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haruhey · 3 years ago

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Fluff | Smut | Filth February Prompt 4

Daryl thinks he likes your mouth a little too much. You, well, you’re perfectly okay with that.

Right now, right now, right now Right in this moment Here, here, there, there Shine a light on me Look, look, look, look

It’s Child’s Day.

At least, according to the - potentially accurate - calendar one of the residents had meticulously kept and Glenn’s memories of skipping violin lessons to play soccer with the other kids at church over a decade ago, it was. He’d said it in passing a few weeks ago, reminiscing on some of the only happy memories he’d had with his parents while shoving down some of your cooking, and when you and Daryl had gone on a run the next day, you’d loaded your bag with stuffed animals and toys.

You didn’t need to tell Daryl for him to know what was going on inside your head. To him, you were an open book.

Then the day came - a tentative, loose May 5th - and with it came the excitement. You’d told the parents of Children’s Day, told the teachers that herded the little ones into the designated makeshift-classroom garage, and got Carl to spread the word to his friends, too. The anticipation had built up over the course of two weeks, with every run crew combing through abandoned hotels and restaurants for colouring pages and crayons, recreation centers for sports balls and air pumps to fill them, and libraries for children’s books ranging from valiant knights to kindhearted fairies to national geographic, and Daryl fucking hates it.

Not the holiday - no, certainly not the holiday, because this is what the future he’s trying so damn hard to provide is supposed to look like, right? Laughing kids and smiling parents? - but it’s you he hates.

No, that’s not the right way to phrase it either. He doesn't hate you - can’t and wouldn’t, even if it meant life or death - but you, you’re-

Bringing his axe down, Daryl tears his eyes away from you, focusing back on what he’s supposed to be doing and splitting a log into two pieces with a huff. His sweat is soaking down the front of the jersey he’s wearing - it’s a stupid looking thing, blue and too tight around his shoulders - but you’d asked him to put it on and he’s ever had the heart to say no to you, let alone risk disappointing you by taking it off. So he just bares his teeth and bears the heat.

You’re wearing one too - matching with him, if he could remember what his half-asleep brain had heard you tell him this morning. In fact, you’re really playing into the childrens’ obsession with the concept of soccer. Black athletic shorts that cut just above your knees, white socks with a bold crimson stripe that cuts mid-calf, and, fuck, do you look good.

He hates you in that way.

You look too good for your own good.

You look too good, and he’s finding it hard to think about anything but you.

“Jesus, Daryl, slow down. You’ll pass out if you keep goin’ at ‘em like this.”

Thoughts still full of you in an outfit that all but screams you’re his, he picks up another log, flicking his bangs from his face with a quick turn of his head, and he grunts out a response, placing the piece of wood upright before adjusting the grip on his axe with a flex of his fingers.

“‘M fine.”

But he’s not. Daryl’s not fine because he’s spent the last few minutes watching you work your way through that popsicle Olivia gave you, a content smile risen on your cheekbones as your tongue gathers the cherry, lime and blue raspberry flavoured sugar. He’s not fine because you’re licking at it - wrapping your mouth around it absentmindedly as you referee a game of soccer with Morgan from the sidelines, and then poking your tongue out again to gather the liquid threatening to drop sticky sweetness onto the grass beneath you - and it’s making him think of something entirely separate than your innocent enjoyment he would have basked in otherwise.

He thinks of late nights and early mornings - of lazy days when the two of you spent hours love-drunk in each others’ arms, and when you’d doted and fucking spoiled him on the day you thought to be his birthday - and, damn it, he’s definitely not fine.

To be honest, he thinks he might be drooling violently.

He brings his axe down once more and wipes the sweat from his forehead before wiping the corner of his lips, taking large gulps of oxygen when the log splits in two and the metal blade of the tool embeds cleanly in the stump underneath it. Looking over at Rick, Daryl shields his eyes from the sun with a work-calloused hand, and squints before he manages enough breath to speak steady.

“Wha’d’ya want?”

A sigh leaves Rick’s mouth, and Daryl watches as he places a hand on his jutted out hip - The Stance, you’d called it - and there’s your canteen held out in his other. Daryl recognizes it in a second, and takes it from him, biting down a smile when he notices your handwriting on a little note you tied through the cap loop with a fraying line of twine. He fiddles with it as he screws open the piece of plastic and tilts it against his lips, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort to meet his body’s need for water.

“There’s an arm wrestling competition goin’ on with the kids.”

When Daryl finally finishes drinking his fill, nearly half the canteen is gone and he hums vaguely at Rick’s words before taking your note between his fingers and finally reading it.

‘Please drink this and please don’t push yourself too hard, okay? I’d miss you so so so so much if you died. I’d miss your kisses.

P.S. come give me one?’

His chest blooms in a familiar lovesick warmth from the note, a little lopsided heart and a sad face drawn at the end that makes him want to melt into the ground as if your words weren’t enough, and one corner of his mouth lilts up, his cheekbones lifting and scrunching his eyes in a look that makes Rick think of a teenager getting a Valentine’s Day card from his crush, not someone who’s been sharing a bed with the note writer for, what, a month now?

“What’s’at gotta do with me?”

Slipping your message from the canteen, he schools his expression with a clearing of his throat at the end of his sentence, blinking away the hearts in his eyes and stuffing the paper into the back pocket of his jeans. For moral support, he thinks to himself. To get him through this God awful Virginian heat.

“They wanna beat you.”

Daryl scoffs when Rick points to his sweat-coated arms still trapped in the seams of shitty soccer memorabilia, but when he looks around him, the amount of firewood he’d already cut satisfies him enough not to pick up his axe again. Or maybe it’s the thought that he’ll finally be able to do something other than the monotony that’s making his biceps sore that makes him stop and think about his decision. Maybe it’s the knowledge that his participation will make the little ones happy that makes him wipe his hands against his jeans to keep them from being too uncomfortable to grip when they eventually try their strength against his.

Or maybe it’s the thought that he can do good on that little postscript you wrote that makes him finally nod, and maybe - just maybe - that’s why his eyes are already searching for yours before he even opens his mouth to talk.

“Alright. Jus’ gimme a sec.”

A grin spreads across Rick’s face, and Daryl watches him turn, giving a couple of the kids watching him a thumbs up. Daryl huffs then, half in amusement and half in the satisfaction at the cracking sounds from his back when he stretches, and he slips the canteen across his chest as he makes his way towards the porch you’re leaning over, your arms resting on it as you call out one of the kids’ names for a foul.

It’s quick work getting to you - Daryl’s legs are long enough and he takes advantage of his swift feet, his vision torn away from you as he detours a bit to let the relay race run its course - but before he can even step foot onto one of the white-painted porch stairs, he catches sight of you crouched down, the kid you’d just yellow carded sniffing away tears in front of you.

His eyes meet Morgan’s then, and Morgan shakes his head, motioning at his own neck with a shaking cut of his fingers - now’s not a good time - and Daryl lets out a near silent dejected sigh. No kisses for now, and part of him feels embarrassed at the way he wants to pout. He’s nearing 40 by now, he reckons, and is definitely not some kid who was denied a chocolate bar at a grocery store, but damn it, he really wanted to give you those postscript kisses.

Striding across the clearing, he makes it to the tournament taking place on a picnic table, light brown wood surrounded by kids he swears he’s never seen before. The soccer game must have ended pretty recently because some of them are still dressed in jerseys too big for their smaller bodies, red-faced and wild-haired from all the running, and Daryl’s hands are starting to get a little sweaty at the thought of being in front of so many people.

They’re children, yes, but still, it’s intimidating, isn’t it?

Aaron notices him lingering behind, a foot taller than nearly all the kids in front of him, and he calls out his name, the sea of primary colours parting to allow Daryl to amble his way over to where Aaron’s sitting. Giving him a nod of appreciation, Daryl swings a leg over the bench, straddling it for a second before readjusting and finally taking a proper seat.

“So, uh-“

Scratching at his little bit of beard, Daryl rests both his elbows against the tabletop, leaning forward in a low whisper to Aaron before Glenn slaps the wood beneath him, a Manchester United hat backwards and lopsided as it cuts across his forehead, and he flashes a smile at him, making Daryl’s words die in his throat as the collective attention of the kids is pulled to the bench. Aaron gives him an apologetic smile before looking at Glenn, and Daryl follows suit, squinting to keep the sun from hurting his eyes.

“Okay guys! Daryl’s here and you know what that means, right?”

Glenn waves a hand towards the prizes stacked onto the table next to him, a salesman-worthy smile on his face as he gestures to the stuffed animals in every colour of the rainbow and sets of legos that Daryl and you had scavenged from the local toy stores - he specifically remembers the Build-a-Bear he’d had to all but pull you away from because, Jesus Christ, some of them are so God ugly that it makes him wonder how they’d sold any in the first place - and the chatter from the kids gets louder, excited and eager.

“Someone has to take down Daryl in an arm wrestle so everyone can get a prize! You can go up against him as many times as you want, but he won’t hold back.”

Scanning the barely-a-classroom amount of kids eyeing the toys, Daryl takes their moment of distraction to tug on the hem of Glenn’s shirt, pulling him down enough so that he doesn’t need to speak above a whisper and potentially spoil whatever the illusion of this arm-wrestling game is.

“‘M I supposed to let ‘em beat me?”

Glenn shakes his head, and Daryl lets his hand drop down against the seat when Glenn crouches to get level with him.

The plan’s rather simple really, hushed whispers as Aaron stalls for time by making up rules he’s probably pulling out of his ass - ‘yes, you can definitely partner up,’ ‘No, you can’t,’ ‘Oh, c’mon, don’t give me that face you look too strong to pair up!’ - and by the time Glenn’s fully explained it, all the kids are buzzing to beat Daryl, talk of prizes igniting a determination in even the kids around Carl’s age.

The plan’s simple; don’t lose until the bonfire. And it should be pretty easy - he’s got years on the kids, the draw of his crossbow’s about a buck and he uses the thing so many times a day he needs to constantly make new arrows - but he narrowly loses as you walk by his field of vision, breaking his almost robotic takedown of his challengers through the spark of lust having sent his mind into a buzz.

He hones in on the way your hips sway with each of your steps despite it being nothing special. He’s watched you walk a million times already - admired you from the tall guard towers of the prison for months as you bent over stalks of vegetables in the makeshift gardens, and watched you do more than just walk, too, in the confines of your shared house - but, fuck, when you squat down to help tie the shoes of one of the little ones that had sought you out, the fabric of your shorts stretch across the swell of your ass in an almost insufferable tease and he chokes on his spit, sputtering for a second before slamming Carl’s hand down a little too hard onto the wooden table.

Shit, Carl? When the fuck did Carl come to this table? Wasn’t he just across the field? Wrapped up in some conversation with that Enid girl he has a crush on?

Grumbling an apology, Daryl tears his eyes from your stupidly magnetic body with his own sheer willpower and lets go of the kid’s hand, scooting forward until the wooden seat digs into his tailbone and scratching at that spot on his neck that only seems to itch when he’s just done something that makes him want to disappear. He feels exposed - he’s without the comfort of his leather vest and his crossbow - but Carl laughs a little before standing back up, massaging the back of his hand as a smile eases onto his face, and Daryl hates the heat crawling up to his cheeks.

