed to be set up.  Trying to meet someone on line or even in a club brought out all the wrong kinds of women for him.  He had yet to meet someone that was looking for something serious, not just some fun fling or one night stand. 

He sighed, and read the message again.

Hi Kristoff, this is Anna, the woman who was rude to you last night and who you wish you probably never met.  I need to say that I am sorry for how I acted and what I said to you.  Clearly! I have issues to deal with.  I would hope you have it in your heart to meet me quickly so that I may apologize in person.  If you wish to never talk to me again though, I completely understand.  If I don’t hear back from you in a couple of days, I will assume I have my answer and delete your number.   I am sorry.

It read like an email, and quite frankly a little bit of a cry for help.  He certainly had his own issues, and he could not deny that her acknowledging her own had softened his attitude towards how she had treated him.  It wasn’t like he was exactly innocent of never behaving poorly when he was dealing with things.  When his sister had let him know to expect her to contact him, he just shrugged and assumed he’d delete the message and move on.  Only having read it and its sincerity…

He started typing.

Hi Anna.  Thank you for reaching out.  Please don’t be too hard on yourself.  If you would like to talk, we could meet for a coffee?

He read it three times and hit send before he changed his mind.  He’d just set his phone down when it dinged.

He chuckled.  “That was fast.”

Thank you so much Kristoff!  Would tomorrow work?  I could meet you at 11 at that coffee shop that’s just on the corner of 10th and Elm?

He typed back;

Sure.  See you then

Anna immediately hearted his message and he set his phone down.  He’d been watching the game on TV and he turned his attention back to it, only in the back of his mind he had other thoughts about how seeing this woman again was going to go.

---

Next Chapter

[heynikkiyousofine]

Summon Me - Part One

Summary: Kagome and her friends attempt to summon a demon, something she expected to never work. What she didn't expect was the very attractive demon currently standing in her kitchen.

Read it here on AO3

Happy Halloween IY Fandom! 🎃

Current taglist, please DM and let me know if you'd like on/off.

@blairex ; @mamabearcat ; @enchantedink-ag ; @splendentgoddess ; @mandirox89 ; @sailorlolo ; @mustardyellowsunshine ; @knittingknots ; @yukinon-writes ; @clearwillow ; @keichanz ; @serial-doubters-club ; @malditamigs ; @zelink-inukag ; @shinidamachu ; @banksdelivers ; @that-one-nerdy-gal ; @sarahk21 ; @dchelyst ; @anisaanisa ; @lavendertwilight89 ; @otaku-108 ; @sailorbabydoll92 ; @inukagbot ; @queerkagome ; @bluehawaiicat; @chit-a-to ; @liz8080 ; @lightmidnight ; @shikonstar ; @soliska

[alexandralyman]

Neither Confirm Nor Deny (Dave York x Reader)

Dave York has taken over my life. I dived headfirst into Pedro Pascal fandom and this asshole caught me (among others, looking at you Commandante Veracruz). 7k of self-indulgence later, here's Dave x Reader as CIA agents and partners - AU, Dave went into the CIA after the military and never became a contract killer. Oh, and Carol and the kids don't exist in this.

Rated M for smut and vague mentions of bad people doing bad things

https://archiveofourown.org/works/50244982

You're a CIA agent on assignment in Europe caught up not in enemy crossfire, but in the love/hate relationship you have with your asshole of a partner, Dave York.

You hate how much you secretly love how good he is not just at his job, but between the sheets as well. He drives you up the wall most of the time (and fucks you up against them even better), but when your own agency betrays you at the end of an op, he's the only one who's still got your back.

You can never confirm what he really is to you, but you can't deny it either.

neither confirm nor deny

You practically fling the door to the safe house open, making the rusty hinges squeal loudly in protest as if to remind you about the need for stealth and discretion. Normally you’re the very model of both during a mission, but right now you don’t give a shit. Let the damn place get compromised, it doesn’t matter anymore.

Nothing fucking matters.

You’re met on the threshold by the barrel of Dave’s gun, aimed for a kill shot and immediately withdrawn when he sees it’s you. Protocol when entering the safe house was to knock first with two taps to announce your entry and that everything was fine.

Everything isn’t fucking fine.

“Jesus Christ,” he swears, because you never break protocol—except, of course, when you very much do—and he almost just shot you in the face for it. “What the actual fuck…wait. What happened? What’s wrong?”

Dave York is infuriatingly good at reading your moods. He knows when you’re happy and he knows when you’re angry, which is far more common and usually directed at him. He also almost always knows when you’re horny, which isn’t uncommon, especially around him, but is dead last right now on the list of emotions you’re currently experiencing. Murderous is first, and he’s familiar with that one too because it’s also frequently directed at him. It’s infuriating because you’re a highly trained CIA agent with a highly trained poker face you could easily clean out Vegas with, but at the moment even the most oblivious person in the world could tell that you’re on the verge of a volcanic eruption and not just your asshole of a partner who knows you all too well.

“They’re letting the bastard walk,” you practically spit.

Dave blinks, “What?”

“Yeah,” your voice is more bitter than the ridiculous amount of espresso he drinks like it’s water. “Apparently he cut a deal, and they’re letting him walk.”

Dave is many things, slow on the uptake isn’t one of them. “They flipped him,” he says, matter of fact. “He’s an asset now.”

You’d spent months trying to bring down Andrei “the Crow” Morozov, arms dealer, sex trafficker, Eurotrash asshole extraordinaire. Hours and hours of sorting through the mountains of intel for the nuggets of gold, late nights, shitty safe houses, getting two ribs cracked in Düsseldorf and not going to hospital because you would have been pulled from the mission, just dealing with the pain because you were so close, so close, to finally catching the slippery bastard and putting him away for good. It was all for nothing, Morozov shot you a shit-eating grin as the cuffs were unlocked and walked out of custody a free man.

“Give Irina’s mother my love,” he’d said with a wink, and three agents had to hustle you out of the room with his mocking laughter following you lest you go after him with your bare hands. The things he’d done to the poor girl, barely more than a child. You’d promised her mother, you swore to the woman that the monster responsible would be brought to justice. Instead, you watched him walk away free and clear with the blessing of your own damn agency.

