#Being all overheated and sticky

[jellyjamheadobb]

Me Every Summer

[yanderenightmare]

Geto Suguru

TW: nsfw, dubcon/noncon, yandere, kidnapping, captive reader, condescension and patronization

fem reader

Thinking about the utter subjugation of being one of the prettier curses Suguru has made into a silly marble and swallowed…

By the time he spits you back out again, you feel his rule on you like a set of chains. It's awfully crippling. You know you'd wanted to fight back only a minute ago, but none of that remains now—swapped with the sole will to obey. It’s as if he’s stuffed everything with cotton—reduced you to a puppet on his strings, tugged this and that way on his command, summoned from within the prison of his stomach whenever he has use of you.

He keeps you by his side when he’s bored of waiting for templegoers. You’re not a very strong curse, not one he can use to attain his goals of world annihilation in any case, but you serve as entertainment, so you’re not entirely useless either...

It’s beyond humiliating for you, though, no doubt. Being kept on his lap like a pet. No clothes with no means to run away or stop him.

“Most every curse has an unpleasant taste,” he states against the shell of your ear, keeping you snug against his chest, naked and only partly draped in his shared monk’s robes. “Some or other secretion of the human body—shit, piss, vomit, blood, sweat, tears, spit…” he lists leisurely, one after the other, while tracing his finger up and down along the cursed markings lining your skin, a pretty little winged heart symbol on your lower belly, right atop your womb. “You know what you tasted like?”

You shake your head pitifully with a bite of your lower lip. You wish he wouldn’t touch you there—it’s so sensitive you can’t keep from quivering.

“Come on, humor me,” he purrs lowly, snuggling his chin into your neck, watching how you shake with amused slim eyes. “I’ll even give you a hint.”

His humming makes your head feel dizzy. You want to swat his hand away, but nothing in your body obeys you anymore. It’s all kept neatly under his thumb.

His breath licks your ear along with a flick of his tongue, then a soft snicker. “It was sweet.”

You feel sticky all over—overheating—breathing in short as sweat pills upon your brow. You whine, twisting some on his lap—shifting for comfort—finding some as the bulge beneath takes place against your naked sex. You immediately roll your hips to chase the friction it provides.

“Oh? Do you need another hint?”

His fingers glide lower, past the pink tattoo, and onto the fluttering mess beneath it. Two of them ride through your puffy and glossy wet folds, making you curl against his chest—head resting back upon his shoulder while spreading your thighs wider—craving it with every simmering nerve of your loins—needing more and never wanting it to end.

“That’s it,” he praises, but the touch disappears, much to your devastation, but quickly reappears within your mouth as he sticks both digits past your lips and presses down upon the soaked bed of your tongue.

He chuckles like he so often does, softly with mockery, only a bit cruel but equally nursing.

“It’s a nice flavor. Not very curse-like.” His lips skim your cheek as he wipes his fingers inside the warmth of your mouth—making you lick them clean for him. Pulling them out, he angles your face toward his, ghosting your wetted lips with his, pulled in a smirk. “It’s almost like you want to be eaten.”

♡ GETO SUGURU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[imsojo]

Poly!Marauders x Reader

—thinking about being hot, sweaty, & sticky in the middle of the night w the marauders

*ੈ✩

Of course on the hottest night of the year, your air conditioning had to break, causing your home to rise to temperatures what felt like 30 degrees. Inside, while you were trying to get a good night's rest.  

You cursed your past self for agreeing to sleep in the middle with Sirius, his arm around your waist and James on your other side half on top of you. You peeked over Sirius to look at Remus in envy, as much as you loved that Sirius chose to inflict his affections on you, your body temperature was becoming unbearable, sweat beginning to form on your body. 

You lay there and considered your options, push James off of you, or shove Sirius’ arm off of your middle. Both options would be nice but you knew the quickest choice to get at least some relief would be to get Sirius’ arm off of you.  

You grasped at Sirius’ wrist and began to pry him off of you when he clutched back on. “Sirius,” you whisper yelled, “You’re awake?!”. He laughed quietly, “Course I am, how can you sleep in this heat?” 

“Well get off me, I’m severely overheating”

“No”

“No?!” You began trying to get his arm off again, shrieking when he rolled on top of you. 

“What’s wrong?” James asked rousing from the movement and your voices, he sat up and felt around for his glasses.

A laugh came from the other side of the bed “They’re just messing around”. “Remus,” you said, finally pushing Sirius off of you to sit up and look at him “You’re awake too?” 

James, who finally got his glasses on, turned to look at you “I was too, couldn’t fall asleep, it’s way too hot”.

You felt slightly betrayed at that, “So you two,” you gestured between James and Sirius “thought it was a good idea to transfer your sweaty body heat onto me while being consciously aware of how hot it is?”

“How can body heat be sweaty?” Sirius asked, and before you could utter your annoyance James joined along in the teasing “Not sure, Moony you know”. 

You all looked at Remus who simply responded with a small laugh and a shake of his head. “Everyone needs to go to sleep, and get off y/n”. 

“Thank you!” you exclaimed, “I don’t need you two mauling me all night” 

Sirius shot Remus a look and James made his discontent with your words clear “I love you, can’t I hold you?” You fought the urge to roll your eyes and instead brought your gaze to where Sirius was crawling into Remus’ lap. “If we can’t cuddle y/n we’ll cuddle you” Sirius smirked, nuzzling his head into the crook of Remus’ neck. 

James immediately got on board with this suggestion and set his sights on using Remus as a human pillow the way he used you, manoeuvering himself around you until he could flop on Remus and Sirius. 

“Really,” Remus groaned but made no effort to remove the two men clinging to him “Can’t you two go one night without needing to touch someone?”

“Y/n is the worst for that!” James accused you. You ignored him and instead took over his prior sleeping spot, splaying out as much as you could in the small space. 

“Here,” you said, reaching out to the cuddle-puddle that is your boyfriends “You can hold my hand”.        

James quickly grabbed your hand, and, to your overheating horror, began tugging you toward them all, “James!” you laughed, trying and failing to get away from his strong grip.

You huffed as he turned from Remus and Sirius to hold you in his grasp. 

“There we go,” he said softly, brushing his hand down your cheek, “now we can all go to sleep” 

“What?!” You exclaimed, “This is literally the same situation we started in!”

“No,” Sirius drawled, “Now Remus gets to be involved”. 

[scugbox]

OVERANALYZING NEURON FLIES. THE TAG LIMIT HAS STOPPED ME BUT IM GOING TO CONTINUE HERE THEN SINCE I STILL HAVE SOME THOUGHTS.

About the orange goop, which I'm convinced is probably dead(?) neuron flies, I think it would taste VERY strange. Definitely picks up some taste of metal/dust from the surface it lays on. Can't decide whether it should be extremely salty of unbearably dull. Leaning towards the second one. A very tasteless, sticky substance that covers up the entire inside of your mouth when being chewed. It takes ages to get it all down your throat and it leaves a faint taste of metal/blood behind. Yikes. Probably the reason why nothing else in the game eats it.

Another thing I thought of is that absorbing neuron fly nutrients would make spearmaster more energised and clear minded. Not really a taste, but I don't think thing fella CAN taste. Instead I propose this. Plus a slight teeny tiny electrical wave going through them every time they puncture neurones.

At the very end I would just like to say that although I have zero evidence for it and I will never get any evidence for it, I just can so clearly imagine nsh's neurons tasting fruity. No pun intended. I just think they taste like gummies. Still giving the same sour-like sensation on the tongue. And srs's would be spicy, no comment. Also very warm. Sliver's would taste like andruts pre collapse and like literal nothing post collapse. Nothing with a dash of whatever karma flowers may taste like.

Uhhh nothing else to add here if anyone decided to actually read all of that I wish upon you a lot of delicious neuron flies in the future. Although I don't think I made them seem tasty. Cause I don't really think they are. But hey. We're all neuron flies enjoyers here.

Personally I think they're staticky, gelatinous, and flavorless

Please reblog for sample size I saw this post, someone asked if the texture was egg, and now I'm really curious

[ennabear]

how do you think mean!abby would react to reader being overstimulated? out in public or at home?

when you’re in public, i think she’d be more alert, more understanding. especially if you’re somewhere loud, hot, crowded, or just uncomfortable in general. she’d be quick to whisk you away from wherever’s overstimulating you, finding a private place, whether it be her car or an empty bathroom.

abby noticed you pouting after giving her short, one syllable answers for the past twenty minutes. obviously, you were in a bad mood. she stops dead in her tracks, causing you to bump into her from behind.

“are you okay?” she asks, although she knows the answer.

“yeah.” you mumble.

“are you lying to me?” she smiles.

“no.”

“tell me what’s wrong?”

“no.”

“i’m not mad, i swear.” she says calmly. “i just wanna know what’s wrong so i can help you.”

“what’s wrong is that i’m tired.” you start. “we’ve been here for like 4 hours, it’s a hundred degrees out, i’m sweating so much my shirt is sticking to my body, my feet hurt, i’m hungry, and i wanted to leave 3 hours ago.” you gush.

abby chuckles, she knows she’s right. you scoff at her, apparently she thinks your discomfort is hilarious. she ignores your complaints and instead wraps you up in a hug, rubbing up and down your back. “do you wanna leave?” she asks.

“yes!” you practically shout. “i’ve wanted to leave. for hours.”

swiping away the tears that escape from your eyes, she picks you up in a bridal carry and hauls you all the way back to the car. you can’t help but giggle, suddenly so grateful for your girlfriend’s giant muscles.

soon enough she’s setting you in the car, the hot black leather stinging your skin. she climbs in the drivers seat, starting up the car and flicking the air conditioner to the coolest setting. you sigh, the change of scenery starting to calm your nerves. abby reaches over to grab your hand and places a kiss to each of your fingertips, punctuating the last one with a whispered “i love you.”

as for being at home, i think she’d be a little less put together. her home is her safe space, so why are you so worked up? she’d still take care of you, obviously, but it would take a little longer for her to figure out exactly what’s wrong.

abby hears your muffled sobs coming from the kitchen, so she rises from the couch and practically flies over to you, terrified that you chopped one of your fingers off or something. instead she finds you sitting on the floor, holding your head in your hands. you gaze up at her sudden appearance, your dripping eyes making her figure look blurry.

“what’s wrong?” she asks, panicked. “are you hurt? did you burn yourself?”

“abby.” you groan through your tears.

the panic in her chest rises, she searches around you for any smears of blood or any massive spills in the kitchen, but finds nothing. “answer me.” she demands, prying your head out of your elbows. “what’s wrong?” she asks again.

you swat her away, squirming against her hold on your head. she pulls you close to her, her body temperature making you overheat more than you already are and the position adding to the ache in your back.

“abby. leave me alone.” you cry. doesn’t she know that she’s making it worse? the last thing you want is to have a conversation right now, the pounding headache almost making it impossible for you to speak. “i don’t wanna talk, please.” you moan, sniffling into your sleeves. “just put me back down.”

“tell me what happened first.” she demands, smirking like something’s funny.

you choke on a sob, damn her for being such an asshole. “i have a splitting headache, i’ve been standing up all day and it’s hurting my back, i’m overheating and standing in front of the oven isn’t helping, and i got sugar all over the place and now everything’s sticky.”

oh. well shit, now she feels bad for manhandling you and laughing at your dismay. but she doesn’t say anything back, instead scooping you up and carrying you to bed. “there are still cookies in the oven.” you complain, and she kisses you sweetly. “i’ll get ‘em.” she assures you.

and once she pulls the last tray out of the oven, she wipes down the kitchen and rinses out all of the bowls and measuring cups before grabbing you a glass of water and heading toward the bedroom. the sight of you sleeping soundly with both kittens curled around you makes her knees weak, and she can’t help but plant a few more kisses on your cheeks and whisper “i love you, i’m sorry for being a jerk.”

[wildernessuntothemselves]

Every time I think I am free of the hybrid brain rot he pulls me in again 😭

Warnings: fem!reader, dog hybrid!gyu, cat hybrid!reader mean dom!reader, desperate horny gyu, ?unrequited love, dry humping, somnophilia, handjob, cumming in pants

Kitty!you (ofc) lives with rambunctious but very fluffy big dog hybrid gyu who you try to avoid most of the time because he just doesn’t seem to get how big he is, still thinking he is a lapdog and ends up smothering you everytime he tries to cuddle or groom you. He is always hurt when you reject him and his trembling wet eyes give you pause but not enough to let him come near you

Until your poor owner runs into financial trouble and can't afford to keep the heating on as much as usual and you find yourself regularly getting too cold to sleep. Beomgyu seems mostly unaffected. In fact he seems to like the cold, his large normally overheated body welcoming the change as usually your owner will have the heat cranked up very high just for your sake, leaving poor gyu forced to splay out on the floor, limbs spread in all directions and touching the cool ceramic floor (the only cool surface in the house) with his tongue lolling out as he pants the heat away

You always turned up your nose at him, feeling like it's inappropriate for him to lay out like that, shirtless and with his privates barely covered by his thin shorts but when you had complained to your owner, they sweetly but firmly reminded you that he's only like that because the heat has been turned up for you and that if you want to keep your eyes from being assaulted by the sight, you can always put the heat down.

Of course you didn't. Instead you scoffed and muttered something mean about the digusting view, hurting the big pup even more but you didn't care.

Well now the tables have turned, and you're left freezing even under all your blankets while he is happily sleeping in his bed with just a thin sheet covering him up. Bastard. You can practically feel the heat radiating off him and you yearn for it so badly you might actually make yourself suffer through the inconvenience of being near him just to get to it

You try to hold off as much as you can but between your shattering teeth and numb hands and feet, you can't help yourself. You stalk towards his bed with your blankets, not bothering to ask his permission before you curl up into his side and cover your bodies with the blankets.

"Huh?" Beomgyu wakes up confused, a bit of drool seeping at the corner of his mouth from deep sleep. Ugh.

"I'm cold. You're warm." Is all the explanation you give him and beomgyu does not ask for more. He doesn't want to mess this up, just happy you're finally accepting his touch even if begrudgingly.

You groan as he wraps his arms around you and pulls you tighter against him, burying his face in your neck to take a big whiff before letting out a satisfied sigh.