It takes only a second for the steam to blow over, though, and he’s thankful for that, wiping away his clammy palms on his jeans, hoping the rough denim will scrub away any more thoughts of you still lingering in his brain and staring down at the tabletop. He manages to keep his eyesight set strictly away from you for another set of tiny hands, but before Aaron can give the kids one more optimistic ‘don’t give up, team’ speech, a familiar running step, step, step pattern rounds the corner, and Daryl can feel his skin light aflame in recognition.

It’s you.

It’s you. He’d know you even in death, your hand clasped in the child’s as she leads you to the arm-wrestling table, a feeling of comfort dragged up from his memories and welling up in his chest as he hears the sound of you laughing. His eyes snap up immediately, greedy to see you with your pretty eyes and pretty lips and pretty face, and his stomach swirls in a sickly saccharine affection, his heart thumping hard against his ribcage with the sheer amount of adoration he feels for you. It’s so bright, your smile, and he’s struck lovedumb.

He remembers when he would scoff at people who acted like this - to be fair, he was young and jaded from one too many lashes of his old man’s belt to think there was any good in the world - but now, when the prettiest person he’s ever seen in his life calls themself ‘his’, he gets it. He gets why poets wrote those stupid sonnets and why singers crooned and artists painted. His love for you has overwhelmed him since the second the realization made his heart rumble, and if you asked him to jump, he’d already be in the air asking you if he was high enough.

“Sun-“

Daryl’s the first to speak, a broken syllable of your nickname hitting your ears before he remembers the two of you have decided to keep your relationship more or less private, and he corrects himself with a clearing of his throat before saying your actual name.

“What- what are you doing here?”

His stutter is uncharacteristic to Glenn and Aaron - when Daryl says things, he plans it, steady and sure like the way he cocks his gun or slides his hunting knife across a whetstone - but you smile at it instead, his stumbling ingrained in you as breathless praises between your sheets and his very first confession of love.

No doubt, it reminds him of that too. How could it not when rendering him this flustered and this quick is an ease that comes to you as simply as breathing? And when you bite back another grin before sitting down across from him, patting the little one’s shoulder so affectionately it makes him think of how nicely you treat Judith, he fidgets to the edge of his seat, leaning his elbows on the tabletop and toeing at the grass beneath him.

“Aaron said the kids could have a lifeline.” Kids.

There are kids here.

His brain needs to shut the fuck up.

“And they chose me. Y’know what that means, right?”

Daryl manages out of his imagination just in time to catch you beam with a little bit of pride - he would have heard it in your voice, even if he was somehow blind enough to miss your the upwards pull of your lips - and he bites back a fond smile when he responds with a ‘what?’, blatant playful challenge in a way that makes you want to laugh. You raise your arm into arm wrestling position then and you let the lift of amusement find home on your face.

“They think I’m stronger than you.”

You’re putting on a bravado for the kids, he knows that, but there’s something so attractive about your confidence. You’ve got that glint in your eye that makes him weak in the knees, and when he raises his hand to loop his thumb with yours, an all too familiar tingle shocks the base of his spine. He blames it on the fact you run your thumb along his - that you do it so tauntingly, quirking one brow, making him think that, if this was back in the prison when you didn’t so happily call yourself his, he would lie awake at night replaying this moment over and over.

He blames it on the fact you look good in the same blue he’s wearing, too. Because Daryl refuses to blame it on the less than innocent thoughts he’s hiding behind his sarcastic remark.

“Think you can do it, then?”

You kick him under the table at that, scoffing out an inaudible breath he only knows happens because your cheeks rise into something adorable, and he misses Glenn’s countdown.

Instead, Daryl’s staring at you.

You can feel his gaze on your face, but when you shift in your seat, it’s not out of a discomfort or a fluster. Instead, it’s out of preparation. It’s out of a concentration to win. He’s staring at you, but it’s nothing new. The only new thing about it is that he’s not looking in your eyes. No, his ceruleans flick lower, caught up in the way you wet your lips - a slip of your intoxicatingly soft tongue, a fleeting bite - and your teeth catch your bottom one in a swift movement.

Fuck, it’s like the universe is against him.

How the fuck is he supposed to do anything but stare?

He’s staring so loudly he can’t hear the staccato ‘3, 2, 1’ signalling the round’s start, too busy swallowing his spit at the way he wants to press his mouth up hot and heavy onto yours, but you do. You hear Glenn just fine, and the second you can, you pull all your strength into your arm, a rocket burst of a press into the palm of his hand with yours to bring him down.

And Jesus Christ, it’s so easy.

There’s no resistance to it; a loud, dull smack of his knuckles meeting the wood table cracks through the air half a second after Glenn’s last syllable, and he doesn’t even notice it’s happened until he hears a cacophony of shrill, celebratory cheers and sees your panicked expression.

“Holy fu- Daryl? Are you okay? Shi- sorry, oh my god.”

You can't swear. There are children not even 5 feet away from the two of you, and though they may be caught up in clamouring over each other to get a toy, it still seems a little ill-placed to swear in front of them. So you school your words though schooling them means shutting up completely, and you manage an apology through wide eyes, lifting your hand still clasped in his so you can check for any damage and letting that do your speaking for you.

And instead of saying he’s fine - that it truly, really felt like nothing - he lets you look. He lets you check him for any damage because, though it’s getting increasingly hard to deny it to you, he likes it more than he can describe when you do. Daryl’s never had anyone care about him. Not anyone like you, anyways.

Biting your lip, you slide your thumb across his knuckles before unwrapping your fingers from his, giving him an apologetic smile - all soft eyes and upturned eyebrows - and he thinks his chest might burst open with how fast his heart is beating. You slide your eyes over to the prize table then, a swarm of children surrounding it like they were moths and the toys a flame, and, with Aaron and Glenn trying their hardest to regulate the greedy grabs of tiny hands, you bank on the fact they won’t notice the two of you slipping away when you rise to your feet.

Daryl would follow you anywhere in a heartbeat - he’d do it blindly, through the forests and through the seas if that was what you’d wanted - and this time is no different. Imitating your actions before you even need to speak, he rises too, barely a few steps behind you as you steal him away from everyone, and you take him behind a blue-walled house, paint chipping despite the careful glaze over it.

“Sorry. Crap, sorry, I didn’t mean to- I hope it doesn’t hurt too much.”

He’d matched you so many times before - wouldn’t budge no matter how many times you’d scrunch your face in a pout and ask so nicely - so how the fuck were you supposed to know today was the day he was throwing in the towel?

His back is against the wall as you speak, his hand still grasped in yours - it’s barely scratched, but he knows you worry too much about him sometimes - and when you look at him like he’s the only thing that matters, he can’t think properly enough to conjure up any words, let alone the correct ones to assure you.

So he watches you as you grab at a hose lying on the grass beside you, turning it on before you start rinsing his hands with cold water - to stop swelling, maybe? He’s not sure. You always were the smarter one when it came to stuff like this and he believes in you so emphatically he doesn’t question any of your ‘treatments’ even if they constituted as 25 kisses - and when you’re satisfied, you turn the water off, dropping the dark green plastic with a silent huff of triumph, the tiniest bit of a smile curling at your lips.

Daryl’s curiosity lasts only a second more, silence lingering before you press the back of his hand against your mouth in a quick peck, and the back of his neck burns at the image and feel of your lips. Instead, his head flicks left towards the metal walls - right towards the empty asphalt road, too - and when you pull from him, his impulse takes precedence over any ounce of self-control he has with you.

Which, in his defence, is very little to begin with.

He grabs your wrist then, wrapping his large hand around it with little effort, and in a moment’s worth of movement, he walks forward, insisting you up against the house behind you. Your body lets him move you, your back hitting the wooden-planked exterior as he cushions the back of your head with the palm of his other hand, and Daryl surrounds you after that moment - his warmth, his touch, his smell.

“Da- Daryl what’s- oh- what- what happened back there?”

His lips are the first thing you feel, chapped and wet and needy, against your own, your jaw, your neck - any skin he can get to - making it hard for you to think. Then it's the wandering hands still stuck in their anxiety at the hem of your shirt, and then the surety of his thigh pressing up between your legs. It’s an onslaught of feeling from him, and you have to force yourself not to get lost in him, forcing your stuttered words from your mouth and forcing your eyes to stay open to watch for anyone passing by.

“You, sunshine.”

The artificial sweetness of the popsicle still lingers on your lips when he slips his tongue past them, and you press your palms into his chest, firm underneath your touch as you try and push him away enough that you can speak.

“Dar- Daryl, we- we should-“

His teeth catch on the skin of your jaw, a practised pinch that has you muffling your whimper, and when he doesn’t hear the breathy syllables of his name escape your lips, it’s like a switch flips in his brain - the reminder of the fact you’re in public and that a majority of the community doesn’t even know you’re with him in that way almost as insistent as his lust.

“Shit, right, sorry. I- I didn’t-“

Swallowing, he turns away from you, almost embarrassed at the fact he’d given into that animalistic part of his brain that seems to take over one too many times when he’s with you, and he clears his throat, pulling his hands from your shirt before he feels your hand wrap around his wrist, holding him in place and turning him back to you. One step is all it takes to close the distance between the two of you, and you return your lips to his, fingers at his jaw beckoning his chin down, and it’s a mess of chapped skin that has his brain near short-circuiting before he hears you speaking.

“Home. We should go back home.”

You’re like a damn siren - your voice is a liquor and it’s in Daryl’s genes to get addicted - and, oh, one of the houses you’d brought him between is the one you share with him. He’s not sure if it was intentional on your part, but he can’t dwell on it for even a second more because all he can think of is the fact that, in about 10 feet, there’s door he can lock and be alone with you.

Swallowing, he nods and lets you drag him along, jeans that have already been feeling a little too tight growing almost suffocating when you tilt your head back towards him and bite your lip. There’s a mischievous glint in your smile that he recognizes in an instant, and the moment the two of you clear the length of the porch, his body is pressed up against yours, a precarious position shielded by a convenient architectural protrusion.

Under your anticipation-laced hands, the door creaks open, and when the two of you cross the threshold of privacy, he has you pressed up against it, your back lining the white wood and the doorknob just to the side of your hip. Even trapped in his lust-flustered mind, he works not to hurt you. No, if he did - accidentally, some force in the outer world raising their hand against you - he’d drop to his knees right then and there and kiss you better.

“You look fuckin’ good, sunshine. Should be illegal for anyone t’look this good.”

Daryl speaks between familiar, driven kisses, flicking the lock shut when his fingers pass it by on their adventure up your hips, but when they dip underneath the hem of your shirt and start pulling it up, up, and up, you let go of his belt, the clinking of his undone buckle warning him of your free hands. Kicking off your shoes, you grab his forearms then, making him bite at the inside of his bottom lip at your strength, and he pulls his face away - barely an inch from yours, so close but too far - and waits for your words.

“Are you not gonna tell me what happened back there, Daryl?”

You take a step to the side then, pulling him towards you with another hand at his belt loop, and in a swift motion, his back hits the door, a groan of surprise leaving his lips. It’s a vulnerable feeling, he admits - when the two of you were between the houses, there wasn’t a loom of anticipation hanging over him even though he had wished that there was - but it also feels good.

To be so close to you - to have you demand something from him - it feels good. Almost undeniably so.

“I- I was zonin’ out. Was too busy starin’ at ya.”