“It makes sense,” Dave says, setting his gun back down on the battered coffee table that was scattered with nicks and cigarette burns courtesy of the many nameless, faceless agents who’d sought sanctuary for the night. “He’s connected to all the major players in Eastern Europe, with the amount of intel he could provide if they keep him in place it’s no wonder the plan was to flip him all along.”

That brings you up short as a new, hotter fury starts to burn under your skin. “It was? You…you knew?”

He gives a shrug with a broad shoulder that you may end up dislocating depending on what he says next. “Officially? No. But I suspected. Didn’t you?”

You…didn’t. Fuck, you one hundred percent didn’t expect the CIA would stab you in the back and worst of all, Dave did. He shouldn’t have put his gun down, because you have a new target now.

“And you didn’t fucking tell me? After all that fucking work to catch the son of a bitch? When I didn’t shoot him in Germany despite having a clear shot because I thought he was going to be locked up for the rest of his life, not let out to keep ruining lives because he’s a fucking ASSET to the CIA now?

When I was making promises I couldn’t keep, you think, but don’t say.

“The CIA has gotten into bed with much worse than Morozov when it serves their purpose. You know that. What makes this different?” Dave asks, the infuriatingly calm eye in your raging storm.

It was different because…because…

Because of Irina and all the others. The ones whose names you knew. The ones whose names you didn’t and would haunt you forever. Because you’d looked Andrei Morozov right in the eye in the underground club in Düsseldorf where he sold girls as easily as shots to asshole men and swore to yourself that you’d make him pay.

Because it was personal.

You couldn’t do this. Not now, running on no sleep and barely any food and the ash of your own failure in your mouth. Tears start to burn behind your eyes, but you’d walk barefoot through a minefield before letting Dave York see you cry.

“You should have told me. We’re supposed to be partners.”

You could almost handle being betrayed by the higher ups, the ones who sat in windowless rooms looking at names and numbers on reports and decided which was more valuable, some teenage girls or the man who’d sold them to the highest bidder. The CIA made deals with all sorts of devils, dictators, terrorists, lowlife arms dealers. You couldn’t handle being betrayed by Dave

, who was by your side the whole time you were on the ground putting faces to the names on those reports. Anna. Olga. Irina.

He calls your name when you leave, your real name, not the one you were given for the mission with a passport and credit cards to match. He’s been calling you by that fake name for months, or, when you push him onto his back in a safe house or a hotel or wherever you’re holed up for a few hours and take him inside, he calls you baby or sweetheart in a voice that gets increasingly more wrecked with each roll of your hips into his and you pretend to hate it.

The sound of your real name from a man who rarely uses it almost makes you stop on the narrow stairs of the ancient building before you reach the outside.

Almost.

You’re in Paris, the city of lights and romance and the final stop on this farce of a European tour now that Morozov’s been caught and released in pursuit of bigger fish. The station chief said to take a few days to decompress before heading back stateside. Do some sightseeing, or some shopping. Patronizing jackass. You almost stabbed him with a pen. As if you were in the mood for museums or boutiques after Morozov walked, like this was a vacation and not your life’s work. You find the French equivalent of a dive bar instead and speak the international language of alcohol to the bartender, drink until it’s too dark to see the Eiffel Tower or the Arc de Triomphe or anything except the bottom of an empty glass before ordering another. A man sidles over at some point between drinks three and four and tries to pick you up, a local with an accent you would have swooned for once upon a time. He’s attractive enough and you’re tempted, there’s more than one way to forget your absolute shitshow of a job. You’re definitely no stranger to this one, but not with anyone else since…

Fuck.

You’re not dating Dave York. He’s your partner, because you did something terrible in a past life and this is karma biting you in the ass for it. And it’s not that he’s a bad agent, far from it. He’s one of the best in the agency. He’s also smug, and irritating, and you want to punch him in the face on a near day basis. He’s fucking good at his job, and that means he knows with pinpoint accuracy just what buttons to push to drive you up the goddamn wall. He also knows just what buttons to push when he’s fucking you against a wall, which happens on an alarmingly regular basis. He understands the adrenaline rush at the end of a successful mission and the helpless frustration when a target skips through the net instead, he’s the only one who knows why you currently have a large bruise across your ribs and the unseen marks the work leaves on your soul.

Parisian sights and a pretty Frenchman offering a turn in the sheets both hold no allure, you go back to the safe house once the bar closes, far drunker than you should be. Not drunk enough to forget the smirk on Morozov’s face, for that you need to fuck Dave until everything else fades away. Only the small garret apartment is empty, his gun isn’t on the table and the air already feels stale, like no one’s been there for hours. Maybe he went out looking for you, although if he did, he would have found you. Maybe he went to find someone to spend the night with, someone who doesn’t throw things at his head and threatens to strangle him with his own tie when he’s being a dick. He’s seen you do it too, so it’s not an idle threat. The mission in Monte Carlo. The second one. Where the two of you posed as a wealthy businessman and his mistress, and caught the target’s eye in your cut-down-to-the-navel dress with no room to hide a gun and had to improvise. Dave fucked you from behind on the balcony of your hotel room afterwards, still in your dress and heels, and he wasn’t the slightest bit turned off by the fact that you’d just killed a man with your bare hands and a length of deceptively strong silk from Hermès. If anything he was even harder than usual, quickly unzipping his suit pants with one hand as he shoved your dress up with the other and whispering all sorts of deliciously filthy things in your ear as he buried himself to the hilt over and over again with the lights of the city glittering below like a fortune in precious jewels.

The Paris safe house is a lot less lavish than a five-star hotel, the hot water in the tiny bathroom can be described as only slightly less icy than the cold tap and the floors are so uneven that if anyone did break in they’d probably trip over their own feet before getting a single shot off. It’s extra hazardous when drunk, even for a highly trained agent, but you manage to navigate your way to the sink to splash some water pulled from the frigid depths of the Seine on your face and stay upright long enough to strip off your clothes, leaving them in a heap where they fall. You grab a T-shirt from the back of a chair that you think is yours in your inebriated state, until you slip it on and realize the shoulders are far too wide and the hem is too long. It’s one of Dave’s, well worn and soft and you drank way too much alcohol tonight to bother trying to pretend that you don’t like the way it feels to wear his clothes. He’s not here anyway (where the fuck is he?) and you’ll take it off before he comes back.