"It's okay. I'll keep you warm, kitty." You ignore the way his deep, husky voice right against your ear and the way his large hands wrapped around your frame makes you feel. This all doesn't mean anything. You're just cold and he is basically a free heater.

You try to ignore the noises he makes in his sleep--his little whimpers, his garbled moans, even the little urgent whispers of what sounds an awful lot like your name.

You ignore the feeling of something hard pressing against you at night, you even ignore the sometimes small, sometimes harsh rocking motions of his hips against you as he cried and whines about something in his dreams, pathetic voice calling out for someone to "please, please, i'll be good"

You ignore the way that makes your body tingle and your underwear get sticky. This is all just to keep warm.

But what you can't ignore is the startled way he wakes up almost every night and rushes to the toilet, spending 15 to 30 minutes at a time in there and leaving you to freeze again. No, this simply won't do. This defeats the whole purpose of your new sleeping arrangement. What good is it to get all warmed up in his embrace, wrapped in his large arms, feeling his heated breath panted against your neck, if he will rip it away from you and leave you for the cruel elements to ravage and reclaim your body in the middle of the night?

So when he starts crying in his sleep again and his hips begin to rut against you, you move your hand between your bodies to take a hold of his hard member that has been poking you for countless nights.

It takes a few seconds of coaxing before he realizes what's going on, a few seconds of his moans almost reaching a fever pitch at the sudden unexpected stimulation, before he wakes up with a gasp, his already big eyes massive with shock at finding you with your hand down his pants and jerking him off.

"Kitty, w-what--" you cut off his slurring words with a twist of your wrist that leaves him keening.

"You think you're so slick? You think I can't feel you humping my ass every night? You think I don't know that you run to the bathroom to jerk this stupid cock off so i don't wake up covered in your dirty cum?"

"I'm sorry. Can't help it. You smell so good." He cries out pathetically, his hips moving to meet your tight fist as you jerk him off. "Please don't be mad at me. Please don't stop sleeping with me. I can be good, I promise. I'll do better. I think I'm going into heat. I'll tell master to take me to a heat center so I can get it out of my system and be a good dog again. I promise I am not a perv. I know this is bad. I know I shouldn't do this. I'm sorry--"

"God, do you ever shut the fuck up." You growl, bringing his face to your and kissing him roughly, and despite all his emphatic proclamations, he immediately opens his mouth and lets you push your tongue in, moaning and sucking on it like the perv he claims he is not. He chases after your lips over and over again, all while his hips never stop fucking your fist, until you push his face away to catch your breath, strings of saliva joining you wet lips.

"You wanna go to heat center and fuck a pretty little bitch? You think any bitch would let a sick mutt like you who lusts after kitties near any of their holes? That's disgusting." You don't know why you’re so mean to him but you know that the thought of him breeding a random bitch at a pay to fuck facility makes your blood boil.

"I'm sorry. I know I'm bad. Just don't want you to be mad at me." He cries, real tears dripping down his long lashes. "I'll do whatever you want. I'll use my heat toys every night before we sleep so I can get it out of my system and be good for you. Would that be better? Please?"

"No need." You tell him, acting nonchalant but burning inside at his desperate need to please you, thriving off of it. Fuck this is so wrong but it feels so good and you can't stop. "I'll deal with your problem myself. You can't help it that you're a sick little mutt. I'll take care of you but you have to keep this between us. Master can't know or he'll take me away from you to protect me."

He whimpers at the last part and shakes his head, fucking desperately into your hand as if it will be taken away any second. "I won't. Just between us. I'm not a bad dog, not dangerous, just... just..."

He trails off in a whine, looking at you in frustration, his eyes trying to convey something to you that you're not sure you want to know so you pretend you don't see it.

"Just needy. Right?" You tell him sharply and he gasps, nodding, his fluffy puppy ears pressed down to his skull anxiously. "Yes. So needy."

"I know. Let me take care of you. Let go for kitty. I know you want to. I can feel you drenching my hand like a bitch in heat." You chuckle, rubbing your thumb quickly over his leaking head, making his breathing pause and shudder. "Well, i suppose you are. So come on, cum for me, my little bitch. But keep it down, we can't let master see you like this."

"Yes. Yes, pretty. Anything for you." He whines, and you ignore most of it, just focusing on the way he bites down on his lip so hard it breaks the skin just so he can keep his slutty cries at bay as he cums, shooting long ropes of warm cum into your hand and his pants, soaking both in his release that goes on and on until all that is left of his is a slumped, sweaty, drooling mess in your arms.

"Fuck, what a mess." You scrunch your nose, bringing you hand up to show him just some of his milky cum covering your hand.

"I'm sorry." He slurs, barely conscious. "I'll clean up."

He tries to get up but you hold him down firmly. You're not going to let go of your free heater after all you've just done to stay warm.

"Just clean up in the morning." You tell him, wiping your dirty hand on his pants.

"But I'm all sticky and gross."

"Good. I want you to sleep in your cum so you remember how nice I am to a disgusting perv like you."

[bruisedboys]

I don't know if this would be something you're interested in but I'd really like to see a protective!finnick. Doesn't have to be related to the games, like reader doesn't need to be a tribute or a rebel but she can be! Up to you, but it'd be interesting to see that side of him

thank you for your request lovely! I challenged myself to write something actually in universe for once, so I hope you enjoy it! (set in catching fire)

finnick odair x fem!tribute!reader cw for reader fainting from the heat

“Be careful.”

Finnick’s big hand on your back, his torso not far behind. He points to a thick tree root in your path. You step over it easily, exasperated. This is maybe the fourth time in the past ten minutes he’s said those same two words.

“I am,” you say simply. You are. If not for your sake then for Finnick’s. If you were to get so much as a cut on your leg he’d lose his mind. “S’hard when you’re standing so close, though.”

Finnick makes a face at you over your shoulder. “Sorry. You’re precious cargo, y’know?”

Your face warms, which is not ideal. You’re already well on your way to becoming a human furnace — the jungle you’re surrounded by is sticky and overly warm. You’re definitely overheating though you won’t tell Finnick that, he’ll only get worse. The water back at the beach is sure to cool you down — you’ll hop in as soon as you get back.

“You’re hopeless,” you tell Finnick in the meantime.

Finnick grins. “For you, yeah.”

You roll your eyes and march on ahead. Slowly the jungle gets thinner and thinner until you’re emerging onto the beach and your makeshift camp. The sun beats down on the landscape, glinting off the ripples in the water and rolling off the white sand in waves. You’re struck suddenly by how agonisingly hot you feel. It was sickeningly warm in the jungle but this is somehow much worse, the heat like a knife, sharp, cruel, and enough to make you dizzy.

“Ah, the lovebirds are back,” Johanna drawls when she spots you and Finnick emerging from the deep green trees. “What took you so long?”

Finnick shrugs. “Oh, you know. Sight-seeing. Did you— hey, what’s wrong?”

You’ve grabbed a tree for support as your vision swims suddenly. Your head pounds, as if your brain is trying to punch it’s way out of your skull. The dizziness you’d felt as soon as you stepped into the sun builds until you’re swaying on your feet.

You try desperately to keep your eyes open but the sun glares at you until you’re forced to squeeze them shut. “I don’t feel very well. I think I’m…”

It’s all you get out before you collapse in half like a rag doll. Finnick shouts your name and surges forward to grab you. He slides an arm under your back while the other grabs at your waist, tight as a vice.

“What the hell?” Johanna says loudly, standing up fast. “Is she okay?”

“Get me some water, please,” Finnick says, strained. You’re clearly not okay. His heart pounds in his throat and threatens to choke him. Johanna runs off and Finnick pulls you into the shade of the trees, carefully lowering you into the sand on your back.

He kneels next to you, panic rising like bile in his throat. Your eyes are closed, your head heavy in his hands.

“Y/N,” he says, an edge of panic to his voice. Please wake up, he thinks. “Y/N, honey.“

You’re completely unresponsive. Thinking the worst, Finnick presses his fingers to your throat. Thankfully, he feels a steady pulse, though it doesn’t do much to calm his spiking worry, not when you’re still unconscious.

“Can you hear me?” He tries gently tapping your cheek but to no avail. He curses. “Johanna!” He yells out, past being polite. “Water, now.”

“It’s coming!” Johanna yells back from the shoreline, clearly as agitated as he is.

Finnick grits his teeth and takes your face in his hands, trying his best to be gentle when he’s so panic stricken. “Hey. Baby, come on. Wake up.”

When you don’t respond, he carefully lowers your head and swiftly slides his hands to your shoulders. He’s careful but firm as he shakes you. He doesn’t want to, doesn’t ever want to be rough with you, but he’s glad he’s done it because it works. Just as Johanna arrives with a seashell full of water, Peeta and Katniss hot on her heels, your breath catches. Then your eyelids flutter, and then your lips part.

“Finnick?”

Finnick releases a shuddering breath, his heartbeat a pounding drum in his ears. The relief in hearing your voice is akin to a spear being pulled out of his chest. “Yeah. Yeah, hey, I’ve got you. You can hear me, right?”

“I can hear you,” you say. You try to turn your head, searching for him even in your disoriented state, but Finnick holds you in place.

“Don’t move, sweet thing,” he tells you. Unable to look away from you until he knows you’re absolutely alright, Finnick puts his hand out for the water wordlessly. Johanna hands it to him quick as a flash. “Can you open your eyes?”

You can, though it takes you a little while, blinking sluggishly in the harsh light. Finnick’s quick to shade your face with one hand. Your eyes appear, glazed but beautiful as always.

“Good girl,” Finnick tells you, hand on your cheek. He’s still buzzing — the heat of the sudden onslaught of panic hasn’t dissipated just yet. He carefully strokes your hair away from your sweaty neck with the back of his hand. “I’m gonna cool you down, okay? Can I unzip you?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

Finnick unzips your suit halfway down your chest, taking care to angle his torso so the others don’t see anything they don’t have to. Slowly, he tips the water over your hot skin. It slides over the slopes of your shoulders and creeps down into your suit. It must feel good because you shudder and let out a small breath.

Finnick thumbs your collarbone, feeling overwhelmed with relief. His hands don’t leave you, afraid you’ll disappear again if he lets go. The panic ebbs slowly as he watches you come back to life, your eyes becoming clearer by the second.

“She’s okay?” Peeta speaks up after a long moment of silence.

Finnick nods. “She’s okay,” he assures. “It was the heat, I think.” He finally lets himself look away from you, if only to ask Peeta, “Could you get us some more water?”

“Yeah, of course.”

The other three all trail off, leaving you and Finnick on your own. You try to sit up as they leave but Finnick presses his hand to your chest, palm flat on your warm skin.

“Don’t,” he says. “You’ve gotta lay flat, sweetheart.”

You do as he says, looking bashful. “Sorry,” you say softly.

“Don’t be sorry. No more fainting though, okay?” He rubs your shoulder. “I know I’m really handsome, but you don’t have to be so drastic about it.”

You groan but it quickly morphs into a laugh. Finnick kisses your forehead and then holds your hand until Peeta returns with the water.

-

thank you for reading! please consider reblogging if u enjoyed 🤍

[dadsbongos]

jennifer's body - z.maki

part of the jjk movie marathon event / movie selection

...

warnings - vaginal fingering *nerd emoji*, thigh riding, maki's the top as per usual, car sex, you're a whiny bitch but maki's into it, potential cum eating

word count - 2.2 K / rating - R

Maki detests a lot of things, but above every single one of those things - she detests being put on missions with you most of all.

“Eek!” Maki’s balance is hardly thrown off despite the way you rip her arm to your chest. You hug her close and push your cheek to her shoulder, “Please protect me, Maki!”

She snorts, looking down at you curled around her form, “You’re a grade two, you know? You don’t have to hide behind me.”

Feeling the impression of your lips molding into a pout against her, you ‘hmph’, continuing down the creaky, dank hall, “A grade two can still be scared!”

Naturally, yes. However, the degree of fear you commonly express makes teaming with you such a hassle. Though not necessarily because she finds it annoying.

Maki feels your skittish fingers dance down to hers, and she clasps your hand tightly. Her heart throbs uncomfortably at the idea of your poor brain all stressed and overheating, skin chilled, and throat too tight to speak. A terrible thing that is. Yes, she hates it more than anything else in the world.

So Maki walks just a pace quicker than you, ensuring she’s upfront. But no matter that, she is not the one to suffer this mission’s great blowback.

As if freshly blistering up from between the floorboards, a puffy, mushroom-shaped spore oozes from beneath your boot. Mustard yellow curd gushes onto the ground from each pore with a soft puff of orange gas into the air.

“Damn!” Maki curls an arm around your waist and tucks you behind her.

The particles cling to your nose, itching and irritating; they claw down your throat and paint over the front of your uniform.

By the time Maki has splattered the curse, you’re feverish. Still coughing up dust and reaching out for her.

“Are you okay?” she cradles your sweltering frame in her broad hands.

“Car,” you wheeze out, falling into her stronger frame, “We need to get outta here.”

Your thighs squeeze together, hips mindlessly squirming into the sticky leather of the backseat. Leaning into Maki, you take her arm again, breasts squishing against her firm muscles and pressing her hand between the clench of your thighs. Her palm digs into the meat of your inner thighs and it takes about 60% of your brain power to keep from humping her hand.

Pressing your face to her neck, you know she can feel the softness of your lips on her smooth skin. You know she can feel the hot puffs of your words, “Maki… Maki I think we should pull over…”

“What?” her cheeks go pink, eyes falling to you from beneath her lenses. Her other hand comes up to cup your cheek, it burns beneath her skin, “Talk to me, huh? What’re you feeling?”

“Hmm,” you turn into the feeling of her cupping your cheek, and your gaze finds Maki’s crinkled face. Eyes wide beneath furrowed brows, lips down in a frown, “I feel so hot, Maki, please- “ you jerk up, rutting against her hand, “Please pull over!”

The car doesn’t stop. Maki moves her hand from your cheek to press against your feverish forehead. She barks over at Ijichi, “Hey, pull over!”

You all jerk at the sudden stop before Ijichi shamefully restarts the car to more carefully move off the side of the road. He turns in the driver’s seat to look at the pair of you, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. You think it’s cuter when Maki does it.

Oh, Maki.