You’re pressed up against him - his breathing quickening, heavier with the passing moments, and you can feel the way his chest expands - and he swallows when he looks into your eyes, a heat in yours that he’s damn sure he mirrors in his. He can feel the insistent heat pooling in the base of his stomach growing and growing, and it threatens to overtake him.

It threatens to burn him to a crisp, but if that meant staying here forever - if that meant staying here forever with you - he’d let it.

“What were you staring at?”

He wonders, for a brief second, if you know, because after you speak, the familiar pink of your tongue peeks out between your lips and wets them, as if purposely drawing his eyes down and threatening him to lie. And logically, he knows you can’t know - you’re not that good of an actress - but he’s not capable of a lot of logical thinking right now.

“Couldn’t- couldn’t take my eyes off’a ya.”

Pressing your hand against his boxers, you smile to yourself when he melts into the door, his grip shooting to your waist to steady himself, his knees threatening to buckle from the run of your soft palm against him, and there’s something exhilarating about the power you have over him. He’s never like this - the Daryl everyone sees is always so sure of himself, always so in control of himself - but that version of him retreats with every single one of your touches and every single kiss you leave on his cheeks and down his neck.

Actually, no, it’s not that he’s never like this, it’s just that he’s only ever like this around you, and, fuck if it doesn’t make you want to get down on your knees for him right here and now.

“‘Specially not when you were- fuck- lickin’ that fuckin’ popsicle and-“

His words are garbled between groans though he tries his best to string together a coherent sentence, and you admire the way his eyebrows furrow, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows down his spit. It’s almost mean - almost fucking torture, the way you spread the wet patch growing in his underwear and let out a perfect little sound at the way he lifts his hips up and grind into your palm - but you can’t bring yourself to stop.

He cuts himself off when he realizes you’ve asked a question and he’s done everything but answer it, and he’s quick to push off the door, spotting the pulled curtains from this morning and the empty couch. The perfectly empty couch.

“I was starin’ at your mouth, sunshine.”

Fingers digging into your thighs, he scrunches his face inwards, pressing his chest towards you so you grab at his biceps for support, and, with a breath, he lifts you, the buckle of his belt grazing just under your ass and hanging loose in the loops like a reminder of what’s to come. You rise with a subdued squeal and wrap your arms around his nape almost instinctively. It doesn’t matter how many times he does this - doesn’t matter how safe you feel in his arms, or that you know he’ll never drop you, or that, more importantly, he wouldn’t forgive himself if he dropped you - you close your eyes and dig your face into the crook of his neck.

“Was thinkin’ about everythin’ ya do with it. More’n just kissin’.”

The couch squeaks under Daryl’s enthusiasm, making you bounce on him, and for a second, you think you’ve hurt him, pulling your hips up off of him when he groans into your ear. But you quickly learn that it’s not a groan of pain, it’s a groan of relief, the feeling of you against him making him grab onto your hips tighter. He needs you this close to him and, if Daryl’s learned anything from being with you, it’s that he’s not above begging.

“Wait- wait, fuck, come back. Please. Feel like I might go crazy without ya.”

And when his voice nears that little precipice of a needy whine, who are you to deny him?

“I don’t wanna be anywhere but here, you know that.”

So you sit back down, grinding your hips against his and basking in the thickness that rubs against you, and you lean down to press pecks to his cheek, his head thrown back and resting on the back of your dull gray couch. He’s a sight to behold like this, cheeks blooming pink and his lips swelling red from use, and a skin-tingling idea pops into your head when he undoes the tie of your shorts, fingers already crawling up to the waistband to coax it off.

Mouth, huh?

You have no problem with that.

Distracting him with one last careful, wet kiss, you lift yourself just enough that your both your legs come between his, and slowly, you move your body down, hands grabbing his belt to free him. He’s eager with your movements, lifting his hips to help you get that stupid piece of leather off of him, and when you slide your body down to the floor, he nearly bites through his jaw at the image.

All his lust-fuzzed brain can comprehend is how pretty you look, between his knees with one of his hands against your hair and the other on your chin, your hands on his thighs holding him open for you. All he can think about is how fucking pretty you look, and if he lets his mind wander, he wonders if you’d look just as pretty with his fingers in your mouth.

So he slides his thumb from your chin up against your lower lip - just for a second, to test out the waters, to see if you pull away or look at him with apprehension - but when you don’t, choosing instead to relax and let him touch, there’s only one logical conclusion.

You’d look prettier.

A lot prettier.

And while he’s sat admiring you, breathing stuttered by the tongue that peeks out to slide across his thumb, a rush of adrenaline moves him, so blinding in its fury that he’s a slave to obey it. Two rough fingertips - worn from hard work, the ones that hold you and engulf you in a safety you know only with him - press against your mouth, and like rushing water, they break forward, resting heavy against your tongue with an insistence that makes you press your thighs together.

You close your lips around him at the sensation, looking up at him to tell him ’I want this’ with just a look, and your neck tilts so fucking alluringly that Daryl fails to fight the urge to trace down the column of it with his eyes. Loose hair overhangs onto your forehead, and almost immediately - almost tenderly, too tenderly for what the two of you are doing behind closed curtains - he swipes it away, half in the fact he knows your hair will end up tickling you, and half in the fact that he can’t handle any obscuration from seeing you.

Not when your eyebrows are in that slanted expression only he gets to see, and not when your lips are wrapped around him so tightly it’s like you want him to stay.

Especially not when he presses his fingers further down - presses his fingers firmer against your tongue - and he can see the heaviness of your breaths, a pacing to keep your throat from folding upwards and out. You can feel the urge start to creep up each time you inhale from your nose and exhale the same, but you swallow it down, a drive to take him making you stare into him, a debilitating intensity that makes his cock throb and his brain muddle into mush.

Sliding your hands down to his knees, you shuffle forwards more, cheeks pulling in around him as you press your face closer and closer to his crotch, and Daryl feels like he might overheat from the hedonistic swirl in his stomach. Your eyes are watering, the corners beginning to flush the tiniest bit of red, and it’s driving him crazy, a sick pleasure making him press down, down and down until he feels your tongue force him to the roof of your mouth and he watches your throat bob.

There’s no choked sound, but the saccharine haze breaks all the same, an immediate overtake of instinct that makes him jerk away, fingers leaving your mouth with an audible pop as his other hand wipes at your cheekbone in immediate apology. Your head follows him, leaning forward to chase, but when he holds you firm and keeps you from his saliva-coated fingers with his stupid overbearing and reasonable concern, you think you could cry at the loss of him.

“Fuck- sorry- sorry, sunshine. Are y’alright?”

When he speaks he sounds so sincere, his black pupils blown wide and greedily replacing the cerulean you know only as him. But still, they soften at the thought he hurt you - you think maybe he could cry with the look of panic on his face - and your heart wells up in an affection that’s all too familiar when it comes to him.

You want to hug him, to kiss him, to give yourself to him.

You want Daryl to give himself to you.

“I’m- I’m fine but,”

Your voice is raw, sandpaper tearing apart your sentence at the first word, and he does nearly everything in his power to keep from fucking moaning at how you sound. His cheeks are burning hot from your perfection, and even though he knows he should be listening to you, he can’t stop remembering. He knows what happens before you sound like this - has each placement of his lips and his hands seared into his brain so he can open you up and take you apart piece by piece - and each time he tries to stop thinking, the phantom feeling of your skin on his tongue draws him back.

“I want you, Daryl. I want-“

There aren’t enough brain cells rattling around in your head to properly articulate your intentions, but a shock of lust gives you the confidence you need to reach forward and grasp him through his boxers, your mouth watering at the weight of him like you were some starving animal, and his eyes nearly roll back at the touch. It’s not firm enough for him to feel it - definitely not firm enough to make him buck up into your hand - but he does, and when you grab his jeans, the waistband of his boxers tangled up in your desperate grip, he’s helpless to letting you.

“Please.”

You’re going to be the death of him, but, quite honestly, he doesn’t really care.

“Are- shit- are ya sure, sunshine? Ya don’t gotta-“

But despite his words - despite his want to wait for you to respond and to hold back until you’re sure - he grabs your wrists with one of his own large hands and presses you down harder, choking off a groan of your name when your tongue swipes at your lips and you swallow.

You’re looking at him like you want nothing more than to steal him away from his senses, and Jesus Christ, he’d let you pull him under if that’s what you’d wanted.

“Shut up, Daryl. I- I want to. I want you. Please.”

And when you sound so good like that, who the fuck is he to deny you?

So he lifts his hips, jeans and boxers dropped down around his ankles with one clean pull, and you’re on him in a second, shuffling forwards on your knees and anticipating the bruises that will creep onto your skin during the night. It’s hot now - too hot for you to wear jeans like Daryl somehow does - and you wonder briefly if people would know how you got them.

Would your heart eyes give the two of you away? The lingering heat that never seems to cease when you’re around him?

Would you even care?

As if he can read your mind, he reaches over to a carefully folded blanket - a deep, ugly orange he’d wrapped you in that one time you had a cold, concern for your wellbeing and memories of the prison making him so fiercely protective and worried - and offers it to you. He’s seen your bruises before, and though you tell him they don’t hurt like he thinks they do, he doesn’t want them to even have the possibility of sprouting onto your skin. They have no right to.

But you shake your head, holding him heavy and upright in your hand - perhaps flourishing at the thought of wearing this moment in time on your body for the next few days - and he barely has time to put the fleece down before you press tongue against the underside of him, already making his stomach flex at the kitten-soft flick of your tongue. The hand in your hair drops to your chin then, and the one still slightly coated in your saliva drops to his cock, smearing haphazardly before taking it in his grasp and sliding him against your lips.

Like you did for his fingers - like you did so prettily and so perfectly for his fingers - your mouth drops open, and your eyes round in a look that all but pleads for him to ruin you. It’s intoxicating, the knowledge you want him to take and take and take from you the same way he lets you take from him, and he sucks in a sharp breath when you whine, so desperate for him that you shuffle even closer.

“You’re fuckin’ gorgeous like this, y’know that?”

Nodding, you swallow when he lets go of himself, a swirl of excitement and desire driving your hands forward to replace him, and the groan he lets out when the wet glide of your tongue travels the length of him is more than enough of a distraction from dwelling on the fact you shot towards him like a rocket. He laughs lightly - barely chuckles, a breathless noise you wouldn’t have heard if you weren’t watching his face so intensely - and you think you must be a picture of desperation between his knees, pressing your thighs together from the taste and the sight of him. But you can’t bring yourself to care.

You need this. You need Daryl to feel good.

You need to be the reason why.

“‘Course ya do. My- fuck- my gorgeous girl, ain’t ya?”

There’s the slightest ghost of a smile on his face when he questions you. but his face screws inwards when you moan in agreement, the vibrations of your noise travelling through his body and making his thighs twitch nearly close around you, the one last brain cell powered by what little blood is still in his top head reacting in time to keep himself from the possibly hurting you.

God, he hasn’t felt himself this desperate since, well, maybe the last time the two of you slept together? It dawns on him when you pull off and kiss just the tip of him that you set him alight like nothing else he’s experienced in his life. You’re a wildfire as you blaze through him, consuming him in the devastating mix of your love and your desire, and he wants nothing more than to burn.

“Shit, sunshine, you’re too- too fuckin’ good at this.”