You fall into the empty bed that’s not really big enough and yet it feels like it stretches on forever without someone else there to hog the blankets and tangle your feet with his. Your own gun stowed under the lump of a pillow and the taste of failure in the back of your throat more bitter than the booze, you close your eyes and drift off in a sea of regret that a monster walked free and innocents suffered, all because of you.

Your fault.

All your fault.

********

“Bonjour. Or should I say bonsoir, Mademoiselle.”

You’re awake at once, reaching for the gun under the pillow and closing your fingers around it just as the voice registers through your bitch of a hangover.

Dave.

Sitting up is made an Olympic sport both by your not full healed ribs and whoever’s playing the drums behind your eyes like a headliner at a death metal festival. Someone you manage it and crack open a lid to find your dick of a partner sitting in a chair next to the bed. It’s too small for him but somehow it doesn’t look awkward, he sits easily, comfortably, as far as you know he could have been there for hours. As you blink stupidly at him he leans forward and taps a fingertip against your lips.

“Open up, sweetheart.”

Taken completely off guard and too hungover to argue, you do as he asks without thinking. He pops two white pills on your tongue and hands you a glass of water.

“Drink,” he instructs, like he’s talking to a child. You resist the urge to scowl like one and swallow the pills down, chasing them with the water.

One secret about the CIA is that it has access to some really good drugs. Those weren’t aspirin, and it doesn’t take long for your headache to go away and the twinge in your ribs to fade so you can feel human again. Two things then happen at once, you remember why you were hungover in the first place and that you’re still wearing Dave’s T-shirt.

Three things, you clock what he just said. Bonsoir.

Not good morning. Good evening.

“What time is it?” you ask.

“Almost 1800 hours, Sleeping Beauty.”

Fuck. You slept almost the whole fucking day. You have a vague memory of stumbling to the bathroom again at some point and then falling back into bed afterwards, still alone with no sign of Dave anywhere. It’s probably not surprising that you crashed so hard, you’ve been running on nothing but coffee and sheer rage since Düsseldorf, but it feels wrong to have been sleeping when you should have been doing something, anything, to get justice for all of those girls.

Dave is watching you carefully and while his words were sarcastic, his tone wasn’t. He knows what you went through to bring Morozov in. He was right there the whole time, pouring over intel and CCTV footage with you, staking out meeting sites and infiltrating the underground clubs and back rooms where business was conducted by men who would have killed the both of you and not thought twice about it if there was the slightest hint of your cover being blown.

“They let him walk,” you say, more to yourself than him. “He fucking smiled at me, and he walked.”

Dave tosses a phone onto the faded comforter that offered no comfort the night before, without him in the bed beside you. “You have a message,” is all he says.

It’s not the burner phone you’ve been using for the mission, it’s your real phone. You pick it up and when you check the lock screen it shows a text notification. Your heart stops when you see it’s from Irina’s mother. You gave her your number, your real number, when you swore to get justice for her daughter, not the burner one that would be discarded and forgotten as soon as the job was over.

The flash of guilt that you failed them both is a gut-punch on an empty stomach that makes bile rise in your throat, acrid and sour, and then you see what she wrote.

Thank You!!!!

You look up from the message in sheer confusion and meet Dave’s eyes. He’s still watching you with what would look like nothing but cool detachment to anyone else, but you can see the laser focus of a sniper behind that dark gaze.

“Check out the BBC’s homepage,” is all he says.

That answers nothing until you go online and see the top story staring up at you from the screen.

SUSPECTED ARMS DEALER ARRESTED AT ST PANCRAS, accompanied by that same photo that’s clipped to the dossier you read over and over again every night like a fucked up bedtime story. A quick skim of the article reveals the important facts, Andrei “the Crow” Morozov, wanted by Interpol and half a dozen countries for a variety of crimes, had been found on the Eurostar when it arrived at St Pancras station in London from Paris a few hours prior, thanks to an anonymous tip received by the Metropolitan Police. He’d been discovered barely conscious and handcuffed to the pipes in a toilet that had been marked out of order. Morozov had been taken to an undisclosed hospital, where he was currently being treated for multiple broken ribs and other injuries while under reported guard by MI6. A list of his alleged offenses followed, including the trafficking of vulnerable women and girls from Eastern Europe into the sex trade.

You look up from the screen. “Multiple broken ribs?”

Dave’s face is perfectly calm, placid, his expression betraying no remorse for what he did. It was him, you know it in a heartbeat just as you know that he can put a bullet between someone’s eyes from a quarter mile away and what he looks like when he comes undone inside you.

“At least fifteen. Maybe more, it’s hard to be sure after the first dozen. One for Irina. One for Anna. One for Olga. One for all the other girls. The rest for you.”

Morozov had cracked two of your ribs, Dave had broken most of his in return and turned him over to MI6.

“They won’t let him walk too, will they?” you ask, fingers tightening around the phone. If the bastard walks again….

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. There’s not a speck of blood on his clothes, he could have just come back from a day playing well-heeled tourist at the Louvre instead of stuffing an internationally wanted criminal into a train car bathroom after breaking over a dozen of his ribs. Hiis expression is as serene and unaffected as the Mona Lisa’s, keeping his own secrets from everyone except you.

“Unlikely. Even if they wanted to his arrest was public thanks to the cops sending out a press release, it would make them look bad to just let him go. It also makes him completely worthless now as an asset, since if he did walk everyone would suspect he worked a deal to get out of the charges.”

Dave York is very, very good at what he does.

“And if they do,” he continues, unconcerned by the prospect, “well, he won’t get far.”

You know it’s true, because you know him.

“Everyone must be pissed,” you say, imagining the utter chaos that must be going on in the upper ranks. To catch and lose Morozov in the same day, publicly, no less, and to have him end up in custody of MI6. Publicly the CIA and MI6 were allies…privately they each had their own agendas that didn’t always align.

Dave’s facade cracks at last and reveals his amusement. “Oh, they are, baby. I was there when the call came in from London. The station chief was already on thin ice, he’s going to get demoted for this and sent to a far less desirable posting where he won’t be served fresh croissants for breakfast every morning. Thought he was going to have an aneurysm when he was on the phone to D.C, serves him right too, the fucking prick. Everyone else is scrambling to avoid the fallout.”