You blink up at her lazily. Lashes fluttering. She reddens more at the movement, you like that.

“Maki,” you whisper, low enough so even Ijichi can’t hear, “I think it was an aphrodisiac.”

She looks away, pointlessly, to the back support cushions behind you. Her chin tucks close to her chest and you can hear the strain in her throat to whisper back just as low, “Can you hold out until we see Ieiri?”

“Mh-hmm,” you shake your head, thighs tightening around Maki’s hand and now using 80% of your brain power to not shamelessly grind on her, “No way…”

You need her. ‘Starved in a dungeon for weeks, and you finally see a fresh loaf of bread’ kind of need.

Maki feels something ugly burrow into her chest at the idea of Ijichi seeing you so weak and bothered. And something uglier arrives when she realizes it isn’t just because you’re an impaired friend - she doesn’t even want Shoko seeing you like this if she can help it. Looking over at Ijichi, Maki jerks her head towards the door.

“Wh-what?” Ijichi stutters out, head lowering.

“Get out!” she snaps.

“Yes, ma’am!” Ijichi jumps out of the car, slamming the door shut in the process.

Maki watches him shuffle towards the trunk and stand with his back facing the vehicle. He twiddles his thumbs and stares down the empty road. She thinks he might be pouting after getting yelled at. She doesn’t spend much time on the thought before you’re sitting up on your knees.

Her hand is (sadly) free from between your legs and you drop her arm to shakily place both your hands on her shoulders. You settle onto one of her thighs, arms curling around her neck. Your nose nudges hers and you press a kiss on Maki’s cheek.

She can feel how warm you are through your thin tights. Unsurely, Maki’s hands find your hips, “What should I…?”

You hum, moving to her other cheek and kissing there, too, “I need you, Maki.”

Her hands squeeze your hips. To stop you or ground herself, she isn’t sure. Both works, probably. Right?

“You’ll regret it later,” now, Maki’s hands try lifting you off of her thigh, “It’s not a good idea.”

“No!” you wail, nails digging into Maki’s shoulders, hips stubbornly remaining in place. You rear back to bat your lashes at her again, chest rising and falling with your gasping breaths, “Won’t regret it, I promise…” your hips lower on her thick thigh, she tenses below you, “I love you, Maki,” you kiss her cheek again, hoping to tempt her, “Love you so much. Need you so bad.

90% of your brain power goes towards not humping her leg like a dog.

She’s frozen solid, your feverish cheek presses to hers and you pray it melts through her icy exterior.

“So jealous of Yuuta,” you murmur, moving to ghost your lips over hers. They’re so much softer than you thought they’d be, and they taste like cherry chapstick. The kind that reminds you of cough syrup, “Talking about him ‘n’ how strong he is… I hate it. ‘m not stronger than you, Maki, but ‘m better than Yuuta,” you feel her grin, her body jolting to life as two hands find the sides of your face, “Just wanna show you that I’m better than Yuuta.”

“You’re jealous,” she ‘tsk’s, “but you’re the one calling Okkotsu by his given name.”

“Don’t be mad…” you fight against her hold on your head and purse your lips against hers, a chaste kiss from you to her, “I love Maki, not Yuuta.”

100% of your brain power is put into your self-control. It overheats your brain and Maki can almost hear the gears churning, smell the smoke pouring from your ears when you finally give up and rut down into her thigh with a shaky gasp. You roll your hips against her thigh once again to test her reaction - she flexes her leg and her hands fly down to your hips to guide your movement.

“Are you sure?”

You sigh against her lips when your clit catches sweetly on her thigh, nodding frantically and rubbing against her thigh faster, “Please, Maki? I’ll go totally crazy if you keep making me beg…”

She snickers against your lips, pausing to kiss you again while dragging your cunt over her flexed thigh, “Sorry.”

A pitchy whine is strangled in the back of your throat, the fire in your gut only burning hotter. Quickly unsatisfied with the dulling sensation between your legs, “Need more, Maki. ‘s not enough.”

Pulling back, Maki pushes up the leg you sit on, hoping to dig out the burning spores under your skin. She tilts her head, “What should I- what do you want?”

But you simply whine in response. Throwing your head back and grinding fruitlessly against her muscled thigh.

“Sorry, sorry,” she muttered, fingers abandoning your sides to dance up under your skirt, “So needy, you know that?”

“Hmph!” you lift your bobbing head to glare at the woman beneath you.

“What?” her nails bite into the snug, thin material of your tights. You gasp when the sharp pop of her fingers bursting the cloth rings out, she snickers at your doe-eyed stare, “They COMME des GARÇONS or something?”

Before you can begin jutting out your bottom lip and squirming off your tights by yourself, Maki worms her fingers through the gape and rips sideways. The warmth of her hand cups against your hot sex, the wet patch on your panties clinging to her skin. The sensation sends tingles down her spine. Down her spine and swirling around to her gut, swelling as you grind down into the heel of her palm.

“Please,” you lean down, pressing your forehead to hers. Heat fanning from your cheeks, and Maki can feel it. You know she can. You know she likes it, “Need you inside me, Maki.”

Her lithe fingers pull your panties to the side before running the pads of her middlemost fingers along your slit. Wetness glides down her skin, her head pitches up and her lips pucker. You meet her in the middle - soft and cherry-flavored - as her fingers slide inside you.

“So wet,” she muses against your lips, “I just slipped in, honey.”

“Need you,” you cant your hips down onto her fingers, “Need you so bad…”

“You really love me?” it could be teasing, but if you pry back the thickened, scarred skin beneath her uniform - you could feel that mushiness in her question. That softness of needing to know how you feel. Needing to know this isn’t a lie that some infection has conjured inside you.

“I love you!” her thumb nudges into your puffy clit, loosely swiping the characters of her name across the bundle. Fingers crooking up in an almost frenzied search for the little spot to put hearts in your eyes. You squeeze your arms tight around her neck, back arching and chest pressing close to Maki’s face, “Love you s’much, Maki! Wanna be your girl…”

She barely catches the admission over your whining moans.

“I’ll make you mine,” she juts her chin at you, “I’ll make all you mine.”

You squeal as she stirs the bubbling, electrified pot inside you, hips rocking down so you’re practically riding her fingers. Arms pulling back, you cup Maki’s soft cheeks and trap her head in place. Once again, your lips find hers.

Her wrist flexes with the force of her thrusting fingers, eagerly chasing the sensation of your velvety cunt sucking her deep inside you. The sloppy, crude sound of your wetness squelching out with every stroke inside your cunt makes her lightheaded. Her thumb quickens against your clit, and your thighs quiver on either side of her own.

“So pretty when you’re falling apart for me,” Maki rests her head against the seat, eyes lazily crawling along your form. She grins, wolfish in nature - like she could scarf you down whole if she pleased, “Really wanna be my girl, baby?”

She could.

“God, yes!” you firmly plant yourself against the heel of Maki’s palm, knocking her thumb off balance and grinding into the meat of her hand. Your juices drip down her hand as she continues to finger you in the backseat, watching the muscles in your thighs tense.

You’d let her.

“Then cum for me, yeah?”

A final press into your g-spot. One last nudge of your clit against her palm. Only one more peck of your lips to hers.

And you’re going limp, save for the unsteady twitching of your hips as the last of your release drools into Maki’s hand. Your head crashes down onto Maki’s shoulder, eyes drooping.

You yawn and Maki slowly pulls out of you, bracing her other hand against your hip to keep you from collapsing entirely. She settles you to slump fully on her lap. Her eyes stray to your cum, webbing between her fingers.

She wants it in her mouth. To slurp up the very essence of you and taste you on her tongue. But she pauses before committing.

That gas - powder? particles? poison? - could be contagious.

Though, if it were, she would’ve gotten it when kissing you, right?

But it could also be the sexual nature - the fact she’s ingesting your cum - that would spread it.

Looking down at you, your closed eyes and parted lips - if you aren’t sleeping, you’re definitely on your way. The heat is subsiding and your breathing has evened out.

There’ll be more opportunities later, she supposes. Mournfully, Maki wipes her sodden hand against her skirt before calling a shaky, flustered Ijichi back to the car.

[littlexdeaths]

steve harrington x fem reader

18+ ONLY MDNI

warnings: injured steve, unprotected piv sex, car sex

a/n: this is an old blurb of mine that i’ve re-edited and added onto. i am the biggest slut for a injured man what can i say? enjoy xx.

steve is bloody, bruised and completely exhausted.

fighting off demo-dogs and billy hargrove really did a number on him. the blossoming bruises beneath his eyes and the brightly colored band-aid on his forehead are a testament to that.

but that didn’t stop him from wanting you any less, his chapped lips beginning to roam the expanse of your throat after you dropped dustin off at home.

“steve, baby…” you sigh, gripping tighter onto the steering wheel. “let me get you home first, so i can clean you up.”

steve just groans against your skin, his hands starting to wander further south as you continue the drive towards his house. you don’t make it much farther though, having to pull off on the side of the deserted road as his fingers unbutton your jeans.

“steven,” your attempts to scold him are all but futile as his fingers slip beneath the fabric of your panties and it comes out as more of a breathy plea instead.

“we almost could’ve died back there, honey,” he answers, circling over your bud as he nips at your overheated skin. “just don't wanna waste another second with you.”

he quickly removes his hand from your center, helping you out of your jeans and into the backseat of his car. steve coaxes you onto his lap, gripping your hips tightly in his large hands. your thighs bracket his own, the heat from his body radiating through the denim.

your lips brush against his bloody ones with the utmost care, as to not cause him any more discomfort. but steve isn’t having it, pressing his lips more firmly against yours with a deep seated groan.

“no need to be so gentle, baby,” he chuckles. “i’m not gonna break.”

his words seem to be a direct contradiction of his current state, but there’s no use in arguing with him. especially when you want him just as badly. your hips grind down as he kisses you with an urgency you’ve never experienced before. your clit catches against the growing bulge in his jeans, the denim providing some much needed friction.

you can feel yourself getting wetter the longer steve guides your hips along his clothed cock. the combination of your heavy breathing begins to cloud the windows of the bmw, the air between you sticky with desire despite the cool temperature outside.

your body trembles in his arms as he continues to rock you against him until he can't take it anymore, his hands only leaving you to unbutton his jeans.

“shit— i need to feel you, honey.”

his desperation has you whining into the flushed skin of his neck as he pulls his cock from the confines of his jeans. he teasingly rubs the tip against your now soaked panties, catching on your clit once, twice, a third time before you’ve had enough.

you wrap your palm around the base of his shaft, sliding your panties to the side before you sink down onto his length.

steve's head falls back against the seat with a strangled groan as you allow him to fill you. your own face burying itself in the crook of his freckled neck, your breath comes out in small pants once you’re fully seated.

he’s just so big, and so deep that you could’ve finished from that feeling alone.

“stevie,” you whimper softly into his shoulder, allowing the male to lift your hips before guiding them back down.

it’s slow, intimate as he continues to bury his cock inside you, pulling the prettiest sounds from your lips. your fingers are tugging on the hair at the nape of his neck, his whines of your name filling the car.

he knows you both are getting close but steve can’t handle not being able to see you anymore. he gently coaxes you from your hiding place to meet his piercing gaze.

the moonlight that streams through the windshield highlights his battered and bruised features, and despite his injuries he’s never looked more beautiful. his eyes are molten honey as they take in the dirt dusting your cheeks and the small cut above your left eye.

but he’s looking at you as if he’s seeing you for the first time.

“god, i love you.”

the words are spoken before he can stop himself, his heart pounding beneath his rib cage. any doubt or fear leaves his mind as he feels your walls flutter and tighten around him in response to the confession.

“i love you, steve harrington.”

[couldsewyouastitchandsavenine]

Simmer — Javi Peña

pairings: modern times chef!javi x f!reader

word count: 4.2K

a/n: so this happened... been obsessing over javi peña as a head-chef for a long, long time. anyway, hope you enjoy it. huge shoutout to @pedroschka for reading the very first draft of this and to @iamasaddie for NOT being immune to my dad jokes. babes, this one is for you. like, share and subs— *runs out of the room*

warnings: javi peña AU, explicit smut with a bit of angst, closet sex, sneaking around, unprotected p in v., fingering, dirty talk, javi is an asshole (just a little), obligatory use of cariño (sue me!)

The air shimmers with heat as you push through the double doors into the kitchen, the weight of the produce in your arms making your muscles burn. Sweat beads along your hairline, trickling down the back of your neck to soak into the collar of your already damp shirt. You grit your teeth against the discomfort, blowing a stray tendril of hair out of your eyes with a huff of irritation.

It's too goddamn early for this, but the dinner rush waits for no one. Least of all you.

Lost in thought, you navigate the familiar maze of stainless steel countertops and simmering stovetops on autopilot. Your mind is already ten steps ahead, running through your prep list and mentally cataloguing what still needs to be done before service. So preoccupied are you that you don't notice the solid wall of muscle looming in your path until it's too late.

The collision sends you reeling, the crates tumbling from your arms to hit the floor with a dull thud. Produce scatters in every direction, onions rolling underfoot and carrots skittering across the tiles.

A large, calloused hand closes around your elbow, steadying you before you can add your body to the mess on the floor.

“Easy there, hermosa.” The low rumble of Javier's voice washes over you, his amusement evident in the way the endearment drips like honey from his tongue. Cloying. Sticky-sweet. It raises your hackles even as your traitorous pulse kicks up a notch at his proximity.

You jerk away from his touch, your skin scorched where his fingers branded you. Heat crawls up your neck to set your cheeks ablaze as you force yourself to meet his gaze head-on.

Javier's lips twitch, a ghost of a smirk playing at the corners. The urge to slap it off his face is nearly overwhelming.

Because honestly, it unsettles you—the way he can peel you open with a glance. The way he seems to see through you, right down to your core, to all the secrets you keep buried deep. It makes you want to squirm, to hide. To lash out just to prove him wrong.

But you don’t. You never do.

Instead, you swallow hard. Ignore the way your tongue suddenly feels too thick and clumsy for your dry mouth.

"I'm fine," you rasp eventually, wincing internally at the breathless quaver in your voice.

He says nothing, just raises his hands in mock surrender and takes a deliberate step back. You tell yourself it's relief that shivers down your spine.