Closing your lips around him, you sink down, emboldened by his praise and the choked moan of your name at the way your tongue runs against the side of him, and he rewards you with a whimper, his fingers sliding to the back to your head so he can ball your hair into a makeshift ponytail as his other swipes the bangs from your face.

Daryl needs to see you.

His thighs are shaking, that familiar coil starting to tighten in the base of his stomach, and though he’s trying and failing to filter his words - a string of ‘you’re takin’ me so well’ and ‘fuck, look at ya, sunshine’ and just simply your name whispered so sweetly between the earth-tethering swears escaping him with little thought - he needs to see you. Despite the fact he knows it’ll catapult him to his finish, the sight of you coupled with the fact these sensations are purposeful for him to feel, he needs to see you.

And his blue eyes bruise as they spread across you, piercing as he watches every little movement of your body, attempting to memorize every inch of you - every inch of him you’re taking, every caress of yours erupting across his skin - and you want to ask him if you make him feel good, but, of course, how can you?

“H- hey, don’t take too much if y’ain’t ready.”

It’s so fucking sloppy, a mess of spit that drips down the length of him and down to where your hand strokes him, and if he lets himself accept thoughts from a more primal part of his mind, he wonders if, just if, he slid his hand down above your neck, he could feel himself underneath, bulging through your skin. It feels dirty - feels wrong to even contemplate because, Hell, it would probably hurt on your part - but to know you’d do it for him makes him ascend to another plane of goddamn existence.

Feeling his grip tug tension into your scalp, you press your face down further, your throat rising and falling once then twice as you fight your body’s urge to push him out. Soreness is crawling across your jaw and threatening to hold you still, but you can’t. You won’t let yourself because every time he swipes your hair from your forehead with a careful thumb, you know he’s watching and you know you want to please. With each twist of your wrists and pull back of your face to kiss the head of him, you tell him you’re his. Body and soul. Mind and heart.

His hips lift then, a strangled groan making you moan around him when he tugs your makeshift ponytail a little too perfectly hard, and you know he knows it.

He’s yours too, melted into a puddle in the palm of your hand with every leak of him you swallow down, and when he bucks up again, hitting the back of your throat, he tries not to get too lost in the image of your stretched lips and the sweat lining down your neck. But you’re too fucking pretty and perfect like this that he can’t stop himself.

“Fuck- fuck, shit, sunshine-“

And for the first time since you’d gotten down on your knees for him, Daryl breaks eye-contact, and you know he’s about to break, too, the sharp cut of his jaw exposed to you when he throws his head back against the back of the couch. He’s a sight - as much as he calls you beautiful, he’s beautiful as well - half-God and carved by Bernini himself, immortalized into a baroque sculpture befitting of your enamour for him, and you can’t stop yourself from your want for him to fall apart for you.

“I love you, Daryl. Love- love you.”

You draw from him just to say that, dangling the reminder that you could stop whenever you want and deprive him of you over his head, a wet pop sounding over his heavy breathing, and it’s a mockery, what you’re doing to him. A delicate stamp of a kiss against his strong thighs making him burn, and before he knows it you’re back to your kitten licks, too goddamn soft and sweet and doting at his tip for him not to fucking whimper.

Taking him into your mouth again, the haze in your eyes makes him shudder when he looks at you, and he draws his hips back, rutting just another inch past your lips with the grip of his fingers keeping you still. There’s a substantial effort on his part to keep himself together as both your practiced hands tighten, slick down your palm with a mixture of him and your own spit, but then you whine, taking more of him than he can remember you ever having taken before, and it’s too much for him.

The sight, the smell, the feeling. It’s all too goddamn much.

“Christ- w- where?”

You pull from him then, a string of saliva connecting him to you, and you stick your tongue out, looking at him expectantly and impossibly prettily. And when he realizes what you want from him - that you would even let him - it’s immediate.

“Shit- sorry- sorry, sunshine.”

Ropes of him hit you then, bursting down from the roof of your mouth, some of him getting onto one of your cheeks and some onto your forehead, and there’s so much, each throb of him heavy as you hold him which is befitting since it really, truly feels like it’s only you tethering him down to Earth. His abdomen tightens, arms and thighs flexing as he folds inwards on himself because he’s not closing his grip around you. He can’t. He doesn’t trust himself.

If he hurt you, what would he do with himself?

So he whispers ‘I love you’s’ almost apologetically, his voice dragged down to the depths of a pleasure you barely know you pull him to and a litany of curse words and your name making you want nothing more than to slide your own hand down between your thighs because holy fuck he sounds so good. His eyebrows are scrunched inwards in a glare so intimidating you might have cowered from him if he didn’t remind you that his whole being belonged to you every single day, but he does and it’s impossible now for you to regard him with anything but affection. The security of his presence and the warmth of his being spells only safety, and even when the two of you get into the sparse fight, he’s all you’ve ever wanted.

Love blooms from you with a blinding intensity, even as you stroke him, carrying him to the edge until he just can’t handle it, love blooms in your lust, all consuming as you swallow and swallow, a saltiness down your throat that marks you as his. Nobody would ever see you in this position - Daryl would make sure of it, his anger explosive when you’re a possible casualty - but to be in such a vulnerable state for him, it makes your head hazy and muddled.

It makes him feel that way, too. Twofold.

Maybe even ten.

Breathing heavy, he stops moving to just stare, letting go of you to admire your eyes, your cheeks, your stupidly prepossing mouth and neck, down to the divots of your collarbones, and he memorizes the lingering depravity in your expression with his hooded eyes. Only when he goes to caress your skin does he realize the mess he’s made on you - lust-fuzzed brain throwing almost all courtesy and self-control out of the window - and he’s quick to try and fix it.

“Sorry, sunshine. Lemme-”

The apologetic smile on his face is so adorable, genuine and boyish as he swipes what’s hit your forehead and cheek, and his touch is tender, returning from the take back to the care that your brain recognizes as him. He reaches down to the floor with his other for the red rag in his jean’s pocket to clean you then, but your greed drives you forward. It takes a split second - just a split second - for you to grab his hand in yours and wrap your lips around his thumb like you did his cock, and you push it into your mouth, tongue sliding against it to gather him and reminding him of what happened moments ago as if he could ever forget.

“Holy shit.”

It’s so fucking erotic that Daryl’s stuck in his seat, swallowing down the rush of saliva and willing himself to harden again. But he’s not that young anymore, and while he’s cursing himself, he watches you move from your kneel, figuring that his fingers and mouth will work just fine to make you burst.

And if they don’t? Well, he’s open to try and try and try until you do.

Rising to your full height, you smile at him when your gaze meets his, a pang of arousal washing through you when he raises an eyebrow and extends his arm towards your shorts, and you nod, bending down just enough to rest your elbows on his shoulders and kiss his jaw. The waistband loosens off your hips with his dexterous movements, and before you can even brace for him, his muscular arms scoop underneath you, hooking underneath your thighs the moment you step out of the polyester.

A muted yelp escapes from your throat, and you press his head against you, holding onto him for some stability before he seats you over his lap, and he digs his face into your chest, making your exclamation melt into a chuckle at the immature joy he takes in being pressed up against your shirt. He only pulls away when you tug lightly at his hair, your other hand pushing at his chest with an insincere petulance, and there’s an infuriatingly charming pout on his lips that’s so cute that you want to kiss it away.

So you do, your fingers sliding underneath his chin and tilting him up, slotting your mouth over his so adoringly the you can feel his smile spread at the same quick speed yours does, and when you pull away, the need for oxygen overtaking your desire to run your tongue along his, there are constellations and pieces of stardust shining in his eyes.

It makes you feel like you’re everything to him.

“They’re gonna wonder where we are, Daryl.”

Tilting his cheek into your touch, he covers your hand with one of his - your knuckles against his palm - and links his fingers underneath yours, an intimacy so inescapable it makes him think, yeah, you are everything to him.

But he’s known that for a while now, hasn’t he?

“Let ‘em.”

The gravel of his voice glides much too smoothly over his words than it has the right to, and when he brings your hand to his lips, kissing your wrist and taking a deep breath of your scent, it’s like he’s helpless to his own body, put under a spell by you.

“Ya took me so well, y’know that? Gonna let me make ya feel good, too?”

He caresses the skin underneath the hem of your shirt, lips feverish and wet against your neck, and all you can do is nod, lifting your arms to help him rid you of the stupid shirt that matches his. He pulls it off with little trouble, your bra following soon and flung haphazardly towards the stairs, and he devours the sight of you, hands grabbing your ass and digging underneath his next victim - the pretty blue panties he’d watches you put on just this morning.

“Good. ‘Cause I ain’t done wit’ ya. Not yet.”

And Daryl doesn’t think he ever will be. No, he’d be just about the biggest damn idiot in the world if he ever was.

@daryldixonluv @pulplorrd @fuseburner @hells-mistress @maria--grey @marylimlp @tinachristeen @hail-yourselves @whimsicallymad @just-always-tired @phoenixblack89 @in-ky @riverscyberwife @jocyc1997 @darlingdixon @candice666 @angryunicornlady @caelys @akilababs @rhyrhy462 @queendragon0614 @howdoiwork @ancientbeing10 @ruinedbythehobbit @xxtinasxxblog @sgtapepper @shizkayo @poisonmenegan @burritoplant @huntressknight @mariannambl @dftblood @beatitlikeabongodrum @januarymaebell @potplantbedspread @green-eyedladywrites @gemathewitch @wolfmoretti @atlanticstarr @deathishereditary @shittyoudidntneedtoknow @srhxpci @heretosimponly @decendingfromgrace @large-juice @cosmic-lavender @sunshines-petal @boluvsurmum @theteaset

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macadoodlewrites · 2 years ago

Text

The Devil Doesn't Bargain - Part Four (Peter Parker Mob AU)

Summary: Peter Parker is well on his way to taking over his adoptive father’s business – but with new threats emerging, Peter and Tony Stark decide that a deal between rivals needs to be brokered. A marriage proposal between enemies brings Hallie straight into the arms of Peter, and it won’t take her long to realise that escape will not be easy.

Warnings: kidnapping, drugging, dub-con behaviour, torture, smut, swearing

Ships: Peter Parker x OC

Main Masterlist

The Devil Doesn't Bargain Masterlist

Word Count: 5.6k

Tony is going to make him an offer that he can't refuse.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? If Tony and my father had been in a rivalry for many years and never before had they come to a cease-fire, what could Tony possibly offer that would ever end their competition. And why, over all of these years, had my father never entertained a meeting with Tony Stark?

I wanted to believe that it was because my father would never associate with him. I did still believe that. Which led me to further questions, such as, what could Tony want with Dominic Whittingham? I did not believe the lies that Peter and Tony had spouted about my father, not for a second. Sure, I wasn't as involved in the family business as my brother, Aiden, was but I still knew what we did and what we sold. Buildings, cars, land. My father and brother were not criminals.

Peter could take his lies and his files and choke on them for all that I cared.

We were walking back towards his office, but thankfully this time he was not dragging me or holding me. I was a step behind him, my sock-covered feet silent. I could have turned and ran, but I had a feeling that Peter would have known if I had done so without even looking at me.

And his warnings were still at the forefront of my mind, the way he had held me down, threatened me. The delight I saw in his brown eyes as he had stared at his hand at my throat. I didn't want to upset him again - at least not until I knew that I could escape.