You cross your arms over the soft cotton of Dave’s T-shirt, annoyed that you forgot (didn’t want to) take it off. “Don’t call me baby. Do they have any suspects?”

Translation: Do they suspect you?

He shrugs again, still completely unconcerned. “Sure. Do they have the right suspect? No, and they won’t. Now as good as you look in nothing but my shirt, go make yourself pretty. We're going out for dinner, I worked up an appetite today and I’m not eating alone.”

Go make yourself pretty? He’s such an ass. You ignore the burn in your cheeks at his casual acknowledgement that the only thing you’re currently wearing is his T-shirt and throw a pillow at his head with deadly accuracy.

“Clock’s ticking, partner,” he says, catching it easily in one hand.

Well…you could go for some actual food to eat after the liquid dinner you had the night before. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway. You’re a CIA agent, you’re an excellent liar. Especially to yourself.

You don’t visit the Eiffel Tower or hold hands on a famous bridge or do anything soppy and romantic. You’re not dating. You’re two CIA agents who caught a very bad man, have barely eaten in the past week, and who fight like mortal enemies and fuck like rabbits. Sometimes both at the same time.

Dallas. The conference where you were chasing down members of a suspected South American terrorist group. You had a screaming argument while you were riding him, his large hands tight on your hips guiding you up and down even as he said you wouldn’t recognize good intel if it slapped you in the face and you called him a self-important jackass who thought he was God’s gift to intelligence and he could take his intel and shove it. You only stopped yelling at him when you came.

Three times.

Dave leads you to a nondescript restaurant off the tourist path, tucked away down a narrow street. The service is French, otherwise known as indifferent, the food is excellent, and while you’d sooner stab yourself with one of the steak knives than admit you made yourself pretty for him, the dress you pulled from your cover identity’s wardrobe is pretty by any objective definition of the word. It may not be a date, but it is dinner in Paris and you’re supposed to blend in while on assignment. It’s not for him.

Another lie you tell yourself.

Dave likes the dress, you can tell. He pulls your chair back like the gentleman he most definitely isn’t and his hands brush over your bare shoulders when you sit down, lingering for a moment against your skin. When the waiter finally deigns to appear Dave orders the braised short ribs without bothering to look at the menu, saying with a wink across the table that he’s got a craving.

You order them too, because fuck men who hurt women and enjoy it.

They’re fucking delicious.

You don’t feed each other dessert or stroll along the Seine afterwards looking at the lights. You do duck into an alley, because Paris is for lovers and for two CIA agents who got paired up unwillingly and drove each other crazy fighting before falling into bed and doing the exact same thing while fucking instead. Dave doesn’t kiss you when he presses you against an ancient wall that’s probably seen its fair share of forbidden trysts over the centuries, instead he sucks a mark into your neck that’ll bruise like your ribs from pleasure instead of pain, one hand shoved under your pretty dress and the heat from his body keeping you warm in a cold, unforgiving world.

“Here, baby?” he asks in a voice that echoes right between your legs, nuzzling and nipping at your skin with one hand at his belt ready to unbuckle and unzip. You’ve fucked him in alleys before, buzzing with adrenaline from a mission and riding high on success while riding each other hard. But not tonight, as easy as it would be to wrap your legs around his narrow waist and muffle your cries in his shoulder while he fucks you against the wall.

“No, not here.”

Not the safe house either, with its shitty mismatched furniture and the ghosts of CIA agents past lurking in the shadows. You find a hotel instead on a cobblestone street, the kind of thing tourists would book for its classic Parisian charm without considering the lack of an elevator. You don’t have any suitcases to lug up the stairs to your room, where Dave presses you against the door as soon as it’s closed, caging you in with both arms. You feel anything but trapped.

“You should have told me,” you say, hands flat on his chest and looking into those dark eyes. You should have told me those girls didn’t matter, you should have told me they were going to stab me in the back and make a deal with the devil, you should have told me!

“You should have known,” he retorts. You should have known they didn’t, you should have seen the knife before it struck, you should have known.

You’ve seen Dave flatter, flirt, and charm to get what he wants, but with you he doesn’t placate or sugarcoat his words. He’s also right, which you hate, you should have known and you would have if you hadn’t let it get personal.

“But,” he continues, head tipping down with a sigh, “yeah, I should have.”

“Me too.”

His admission deserves yours. You’re still going to be salty about it for a while though. Maybe until your ribs fully heal. The bruise is a sickly yellow now, the edges starting to blend back in with the surrounding skin. It’ll disappear eventually but you’ll always remember where it was, a souvenir of your trip instead of a fridge magnet or a keychain. Dave will remember too, he’ll remember examining it in another hotel room when it was the purple of overripe fruit, before winding an ace bandage around your middle with his mouth set in a thin line. His fury had been silent, as quiet as the moment of calm before the storm, while his hands were careful, gentle even, for a man who could and did kill with them his touch had been delicate and feather-light.

Yours hadn’t been, when you jerked him off afterwards with rough strokes that made his silence turn to deep groans as his hips rolled with the movement of your hand. It wasn’t quid pro quo, you just needed to do something to deal with the frustration and that always ended with doing him. He couldn’t reciprocate, not then, not for a while, couldn’t make you come with his fingers or mouth or cock, not when it hurt just to breathe, let alone have an orgasm. Or three.

Now though, he strips the pretty dress from your body with far too much efficiency for a government employee and grazes fingers across the still-marred skin. Somewhere in London there’s a man lying in a hospital bed with his whole torso turned black and blue because he did this to you. You know the only reason Morozov isn’t dead at the bottom of the Seine is because you wanted him to rot in a cell for the rest of his life instead. Dave would have killed him otherwise. Fifteen broken ribs was him showing restraint.

You lift his hand to your mouth and suck on his finger, wrapping your lips around it. The backs of his knuckles are faintly bruised, a match to yours. He’s still fully dressed in charcoal trousers and an army green sweater. The man wears clothes beautifully, something you used to find irritating. He looks even better naked, something you also used to find irritating.