You're lying.

Determined to put some much-needed distance between you, you bend to start scooping up the wayward produce, dumping the armload of carrots and onions onto the counter with more force than necessary. It’s childish and it’s petty, but you have no other way to fight it. Because Javier’s gaze is still on you, a leaden weight between your shoulder blades.

So, you do the one thing that seems to be the solution. You run. Whirl on your heel and stalk towards the walk-in cooler without a backward glance.

The cool air that hits your overheated skin as you step inside is a balm to your fractured nerves. You suck in a shuddering breath, relishing the way the cold sears your lungs and clears the haze from your head. But it does little to quell the restless energy thrumming through your veins, the ache of of want that sinks its hooks into you whenever Javier is near.

With a low growl, you drag a hand through your hair, fingers snagging in the wild tangle of knots and snarls. You tug until your scalp burns with pain. Grounding you.

God, what the hell is wrong with you?

It must be the heat outside because you can’t seem to remember the last time everything felt slightly off-kilter as today. As if the whole world is just slightly out of focus, and with Javi’s dark eyes tracking your every move and that knowing half-smile playing at the corners of his unfairly distracting mouth under that ridiculous moustache, you half-wonder if you’re are caught in some strange waking dream.

You half expect to blink and find yourself waking in your own bed, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. Alone. Untouched. Wanting.

But no, this is real. The chilly bite of the air, the clatter of pots and the hiss of the grill just beyond the fridge door, the ache in your shoulders from too many hours hunched over a too-small apartment stove—all of it is real.

And Javi. Javi is real. Had been for a year now, ever since you started at Ríncon as his saucier. His presence is as tangible as the stainless steel counters and the scuffed tile beneath your feet, as constant as the ebb and flow of orders and the controlled chaos of the dinner rush.

He’s real and so is the memory of that night. The ghost of Javier's lips on your neck, hot and hungry as he backed you into the shelving. The rasp of his stubble against your jaw, the slick slide of his tongue against yours as he swallowed your needy whimper. The way his big hands flexed on your hips, yanking you flush against the hard planes of his body like he could fuse you together through sheer force of will alone.

And you’d like to say that you put up some token resistance that night. That you were the kind of person who had self-respect and standards and lines that couldn't be crossed.

But that would be a lie. Because the truth is, you’d spun in his arms and yanked him closer, hands fisting in the front of his chef’s jacket. The truth is, when he'd walked you backwards until the shelving bit into your spine and sealed his mouth over yours, you’d whimpered embarrassingly into the kiss.

The truth is, you’d wanted it.

Afterwards, once you’d righted your clothes and avoided each other's eyes, shame and exhilaration warring within you, he'd cleared his throat and said gruffly that it could never happen again. That it was a one-off, a momentary lapse in judgement. Nothing more.

And you had agreed. Had nodded. And then went on with your life as you normally would.

Except you couldn’t. Not even a little bit. Because that one slip had been like a crack in a dam and now the want was flooding through, unstoppable.

And so it happened again. And again. Stolen moments, illicit touches. The slam of your back against the walk-in door, the cold metal a stark contrast to the fevered heat of his skin. His fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise as he hitched you higher, urged your legs to wrap around his waist. Frantic coupling in the alley behind the restaurant, brick rasping your palms as you braced yourself against the wall, biting your lip till you tasted copper while he drove into you hard and fast.

Once, memorably, he’d taken you in the backseat of his car after a late catering gig. It was graceless, awkward, his elbow jabbing painfully into your kidney at some point, but God, the way he’d felt inside you. Like he was trying to crawl beneath your skin; possess you from the inside out. Like if he just fucked you hard enough, deep enough, he could leave an imprint. A mark. Proof that you were his, even if neither of you would ever say the words aloud.

And you know it's fucked up. Know that despite the dark thrill, the toe-curling pleasure, this thing between you is a disaster waiting to happen. One of you will get careless, too drunk on pleasure to maintain discretion, and it will all blow up in your faces. You’ll be the one to lose your job, your reputation in tatters. He'll be the subject of high fives and envy in the kitchen, just another conquest to boast about.

You know this. You really do.

But when he looks at you like he does, all your good intentions seem to crumble to ash. He’ll crook a finger at you, head cocked towards the storage room, and you’ll follow. You always fucking follow. Because for those stolen heartbeats when he’s buried inside of you and his hands are branding your hips, you can pretend it means something. That you mean something. To him. That you are more than a convenient warm body. More than a willing repository for his lust and stress and pent-up frustrations.

It's pathetic. You’re pathetic. Panting after him like a dog whining for scraps from the table. But self-awareness has never been much of an aphrodisiac.

So you hide.

In the walk-in where the frigid air can leach the fever from your skin. Where you don’t have to see the way his throat works when he swallows or the flex of sinewy forearms revealed by rolled up sleeves. You hide until your nipples are hard from cold instead of shameful arousal and your chest no longer feels like it might crack open from the strain of containing your idiotically rioting heart.

Sucking in a fortifying breath, you push off the shelves. Run damp palms down your thighs, thankful for the wicking fabric of your chef's pants. You just have to get through service. Keep your head down and your knife steady. Just a few more hours and you can escape to the sanctuary of your shitty apartment. Where you absolutely will not fuck yourself on your own hand to the memory of his low groan in your ear. Again.

You’re fine. It's fine. Everything is fine.

The fridge door swings open with a gust of frigid air, startling you out of your spiralling thoughts. You twist around only to find Javi leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. There is a smudge of flour on his cheek. You want to lick it off.

Instead, you curl your hands into fists, nails biting into your palms. Swallow hard around the knot in your throat.

“You plannin’ on hiding in here all day?” His voice is light, teasing. But there's an undercurrent of something else, a tension that crackles in the air between you.

Straightening, you tug at the hem of your tee. A nervous habit, one you can’t seem to break. "Just needed a minute."

He nods, dark eyes watching you. Seeing too much, as always. The silence stretches, heavy with all the things you don't say. All the things you can't say, not without shattering this fragile truce you’ve built. This careful dance of almost, maybe, not quite.

Clearing your throat, you drop your gaze. Fix it on the collar of his shirt, the sliver of bronzed skin at the hollow of his throat. The thin gold chain resting against his collarbones, glinting in the harsh fluorescent light.

The same chain you sometimes catch between your teeth when you’re tangled together in the dark, skin slick with sweat and hands grasping, claiming. When you’re biting back the obscene sounds that claw up your throat, desperate to hold on to some shred of control even as he takes you apart with clever fingers and wicked tongue.

Heat flares low in your belly at the memory, prickling across your skin. You shift, restless. Aching. "Well, I guess I should get back to it."

You move to brush past him, to escape the charged air of the fridge and the wanting that coils like a snake in your gut. But he's too quick, too close. Long fingers wrap around your wrist, calluses dragging against your racing pulse.

"Wait." There's a rasp to his voice, a rough edge that sends a shiver skittering down your spine.

You go still, hardly daring to breathe. This... this is new. Uncharted territory. You don't linger in each other's space like this, not when you're both fully clothed and clear-headed. It's too dangerous, too much like tempting fate.

"What is it, Javi?" It comes out softer than you intend, almost breathless.

He sighs, a harsh exhale through his nose as he drags his free hand through his hair. The dark strands fall back into artful disarray almost immediately. Everything about this man is effortless, from the way he commands a kitchen to the way he commands your body. Confident. Self-assured.

"Nothing, just..." He trails off, shaking his head. Something flickers in the depths of his dark eyes, there and gone too quickly for you to decipher. Frustration, maybe. Regret. "Nothing. Never mind."

And then he's gone, shouldering through the door and leaving you standing there, stomach twisting with that all too familiar mix of frustration and anticipation.

So you return to your station. You chop and sauté, season and taste, hands moving on autopilot as your mind wanders. Steve, the sous chef, drops by your station to crack a few jokes, his easy smile and laid-back demeanor a welcome distraction from the tangled knot of emotions in your chest. He updates you on his ideas for the new tasting menu, shares a bit of gossip he heard from the chatty sommelier—anything to fill the charged silence of the kitchen.

But even as you nod along, making all the right noises in all the right places, you can't ignore the shiver that races down your spine every time Javier passes behind you, his arm brushing yours as he reaches for a pan. Can't seem to tune out the low, authoritative cadence of his voice as he calls out orders to the line, each word wrapping around you like a physical touch.

It doesn't help that he's foregone his usual chef's whites today in favor of a thin grey tee, the worn fabric clinging lovingly to every curve and plane of his torso. So it isn’t much of a surprise that by the time service ends and the last of the dishes are washed and stacked, you’re wound tighter than a clockspring.

—

The dishrag makes a damp squelch as you wring it out, the white cloth slowly soaking up the smears and crumbs littering your workstation. It's mundane work, the kind that usually lets your mind drift, but today all your senses feel heightened, electrified. Because you can feel him behind you.

Even without looking, you know exactly how close Javi is standing - mere inches away, his body a live wire of coiled energy. The hairs on your neck prickle to attention as his breath washes over your skin, his low rasp sending a shiver down your spine as he murmurs, "Storage room. Five minutes."

And then, just like that, his warmth is gone. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Javi shrug off his apron, the stained fabric hitting the hook with a dull slap as he strides purposefully towards the back.

"Fuck." The curse is barely a whisper, more a shaky exhale that you didn't realise you'd been holding in.

Your pulse pounds in your ears as your gaze darts around the bustling kitchen. Steve is leaning across the steel counter, flashing the cute new pastry chef a crooked grin as she carefully pipes delicate swirls on a tray of mille-feuille. Over by the sinks, a trio of line cooks laugh uproariously, their voices bouncing off the tiled walls as they no doubt swap exaggerated tales of culinary glory.

No one is paying you any attention. It would be so easy to slip away unnoticed, to grab your bag and walk out into the night, pretending you never heard Javi's summons. The rational part of your brain screams at you to do just that, to put an end to this dangerous game before someone gets hurt.

But even as the thought forms, you know you won't do it. Can't do it. Because as much as you hate to admit it, you crave this — the illicit thrill, the rush of sneaking around, the electric snap of connection that sizzles between you and Javi. It's a drug, and you're addicted.

Suddenly, your hands are way too clammy so you wipe them against your pants, the rough fabric scratching your skin. Then, with a last glance around to make sure no one is watching, you slip out of the kitchen and down the narrow hallway.

When you reach the storage room door, you pause, palm hovering over the knob. From within, you can hear Javi moving around - the clatter of bottles, the scrape of crates across concrete…

This is it. Your last chance to turn back, to walk away and pretend this never happened. You close your eyes, inhaling deeply. You think of Javi waiting on the other side of the door, all coiled intensity and wicked smiles. Of the way his hands feel on your body, the rasp of his stubble against your throat. The broken sound he makes when he comes undone.

Fuck it.

Twisting the handle, you take a deep breath and step inside.

Javi stands in the center of the tiny room, a bottle of sherry vinegar forgotten in his hand as his gaze rakes over you. And then he’s setting the bottle down with exaggerated care, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Lock the door."

“Already did.”

Though it's unnecessary, you take a lean into the solid wood at your back. Your already racing heart kicks into overdrive as Javi stalks towards you, his movements fluid and predatory. He cages you in with his arms, his body a hot, hard line against yours. This close you can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the fan of his lashes against his cheek.

His lips hover a hairsbreadth from yours, his breath a feather-light caress. "We shouldn't," he murmurs, even as he rolls his hips into you.

"I know." Your hands come up to map the broad expanse of his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tee. "But I don't care."

Javi makes a low sound, almost pained, and drops his forehead to rest against yours. The rasp of his stubble ignites sparks across your skin. "Me neither."

Then he's kissing you, deep and hungry, and whatever lingering reservations you had melt away like spun sugar. You open to him eagerly, hands fisting in his hair as you arch into the cradle of his hips. He licks into your mouth, hot and filthy, while his hands skim down your sides to cup your ass and pull you impossibly closer.

It's too much and not enough all at once. You hook a leg around his waist, desperate for more contact, and he growls into the kiss. His fingers dig into your flesh hard enough to bruise as he grinds against you, the thick ridge of him hitting you just right through the layers of denim and cotton.

You tear your mouth from his with a gasp, head tipping back as he blazes a trail of open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. "Javi, please..."

He shushes you gently even as he walks you backwards, only stopping when you hit the edge of the stainless steel prep table. The cold bite of it against your overheated skin makes you hiss, but the sound is swallowed by Javi's lips as they find yours again. His clever hands make quick work of the buttons on your fly, and then he's gripping your hips and hoisting you up onto the tabletop like you weigh nothing at all.

His fingers are on you before you can fully process what’s happening, pressing against the damp cotton of your underwear. Helplessly, you buck against his hand, head falling back and eyes rolling in their sockets.

"Always so fucking ready for it," he rasps, fingers skating over the heat of you. "So wet for me, cariño."

You mewls, hips canting frantically as he circles your clit. "Please, Javi, I can't—"

"Shh, I've got you."

He sinks two fingers into you. Crooks them just right and just like that you’re gone, the tension and the waiting too much to handle. You clamp your hand over your mouth to stop yourself from screaming out, your body spasming and shaking. Javi just grins slowly as he wraps his other arm around you, gentling his touch before bringing his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean.

“Want me inside you?” he asks and there’s that smirk again, tugging at his lips, but you’re too preoccupied with the need and want to care. So you nod, frantically. “Well, then, turn around. Hands on the table.”

You scramble to comply, anticipation zipping down your spine as you flip over and brace yourself against the cool steel.

This is wrong, some distant part of you whispers. It's reckless and stupid and is going to blow up in both your faces. But as Javi steps in close behind you, the hot press of him against your back and the whisper of his breath on your neck, you find it impossible to care.

“Ja—” you bite out as he nudges his thickness against your entrance.

“Say you want it,” he rasps, bending over you, lips brushing the shell of your ear. One hand slides around your hip to press against your belly, holding you steady. "Say you want me to fuck you."

"I want it," you gasp, pushing back against him. "Fuck me, Javi, please—"

He doesn't make you ask twice. With a growl that vibrates through you, he snaps his hips, sheathing himself in your heat with one hard thrust. The breath punches out of your lungs, fingernails scrabbling against stainless steel for something to hold onto.