He opened his office door, holding it for me, and I walked through the doorway, making sure that not a single part of our bodies touched. He must have noticed because the sound of his scoff filled the empty room. I approached his desk and resisted the urge to take my file into my hands, looking down at it. It felt wrong for him to have something like this, something so personal about me, but I did not want to show him how affected I was by it. At least the file mostly contained surface information - family, friends, boyfriends, events I had attended, schools and the grades I had achieved. It would have been infinitely more frightening if I had seen more personal information such as my likes and dislikes, childhood pets and adolescent nicknames. Personal information was not something that you could find in a magazine, and I would have been even more terrified about how he had gotten it.

I did, however, open the other remaining files and look at the pictures at the front of all of them. There was my mother, Eloise, sporting the blonde hair that Aiden and I had inherited. He had also inherited her hazel eyes; mine were a light green, from my father. My father's picture was a business shot of him, in one of his usual dark grey suits. His hair, once a mousy brown, was grey now, and he was not smiling. Then again, when it came to business, he hardly ever smiled. Those were reserved for me and my brother, as they had once been reserved for my mother.

Aiden's picture was taken from a magazine article that had named him one of 'thirty under thirties to watch.' He was smiling at the camera, and I felt an ache in my chest. I had not seen him this morning at the breakfast table - both he and my father had already left the manor before I had woken up. But I was reminded of the phone call I had made back in the café to him, trying to find any way to get Eric and I to safety. I prayed that Aiden had made it in time to find Eric and get him to a hospital.

Then there was Eric's file. It was as large as Aiden's, and there was a picture of him and I at the front of it. It was one from my twenty-first birthday party at the manor, and he had looked his most handsome. I had chosen the expensive suit that he was wearing, and his mint green tie had matched my long green cape swing dress. The ache in my heart cracked at his smile. He was possibly dead now.

I traced a finger down his face, and then moved to pick up his file, but before I could, there was a hand at my wrist. I looked up and was met with depthless chocolate brown eyes staring at me.

"I said that you had to find out about your boyfriend the hard way. No spoilers," he said, and his other hand slid Eric's file away from me and snapped it closed.

"I wouldn't have believed anything written about him, anyway," I snapped, tugging away from him. Surprisingly, he let me, and I backed away to place the desk between us. "Neither do I believe a single thing that you have said about my father."

"We have been over this, Halston. Why would your file be entirely correct, but Dominic's be full of lies?"

"You tell me. You're the manipulative one here. You said it yourself; you knew that I would read them. Maybe it is some twisted way to get me to think that all of them were true."

"And why would I care about what you do or don't think of your father?" he asked, derision in his tone. "I, frankly, do not care what you believe."

Fine, I thought. This is the game that he wants to play. "That's a lie, and we both know it. You left the files on the desk for me to find. You told me that my father is a crook and tried to explain why. Someone who did not care for what I thought would have done none of those things."

Placing Eric's file back on the large, wooden desk, he continued to watch me. I did not want to be near him, so I stepped backwards by a few paces, putting myself back near the sofa that I had woken up on. With a strange and frightened thought inside of my mind, I realised that my clothes were nearly the same colour as the sofa set. Peter liked dove grey.

He took a seat behind his desk, sitting tall. "Clever girl. The magazine's do not give you enough credit."

Not wanting to give him even an inch of higher ground, I remained standing. "Excuse me?"

"The magazines," he replied. "Most call you America's sweetheart, the Whittingham daughter so loved by the country. You and your brother are like a little prince and princess of your kingdom. Your father has put on a good front, I'll admit."

"It's not a front-"

He didn't stop speaking. "But there are some articles that have said you are nothing more than a pretty face. A brainless, little heiress with nothing to contribute to society. A dim-witted socialite. But I knew that you were smart."

"Because you have a stupid file on me? You know nothing about me just because you know what schools I attended. Some grades mean nothing. I could have paid someone to achieve them for me."

"You didn't though, did you?" Peter remarked, his eyes flashing. "You would never do something like that."

"And why wouldn't I?"

"Because, darling, despite who raised you, you are a good person."

I wanted to stomp my feet, huff like a small child at the satisfied expression on his handsome face. But I remained still, only crossing my arms over my chest. His eyes darted down to the movement.

"Stop acting like you know anything about me. You don't. I have friends, family, and a life that does not involve you, and as soon as my father has rejected Tony, I will be back to it and never have to see you again."

"I know plenty, besides what is in this file," he shrugged, his hands coming up and opening the file with my name on it. I shivered as he looked down at the picture of me. "And your father will not reject mine. Trust me."

"Never going to happen."

"And you're not getting rid of me that easily. Once the deal has been struck, you'd better get used to having me around."

He sounded so confident, like he knew something that I did not - which was probably true. I was in the dark, had no idea what Tony wanted with my father, and wanted nothing more than to go home. I wanted to lay in my own bed, listen to my brother's terrible singing voice coming from his bedroom down the hall. I wanted Eric.

Before I knew what was happening, any remnants of energy that had been in my body was gone and I was sinking down to sit on the grey sofa, tears falling from my eyes. I refused to look at Peter as they dripped onto my lap, soaking into the knitted joggers. Ones that he had chosen for me. It sickened me. I continued to stare at my feet, even as I heard him getting up from his chair and walk towards me. Why should he get to see me cry? He was the source of my tears.

He crouched down in front of me, balancing on the balls of his feet and before I could move backwards in my seat, Peter's fingers were under my chin. His grip was gentler than it had been before when he had grabbed me, and he tilted my head up so that I would look at him. I had originally thought that he had smelled of smoke perhaps from a bonfire, but I had since narrowed it down to cigars - a smoky, sweet aroma with accents of leather. I watched his eyes take in the tears on my face and his other hand came up and wiped them away, his finger then trailing down my cheek. It took everything in me to not jerk away from the gesture, and I knew that he could tell that I had tensed up from the way that he sighed.

"Do you want me to show you the greenhouses?"

"You have plants here?" I implored incredulously. "What do you do, use flowers as target practise?"

He laughed and it sounded like the first real laugh that had fallen from his lips. "No. We are currently in the office building, and we do hold meetings here with prominent members of the community. We have to make the place look good and legit." At my continued dubious staring, he stood back up. "Come on, darling. I know that you like flowers."

Once again, it disturbed me to no end that he knew something so simple about me - yes, I did love flowers. My mother had passed on her love of gardening to me. But that was not in my file. Peter must have read it in an interview I had participated in at some point. I hoped.

Petulantly, I mumbled, "I don't have any shoes."

I shouldn't have said anything. Peter walked back to his desk, opened a cupboard underneath and pulled out a pair of fossil-grey timberland boots. He then walked back to me slowly as I eyed up the shoes. Once again, they matched my outfit, and it did not take more than a second glance to know that they were my size.

If this was not proving to me that I needed to leave, that their plans had been well-thought out and that Peter knew too many things about me, then nothing else would. But being cooped up in this office was not going to help me. So, swallowing my revulsion, I took the shoes and put them on, then stood up. He shot me a very realistic smile, but I didn't return it.

Following him out of his office, we took the same route that I had already taken twice today towards the stairs. At the bottom, where I had originally turned right, and the second time, Peter had led me straight on, we now went left. I cursed myself inwardly. It had been a one in three chance for me to choose the way that would take me outdoors, and I had chosen wrong.

Peter's hand found my waist and rested on the small of my back, guiding me along until we came to a set of doors that had a small pad next to them. Peter stepped ahead of me, blocking my view as I watched him remove a thin piece of plastic from his blazer pocket. He must have placed it against the pad because the doors opened with a loud beep.

Eric and I's coffee date had been interrupted mid-morning, but now the sun was starting to set in the winter sky, casting a pale, cold light over the earth. I shuddered at the sudden chill in the air as we stepped outside, and Peter noticed. Pocketing his access pass in his trouser pocket, he shrugged off his blazer and held it out for me. No matter how much I despised him, I was not going to turn away something that would keep me warm, so I took it. He then started walking, his black shoes crunching over the frozen grass, as I followed. He led us past the building and further through the grounds. I took in every inch of my surroundings as we went, noting the high walls around the complex, the men and women that were stood guarding certain buildings. The office behind us was by far the largest one and its glass walls shone in the dimming sun.

We came to a driveway with multiple cars parked on it, still within the property, and further along was a gate. Large black gates, three times my height, a solid wall of metal. From my distance, I could just make out a small pad, the same as the door we had exited.

The tiniest flair of hope rose in my stomach. I needed an access pass. And then I could leave. Who knew what was on the outside of those gates, but it had to be better than what was inside.

Not letting my gaze stray for too long as I felt Peter's eyes on me, I continued to look ahead as we approached another glass building. I stepped in through the open doors, and instantly felt the temperature change.

For the briefest of moments, I forgot about my predicament as I took in the rows and rows of flowers. Here were cherry red and snowy white geraniums, then there were candy floss pink petunias, followed by lavender pansies. My mouth fell open at the sight of the flowers, a full rainbow against an overwise dreary day. I gently touched the soft petals, held the leaves between my fingers.

From my side, Peter spoke but it was quieter than usual. "Do you like it?"

I turned to him, the surprising happiness still on my face and he took it in. A pure smile graced his lips. "I do," I whispered and looked back at the flowers. Peonies were my favourite, and I could see a collection of them in the corner of the greenhouse, their delicate pink petals the softest colour in the room. I walked straight towards them, and before I could help myself, I asked, "do you tend them?"

He snorted lightly and I turned to him once again. He had followed me across the greenhouse and was stood behind me, looking at the peonies and then back at me. "No, we have gardeners." His expression was slightly off, his eyes flickering all over my face, a question in his eyes.

"What?"

"That's the first time that you have smiled. At me."

And just like that, it was all back. This was not a boy showing me a handful of pretty flowers. This was a manipulator, someone who knew the things that I liked because he had researched me and wanted to use me. The smile fell from my face, and his faded slowly as well.

"Well-"

Before I could retort, we were interrupted by a man in a black uniform bursting through the door, clearly out of breath. He straightened up at the sight of Peter and me.

"Sir," he said. "Mr Stark needs to talk to you. He mentioned something about preparations for moving certain packages."

The guards' eyes flickered over to me, and Peter coughed, drawing his attention away. "That'll be all. Tell Tony that I will find him shortly, that I am currently with Miss Whittingham."

It looked like it pained the guard to speak further. He couldn't have been more than a year or two younger than me, but the infinite difference in his and Peter's rankings was evident. "Sir, I apologise, but he insisted it had to be now."

Once again feeling Peter's eyes on me like small daggers, roaming me and checking me over, I continued to look at the guard. On his chest, clipped to the outer pocket of his padded waistcoat, was what looked like an access pass.

Sighing at my side, I felt Peter brush my side with his hand as he moved to face me. I looked up at him, trying to paste an expressionless stare onto my features.

"Would you like to stay here whilst I deal with this business?" He was trusting me to stay alone? As if reading my thoughts, the corner of his mouth quirked up. "With Jared, of course."

"Right," I mumbled, doing everything in my power to keep the excitement out of my voice. "I would like to stay here. Please."

It must have been the right thing to say because Peter's hand rose up and cupped my cheek, his thumb stroking my skin. I did not flinch. I felt like I was barely breathing. "You can stay," he said, his chocolate eyes wandering from my eyes to my lips and back up. His touch was soft, and I must have been selling the part of docile prisoner well for him to consider leaving me. "Don't cause any trouble, darling." He leaned forwards, lips grazing my ear. "Let's not have to make me the bad guy."