Dave replaces his finger with his lips, reaching down and hoisting your legs around his waist to carry you to bed like he carried you in Düsseldorf after Morozov caught you in the side with a tire iron. You fall back to the mattress and he stops kissing you only long enough to yank the sweater and T-shirt underneath over his head before he’s on you again, nipping the underside of your jaw while his hands roam the length of your body and push your thighs apart. You’ve been wet and ready since the alley, since dinner, since you made yourself pretty (for him) and his fingers find no resistance between your thighs despite how long and thick they are. Just the slightest touch has you trembling, clutching at his arms and legs widening in silent invitation.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, quickly shoving his pants and underwear both down with his other hand so that he’s wonderfully, gloriously naked. “What do you want? What do you need, baby? My fingers? My mouth? This?”

He’s got his cock in his fist, rubbing it up and down your slick heat without letting it slip inside. It’s difficult to breathe, but not because of your rib this time.

“Yes,” you moan, lifting your hips to try to line him up with where you need him. It doesn’t work, the bastard keeps himself just out of reach.

“Hmm,” he chides, breath hot against your skin as he trails his lips down your neck and across the tops of your breasts. “Even I’m not capable of using all of them at once on your lovely pink cunt. You have to choose. Tell me what you need and I’ll give it to you.”

You want his smart mouth to eat you out, and not just because he’ll finally stop talking. You want his long fingers pumping deep. You need his thick cock to fill you, to fuck you, to find every last sweet spot the way only he can and absolutely ruin you.

“Dave?”

He looks up and meets your gaze. “Yes, baby?”

“Fuck me with that big dick you’re so fucking proud of until I can’t fucking walk, and then do it again.”

He smiles, showing his teeth. It’s the smile of a man who just got handed exactly what he wanted on a silver platter and you’re too needy and desperate to care. He leans down and presses a kiss to the tip of your nose, a sweet gesture from a man who’s capable of such shocking violence. But then again, so are you.

“There now, was that so difficult? All you ever have to do is ask.”

It’s getting less and less difficult, with Dave. He’ll give you what you want, what you need, you know he will.

His hips thrust and his aim is as accurate as it is with his sniper rifle, precise and true. He buries himself inside of you and adjusts his trajectory as he goes to follow the arch of your back and the tilt of your hips as you take him all the way in a hot slide that pushes the air from your lungs as he fills you with him instead. Your nails dig into his shoulders to carve your name into his skin in cuneiforms of lines and half-moons, an encryption only the two of you can decipher. He rests his forehead on yours, weight braced on his arms, breathing more heavily than he ever would while sighting a target, giving you both a moment to adjust before he does what you asks and fucks you. It’s hard, it’s fast, it makes your toes curl into the hotel sheets and your pulse race under his mouth when he presses it to your neck and whispers hot against your skin.

“That’s it, baby, taking me so well. So fucking deep. How? How is it always this fucking good, drives me fucking crazy.”

You wrap your legs tight around his waist, tug on his hair, run your nails down his back and scrape your teeth against his jaw like you’re lighting a match. All the things that you know drive him fucking crazy. He lifts you with an arm under your lower back like you weigh nothing, changing the angle to that one that’s like gasoline on a flame and pulling a high-pitched cry from your throat that he echoes with his own deep groan. You hate that he’s the only one who’s ever done this, fucked you like it would be a war crime to stop. His hips move in a rapid-fire tempo, unrelenting, cock a piston, impossibly thick and hard as it drives into you again and again and again. You can’t stop any of the noises that escape you, the cries, the moans, the desperate pleas, the yes, yes, more, please, more and your only consolation is that neither can he with his grunts and growls and fuck, yes baby, yes, take it, fuck!

Dave yanks you against him with those large hands, holding you flush to his hips, and grinds instead of thrusts. The effect is immediate, your thighs tremble, your stomach tightens, your nerves sing as he hits every sweet spot inside you at once and lights them all up like Times Square. You clutch at him helplessly, jaw dropping with a silent scream that he hears nonetheless.

“Let go, baby, let go.”

It’s not an order, it’s a plea from a man who wouldn’t beg for mercy under torture and it breaks you instead. You let it all go and fall over the edge, keeping him locked tight inside and bringing him with you.

You’re partners, after all.

He groans, giving a final, dirty grind of his hips. A lock of dark hair falls on his forehead and his broad chest is covered with a faint sheen of sweat as he shudders through his own climax until he finally collapses down

Dave groans, giving a final, dirty grind of his hips, a lock of dark hair falling on his forehead and a faint sheen of sweat on his broad chest as he shudders through his climax and collapses down into your arms. You run fingers through his damp hair, his weight pinning you to the mattress and holding you fast. You’re not going anywhere, not this time.

Afterwards he lays next to you with his long limbs stretched out on the bed, naked, skin marked in places from his time in the service. Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country. At what cost though?

“I can hear you thinking, baby.”

You flick him on the shoulder. “Don’t call me baby,” you say, but there’s no bite to the words. He never does in front of other agents or contacts. A cocky young field agent called you “sweetheart” once in a briefing and lived to regret it. Dave had watched you sharpen your tongue on the man and run him right through with it as you tore his piss-poor interpretation of the data to shreds. Then he told the analyst to get you a coffee and to take notes silently for the rest of the briefing.

That night in bed with him you were sweetheart and baby and darling and sugar, each ridiculous endearment teased into your skin and whispered in your ear, until you finally shut him up with your mouth and ignored the point he was making. No one else gets to call you those things, only him.

In another bed you stare up at the plaster ceiling with its graceful antique fixture and feel his eyes on you. I can hear you thinking. Even the sex wasn’t enough to quiet the thoughts in your head tonight.

“How do you-“ you start, and stop, not sure if you really want to go down this particular road. Dave waits with a sniper’s patience, going even more silent and still beside you. “How do you make it not be…personal?” you ask the one man who won’t lie to you.

Irina. Anna. Olga. You would have shot Morozov through the heart despite the orders to take him alive if you’d known they were going to let him walk, and ruined your career in the process.

“Who says I do?”

Dave puts his fingers under your chin, turns you to face him and brushes a thumb over your lips. His eyes are dark and hooded, the eyes of a trained killer, a man more dangerous than any two-bit arms dealer and the one you let into your bed. He looks at you and sees what other men would miss, that even though you’re naked and flushed you’re still so, so angry.

“If you take nothing else from me ever again, take this piece of advice. Don’t work for the CIA.”