Dimly, you register the harsh screech of the table beneath you, the way it shudders with each slam of Javi's hips against yours. But it's distant, drowned out by the roar of blood in your ears and the filthy litany falling from Javier's lips.

"Fuck, you feel incredible." His chest drapes along your back, damp with sweat, as he mouths at the side of your neck. "So tight. So perfect."

He snakes a hand around your hip, fingers seeking out your aching clit. The first rough press of his fingertips against the sensitive bundle of nerves has you jerking in his hold, a high, threadbare sound tearing from your throat.

"That's it, baby." Javi's breath is a humid rush against your ear, his words nearly lost in the damp tendrils of your hair. "Let go for me. Wanna feel you come on my cock."

It's like a tripwire snapping. Your orgasm crashes into you, a tidal wave of sensation that obliterates everything in its path. You're vaguely aware of Javi cursing, of his thrusts losing their rhythm as he chases his own release. Then his body goes taut against yours, a low groan rumbling through his chest as he spills himself deep inside you.

For a long moment, there is only the ragged sound of your breathing and the rapid thud of your heartbeat. Javier doesn't move, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, his softening length still nestled in the clutch of your body.

And then he's pulling away and you can only push yourself upright on shaking arms, biting back a wince at the protestations of your muscles. Behind you, the rustle of fabric tells you Javier is making himself presentable, but you can't bring yourself to turn around.

When you finally do, he simply hands you your clothes without a word. You take them, grateful for the excuse to keep your eyes averted. The silence stretches, thick and cloying, as you both dress with perfunctory movements.

This is always the worst part. The part where reality reasserts itself, cold and unforgiving. The part where you're forced to confront the stark truth of what you've done, of the lines you've crossed.

Your fingers fumble with the buttons of your trousers, clumsy and numb. Across the cramped space, you can feel the tension radiating off Javier in waves. See the rigid set of his shoulders from the corner of your eye. Your chest aches with a nameless emotion, the jagged pieces of your heart grinding together like broken glass.

This has to stop. You can't keep doing this, can't keep tearing each other apart in dark corners and hidden rooms. It's not sustainable, this twisted thing between you. Sooner or later, something will give. Someone will give.

And you're terrified it will be you.

"Javi..." The word feels too loud in the oppressive quiet. You swallow hard, dragging your gaze up to his face. His expression is carefully blank, but you can see the tick in his jaw, the way he won’t meet your eyes.

He cuts you off before you can continue. "I'll clean up in here." His voice is rough, scraped raw. "You should go."

It's an out, and you're too much of a coward not to take it. You nod, more to yourself than to him, not trusting your voice. Then, on numb legs, you slip past him into the deserted hallway, the snick of the door closing behind you sounding like a gunshot in the hush.

The back alley is blessedly empty when you stumble out into the balmy night air. The rough brick of the restaurant's exterior scrapes your spine through your thin shirt as you sag against it, eyes squeezing shut. You breathe deeply, trying to will away the hot press of tears, the yawning emptiness carving itself into your chest.

This has to stop. It will stop.

The lie tastes bitter on your tongue.

[after-witch]

Too Darn Hot [Yandere Dabi x Reader]

Title: Too Darn Hot [Yandere Dabi x Reader]

Synopsis: It’s just too hot to deal with Dabi right now.

Word count: 3048

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, past mentions of bondage and abusive behavior 

You didn’t think it was possible for a person to sweat this much, yet here you are: sprawled out on the worn mattress, tangled in freezer-cooled sheets that warm all too quickly underneath you; drenching your skin and the sheets and the mattress and probably the damn coils inside it with your sweat.

It’s. Too. Damn. Hot. 

Nothing helps. Or at least, nothing helps long enough to be actually soothing. The freezer chills the sheets--and your clothes--but the effect is gone within minutes. Sitting in front of the rickety fan, when it chooses to work, only results in hot air being blown in your face. Even the breezes from the open window offer no cooling relief--only warm air wafting through the sweltering apartment.

Ice melts in your mouth too fast, but there’s only two trays. 

Dabi said he’d get more one morning, then came back that afternoon shrugging his shoulders. They’re sold out everywhere, what with the heat wave and all.

Even the popsicles are all sold out. There’s half a box left in the freezer, and you ration them out carefully. But you can’t really savor them--they melt too fast, sticky juice getting all over your hands, if you don’t eat them right away.

It’s been days--days--with no relief in sight. 

Yet you could maybe deal with the heat wave, could wait it out because surely it will eventually break, if it wasn’t for one wrench in the works: Dabi himself. 

Ever since the temperatures climbed and you found yourself begging for the slightest bit of coolness against the brutal heat, you’ve refused to let Dabi near you. 

He’s not allowed to lay in bed with you. He’s not allowed to hold you or kiss you. He’s not allowed to touch you. Sometimes you even yell at him for looking at you, as if his personal heat might radiate from his gaze over to your sweaty, sticky skin.

He’s too hot, and the world is too hot, and if you combine the two of them--you’re not sure that you’ll survive it.

So you say no.

No, no, no.

He calls you “disagreeable.” You call him an overheated asshole. He doesn’t punish you but you think it’s only because of the pitiful way you groan and wipe down your sweaty neck with a towel and fruitlessly fan yourself with a newspaper-page-turned-paper-fan.

It’s too hot to argue. 

Technically speaking, you[d stopped being broadly disagreeable, as Dabi called it when you refused to let him do whatever he wanted to you, ages ago. There is only so much that you can take, really, before it stops becoming worth the emotional turmoil to fight back. Retaining a shred of dignity in your refusal to play along with his obsession wasn’t worth the screaming matches, the threats, the clink of a heavy chain around your ankle.

So you gave up. Life became easier. Less stressful, at least, on the outside. Sure, there was usually a pit of stress in your stomach because of the whole “being held captive by a villain” thing. But at least you weren’t shouting at each other every day. At least you could get up to go to the bathroom whenever you wanted. At least he listened to your preferences, brought you your favorite takeout, snuck back into your apartment to steal a few personal effects. 

Your favorite stuffed animal from childhood currently rests on top of a dresser, watching you groan about the heat with impassive black eyes.

Letting go of your fight against Dabi gave you another gift, and perhaps a more surprising one: insight. Dabi was a villain, yes. He killed people and he’d kill more in the future,  you were sure. He could be cold and callous and cruel.

But he was also so damn lonely. You think that’s why he took you, that loneliness. It’s like a giant weight draped over him, abated only when he’s got someone else to hold. Someone like you. Someone he can sleep with, and kiss, someone he can whisper to in the dead of night when he thinks you’re sleeping. 

He’s--clingy. Who would have thought you’d use the word “clingy” to describe a notorious villain? If you’d told yourself this fact a year ago, you would have laughed and shaken your head pitifully.

Now, though… now. 

Dabi outside these walls, away from you, is someone else. The news reports on TV occasionally report his victims, burnt corpses that left behind broken families and friendships. That Dabi is a cruel killer who has no remorse for what he’s done, who would surely look down at his begging victims and kill them without a second thought. 

But then he walks through the threshold of the apartment and hangs up the ghost of burning flames and ruined corpses like other men hang up their coats after work. 

Honey, I’m home.

Not that you’re some kind of ideal house spouse waiting for him with an apron and a cooking spoon. 

He doesn’t expect you to cook, actually, although the ability to do so was granted after you’d been “well behaved” long enough. Knives are only available under his supervision, of course. 

But takeout is the norm for both of you. Mostly your favorite spots, when he’s feeling generous. On occasion he’ll cook a thing or two, like eggs for breakfast. Sunny side up with toast for dipping. 

He doesn’t expect you to clean, either, but you do anyway. It keeps your mind occupied, which in turn keeps you from losing it. Who wants to live in a pigsty, anyway? And you think he likes it when you clean, although he won’t admit it. He’s always a little softer when he comes home to find that you’ve folded his clothes or made the bed all nice and tidy. 

He does have expectations for you, though. You’d be foolish not to know that.

He does expect you, above all, to let him touch you. Hold you. Kiss you. Fuck you. And do it all without complaints and irritated squirming and pleas to be let go, to go home, for him to just leave you alone.

But right now?

It’s just too fucking hot. The thought of his warmth, comforting during the cold winter seasons, makes you want to throw up. 

He’d looked at you like you were crazy, the first night you told him that he had to sleep on the couch or the floor but he certainly wasn’t sleeping in the bed with you. You’d held up your hand and said, plain as day, that if he didn’t sleep on the couch then you would.

That was days ago, but there’s no end in sight for this unrelenting heat. You’ve hardly even eaten. The cold noodles Dabi brought home tonight were a welcome relief from the usual warm dinners, but the heat made your stomach cramp and you couldn’t eat much of them. 

“Hey.”

You jolt up from the bed, now-warm sheets in your arms. You didn’t even realize Dabi had come home. Was it possible to lose your hearing from too much heat? Maybe you were getting delirious. More than likely, you were too wrapped up in your own sweaty self-pity to hear him come in.

“Hey,” you sigh out, turning the sheets over in  your arms, searching for one vaguely cool spot left in the fabric. No such luck.

Dabi drops a bag of takeout on top of the dresser and you huff petulantly from  your spot on the bed. 

“Don’t put it there. You’ll get stains on Mr. Snuggles.”

You can practically hear Dabi’s face scrunch up without even asking him to face you to see if it’s true. He has his tells. Mostly in his voice, in the way it’s tired and strained. “Well, if Mr. Snuggles doesn’t want food stains on him, he can stay away from where I normally put our food before dinner.”

You flop an arm over your forehead, willing it to be cool--it’s not. “You should put food on a counter, not a dresser. Dressers are for clothes and… trinkets. Or something.” There’s barely any energy in your voice. It’s too hot to put in effort, even the effort required to be annoyed.

“Do you have to complain about everything this week?” Goosebumps creep along your arm despite the heat. You recognize the irritated tone. And you should back off. Really. 

Instead, you sit up properly on the bed and frown at him.

“I wouldn’t be complaining about everything if it wasn’t so hot.” 

Dabi turns to face you, and you really ought to stop talking. But sweat beads along the back of your neck and the fabric of your shirt is damp, and it’s too hot to stop now. Fuck it. 

Even simply standing there, it’s like he’s radiating heat that only makes the bedroom even more stifling. And he either knows it and doesn’t care, or doesn’t know it which might be worse. Ignorance, you’ve decided, can be so much worse than knowledge.

Regardless of his personal acquaintance with the heat of his body, he walks right over to the bed and sits down next to you. As if you haven’t been telling him to back off all week. As if you weren’t worried that his heat would transfer right down into the mattress and make it impossible to sleep on for days.

It takes all of your self-discipline to avoid bolting off the bed entirely to avoid him.

“You have the fan. There’s ice in the freezer. We just gotta ride this heat wave out, okay? It can’t be much longer.” And oh, the coo in his voice. The soft tone. The sweetness.

He’s trying to sound sympathetic towards you and it’s like nails on a chalkboard. 

How can he suggest just “riding the heat wave out” when you’re the one sweating buckets every day, finding it impossible to get comfortable, unable to do anything but lay in bed and pray it stops being unbearable? It’s easy for him to say--ride it out. He’s used to the heat. He lives in it every day.

“C’mon,” he tells you. “Let’s just relax in bed for a minute, eat some dinner, and we can sit on the balcony for a bit once the sun goes down. It’ll be nicer out there, I think.”

The thought of sitting outside should be a tempting one, but you’re too focused on your present discomfort. On the way it seems like it’s gotten a few degrees hotter in the last few moments since he sat down. Couldn’t he just leave you alone? 

If his audacious sympathy weren’t bad enough, it’s what comes next that stuns you into bleary, heat-derived action. He actually reaches for you. Sure. It’s a gesture he’s done a million times before. But now, with the heat, with the sweat, he might as well be slapping you in the face. 

His arm just makes it around your shoulder, pulling you close in a way that you recognize as a precursor to a cuddling session, before you shove him away.

“Get away from me!”

There’s a flash of hurt on his face before he smooths it to something like calm and collected irritation.

“What,” he says, fingers twitching, “is your problem lately?” 

“My problem…” You grit out the words. “is that it’s too hot. And maybe I wouldn’t be complaining about it being hot if you weren’t always hovering around me, making it worse than it needs to be because you’re too warm to be around and--”

Dabi grabs your upper arm. Not hard. Not cruelly. It doesn’t hurt, no, no, no. But it does bring back memories--memories of screaming matches and kicking and fighting; memories of you trying to bite him while he held you and getting chained tightly to the bed for your troubles. 

Memories of when you hadn’t figured out that accepting your situation made your chest stop hurting, gave you the ability to sleep more easily, and made you able to find small happinesses in your current existence. 

It was an awful time, then. Even more awful than the misery of the current heat wave. 

Your muscles go limp, and your chest feels like it seizes up all of your breath. 

I’m sorry, you think. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Or maybe you say it out loud. You can’t tell with the adrenaline pumping through you, making you forget the heat--though you’re in no position to enjoy any relief from it. 

His muscles go limp, too, and he lets you go almost as swiftly as he grabbed you.

“Sorry,” he says, mumbling, quick. “Shit, Sorry. Didn’t mean to…” He stands up and steps away, scratches at his hair. Paces towards the open window, the rickety fan that’s sputtering in the corner. “Fuck.” 

He doesn’t stay. He mumbles something about having to run out, tells you to eat your dinner, and says he’ll be back later tonight. Go to bed without him. 

That, at least, is something you have no problem doing. 

Maybe, with everything going on, dinner should be tasteless to you. But it’s your favorite dish and you can’t help but enjoy the flavors in between sips of chilled water.

Before bed, you tuck the leftovers into the fridge. Part of you wants to leave them to spoil so Dabi can’t enjoy them, but… he did go to one of your favorite spots again, didn’t he? And got your favorite dish?

There’s a pang of something like pity at the thought of him being hungry, at the imagined flash of his hurt face if he saw that you left his food out. Must be the heat scrambling your brains, you decide. 

Soon after,  you fall asleep fitfully, dreaming about fire and chains and takeout containers.

--

You wake up to a roaring engine that startles you out of sleep as readily as a slap to the face.

It’s a truck or a motor or a plane flying above--whatever it is, it’s loud, and close, and your heart starts to beat a mile a minute.