And then he was gone, his hand sliding away from my cheeks, fingers lingering for only a second, as he then walked towards the open door. He muttered something to Jared, and then was gone with only one final glance back at me.

I watched him through the glass walls of the greenhouses all the way back to the office.

As soon as he had stepped back inside of the building, I knew that I had to act quickly. I started to walk between the aisles, gently brushing against the hanging flowers and their beautiful petals and waited to see what Jared would do. Whatever Peter had muttered to him must have been serious, because he followed along behind me, hardly further than three steps away at all times. I knew that he was guarding me, the eye he was keeping on me was purely one of duty, very different from Peter's. When Peter had been walking behind me, he had been gauging my reactions, taking in my movements.

Which was why this was going to be so easy. Peter would have been expecting me to do something, would have seen how nervous my breathing had become, how my hands were suddenly clammy. But not Jared.

I gingerly looked over to him, pasting a coy, girlish smile on my face. "Aren't they lovely?"

Clearly shocked at being addressed, he nodded with a bewildered expression. "They are, Miss Whittingham."

"Do you know much about flowers?" I continued.

"I cannot say that I do," he replied. "My girlfriend prefers chocolates as presents. She has allergies."

"Well, can I show you something?"

He hesitated but took a small step forward. Up this close, I could see the boyish roundness to his cheeks, and a small splattering of teenage acne. I had been wrong. He couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen, which made what I was about to do all that much harder. But I had to leave.

"Here," I gestured at the fuchsia rhododendrons in front of me. "Look at these petals."

Jared stepped again towards me and leaned down to look up close at the petal that I was holding between two fingers. As he did so, his eyes left me, and I took my chance.

Releasing the petal, I grabbed a large, ceramic pot and picked it up. Lifting it over my head, and realising just how heavy it was, I smashed it over the back of Jared's head.

He fell to the ground, unconscious before he could get a chance to yell out. Flowers, compost and shards of brown, ceramic clay coated the back of his head, his hair and his uniform, and I stopped only briefly to check that he was still breathing before snatching his access pass from his pocket.

Sprinting out of the greenhouse doors and towards the same gates that I had seen on my walk over, they seemed much further away than they had before. The air was even colder than I remembered and the sweat at the back of my neck was frigid, but my footsteps were steady, as was my grip on the pass.

And then I was at the gate, checking over my shoulder for any sign of Peter, or even Harry or Ned, but no one was there. No one had seen me run.

Through a small crack in the side of the gate I could see what looked to be one long road, and along each side was trees. There was no sign of any other humans, buildings, or cars. But I did not care. Once I was out, I would then focus on finding help.

I slapped the pass against the pad next to the gate, waiting for them to creak open, but that was not what happened. Instead, the pad flashed at me, bright red letters.

ACCESS DENIED.

My heart plummeted to my stomach, but I tapped it again.

The same thing happened.

I had put too much of my faith into this plan, such a desperate, mindless last-ditch attempt at freedom. But it had failed. I screamed, banging my fist against the metal gate and barely registering the pain that broke out through my knuckle. I did the same thing again, rage coursing through each and every part of my body. Rage at the unfairness of my situation, rage at my idiotic attempt at escape, and rage at Peter Parker for putting me into this predicament.

Blood cracked along each of my knuckles as I raised my fist again, but something stopped me. Something warm and brutally tight. It yanked me backwards at a bruisingly fast pace, turning me and slamming my already bleeding hand against the gate.

Eyes full of unadulterated rage glared at me, the colour I believed I would always associate with anger forevermore. One loose lock of walnut brown hair had fallen onto his forehead, reaching his eyebrows, which were furrowed downwards.

"Peter," I breathed before I could stop myself. My heart felt like it was going to fly out of my chest at any moment, it was beating so fast, and there was a lump in my throat that was practically stopping any air from entering my body.

The bones in my wrist were close to snapping from the pressure he was exerting to keep it pressed against the metal gate. "You asked to stay in the greenhouse," Peter ruminated lowly, his other hand clenched at his side. "You asked, so I kindly let you. And this is how you repay my kindness, Halston? By disobeying me? By attacking one of my men in training?"

"You kidnapped me-"

His eyes flashed, and every word I could have said left my body. "I am speaking. Do not ever interrupt me." The hand at his side came up to my chest, his rings glinting in the winter sun. "I knew that you were putting on that compliant little act for my benefit. Did you really think that it would work? Do you think me that stupid?"

The hand at my chest had been slowly creeping upwards, fingers lazily tracing the material of the shirt that he had chosen, but at the word stupid, his long fingers clenched around my throat. Eyes wide, I could do nothing but grip his wrist with my free hand, staring at him and all of his anger.

"I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"You aren't sorry, so do not lie to me. I was being generous to you before, letting you believe that I would like your co-operation. But I have never really needed it, darling." The hand at my throat tightened immensely, and I tried to pull it away from my neck, tried to regain some of the air I needed so desperately to live. My nails dug into his skin, but he hardly looked as if he noticed. "You will do what I want, do as I say, and eventually, you will stop fighting. I will break this rebellious spirit of yours as easily as I had your boyfriend killed."

It was a cruel and cold thing to say. So far, I had not known if Eric was dead or alive, if my brother had found him in time.

Tears welled in my eyes, and they spilled over as I tried to take a gasp of air. Pushing against his hand that held my near-broken wrist to the gate was as impossible as moving a car with my bare hands. The hand at his wrist had given up, now trying to push against his immovable chest. There was such little distance between us that I struggled to even do this. "Please-"

I could barely get the word out. Peter leaned down towards me, a savage sneer on his face, lips viciously curled in anger. His grip tightened further, and I started to sag against the gate as an endless blackness entered the corners of my vision.

"Your boyfriend is gone. Your father will agree to our negotiations. And the only way that you are leaving me is over my dead body. Your fighting is pathetic and a waste of my time."

Was he going to kill me? It certainly felt like it as finally my body started to give up, the darkness a living thing, crawling over my eyes as they fluttered shut. Just as I thought that it was over, he was going to let me die despite telling me that he could not kill me, his hand disappeared at my throat, and instantly moved down, a tight band around my waist as I started to fall. He pulled me against his body as I took in painful breaths of cold air, my lungs both frozen and on fire at the same time.

My forehead was against his shoulder, every limb numb, but I felt his lips against my hair. "The only way to reward disobedience is with punishment."

And then his hand was in my hair, yanking my head backwards so that it made contact with the thick, metal gate. A blinding pain hit the back of my head, taking over everything as I still struggled to breathe properly.

But he wasn't done. I was finally seeing the real side of Peter Parker, not the boy that he had been presenting himself as to me. Continuing to hold my hair, I was being bent over backwards, only his iron grip around my waist stopping me from dropping to the ground. My scalp was on fire.

He stared down at me with eyes full of flames of anger and a violence that threatened to take my life.

"I won't run again. I promise," I choked out, every syllable hurting my aching throat.

"Forgive me if I have trouble believing a single word that comes out of your pretty mouth." I watched as his eyes trailed down from my face to my heaving chest. "All of the things that I could do to you. So many options."

I increased my struggling again at his words, tried to pull his hand away but all that I succeeded in doing was getting him to yank again, my long blonde strands wrapped tightly around his clenched fist.

And then he turned, letting my waist go abruptly, but keeping his hand in my hair. As he marched, I was pulled by his grip, bent backwards awkwardly.

"Stop! Let me go!" I screamed. "Peter, stop!"

The words fell on deaf ears, and if anything, his grip only tightened so that there was no physical way for me to untangle his hand. All I could so was try to keep up with him, to create any kind of leeway possible to relieve me from the pain in my scalp and where he had slammed me against the gate.

This man was a monster.

Here I was crying, defenceless, and in an infinite amount of pain all caused by him, and he did not care. If anyone could see us right now, I prayed that they would intervene, but I doubted it. Everyone was frightened of Peter. I was learning that I should have been more scared.

We were back at the driveway when he finally let go of me. He viciously tore his hand free from my hair, giving me no time to reclaim my balance, and I toppled straight to the concrete floor, my shoulders, back and head thudding painfully against the hard surface.

I stared up as he stood over me, his figure tall and imposing. His hands were at his sides as he looked down. Every part of me was shaking, my head on fire. Every hair felt like it had been torn away - hair that I had grown so long over the years, treated to a trip to my hairdressers nearly every week. This was just another thing that Peter was taking from me. My life. My right to choose my clothing. My freedom. And now something I cherished as simple as my hair. I sobbed, raising a shaking hand to cover my mouth.

The edge of his boots were touching my hips. "You’re lucky that I’m so nice. Imagine if you were with someone who did not have as much patience as me. They might have done something horrible, by now." I sobbed again; a choked cry muffled by my own hand as a sinister smile graced his handsome face. "But disobey me one more time, Halston, and you'll find that I will actually do something about it."

I nodded up at him. He then put one of his hands out, slim fingers pointed down towards me.

Without even a second hesitation as I could see the anger in his face despite his smile, I reached up and took it. He pulled me to my feet easily, and the throbbing in my head intensified. Further tears fell down my cheeks at the pain and at how close I was to Peter.

"Now what do you say?" he said, his hand stroking a finger down my tear-soaked cheek. I closed my eyes.

"I'm sorry for trying to leave."

"And?"

I swallowed heavily, my throat sore. Surely there would be bruises later. "It won't happen again."

"Good girl," he whispered, the fingers almost tenderly caressing my jawline. "I really hope that you don't go back on your word, darling. I really do hate liars."

Nodding, I slowly opened my eyes and nearly jumped back. His face was right in front of mine. "What-?"

"Get in the car," he said, gesturing to an expensive-looking, blacked-out range rover.

"Where are we going?"' I did not move.

He clicked his tongue at me with a sigh. "I'm afraid that you have lost any right to ask me questions. Now, get in the car."

I did not want to anger him further, but the terror I felt at the idea of getting into a vehicle and going anywhere with him was causing my chest to constrict. My breaths were coming out painfully, small, gasping sounds.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t control myself.

"Halston, you need to breathe and do as I say."

"I can't," I whispered, a light-headedness starting to take over.

Thankfully he did not take my words in the wrong sense and feel that I was trying to disobey him. Instead, he reached down into his pocket, and pulled something out. I was too focused on trying to keep my breaths even that I did not look down and see what it was.

"I assure you, that this really is for your own good," he whispered, and as I struggled to breathe, I caught a whiff of that pleasant cigar smell of his.

"What-“

And then there was the smallest prick in the side of my neck, so familiar, but this time I accepted the way that my body started to shut down and my limbs started to give up. I let his arm wrap around my waist and leaned into him, my breaths slowing down, my head against his chest. I felt him lower slightly, and then I was in his arms, his grip under my back and knees keeping me afloat in a world that was otherwise fading away. My head fell backwards and I looked up to the pale, white sky before Peter filled my vision. His expression was softer now.

"You're smarter than this, Halston. Trying to escape is futile, and besides, what makes you think that I'd let you leave? I would find you, no matter what it takes."

My mouth was empty of words, no retorts coming to my blank mind, and as the world went black, I welcomed the darkness.