“Kinda late for that,” you interrupt with a roll of your eyes.

His thumb presses back against your lips. “Hush now and listen. Don’t work for them, make them work for you. The intel, the equipment, the slush funds, take it all and use it. Put men like Morozov in prison when they won’t. Because you’re not the kind of agent who won’t let it become personal.”

From anyone else you would have taken it as an insult, the first rule of intelligence work is compartmentalization. It can’t be personal. It’s just supposed to be names on a list and numbers on a page. Let bad men walk to catch worse ones. Collateral damage is a given, whether it’s a few cracked ribs or some broken girls.

“That sounds…” a number of different things go through your mind, starting with the fact that it sounds very much like treason, but you settle on one word, “…dangerous.”

Dave drags his thumb along your jaw. “The best things in life always are. Now, I believe you told me to fuck you with this big dick I’m so fucking proud of until you couldn’t walk, and then to do it again. And you know I always follow orders.”

You know he doesn’t, Dave York gets results like no other agent, but that’s not the same thing as following orders. He only follows the ones he wants to.

He rolls easily on top of you, making space for himself between your thighs. He’s making space for himself in others places too, something you wouldn’t acknowledge under torture. This is all you’ll allow yourself, to run your hands down his broad back to where it narrows at the waist, muscles rippling and flexing under your touch while the rapidly hardening line of his erection is hot against the crease where your thigh turns to hip.

“Is this what you want?” he asks, voice low and rough. One hand goes under your knee, pushes it back, opening you up. You’re still aching, still needing more, as wet as he is hard, and while his fingers can drive you crazy and his smart mouth never looks better than when it’s fitted snugly between your legs, what you want, what you need, is for him to break you into the mattress again until you shatter completely.

“Baby-“

You pull his head down to kiss him silent, kiss him deeply, kiss the man who’s gone to hell and back with you and would do it all again tomorrow. He pushes inside with a grunt, not making you beg any more than you’ve already done. This time he sinks down into you, warm and thick like honey, chest against your breasts, face buried in your neck, and fucks you with steady rolls golf his hips that you feel all the way down to your toes. It’s slower this time, less frantic, a more gradual build under your skin. Dave’s pace never falters, you feel that he would do this all night long if you asked. A hotel bed in Paris, an alley in Boston, in the back of a car, in a field, Dallas, Monte Carlo, Düsseldorf, Jakarta, you’ve fucked and fought your way around the world with Dave. You’re not dating, you don’t go to the movies on Saturday nights or argue over whose turn it is to do the dishes, there’s just this. Mission completed, Morozov file closed, new assignment in the morning.

What happens in the hours between stays there. It has to. You’re already compromised enough.

Dave groans, his hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together against the mattress. You keep your legs locked around him, thighs wrapped tight over his hips. Everything else fades away, there’s nothing except him on top of you, inside you, doing what you asked and fucking you until you tighten around him and cry out, shuddering through another orgasm. He doesn’t stop, the bastard just keeps going with a quick kiss to your temple as he fucks you through it and starts working you up again.

“One more,” he pants, shifting his hips. “Need you to come on my big dick one more time for me.”

You let out a huff of a laugh that turns into a bitten-off moan as he finds that blissful angle again, because his big dick is doing a hell of a job getting you there. The thick drag of it is more delicious than any fancy French dessert, sparking across over-sensitive nerves and hitting that spot buried deep in you on each stroke. You gasp and clutch at sweat-slicked skin, Dave fucks you and fucks you and fucks you, until you can’t take it anymore and fall apart in his arms. Even then he doesn’t give in immediately, drawing it out like the final note as he plays you as expertly as a concert pianist. That part of you that secretly wonders if he’s just been playing you the whole time is silent, drowned out by the hot rush as he floods you with warmth while you’re still quivering, pulsing hot to the same rhythm until you’re both fully spent.

After a few long, blissful moments where neither of you move or speak, Dave stirs first.

“Can you walk?” he asks. It’s not a rhetorical question. Fuck me with that big dick you’re so fucking proud of until I can’t fucking walk, and then do it again.

You’re tempted to lie, you’re so tempted because the absolute last thing Dave York needs is an ego boost. You’ll give him this, though, he earned it tonight.

“No,” you mumble, and wait for the inevitable smug, smart-ass remark. It doesn’t come, there’s only a quiet hum from him as you stroke fingers over his damp hair. His large hand splays over your ribs, covering what’s left of the bruising. It could have been worse, you could have run into that building and not come back out again. You got off easy with two cracked ribs, relatively speaking.

This job, this life, is dangerous. It wasn’t the first close call and it won’t be the last. You know it. Dave knows it.

Sleep is a luxury now, alongside regular meals, relationships that aren’t built on half-truths and lies, and downtime. It steals up on you, eyes closing against the anonymous room that you’ll never see again after this night, in a city that’s just another name on a map. There’s a faint rustle of sheets, and a warm body that settles next to you with a brush of lips to your cheek.

Whatever comes next, Dave York will be by your side.

Your partner.

(yours)

[skibasyndrome]

the joy of finally finishing a chapter I've been on and off working on since NOVEMBER!!!!!

but also

rip. why must I continuously develop to write more and more in one fic....

[peaches2217]

ahem. ahem ahem. i just wanted to say you inspired this big time and i had to doodle them with their lil wiwi. thank u for that. <3

Peaches’ Comment: AAAAAAAAAH 😭😭😭😭😭💗💗🥹🥹💗💗

[wildskissed]

Abandoning all caution and running with the idea that @dragonagitator put in my mind. Probably not what they had in mind exactly, but I always have to put my own spin on things, so here is what I'm considering a writing prompt.

[levi-4uckerman]

NOW TAKING REQUESTS if that's ur thing

will currently write for:

Attack on Titan

Jujutsu Kaisen

My Hero Academia

[callsignkes]

Think when I do finish this soapghostoc fic I'm just gonna drop it and dip because like I Feel In My Heart that it's going to Displease everyone.