That’s when  you feel it--something cool and delightful. Was the fan working? Was the heatwave over, and it was dragging in a blissful night breeze? 

You blink away sleep and sit up in bed and are greeted to the sight of Dabi slapping the top of a window air conditioner which, even in the dim moonlight, had clearly seen better days.

It doesn’t matter, though. Because it works. It’s cool. No, no. It’s cold. 

All thoughts drain out of your brain and you leap out of bed and slide in front of it on your knees, knees skidding against the hardwood floor. 

“Oh,” you say, a long, languid sound. It’s bliss. True bliss. Your eyes close of their own accord and you lean your head back to let the cool blasting air hit your sweaty neck; you begin flapping at your night clothes, and the dampness of your warm sweat is sweetly relieved from the forced breeze.

“Almost didn’t think it would work.” You open your eyes. You had almost forgotten about Dabi, who is currently screwing something shut on the windowsill. To keep it from falling, you think. “Found it… in a dumpster.” 

You expect it was probably found in someone else’s window. All you can hope is that they’re alive. But you don’t even dwell on that concern for long, because for the first time in what feels like an eternity, you’re cool. Comfortable. No longer sweaty and feeling heavy, hot, and worn down.

It’s so relieving that you might just start crying.

Dabi slinks down on the floor next to you, crossing one leg and pulling his knee up so he can prop one elbow on it.

He stares at you for a few long moments, and you look back with none of the heat-induced venom from earlier. Instead, you press your lips thin, and smile a little. 

Slowly, he leans in, scooting on the floor to get closer to you. You let him. He reaches over and puts one arm around your shoulder, pulls you towards him. And you let him do this, too.

The warmth of his body is no longer agonizing. It’s even a bit welcome as a contrast against the cold blast from the AC just a few feet in front of you. It’s… pleasant. Like climbing under a warm blanket on a cool winter’s night. 

Only the blanket is Dabi, and it’s the middle of summer, and despite it all,  you put Dabi’s leftovers safely in the fridge before you went to bed and he went out and found you an air conditioner so you weren’t miserable.

Nothing is said or done at first. After a few more moments, you lean your head against his shoulder. It’s a slow move, but one you do willingly. Or as willingly as you do anything, now. 

”Thanks, Dabi.” 

He hums, but says nothing more about it. His hand drops from your shoulder to your waist, keeping you close. It’s the first time he’s been able to properly hold you since the heat wave started, and maybe that’s why neither of you want to say anything for a while.

“Do you…” You begin, turning your head to look at him. His face is partially lit by the blue light of the air conditioner panel. “Want to get on the bed?” 

He glances at you, keeps his gaze trained on yours. There’s a little smile in his expression. Relief is in it, yes, and something else too. Regret? Affection? A sad little mixture of both? 

“Not yet.” He leans his head against yours. His hair tickles your cheek. “We can sit here until you’re tired. I’ll carry you to bed, if you fall asleep.”

You wonder how long it will take for your eyes to begin to droop again; for your brain to start getting fuzzy and silly, pulling you halfway into dreams. Will you wake up when Dabi carries you, or will you find yourself startled in the morning when you’re tangled in the bedsheets and Dabi’s arm is locked around your waist?

“Sure,” you tell him. “I don’t mind.”

At least you won’t dream about fire anymore. At least, not the kind of fire spawned by oppressive heatwaves. 

[souliebird]

[[and then I met you || ch. 12||

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit

Summary:

A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s and Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.

pt: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11

Words: 5k

banner thanks to the wonderful @theradioactivespidergwen

Even in the middle of the night, the heat of summer in Hell's Kitchen is oppressive. It doesn't help that there is a storm rolling in and it is so humid Matt feels like he's breathing in water. Sweat is pouring off of him and he's glad he opted out of wearing his red armor - he has the feeling he would have overheated within an hour.

The only good thing about it pushing eighty degrees at two am is that only people that have to be out are out. Even though it is Saturday night/ Sunday morning, the streets are empty and Matt has only encountered people on their way back home. He hasn't even needed to scare off any muggers or stop any break ins. In fact, all he has really done all night is track people to make sure they got to their destinations safely.

There was a small surge of people around midnight coming off the trains and they had been rowdy, but hadn't caused any problems. Matt quickly worked out they were part of the protesters who have been crowding outside the courthouse for the past few days and deemed they were not a threat to his beloved city.

He's spoken to a few of them while at the courthouse and he fully supports their cause and their right to protest. Admittedly, Matt is not one to stay on top of current events, but he thinks it is suspicious that the government will not reveal what caused the massive explosion in Connecticut. It's been weeks but instead of answers, it feels like everything about the incident is being shoved under the rug and Matt knows if it was closer to home, Karen would be chomping at the bit to investigate.

Over six hundred people lost their lives and no one is being brought to justice for it. They are saying it was an attack, but no one is claiming ownership or being blamed for the destruction. It makes him angry, and though this isn't his fight, he'll do his part protecting the voices in his community who demand the truth.

Tonight, it seems like his community is safe and Matt will be able to get more than two hours of sleep before he needs to go to Mass. He needs to do a final pass around the neighborhood before he turns in for the night, so he pushes himself up from where he has been crouching like a gargoyle and stretches his limbs. His knees pop and his back screams at him and he decides that despite the heat, he will take a scorching shower to soothe his muscles. He may not have gotten into any big fights the past few nights, but that doesn't matter to his body - it's always aching and throbbing in one way or another.

He pulls his mask down over his face, hating how it instantly makes his forehead sticky and wet, and starts his loop.

He starts at the top of 10th and weaves across and down until he passes Foggy and Marci’s apartment. He pauses across the street and crouches down as he tunes his ears to their bedroom. They are both in a deep sleep and there is no threat he can detect, but still he stays for a minute just to be sure. Daredevil may have complicated his best friend's life, but Foggy has never had trouble making his own enemies. He may not be a vigilante, but his sense of justice is just as strong as Matt's and that has caused people to come at him violently. Someone breaking in is not out of the question.

Marci has her own enemies but if anyone ever tries to come after her, well, Matt will pray for their soul because not even he is that self-destructive. She once made a joke about becoming a crime lord and he still has the occasional nightmare over it.

Matt scans the surrounding buildings for any problems once more before he starts off towards Karen's place. She was still awake when he last passed her building and the odds of her still being up are pretty even. He wouldn't be surprised to find her typing away at some article - stirring up the pot as always. He loves her for that personality trait, even if it mentally puts him through the ringer with worry over her - he supposes it is nothing compared to what he does to her.

But luckily, for the collective sanity of Nelson, Murdock, and Page, more people care about Karen's well-being than care about Matt's.

He knows she has Jessica's number on speed dial - letting them meet is one of his greatest regrets in life. He is well aware of the cameras set up by Frank's computer friend and while the Marine is out of town, he's left her with another layer of protection - his dog Max.

Not that Karen can't take care of herself.

If she and Marci teamed up to take over Manhattan, Matt doesn't know if he could stop them.

Maybe he'll tell her that for her birthday - it will make a better gift than anything he'd be able to think of.

Matt lands on the roof of Karen's building, relieved to find she has gone to sleep since he last checked on her. She must have let the dog get in bed with her, because it's snoring is making it hard for him to tune into her without concentration. She's safe and seemingly happy, so he lingers only a moment before resuming the last dredges of his patrol.

He heads down to the docks next. There are people there, but they are meant to be - prepping for the fish markets and early morning cargo ships. These are good, hard working men who don't dabble in things that would make the Devil hunt them. In fact, he's got a good contact in one of the fish mongers, who will let him know if there's been anything suspicious in the wee hours of the morning. He doesn't need to check in now, as there have been no whispers as of late, and he disappears back into the shadows of the city to head towards Clinton Church.

Matt's stomach turns as he gets closer to where he grew up. His feelings about the location and the people there have been a ridiculous rollercoaster since he found out he was a father.

He deeply misses Father Lantom. Despite what everyone has told him, he firmly blames himself for the man's death and does not understand why God made that choice. It hurts that he isn't here and Matt can barely bring himself to go into the church - he's only started to re-attend Mass since learning about Minnie to seek guidance from God about this new path. He'd give anything to be able to speak to the man who mentored him in life - to hear what he would say about Matt having a daughter.

It isn't that Matt dislikes the new priest - he just doesn't like him. He's resistant to change and it should be Father Lantom giving Communion and taking his Confession.

It should be Father Lantom who Baptizes Minnie, not this man Matt has never even spoken with.

Maggie is trying to get Matt to interact with the man, but his relationship with her is going through a rocky patch and he hasn't actually spoken with her in about two weeks. She hasn't done anything wrong - he is just having an internal crisis over how learning he is a parent changed him and his abandonment issues. He's spent a lot of time in reflection and understands why she left him and his father, but he now has a renewed anger at her for not telling him the truth sooner.

Did she not love him like he loves Minnie? Was it something he did wrong?

Will she love Minnie like she loved Matt? He trusts her to care for his daughter, but will she love her granddaughter the way she deserves to be loved?

Everything is made more complicated over how guilty he is over having these feelings and so, instead of talking to his mother, he's been avoiding her. He knows he needs to eventually address it, but for the moment Maggie is none the wiser about his mini-me.

He'll tell her after he tells you about her.

It is something he needs to do still - it just hasn't come up yet. Most of your conversations center around Minnie and you are still getting to know each other. You've shared few stories about your childhood - mostly about school - and Matt isn't so sure how your anxiety will handle Maggie. His mother is a good person, but she is a lot and he knows you have your own parent issues.

Like at the docks, there are people active at the Church. A few homeless patrons are seeking shelter before the rain and there is a nun tending to their needs. The kids are safely tucked into bed, and while it sounds like a few are having nightmares, there is nothing he can do for them at the moment.

If they wake and cry out, he prays their calls are answered.

Matt practically flees the sacred grounds and his anxiety only settles once he crosses into Chelsea.

As he runs, he hones his senses to the apartment building you live in. It is easy for him to lock onto - he's already spent countless hours perched on the boundaries of the two neighborhoods listening to you and Minnie sleep. He knows it is creepy, but he cannot help himself.

Minnie’s laugh is his new favorite sound, and not far behind it is your heartbeat. Much like his daughter, he's found himself focusing on it when things get too much and it is the perfect way to end patrols - winding down while you and Mouse dream.

You mumble in your sleep and it is the most endearing thing he's ever encountered. He likes to respond to your strange statements, imagining he's right there in bed with you. There has been a recurring theme of parrots and he is thinking that the bird exhibit will be off limits during Minnie’s birthday trip to the zoo, based on what he's heard.

But it isn't you mumbling in your apartment tonight - it's Minnie.

His daughter is awake and has moved from the bedroom to the living room. The television is on - playing what he thinks is Sesame Street - and she seems to be fussing with a toy. Context clues tell him she's playing with a doll or stuffed animal - dress up is one of her favorite games and he knows it is one of her Quiet Games.

“Nexts,” she says sweetly to her toy, “we gotta do your make ups.”

Matt decides to wait until he's landed on the roof before he makes her aware of his presence. He kneels and takes a moment to center himself, taking a deep breath to do so. He focuses on calming the Devil in his chest - this is the first time he's caught Minnie awake in the middle of the night and he needs to address it as Matt and not Daredevil.

He doesn't want to scare her, after all. She'll probably be very confused as to why he's there and being scared won't help anything.

“Minnie, sweetheart, can you hear me?” He asks, keeping his voice soft as possible as he does.

To her credit, she doesn't start at all. It takes her a moment to process, but then she questions, “Daddy?”

The name makes his heart soar - everytime she says it, he breaks into the biggest smile. It is the sweetest sound and the fact she switched to calling him that all on her own means the world to him.

She wants him to be her Daddy.

“Yeah, sweetheart, it's me. What are you doing awake?” he questions, smiling as he hears her get up and start to walk around. He wonders if she is looking for him and his guess is confirmed when he hears her start lifting things up to look under them.

“I'm watching Cookie Monsters,” she replies and Matt chuckles. He thinks it is so adorable she is also so direct with her answers. She always answers exactly what is asked.

“I don't think it is time for Cookie Monster, Mouse. I think it's sleep time. Mommy is sleeping.”

You are in a deep sleep, your breathing slow and even. He can tell you've been exhausted lately and probably need the sleep. More than once he's found you awake during his patrols. If Minnie tried to wake you up, you probably weren't responsive and she had left you to sleep.

She peters her way back to in front of the television and plops back down after checking under the dining table. Matt waits for her to respond, knowing sometimes it takes her time to form what she wants to say.

“I can't sleep,” she mumbles, upset clear in her voice, “there's a monster.”

The Devil flares up inside of him and he instantly scans the area for a threat. There are few people awake in the area and he focuses in on them - none of them appear to be any sort of danger to his daughter. At the moment.

But they could have been earlier. They could have woken her up by doing something horrible. A mugging. Domestic violence. Something worse.

He curls his lip into a snarl.

He'll find whoever upset his daughter and drive them from his city. The state.

It's a miracle he manages to keep his voice calm and gentle, “A monster?”

“A monster,” she confirms sadly. Her breathing becomes muffled and Matt figures she has shoved her hand into her mouth to self-comfort.

“Can you tell Daddy about the monster?”

She sucks on her fingers and with her free hand, pulls her toy into her lap. He wants to push her to tell him, but he knows he can't. She's not a witness or a suspect - she's his daughter trying her best. He can tell she wants to answer, he just needs to be patient.

“He ran really fast,” Minnie starts to say, barely taking her hand out of her mouth to do so, “and went eek-eek-eek and smelled like poopy-butt.”

The words baffle him and Matt knits his brows - this monster was close enough for Minnie to smell him? The monster in his chest snarls and he has to fight to keep his composure. He knows Minnie is locked onto him and if he lets his rage show, she will know and she will get scared.

He needs to protect his daughter. He needs to believe God will not test him in this.

“Minnie, sweetie, can you tell Daddy where the monster is?”

Her little head turns up to face exactly where he is standing, asking in a small voice, “are you gonna fight him?”

The Devil roars ‘yes’, but the Father in him says, “Do you want me to?”

“Mommy scares him away,” she advises hesitantly. He can practically feel the nerves radiating off of her and it makes him clench his fist.