PREVIOUS PART //

Tagged -

@tomsirishgirlx @steveharringtonswifey09 @slut4bradbradshaw @annellie @roxanne-ragnvindr @peachescream1723 @sydneybehlman

#peter parker #peter parker imagine #peter parker fanfiction #dark peter parker #dark!peter peter #spiderman imagine #dark!spiderman imagine #mob au #mob!peter parker #mob peter parker #mafia peter parker #mafia!peter parker #mob tony stark #peter parker x oc #peter parker x reader #dark imagine #marvel imagine

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strawberry-cowmilk · 3 years ago

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what shoes the brothers would wear

-> side characters here

a/n: I have to wait two weeks for my exam results, I am too lazy to do work and I have an unhealthy shoe addiction. Put 'em together and you get this. This is just for fun and my opinion/hcs, so please don't take it seriously. Also, I didn't really look closely at their canon shoes for this, I feel like that must be said. In this post, I will be roasting some shoes. Again, this is just my opinion and it's totally okay if you do like them.

I own none of the images used, I just put them together with an editing app.

no content warnings

-----

Lucifer

mostly formal shoes, one pair of oxfords and a pair of loafers

he also has this ancient pair of high-top dress shoes he rarely wears anymore

honestly doesn't own many shoes, but the ones he does own are made of high-quality material so they can last long

not much else to say

Mammon

the closest thing to a formal shoe he owns are combat boots

he owns a pair of fake jordans, but tells everyone they are the real, expensive thing and will argue with whoever claims they are fakes

also for some reason I see him wearing vans, but not the ordinary black ones

gucci slides, he brought the real ones but lost them so he went on akuzon and got dupes but the second the dupes arrived he found the real ones again, so mammon decided to throw the fakes out but he made a mistake and threw one fake and one real one away

Leviathan

I'm so sorry, levi stans

he buys 99% of shoes on akuzon, so when he bought the jordans for 20 grimm, he still thinks they're the real deal

levi owns a pair of those water shoes for some reason, and proudly wears them in a jacuzzi

he also thinks the water shoes count as formal wear

he owns flip flops in multiple colors and wears them when it is hot, with gym shorts.

Satan

look me in the eye and tell me satan doesn't wear converse

he has this pair of old hiking boots but he replaced them with timbs after the sole fell off

he owns a pair of formal dress shoes but they look like the love child of clown and bowling shoes

he, like lucifer, doesn't own many pairs as he spends his money on books

Asmodeus

I feel like asmo isn't somebody who would buy something a lot of others own too (like white air forces) but he still needs a pretty sneaker, so he got these fancy black and white ones

asmo surely owns a pair of heels, and they are beautiful (btw if anyone knows where to find those heels, or a look-alike in a US6/UK4/EU37, please let me know, I'm too lazy to diy them UPDATE: I found them, thanks anon in my asks)

he also owns a pair of over-the-top platforms, mostly for photoshoots

asmo also owns some oxfords he got for special occasions, but rarely wears them as he goes for the heels instead, unless he's gonna have to walk a lot

he has a lot of other shoes too

Beelzebub

footwear isn't his priority

he has two sneakers: one for everyday wear and one for sports, but sometimes he mixes them up

beel also owns teva knock-offs he got in the discount bin at the dollar store and I feel like he'd wear them with socks

sometimes steals mammon's gucci slides when he quickly wants to buy food

Belphegor

I know almost for sure he is a dr martens owner

but, he heard the breaking-in horror stories and decided to buy second hand ones to skip the step

belphie also owns the bunny slippers mc got for him, he claimed they are dumb but is afraid to wear and accidentally ruin them

also got a pair of regular slides for ease purposes

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vitaliskravtsov · 3 years ago

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calls and cuddles

A parswoops fic; ~700 words; T for cursing

Kent has a bad night, but Swoops is there, and mostly, that's what counts.

----

Kent's sitting on the floor of his living room in a W-sit, and he looks about 30 seconds away from crying.

Swoops hates that look, more than anything else.

"Hey," he says softly, kicking his shoes onto the mat and advancing in socks to kneel down next to Kent. "Hey, hey, Kent. Kent."

Kent's not wearing a shirt, which could mean any number of things- wrong fabric, too tight, wrong color, wrong smell- but it distills, in Jeff's world, to the fact that he can see Kent's ribcage heaving.

"Breathe, okay?"

"Go away," Kent whispers, voice wrecked and uneven and cracking. "Go away."

"Good try. Breathe in for me, okay?"

"Go away."

"Breathe out."

"I'm fine."

"In."

"Fuck off."

"No. Out."

There's tears rolling down his face now, and his body is shaking, and Jeff's heart is sitting on the floor, fucking up his knees, raking his hands through his hair like he wants to pull it out.

"Fuck. Off."

"C'mon," Jeff says, voice unbeliveably soft. "Unfold your knees."

Unbelievably, Kent swings one leg around to the front so that it's facing straight out and not backwards.

"Other one too," Swoops coaxes, and just like that, he's got an armful of crying hockey player. He rotates his knees to the side and then to the front, and then he's got a lapful of crying fiancé, tucked up against his body, sobbing. He presses soft kisses into Kent's hair, and holds on.

This is the hard part, the waiting it out until Kent has calmed down or cried himself out of tears. There are shortcuts out of it, sure, but those only tend to delay and result in more hurt, later. So instead he stays, and holds on, and when Kent stops shaking, he's there to carry him up to bed.

Swoops isn't stupid; he knows something set Kent off, but he can't find it, and after hour two of watching sports news while simultaneously scrolling the NHL website, he's stumped. He even texts Scraps, but he's got nothing.

When Kent stumbles out of his room, three hours later, he's wearing Swoops' jersey and a pair of Aces joggers, and he looks like someone put him in a salad spinner and went for a few rounds.

He wanders into the kitchen, silently, and pulls out a mug. He gets the milk out, gets the cocoa and sugar out, gets the cinnamon out. Mixes it all into a mug, and throws it in the microwave. He pulls out miniature marshmallows, plops them in his drink, and sits down at the table, head bent, fingers curled around the mug that must be burning them.

"My dad called," he says quietly. "Did you know that doors still slam the same?"

It doesn't make sense, to someone who doesn't spend most of their time trying to see how Kent connects patterns in his head for one reason or another, but it snaps into place in Swoops' map of shit never to do.

"Can we- can we go to the rink?"

And Jeff wants to say yes, anything, always but he knows what will happen if he does, and he knows saying yes will cause more harm than good, and he doesn't want to do that.

"Tomorrow," he says, instead. "We can go early."

"Need it now," Kent says.

"Come cuddle," Swoops tells him, instead of answering. He's weak for that voice, and he knows he can't say yes, and distracting is better than trying to keep saying no.

"Okay," Kent murmurs, and makes his way from the table to the couch, and into Swoops' arms.

"I love you," Swoops says, because he thinks if he doesn't say it, he'll have failed as a boyfriend and also as a human being, because to know Kent and to not tell him he's loved is as much a crime as arson, in Jeff's estimation.

"I'm sorry," the man laying in his chest answers. "You deserve-"

"You," he interrupts, because he can't listen to this. "I deserve you, because you are beautiful-" he presses a kiss to Kent's hair " -and gentle-" kiss "-and kind-" kiss "-and loving-" kiss "-and I don't want anyone else."

"Fuck off," Kent says, but it's soft now, and Jeff doesn't think he'll break if he sleeps.

"Never," Swoops answers. "Never."

#Swoops #Parswoops #*mine #My writing #Omgcp #Kent parson #Jeff troy #omgcheckplease #omg check please

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eowyntheavenger · 2 years ago

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15 Questions 15 Mutuals

I was tagged by @valasania-the-pale, thanks so much for tagging me! :)

Rules: answer the questions and tag fifteen mutuals

1. Are you named after anyone?

Not my first name, but my middle name belongs to one of my mom's best friends, who I love :)

2. When was the last time you cried?

Hmm... I recently teared up while rereading The Silmarilion, does that count?

3. Do you have kids?

No, and it's not something I see for myself.

4. Do you use sarcasm a lot?

Sometimes, but I prefer to just outright criticize things rather than being sarcastic.

5. What’s the first thing you notice about people?

I notice how they treat me and others around them.

6. What's your eye colour?

Blue.

7. Scary movies or happy endings?

Happy endings! Although this frames it as a choice between two things that are not really opposites, so... I also happen to love tragedies.

8. Any special talents?

Depends on whether I'm actually talented, but I think I'm a good writer, and I also have some skill with drawing/painting, although I don't do it often enough these days.

9. Where were you born?

In the Pacific Northwest.

10. What are your hobbies?

Reading, writing, drawing/painting, photography, hiking, and martial arts.

I'm currently reading two books: one about the Coastwatchers in Solomon Islands during World War II, and the other about the Guadalcanal and Bougainville campaigns... also WWII.

I'm also currently working on some writing projects, namely the one giant writing project that has consumed the past three years of my life, although I've been taking a long-ish break for the holiday period (I've been too busy).

I'm also working on my first digital artwork, which has taken a few years at this point... partly because it keeps getting bigger and bigger! Ack!

There are a lot of things I'd like to learn how to do or do more of, like scuba diving, archery, and getting a pilot's license (but I need to save up money for that).

11. Any pets?

Two cats that I love very much. One of them is a tortoiseshell named Minou (there are pictures of her in the link). She is tiny! She is only 6 pounds. She doesn't really know how to meow, so when she wants food or attention she will gently and politely tap me with her paw (it is SO cute).

The other one is an orange cat with white socks named Percy, which is short for Persimmon. She is a troublemaker, and will steal ANYTHING from the kitchen. I once saw her running out of the room with a very long udon noodle trailing from her mouth. She is very cuddly and likes to spend all of her time on my lap, purring. Otherwise she's dashing madly around the house.

I also have a Juniper bonsai, which I think counts as a pet. I have had him for about three years.

12. What sports do you play/have played?

I played soccer as a child, and loved it. I played basketball for one season and it was not for me - neither was cross country. I started doing Muay Thai and boxing when I was 17 and I liked that a hell of a lot better. Then I started doing Brazilian jiu-jitsu and judo in college. Nothing makes me happier than getting to do MMA multiple times per week, and I only wish that I could train regularly right now! I don't live close enough to the school I want to go to - but once I find a new apartment I'll be able to. I also enjoy weightlifting.

13. How tall are you?

5′4″... I would like to be taller, but this IS average height for a woman in the United States (where I live), which is what I remind people who tell me I'm short!

14. Favorite subject in school?

History, to be sure, which was my major. I also enjoyed Philosophy, Russian Literature and my language classes - over the years I took Latin, Japanese, German and Russian. Unfortunately my language skills are a bit rusty now, but I don't regret the time I spent studying them. :) I would like to learn some of the languages of the Pacific Islands - there are certainly a lot to choose from.

15. Dream job?

The one I have now, basically! Although I would like to live in the South Pacific one day. I work for a research institute and my field of study is the Pacific Islands. I love what I do, I get to travel, my coworkers respect me - I'm literally so happy! It's a big relief, because I was not happy at my previous job, and it's hard to find jobs in my field, at least where I live now.