[misswoozi]

No but for real kissing Lia probably feels like kissing a bundle of cotton candy (but less sticky) and then thats followed by her going out without underwear and flashing you at least 3 times a day 🎮

[kitten4sannie]

𝔡𝔬𝔲𝔟𝔩𝔢 𝔰𝔱𝔲𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔡

pairing: san x fem! reader x mingi

genre: smut 

summary: minsan fuck you within an inch of your life <3

w.c: 2.4k

warnings: dom! minsan, sub! reader, san’s a meanie, mingi’s kinda a meanie but mainly a baby boy, himbo energy, threesome, somewhat heavy focus on mxm, spit roasting, spanking, face fucking, degradation, praise, name calling, kissing, facial, cum eating, snowballing, sloppy seconds, overstim, squirting, fingering, anal fingering (m receiving), masturbation, bulge kink, breeding kink, cum inflation (for a split second), creampies 

a/n: this was a request i got by a lovely anon <3 the concept of getting absolutely ruined by minsan is so goddamn hot,, i got really lost in the sauce this time around and i’m proud to say that this is actually just unapologetic filth and nothing else so i hope you enjoy~~

Masterlist

“Hey, be a little more gentle with her, San. She’s gonna break before I get a turn,” Mingi whined with a pout, releasing the grip he had on your hair to reach across your body and run his fingers along the section of your ass that still sported San’s sizable handprint, forcing his cock further into your throat, beads of saliva and pre-cum dribbling down your bulging neck and onto the already stained sheets below.

Positioned on the opposite side of Mingi with his cock drilling into your needy hole, San rolled his eyes, slamming both hands against your ass, his fingers sinking into your stinging skin and spreading it open slightly to watch his slick cock continuously get swallowed up by your hole. “You love it, don’t you, pretty slut?”

A muffled, though enthusiastic ‘mm-hmm’ left your occupied mouth.

“See, look. She wants me to break her, Min.” San hunched forward over your body, reaching for your jaw and holding it steady as Mingi continued to thrust more than half of his over-sized length into the small opening of your throat, feeling his fingers begin to grow wet with your spit. You felt his warm breath on your back and could practically hear his shit-eating smirk, not knowing his eyes were still on Mingi, simply because he couldn’t bring himself to stop watching him wreck your throat.  “Just look at her drooling all over herself like a brainless whore. She loves to get stuffed with cock, Min, that’s why we’re here,” San chimed, hoping he was educating his glossy-eyed, panting friend, giving him a crooked smile. 

“You’re–shit–right, San,” Mingi huffed out, sweat dripping past his choppy dyed hair and off of his sharp jaw, as he hunched over your body as well and reached out, gripping both sides of your ass. He spread you open further so that San could slide in and out even easier, forcing your back to arch painfully from the way you were sandwiched between them. 

San and Mingi found themselves in a similar position before, face to face, both balls-deep in a toy they preferred to share together, cocks throbbing away as they gazed at each other’s flushed, pleasure-struck faces, unable to ignore the presence of one another’s plush lips.

“Min, lemme taste you,” San mumbled, his hand moving from your jaw to your neck to clutch it, simply to feel the heaviness of his friend’s cock against his fingers as it slipped in and out of your throat. Your gurgled noises of approval and shiny, slicked-up cunt went unnoticed once San and Mingi’s lips collided, each getting a fair share of one another’s spit, their tongues eagerly licking into each other’s groaning mouths.

When Mingi was done exploring San’s open mouth, San took the lead and sucked his friend’s larger tongue into his own mouth, his flushed cheeks hallowing slightly. When he heard a whimper, San opened his eyes to witness Mingi’s big brown eyes looking right back at him. Swallowing their combined saliva down with a gulp, San let go of your throat to grab Mingi’s chin, one hand still cemented on your hip, making sure he didn’t miss a single beat when it came to drilling himself into your sopping wet hole. “You’re gonna cum, aren’t you, MinMin? Huh? Are you gonna spill your load inside her tiny throat and make a big mess?” he asked in a patronizing tone, his ego growing in size when Mingi whimpered more and nodded his head quickly, a bit a drool falling from his lips. San’s dark eyes sharpened, the sides of his lips curling into a salacious smile. “Then fucking do it.”

“Okay, m’ gonna fill her fuckhole with my cum, Sannie,” Mingi exhaled delightedly, reaching down and gripping the sides of your head, suddenly pistoning his oversized length into your throat, making you gurgle and choke on it, tears spilling down your heated cheeks.

San nodded his head in agreement, wrapping his fingers around your waist so firmly, his nails left indents. “Yeah, you are. Fill her slutty little throat.” Feeling you clench tightly around him, San groaned gutturally, his eyes just about rolling into his skull, responding by jackhammering himself into your dripping cunt as quickly as he could, the sounds of your muffled cries almost louder than the lewd sound of his balls smacking against your slick skin. “Fuck, baby, you’re about to cum all over my cock just from being our own personal fuckdoll, huh?” 

A strained, muffled sound of approval exited your throat, only able to take being pounded into from both sides once more, before the dam inside you broke. Your body shuddered and your limbs almost gave out underneath you, completely zoning out from the bliss until Mingi’s cockhead slapped down onto your cheek, hot spurts of white splattering out onto your face. This was followed by something hot and sticky painting your inner walls, some of it leaking out past San’s softening length. “Fuck,” was all you could choke out, your voice a bit scratchy and deep after the abuse your throat took. 

San smiled to himself, gently rubbing your hips in soothing circles, his lower half still flush to yours. “I would pull out, but I couldn’t possibly pass up the opportunity to knock you up, baby.” 

Turning your head back to look up at San, you licked at your lips, tasting the saltiness of Mingi’s load on your tongue. “Good.” 

San beamed at your reaction, his cock starting to harden inside you, wanting to degrade you but choosing to focus on the cum that Mingi left dripping down your flushed face. “What a messy girl. You should clean yourself up.” He slid in and out of you a bit, just to feel and listen to the filthy squelching sounds, before slowly pulling out and sitting on the mattress. 

Shuddering from the sensation of cum leaking out of you, you got up and sat back down on your knees, looking back and forth between the men, gathering up some of the lukewarm liquid on your face with two fingers. You began to suck and lick at them, moaning softly, beckoning the both of them closer once your other hand slipped in between your thighs to play with yourself. 

Slipping his hand around your waist, Mingi leaned in, running his hot tongue up the side of your cheek, collecting some of the milkiness for himself. “You’re so naughty, baby,” he whispered against your ear, his other hand clasping around one of your tits to squeeze and knead it, licking along your jawline. 