Matt doesn't understand. This has happened before?

Then it beams him in the head like a baseball and Matt feels like a complete idiot.

Minnie is a toddler. Her monsters are shadows, creaky pipes, and the four legged creatures in the city. Those are things that no longer register on Matt's radar but she hasn't learned to tune them out yet. Of course she would be scared of those things - Matt was scared of those things when he first got his senses and he was much older than Minnie at the time.

He remembers his first phone call with you and how it ended - something about Monster Repellent.

“I can go scare off the monster - would you like that?” he asks, the Devil in him settling down now that he knows no one is trying to hurt his little girl.

He doesn't know if it's Minnie sensing his shift in mood or if she didn't want him to fight the monster and scaring it away is what she wants, but she untenses her shoulders and her hand comes out of her mouth.

“You'll scare him away?” She asks after hugging her toy right to her chest.

“I'll scare him away,” he quickly promises.

“He smells like poopy-butt,” she repeats and Matt wonders if she is making a stinky face. That is something you tell him he and Minnie share - a certain curl of their lips when they find something unappealing.

“That's okay, sweetie, I'll make him go smell bad somewhere else. He won't bother you,” he says. “Can you tell me where he went and I'll go chase him away.”

Finally, she points down towards the alleyway between her building and the neighboring one and adds, “He can climb walls. Like Spidey-Man.”

Matt resists the urge to huff over the mention of the other vigilante. He has met the kid twice before and his biggest take, besides it was a kid under the mask and that had been its own thing, was that he needed to learn how to throw a proper punch. It confirmed for him all that Avengers training and showboating really meant nothing and they really were better off fighting aliens and wizards than helping out real people.

“Don't worry, Mouse, I can climb the walls, too.” He's definitely letting his Pride show through, but if he can't show off for his daughter, who can he show off for?

He makes a quick map in his head, then goes to the edge of the roof. Minnie’s head is still angled up towards him and she ‘watches’ as he parkours down to street level. If he adds a few unnecessary flips, well, that is no one's business but his own.

Once he is on the pavement, he opens his senses to the things he normally blocks out. The city becomes far more lively around him - cats, raccoons, birds, dogs, all sorts of bugs and things he doesn't like to think about. There's yowling and chirps and suddenly so much more movement, most of it under his feet.

Mouse’s monster is easy to find. It is a disgustingly large rat that has built a nest of trash and grime under a dumpster. The thing has a respiratory infection, which has it wheezing and rattling and he very much understands why Minnie was scared of it. It is not a pleasant sound and the infection is not at all helping how the creature smells. Animals smell at the best of times, but this rat clearly enjoys the sewers and ‘poopy-butt’ doesn't begin to cover how rancid it is.

Matt starts to work out what he needs to do to make sure this sick rodent stays far away from his family. If it has a nest, it will come back, so he needs to destroy that - without damaging the animal. He doesn't have the heart to actually hurt the thing.

He pulls out his billy clubs and snaps them together to make a bo staff, then moves to crouch in front of the dumpster. “Okay, sir, I'm here to evict you,” he says, more for Minnie’s benefit than anything. “You gotta go.”

He jabs at the nest of wet cardboard and almost immediately, the rat scurries out and hisses at him. It snaps its jaws at him a few times instead of running away and Matt huffs at the display, turning his staff towards the creature and swatting at it. “Get out of here.” To its credit, it tries to fight him, biting at his billy clubs and screeching at him, but after a few good thwacks to its side, it realizes it has no chance against him and dashes toward a nearby grate.

He listens to it go down into some pipes and once it's out of range, he tilts his head up towards Minnie, a smile starting to form in his lips, “The monster has been vanquished, my princess.”

His words make her giggle and he can't help but chuckle as well. He hears her push up into standing and she toddles towards the window. There's a table in front of it, so he knows she can't see out of it, but he knows she's trying to find him.

“He's not gonna come back?” She questions and in response he starts to break up the nest. He spreads the trash around, knocking things down and away. It's not a big very big rat den, relying heavily on the dumpster.

“He's not, he's gonna go find a new home,” he promises as he works, and once he's satisfied with his destruction, he collapses his billy clubs and holsters them. He pushes up into standing and steps away from the trash can.

“Far away?” Minnie asks and his heart breaks for her. The stupid animal must have terrified her.

“Very, very far away.”

He locates the fire escape and starts to scale it back up to your apartment floor. As he does, he starts closing off his senses again. Things begin to fade into the background - the things he will need to start teaching Minnie. She's got a good handle on it already, having learned to function with it instead of needing to adapt.

He's so proud. So unbelievably proud.

She's such a good and pure child. She always wants to help and asks about other people. She may be shy, but she's empathetic.

You've taught her well.

Matt understands how Minnie is a mini-him in her abilities and mannerisms due to those abilities, but her sweet nature is from you.

He knows he's gone for you.

Foggy has pointed it out. Karen has pointed it out. God has smacked him in the face with signs.

His realization moment was hearing a man purchasing an engagement ring for a woman who shared your name. He had gotten so furiously jealous he had to go take it out on the punching bag.

Foggy laughed so hard at him.

He doesn't think you noticed at all. It is nothing against you, he completely understands. You are like him - you don't think you deserve love. You had been painfully shy your first night together, as well, and he had been charmed by it.

He's angry at himself for letting you be a one night stand.

He should have been there when you needed him most.

He's not going to fuck that up again.

He pulls off his mask before making a show off popping up in front of your window and Minnie dissolves into giggles.

“Hi, Daddy!” She waves at him and he can tell she is absolutely beaming. He eagerly waves back and he knows he's matching her smile.

“Hi, Mouse.”

“Why are you outside?”

He's planned for this. He has discussed this with Foggy and Karen at length. He did the unthinkable - he asked Frank - who apparently knew who Minnie was before either Foggy or Karen did. They had attacked the question from all sides. As the firm. As friends. As parents.

They couldn't lie to Minnie. Matt can see the signs she's picking up on what different heart beats mean. She's going to know and there's nothing they can do to hide it. She can hear all of Hell’s Kitchen just as well as he can. It may not happen until she's older, but she'll figure it out.

So, he's not going to lie to her. He thinks you would approve. You don't like lying to her - you soften the truth into something she can comprehend. He's going to follow your lead.

“I'm working,” Matt answers, crouching on the rails and resting his wrists on his knees. He's suddenly very glad he had a very boring night. “What are you doing inside?”

Mouse accepts the answer and hugs her toy to her chest, swaying side to side “I'm talking to you.”

He laughs at her utter sweetness. She giggles along with him.

He gives a fond shake of his lead, then leans forward so she can see him a bit better, “What should you be doing, sweetheart?”

She scrunches up her face as she thinks, then she falls into a pout, “Sleeping.”

“Yeah, you should be sleeping. You're going to be tired tomorrow. It's not going to be fun,” he gently warns. He knows it isn't her fault, but he knows it will eventually help her learn to push those noises to the background.

“Okay, I'll go bed. I gotta clean up first. Mommy says …Mommy says don't leave it until morning. You'll make morning you sad. Be nice to morning you,” she recites, patting her hands against her stuffed animal - it's not Scooby or Pig. (He doesn't know this one. His best guess is it's a Raggedy-Anne type princess doll. His little girl loves princesses - no specific one, just the concept and aesthetic.)

He loves the values you are instilling in her. He's going to steal this mantra and tell it to Foggy and Karen.

“Okay. I'll keep watch for any monsters,” he tells her. This is one of the reasons he wants her to know the truth. He wants her to know her Daddy will protect her from all of the monsters.

“Okay. Thank you. Love you!” She chants, then turns away.

“I love you, too, Mouse. So much.”

And he will tell her every chance he gets.

She carefully walks back to where she had been sitting and turns off the television, then goes to put her toys away. Like always, she's very methodical about what she does. He could spend hours watching her play. She fascinates him. She picks up one toy at a time and tells it good night as she puts it back into her toy chest.

She doesn't have much to clean up and when she finishes, she turns to face him.

“Will you tuck me in? Please? Thank you?” Minnie asks like he can say no.

“Of course, my love. Are you all ready for bed?” He questions as he hops down onto the fire escape - one of the screws holding it together shakes and he decides he'll come back another night with a wrench to tighten everything up.

“All ready!” she confirms and he can tell she's watching him with great curiosity.

He begins to run his fingers over the edges of the window, searching for a way in. You certainly don't make it easy - you invested in apartment security and it takes him a moment to disable it. He's careful as he slides the window up and pops out the screen. He slips into the apartment, then quickly closes the window behind him, leaving the screen on the floor.

Minnie has the decency to wait until that moment to run to him with open arms. Matt scoops her up, swinging her a little before putting her on his hip and once she is settled, he leans down to press his forehead to hers.

“We have to be quiet, okay? We can't wake up, Mommy,” he tells her and she quickly nods in understanding.

He doesn't know what he'll do if you wake up and find him in your home - but luckily you are still in a deep sleep. As long as Minnie keeps calm, you should stay lost in Dreamland.

He kisses her forehead then starts towards the bedroom. She returns the affection, planting a big kiss on his cheek before she gently smacks him in the face with her doll with a quiet, “mwah!” Then, she flops against his shoulder, using him as a pillow.

He has to fight back a pleased huff - his little angel is so sweet. He'll never get sick of getting kisses from her toys - it's so loving and innocent and he is greedy for any and all affection.

Your bedroom is a good twenty degrees cooler than the rest of the apartment - there's a fan going and accompanying it is a little window unit blowing in cold air. It feels like Heaven in the blistering heat that is the rest of the city. The chill seems to suck the consciousness from Mouse - she gives a big dramatic yawn, smacking her lips against his neck. Her body slumps into him and he rubs her back encouragingly.

He crosses the room carefully, hyper aware of any toys that may have found their way to the floor post-bedtime. It absolutely breaks his heart to have to pull her away from him and she does try to stay clinging to him - not fighting him just resistant - but she ends up in her bed and under her covers. He doesn't know if he would have had the strength to force her to let go if she really did want to stay in his arms.

He helps her adjust her sleeping headband so it is around her eyes and ears, then kisses her cheek one final time, “ready for sleep?”

The response is a barely there nod and Matt can't help but feel so much love for his daughter. Being able to conk right out as soon as she's comfortable shows how much she trusts him. His little girl is always so wary and subtly alert.

He's going to cherish this moment forever.

“Love you, Mouse.” He whispers.

“Luvo, Daffy,” is what it sounds like she says as she rolls to bury her face into her pillow. A moment later she is snoring.

Matt allows a few tears to fall before wiping them away and turning his attention to you. You have nested yourself under your blankets, breath hitching every so often. He's learned over time from various people this usually means bad dreams - not nightmares but things that can leave you shaken.

He doesn't dare move closer to try to soothe you with touch - that would certainly wake you up.

Instead, he promises, “I'll chase all your monsters away, too.”

tags:

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@

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 @lovingkryptonitehideout @moongirlgodness @soocore @bluestuesday

[junkissed]

wait

member — joshua x gn reader genre — fluff, comfort (18+) word count — 1.1k synopsis — sometimes you just need to take second to wait.  warnings — allusions to past/future sex but no sex happens in this fic, implied that shua is more dom and reader is more sub, this is literally just pure aftercare notes — i never feel like i put enough aftercare into my fics because i'm usually drained by the end of writing and i just want to finish it and hit post so this is kinda to make up for that. also i'm really particular about the way aftercare is written and i feel like i never see the kind i want to read so honestly this is just a super self-indulgent fic, because if you can't find it then write it yourself or whatever toni morrison said, but i hope you can enjoy this too :) i haven't proofread this since 3am so if there's mistakes pls ignore! also this is not based on the song wait by dino as you might have assumed i just thought it was a fitting title because we all need a reminder to just slow down and wait

"wait, wait... wait!"

joshua starts to stand up off the bed, but hesitates when you call out suddenly. "what's wrong, sweetheart?" he asks quietly, eyes carefully watching your face, searching for signs and trying to figure out what you need.

"don't leave yet," you say softly, your fingers wrapping loosely around his wrist. "don't want you to go.”

he rubs his hand over the back of your palm. "just gonna get you a glass of water,” he explains but he sits back on the bed, waiting anyway.

you're exhausted and you know you both need to shower and change the sheets, but the thought of moving right now only sends you into a panic. you're overheated and sticky with sweat, but still you crave the warmth of joshua’s body next to yours, the feeling of his skin against you as close as he can possibly get.

“later?” you say the word like a statement, but your voice rises in a question. “just stay for now. please.”

there's a time and a place for everything, and joshua knows right now is not the time for rational thinking. sure, you've got twice the amount of laundry to do later and your mouth feels drier than a desert, but that can wait. it can always wait, for joshua. it can wait because right now you need to feel the grounding weight of him beside you, telling you he'll always be there, especially when you need him most. 

even though it's what he immediately wants to do, no amount of sweat-stained sheets could ever come before you in his mind. even though he knows you're thirsty and probably craving a cold shower and he wants nothing more than to jump up and take care of your every wish, that's not always what's best. yes, what you need is fresh laundry, but what you want is him. 

so he settles back in on top of the bed, easily sliding into place beside you without a second thought. because it's always about you. always has been.