San was not far behind him, his mouth already attached to your neck to suck and lick at it, two of his thick fingers pushing into you and curling up to rub at your sensitive spot. The squeaking sound that escaped your lips made him smile against your skin, slowly kissing upwards until he got to your cheek, swiping his tiny tongue across your jaw to taste Mingi for himself. He grunted, looking over to his friend, still shoving his digits in and out of you, your juices accompanying the cum dripping down his wrist. “You need to drink more water, idiot.” 

“Huh?” Mingi mumbled absentmindedly, staring dumbly at San, remembering to grab your other tit to knead it as well, pinching your nipple between two fingers. “Something wrong with my cum?” 

“It tastes bad, you big dummy,” San hissed, removing his fingers from your cunt just as your pleasure began to crescendo, holding up his shiny, cum-coated fingers near all three of your faces. “Lick. This is what it’s supposed to taste like.” 

You pouted along with Mingi, for different reasons, licking between San’s pointer and middle finger, Mingi’s tongue joining yours to lap up the dripping cum. Before you knew it, you were passing the remaining liquid into Mingi’s open mouth using your tongue, spreading your legs open wider when his hand left your chest to cup your pussy, his palm rubbing eagerly against your swollen clit. 

San pushed his fingers in between the both of your moving mouths, his cock twitching painfully into his chiseled abdomen, barely able to take watching the both of your swap spit in such a fervent manner. Groaning, he grabbed Mingi’s shoulder and squeezed it, encouraging him to pull away and look at him with barely open eyes. 

“What is it, San?” he asked softly, licking at any remnants of cum and saliva that was left on his lips. 

“I need you to stuff her with your cock, Min.” He ran a hand through Mingi’s sweaty hair, smiling. “For me.” 

Mingi smiled back at San, his cock pulsing against your thigh. “Anything for you, bro.” 

-

Mingi had you in his lap on the edge of the bed, your back sticking against his heated bare chest, his large hands squeezing into your open thighs, his cock hitting your sweet spot relentlessly, so much so that your cum sprayed out of your pulsing cunt. It felt so goddamn good you were convinced that the stimulation was going to break your mind. It didn’t help that San was on his knees in between Mingi’s thighs, his fingers cupping his friend’s swollen balls and his mouth open to catch your squirt on his small pink tongue, his face soaked with your release. 

“That’s a good girl, do it again,” San praised, bringing his fingers up to rub them rapidly across your clit, pressing them harder into your bud when your hips tried to move away from his touch, not stopping until more clear liquid shot out of you and coated his already dripping tongue. “Fuck, that’s a good slut.” 

“No more,” you croaked out, your lower half so numb, you’d probably fold like a rag doll if Mingi wasn’t holding you in place. “I-i can’t!” 

“You can take it, sweetheart,” Mingi encouraged breathily, his deep voice penetrating your ears along with his heavy pants, sending a jolt of arousal into your core. He suddenly shuddered, emitting a surprisingly whiny moan upon feeling San’s tongue drag up his perineum to his sensitive balls, encouraging him to buck up into you to chase his high. 

San ran his palms up Mingi’s large thighs, squeezing into them the way Mingi was gripping yours, his thumbs teasing his friend’s puckering hole. Smirking at the sound of Mingi’s soft whimpering, San slipped a finger inside, feeling Mingi slowly begin to grind against it on his own.

Mingi’s jaw hung open, too consumed with lust to notice another finger sliding into him until he felt a sudden, powerful crackle of pleasure erupt from within his core. “Oh, fuck, that’s it, right there, right there,”  Mingi groaned, almost growling his words out, digging his fingers into your bruising skin and slamming himself into you even rapidly than before, sending you into a state of euphoria. 

San stroked himself vigorously, the muscles in his upper and lower arms straining so hard the veins bulged out, a bit of sweat sliding along his smirking face. “Oh, yeah? Does it feel that good, Min? Are you gonna cum in our plaything’s tight little cunt again?” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah–” Mingi could hardly speak, his body and mind completely overloaded with pleasure, to the point that tears began to form inside his hazy eyes, so close that he couldn’t possibly control the whines and whimpers that were joining your own, the both of your bodies unconsciously moving in tandem so that you could reach your highs together. 

San took delight in the visual of his friend and fucktoy completely falling apart in front of him, his fist squeezing around his cockhead, pre-cum spilling out, the slick allowing him to pleasure himself as fast as possible.“Fuck–Pump…her full…nnngh…of your cum, Min. Please, just make her nice and full for me,” San practically begged, so close to his own high that he didn’t care how desperate he sounded. 

“Cumming, I’m cumminggg,” Mingi moaned whinily, slack jawed, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, letting go of one of your thighs to press his hand down against your lower abdomen, feeling the outline of his cock, swearing he felt your tummy bulge out ever so slightly the longer he drained his seemingly endless cumshot into your cunt. 

You couldn’t even begin to form words, your orgasm doing the talking for you, letting out a few small, stunted moans, your entire body seizing up, spilling your release all over Mingi’s lap. You were so gone, you hardly noticed San suddenly standing up in front of the both of you, whispering something dirty and slapping his cock down onto your used pussy, his load spurting out and coating your mound, mixing with Mingi’s load, as it was already seeping out of you and down your ass. 

“Pull out now, Min,” San commanded softly, watching Mingi slowly slide his cock out with a small squelch, lowering himself back down to the floor to get a close up view of the absolute mess that was pouring out of your used hole, his thumbs spreading you apart. You were stretched wide and filled up with so much cum, San was ready to shed a tear from such a beautiful sight. A moment of silence, mixed with quiet pants and sighs went by, before San came up with a brilliant plan. “Should we stuff her hole together?” 

Wiping some sweat away from his forehead, Mingi tilted his head to the side, perking up, as though he were intrigued. “Like cock to cock?” 

San licked at his lips, tasting you on them. “Yup.” 

Mingi mirrored him, licking at his plush lips as well, eventually sighing to himself. “Double stuffed…”

San nodded, chuckling. “That’s right.” 

Once he exchanged a sleazy look with his friend, Mingi slowly looked down at you, his gaze darkening.

“Yummy.” 

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© kitten4sannie, 2023.