"better?" he asks, his finger gently brushing your cheek in slow, repetitive motions. 

you exhale and lean into him, letting your eyes fall shut as you hum in reply. 

the gentleness of his touch is such a stark contrast from how he'd been handling you not even 15 minutes ago, but you can't help but love both sides of him. gone is the hair pulling, the slapping and biting, replaced with soft brushes of your hair and careful caresses of your skin over each of the marks he'd left in the heat of the moment.

really, it's joshua's favorite part, besides the fact that he gets the honor of fucking you and being the one to bring you pleasure. it's the part afterwards that he looks forward to, when you're at your most vulnerable and both still riding an emotional high, when he gets to build you back up after so meticulously taking you apart. it's the trust in him that you show without ever so much as saying a word, the sense of safety and comfort washing over you that only ever comes from the feeling of being held in his arms.

the air seems to hang silently around you, as if even the universe can sense that this is a moment that shouldn't be interrupted, your own little bubble together that exists outside of space and time.

you just need a second to collect yourself, and seconds turns to minutes turns to half an hour before you can fully feel like yourself again. sometimes it's minutes and sometimes it's longer, but he'll wait as long as it takes.

you slowly open your eyes and inhale, lips warming into a smile as you see joshua is still here, still cradling your head against his chest, and that this all wasn't just a pleasant dream. you can always rely on him that when you open your eyes, he'll be there waiting for you. no matter how long you need to rest, he's always there when you're ready.

your thumb brushes over his arm, and he rests his cheek against the top of your head. “okay now?” he asks. “or do you just wanna leave it and go to bed?”

as tired as you are and as comfortable as his body feels, the intense feelings have subsided a little and you've regained enough of your energy to realize that what you need most right now is a shower and a glass of water.

so joshua slips off the bed, but not without leaving you with another sweet kiss because why wouldn't he? and you let him leave without a word of protest, because you don't feel that crushing feeling in your chest anymore of being left alone when you really need someone to hug, so you just wait patiently for him to return.

he comes back not much later with cool, fresh water in your favorite cup, and he sits beside you as you drink with his hand on your thigh because now it's his turn to be cared for, and the way he feels cared for is knowing you feel good and knowing he's doing a good job at making you feel loved. and you know that he needs this time just as much as you do so you savor the seconds spent here, letting the water wash down your throat until you both feel refreshed.

“thank you,” you tell him as you sit atop the sink, watching as he sticks his hand under the faucet to see if the shower is the right temperature yet. the bed’s already been stripped of its sheets and a fresh stack of towels been laid out, one by one ticking things off joshua's mental checklist. it's a routine, one that isn't always this thorough every single night but always equal in the amount of care and love he puts in each step.

and eventually things will return to normal, and you'll wake up the next morning filled with nothing but adoration for the man still sleeping peacefully next to you, and then you'll go about your days and come home in the evening and still be so much in love with him that you do it all again. maybe it goes differently next time, faster or shorter or less intense and you don't need to wait like you did tonight.

but sometimes you need a little extra time. and joshua is a patient man.

i hope you enjoyed this!! if you did, consider reblogging or leaving a comment or an ask :) it shows me this is something people want to see more of, and knowing people like this makes me want to write more of it! thanks for reading!!

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[melodic-haze]

OKAY WAIT imagine navia seeing reader naked while they shower and she gets so wet and she thinks about how pathetic she is but she can’t ignore the wetness pooling between her legs so she touches herself just to the thought of naked reader.. she’s so pathetic I love her 🙂‍↕️

-🐿️

Ohhh Navia she's such a pathetic blondie ughhghgh I LOVE HER TO BITS

Getting in the shower together with Navia supposedly being innocent (for the most part anyway, despite the teasing touches you make on her body) bc she probably had to dash somewhere to be responsible so she gets out first......plus the fact that she feels like she's overheating LOL

OOPS!!! She dries herself and everything and starts putting on her clothes, but she can feel the stiffness of her nipples rubbing against her bra and the sticky wetness gathering and rubbing on tbe inside of her thighs bc GOD she is DRIPPING❗️❗️ even though she just towelled herself down❗️❗️❗️and her mind keeps going back to the thought of you naked and your body glistening and wet bc of the water.....and all the soft touches on her body..........and how mypersensitive her skin was when pressed against yours-- yeah no there was NO hope of her going out in such a frazzled state LOL

Just imagine getting out of the shower, content and peaceful bc you're nice and clean and spotless :333 before you hear a quiet, muffled whimper. You go to investigate the sound and you just see your beautiful blonde baby Navia my loml sat on the vanity chair, legs spread out as she fingers herself in front of the mirror while her other hand's tangling themselves in her now-unkept hair before going to fondle her boobs ohhhh she's so PATHETIC with her little whines and breathless moans and her endless mantra of just nothing but your name OUGJHHGH

And if you surprise her she screams out fucking loud LMAO the poor girl

[atzaurora]

수영하다-𝒔𝒘𝒊𝒎

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✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

һᥱᥲ𝗍ᥱძ ᥕᥲ᥎ᥱs

this is —> 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕 𝒗𝒆𝒓. | 𝒇𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇 𝒗𝒆𝒓.

𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓: Wooyoung

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: fem!reader x wooyoung

𝒕𝒚𝒑𝒆: imagine (smut/suggestive)

𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑: dating

.ᐟ.ᐟ𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔.ᐟ.ᐟ: 18+/smut/suggestive content, MDNI!!! pool sex!

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: Wooyoung can't help himself when he sees you in your nice bikini so he decides to give you a "private swimming session"

𝒘/𝒄: 1.044

𝒂/𝒏: you all voted SO HERE IT IS!! >.< hope y'all enjoy this one! feel free to request anything or give feedback!

here's my 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕!

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The sun blazed overhead, a fiery orb that seemed to press down on the world, demanding acknowledgment of its power. The heat was palpable, a thick, sticky blanket that clung to every surface, making even the act of breathing feel like a struggle. In the midst of this sweltering afternoon, you and Wooyoung had retreated to the cool sanctuary of the backyard. The pool shimmered invitingly, during this hot day.

"You go first," Wooyoung said, his eyes dancing with excitement as you approached the water's edge. You felt a blush creep up your neck as you shed your cover-up, revealing the bikini that had been a secret until this moment. The material clung to your curves, the vibrant colors seemingly painted onto your skin. You knew he liked what he saw; his gaze lingered just a beat too long before he looked away, pretending to adjust his own swim trunks.

With a dive, you plunged into the cool embrace of the pool. The water was like a balm, instantly soothing your overheated skin as you swam a few lazy laps. You could feel Wooyoung's eyes on you, tracking your movements like a hawk. Each stroke, each kick, sent ripples of anticipation through his body. When you finally surfaced, gasping for air, you found him leaning against the side of the pool, watching you with a smoldering intensity that sent shivers down your spine despite the warmth.

"I'm gonna swim a little, alright, love?" you call out to him. "Of course!" he replied, a wide smile painted on his beautiful face. He stayed at the side, his elbows holding him up while he leaned onto the edge of the pool. He leaned his head back a little, watching you closely. He loved everything about the way you looked right now. How the fabric was hugging your body, the way your skin shimmered in the sun, the little water droplets on display. He couldn't help but feel some type of way about this.

You swam for a few minutes. You could feel his eyes on you and you know how he felt right now. "Come here," he beckoned, his voice low and husky. You obeyed, swimming over to him, the water lapping at your hips. He didn't waste any time, pulling you closer until your bodies were pressed together, the fabric of your bikini and his swim trunks being the only barrier between you. His hands found your waist, sliding up to your neck where he kissed you softly, his tongue tracing the line of your jaw. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.

The intensity grew as his fingers suddenly slipped under the fabric of your bikini bottom, finding the spot that made you gasp. He began to rub you in slow, teasing circles, watching your reaction with a hunger that was palpable. "Wooyoung," you breathed, his name a sigh of pleasure on your lips. His touch grew bolder, his thumb brushing against your clit as his index and middle fingers slid inside you. The water provided a natural lubricant, allowing him to explore your depths with ease.

You moaned against his neck, your nails digging into his shoulders as the pleasure grew. "You're so fucking gorgeous," he whispered, his voice thick with desire. "You're driving me crazy." You felt his hardness pressing against your stomach, a silent statement to his own need. The tension between you was electric, and you knew it was only a matter of time before the dam broke.

As you reached the peak of your climax, your legs almost went numb. His veiny hands and big fingers were brushing along all of the right spots. "Oh fuck" you moaned, your body spasming around his fingers. He held you upright as you fell into him, catching your breath.

"God, Wooyoung" you groaned in appreciation of the way he had made you feel. You quickly decided it was time for him to experience the same. You reached down, releasing him from his trunks. His cock sprang free, eager and ready. You took him in your hand, stroking him firmly, feeling the pulse of his desire. "Now it's your turn," you murmured, your voice full of promise.

The water sloshed around you as he positioned himself, the anticipation making your heart race. With one final kiss, he entered you, the sensation of the cool water surrounding you both as he filled you completely. His lips stayed on your collarbones, biting down lightly while he filled you up. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your breath hitching in your throat.

Wooyoung's movements grew more urgent as he claimed your mouth with his, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his hips. You could feel the passion building, the tension coiling tighter with each stroke. The sun was setting now, casting a warm glow over the pool, painting everything in shades of gold and pink.

"You're mine," he whispered against your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there. "All mine." His words sent a thrill through you, heightening your pleasure. You tightened your grip on him, meeting his every thrust with your own, eager to bring him to the edge.

The world outside the pool faded away, until all that existed was the two of you, lost in a heated dance as old as time itself. The water splashed against the sides of the pool, a gentle counterpoint to the urgency of his movements.

"Oh my—" you whimpered, scratching your fingers along his back. "slow down, baby" but it was obvious he wouldn't. He kept his pace steady, the tip of his cock meeting your good spot every time. He continued till he felt you clench around him. He hissed, his thrusts becoming sloppy and slower again. "Damn, you're so tight, babe" He whispered almost whining. You felt him twitch and soon after his warm load filled you up. You came almost at the same time as him, throwing your head back in satisfaction.

He leaned his head into the crook of your neck, panting, his body heaving with every breath. "You did so well. Let's get you dried up, sweetie" he kissed your cheek, pulling out in a swift movement and carrying you out of the pool.

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[haveyouanytime]

omg im obsessed with your rust domestic blurbs pls anything with rust braiding reader's hair

not even going to lie... i took a month because i was stuck on a different ask just for it to barely click yesterday... i could answer asks out of order. i wish i was joking i'm very embarrassed ( ꩜ ᯅ ꩜;) anyway more old dog rust !!! <333

Often, you felt like the Louisiana heat got to you like no other. It took a long while to get used to the sheen of sweat that seemed to linger on your skin like an unmoveable force. Hot and humid summers were foreign to you, and it was only then that you missed your cooler Alaskan summer. 

Swimming in the lake was an option, so was standing under the garden hose or the sprinklers. Any and all options led to a reasonable conclusion, a nice shower. The soap and water were like a baptism, washing away any stickiness from your overheated skin, leaving you feeling anew and smelling like lavender (or cedarwood, if you decided to use Rust’s soap). 

But more often than not, the best conclusion was being fresh out of the shower and walking to the living room, finding Rust nursing his usual beer, sitting with his legs in a dominating spread as a black and white movie played on your small TV. His hair was down, a rare sight only you were gifted. His dirty golden locks going a little ways past his shoulders, and it was only a matter of time before he asked you to give him a little trim. His hair tie sat on the wrist of his hand holding the beer, the other holding the back of the couch. He seemed so relaxed, and you hesitated moving to him in hopes of giving him a moment more of the relaxation he deserved but often rejected. 

The creak of the floor gave you away, making Rust turn his head to you. You stood in the doorway to the living room, only in in a pair of panties and an oversized t-shirt that was stretched out at the collar, your hair still wet with a few droplets falling onto the shirt. He smirked at the sight, looking at you from over his left shoulder. 

“C’mere, baby,” He croons, his voice raspy from the cigarettes and dark liquor. He places his beer on the neighboring side table as you walk over, perching yourself in his lap. With your legs thrown across his, your arm moving around his back and his holding onto your hip, both of you fell into the familiar embrace. A weary smile pulled at his lips, and his hand moved off of the back of the couch to run through your damp hair, exposing the expanse of your neck. He took advantage of that, leaning in and placing a few soft kisses on the exposed skin. You couldn’t help but let out a small, airy giggle as the kisses traveled down to your collarbones the stretched shirt left bare. 

“Tsk, what’s so funny?” He asked, pulling away to look up at you. It might’ve been the fact that he was in a good mood, or it was the lighting of the room, or the ambiance of the old romantic movie on the TV, but you couldn’t help but admire Rust for a moment. His strong nose. How the warm light of the lamp turned his blue eyes the shade of an unnameable, alluring blue. His cheekbones, his lips, the loose strands of hair that fell in front of his face. 

“Your mustache’s tickly,” You smile, looking down at Rust. You run your own fingers through his hair to push it back, abandoning it at the nape of his neck to brush your pointer finger against his mustache, smoothing it out against the top of his lip. “Gonna need a trim soon, hm?” 

“We’ll worry about that later,” He answered, holding your wrist to give your fingertip a playful nip with his teeth. His hands move to hold your waist, lowly speaking, “C’mon, baby.” You moved with his gentle lead, him scooting back and letting you sit between his spread legs on the sparse space on the couch, your back facing his chest. You felt a smile pull at your lips again, already feeling his fingers moving through your hair. He gently pulled your hair back, forming it all it a small ponytail before his fingers spread it carefully into three parts. 

You remembered the first time he braided your hair, the surprise that you felt that a man so rugged and masculine as he could give you a nice, neat braid. He first gave an excuse of working on the fishing docs in Alaska and something about ropes. It was a few times later that he spoke of his daughter, about how he used to braid her hair. It struck a cord within you, an aching, twinging reminder in your chest of his life far, far before you. The man you loved was an enigma, his heart and mind a labyrinth you wanted to spend years inside of just to truly know him. 

“You’re awful quiet tonight,” Rust spoke up, his fingers moving languidly through your hair to dance it into a nice braid. “You’re normally chirpin’ my ear off, pretty girl.” 

“Just thinking,” You softly answer, adjusting the loose shirt on your shoulders as your eyes rise to the TV. The black and white movie showed a couple embracing at a train station, kissing the way they did in old movies. 

“Careful with that, now,” He playfully cautioned, reaching the end of your hair and carefully looping his dark hair tie around the ends to hold your braid in place. “Don’t get lost up there.” 

“I want to get lost up there,” You answer, turning on his lap again to sit sideways and placing a light tap on his forehead. 

“No, you don’t, pretty girl.” He answered, his voice losing it’s playful edge. He gently holds your wrist, carefully holding you on his lap. “I’ll give you a few peeks now and then, but I don’t want you to travel too far.” 

You couldn’t help but smile, wrapping your arms around his neck and placing a soft peck on his lips, his mustache tickling your upper lip again. “I’ll take those. Maybe I can convince you to give me a few more peeks.” 

“I know a way you can convince me,” He grinned, scooping you up in his arms. You can’t help but laugh, feeling his mustache tickle your jawline as he carried you through your small house, your arms holding into him just as tight as he held you.