Tagging friends: @softlypause, @wishiwould, @jtulipe, @lonelysocksclub, @orestes-hungry-and-pylades-sober, @frodo-baggins, @princeofnerds, @carinatae, @cosmologicalhedgehogephemera, @igotofetchthesun, @tuulikki, @belljarsandrabbitholes, @warrioreowynofrohan, @daegred-winsterhand, @katbatmagat, @softpyrate, @lie-where-i-land, @speckled-jim, @orangechickenpillow, @potatoobsessed999, @armenelols, @actuallyfingolfin, @backgroundelf, @stillcantgetoverthesilmarillion, @rhymes-with-sky, @kookyburrowing, @novemberblueskyink, @legolasbadass, @playingjax, @calliopechild, @randomphases Okay sorry I tagged a lot of people. No pressure to do it though! And anyone else can join in :)

#personal #tag game

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special-bc-ur-part-of-it · 2 years ago

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thanks to @thelegendofjenna for the tag! <3 here's some info about me I guess:

nickname: iz is technically a nickname :p

favorite musicians: Halsey, Hozier, Taylor Swift, Fall Out Boy, I'm sure I could go on but those are the pretty consistent main ones

favorite sports team: I do not follow sports

other blogs: none <3 I enjoy the chaos of sticking everything in this blog

how many people I follow: 150 (I'm surprised that number is not higher)

tumblr crush: hmm first ones that come to mind are @quizasvivamos (queen of writing all the fics and awesome fandom event mod), @justgleekout (your art is so lovely), and @datshitrandom (for the darren criss pictures and also idk how to describe it but your edits always have a certain quality that it just yes)

lucky numbers: they're probably not actually that lucky, but I like 7 and 24

dream vacation: one that's on my list (thanks to middle school greek mythology kid me) is Greece. oh also I wanna go back to NYC one day. there's many more places on my list

dream car: honestly I don't know right now 🤷‍♀️

favorite food: pasta <3 soup is also good <3

drink of choice: fancy coffeeee drink :)

instruments: I played clarinet in middle school, have attempted to learn a little bit of both guitar and ukulele before, and can find middle c on a piano. I do not play any instruments currently

languages: English, intermediate-ish Spanish, and a few random words of some other languages (that probably doesn't really count tho lol)

celeb crushes: Darren Criss. Anna Kendrick. uh those are the two main ones I can think of right now

fun fact: I'm an avid collector of fun socks :)

tagging: @cerriddwenluna @thaliaisalesbian @quizasvivamos @katyobsesses and anyone else who wants to! <3

#stuff about me #tag games #jenna thelegendofjenna #i'm sure there's more stuff i could add for some of the things but i couldn't think of it #bonus tag fun fact: there's another crush i could have put in the tumblr crushes section #not going to tho bc it's not just a crush on blog #iz sorta has a crush on a person and is figuring that out bc it's been a while since iz has had a real crush #iz overshares in the tags #i have no impulse control #okay time to stop typing in the tags now

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yarbz · 4 years ago

Text

cowardly game of rival — n.jaemin ( f )

synopsis!

━ as the girl’s football team captain, you were used to the endless derogatory taunts, the wolf-whistling, the attempts at romance being boys telling you what they thought of barcelona’s starting XII. na jaemin fell into all those catergories, a detestable flea in your hair. as sworn enemies, there was not even an inkling of romance, and you were convinced that your attraction to him was ONLY physical. weren’t you?

pairing ━ na jaemin x female!reader

word count ━ 6k

genres ━ fluff, rival!au, football!au, comedy, romance, very little of the football game is described in detail.

warnings ━ profanity, football terms, dirty jokes, y/n and jaemin are literally just cowards

( author's note! )

this one came to mind when i thought of how i love female footballers and decided that jaemin would be the idiot in question to chicken out of confessing to their crush by being an ass instead. i really hope you like it !! other notes are sissoko is the name of like three different players and a cracker is slang for a really good goal.

Football.

A sport of creatively insane wits, fancy footwork and incoherent celebrations. Those were all the things you loved about it, along with the ridiculously cute uniform.

It provided you an escape from the man's world, a chance to carve out your own story, free from the shackles of stereotypes. At least, that's what you'd initially thought.

Unfortunately, the boy's football team made it their sole objective in life to demean you. As captain, you took on the strenuous task of refusing to resort to physical violence when a stupid comment about your short length was made or when boys assumed you couldn't tell your Sissoko's apart (you could, quite well actually).

You had taken it as a sign of war, and refused to comment on their pathetic sneers. You did, however, feel as if Na Jaemin made a blood pact or something to be a parasite towards you.

He stood at the cusp of six foot, towering over you like an evergreen beanstalk, cheshire-cat like smile taunting you. Chocolate colour tresses fell over his eyes in straight lines, shielding his forehead.

It's not like you paid attention to his visage, but even you had to admit in your spite that he was attractive. And horribly so.

Today started like every other, going to your locker before heading to your homeroom. Luckily, you'd managed to get there before the freshmen started to pile in. Being a senior had its positives along with its various faults, one of them being the early access you got to the school.

You jammed your key in the lock, flinging open the locker door, making quick work of exchanging your books. In your fast-paced stupor, you didn't notice the figure leaning behind the door. You slammed the door shut, nail catching an patch of skin, scraping it.

"If you wanted me to leave, you could've been less catty." The voice wheedled, throwing a withering glare in your direction. You rolled your eyes, annoyed, arms crossed across your chest.

"Jaemin." You sighed, rubbing your temples. "Why are you hiding behind my locker? Are you looking for a death wish?"

He sat up slowly, soothing his reddening nose, suddenly regaining his smile as he leaned closer towards your face. "If I was looking for a death wish, I'd eat whatever food you just stuffed in there."

"Fuck off. Don't see you making any gourmet meals."

"I'm the gourmet meal." He slithered, breath fanning your nose. From this distance, you could see the wonder swimming within his eyes, breath caught in your throat.

Damn, he was too fine.

You tore your gaze from his eyes, "And yet, I don't feel inclined to taste it." He jumped back in surprise, eyes widening, giving you an opening to dash. Chuffed that you left him speechless, you walked towards your next class, resisting the urge to turn back to revel in his awe-struck face.

Jaemin's eyebrow quirked in curiosity, crooked smirk hanging from his lips. He watched you stalk away, cursing underneath his breath softly. You carried a fiery aura around you, burning him with every snarky remark — even though it beat him bruised ghastly lavenders, he could bear to play with fire if it meant you would pay him attention.

You see, Jaemin did not hate you as per say. The 'hate' which you believed in was merely his inability to profess his affections towards you. For lack of a better word, he was a coward.

A dashingly handsome one, but a fragile, chicken-legged coward all the same.

You'd made it to class in record time, ego bared boldly on your shoulders, attracting the curious eyes of your best friends Yangyang and Donghyuck. Both were terrorists in their own right, but you couldn't help loving them all the same. Sure, they came as a dreadful pair, but love had decided to shackle your heart to them.

"What's got you so happy? Jaemin finally drop dead?" Yangyang joked, shifting to make space for you. Headband strapped to the pinnacle of his forehead, he grinned at you from beneath the base of stretchy ebony material.

"No..not yet." You hummed, sad lilt to your tone.

"Awh, didn't kill him yet?" Donghyuck teased, nudging Yangyang in their laughter. "I think it must be love stopping you from committing the crime yourself." You shoved both, peals of laughter tickling your throat at their whines of pain.

"If you don't shut up, I'll be killing you two instead, never mind Jaemin." You snapped. "Love is what I feel when I score a cracker from the halfway line. Seeing Jaemin makes me want to jump out of the nearest window."

"Are you sure it's not just unresolved sexual tension? I, too get antsy when I haven't jacked off—"

"Finish that sentence and you'll have no arms."

"I'm flexible enough to suck myself off." Yangyang mused, "You'll never stop my libido."

"You're disgusting." You and Donghyuck said in sync, swatting his grabby hands from flying at your shoulders. Quite frankly, you didn't want to hear about his freakishly boneless limbs, or his untameable sex drive, nor hear anything about his genitals at all.

"Does that count as self—"

"Yes, it does. Please don't be telling people that I'm your friend, or that you can do that. It's not a little icebreaker."

Friendship with these two had crossed all sorts of personal boundaries you didn't know existed, and it was starting to decompose you, like a rotting piece of cabbage infested by slugs, yet still hanging on for the glimpse of sunlight to regenerate.

Okay, so you were being dramatic. But, that didn't explain their dire need to over share certain aspects of their lives with you.

"Doesn't change the topic at hand —Did you get my pun?" He asked, looking for Donghyuck's reaction.

"I did. Not going to comment on it before she breaks my arms. Just know I enjoyed it very much."

"If I wanted to mess around with Jaemin, I'd put my hand in a beehive. It'd sting less." You snarled, slamming down your books. They winced comically, faces alert as the teacher walked into the class.

Apart from football, you enjoyed learning — how to make things, break things, self defense, people skills, and education fell not too far from that. Classes like biology interested you greatly, which is why you found yourself fully immersed in the process of respiration.

Your mind drifted for a second, thinking back to what he'd said. Was it actually sexual tension? Did you actually bare an emotion other than loathing towards him? Then, you thought of that face and how you'd want to do nothing more than break his pretty little nose—

Yeah. There it was. You were normal after all.

School had come to her daily dreadful end, and you were happily striding into the ladies' changing rooms for football training. Nobody had gotten here yet, luckily.

You glanced over into the full body mirror, tugging at your shorts until they fell just above the bump of your knee, pulling your sock midway at your calf. Lean abs shone underneath the dim light, and you proudly paraded around the room, happy to be alone.

A knock on the door came, and you swung the door open with a feverish excitement. "Who is it?"

"Didn't take me as a bra kinda girl. Was thinking more spandex or a binder." Jaemin seethed, hands on hips, azure jersey hanging off his lithe frame.

"You're insufferable. Why are you here?" You groaned, choosing to ignore his taunt at your breast size. His eyes crinkled into upside down crescents, wandering lower to the dip of your frilly black bra.

"To see my favourite girl, of course." He whistled, eyes still glued to your unmarked expanse of skin. "I think those need a new owner." He pointed towards your chest.

"Preferably one whose face I can stand to look at."

"I'm roaring with laughter." You snarked, voice dripping with sarcasm, making no attempt to cover yourself up. Jaemin was still staring, face flushed a flaming cerise. "You gonna keep staring or are you gonna leave me alone?"

"I'm not staring. Why are you staring at me?" He shot defensively. Your eyes narrowed at him, watching his cheeks darken with every lingering stare.

"You're in the girl's changing room, drooling over two lumps of fat on the body of a girl that you hate. The real inquisition here is your lack of sensibility to stop thirsting after anything with a vagina."

Jaemin stayed silent, eyes boring holes into your full lips, tongue instinctively darting out to wet his own nimble, chapped ones. Rolling your eyes, you lead him to the door, hand clasped against the door handle.

Then, you heard loud footsteps approaching the room, incoherent rambling increasing in clarity. You began to conjure up a plan, wondering how on Earth you'd be able to kick Jaemin out without the girls knowing.

With the shouts of the team gradually getting closer, you panicked, chucking Jaemin into a locker.

"Fine, I'll leave! Lemme out!" He squirmed, trying to come out of the metal confines.

"You can't leave now, they're literally outside. Do you want to be stomped to death by Nike Mercurials?" You hissed, closing the door over, much to his protests.

"Don't wanna die with the last image being your breasts."

"If you survive this, I'll gladly provide you a new image."

He shut up at that, and you straightened, reaching for your jersey in a false calmness. The girls burst in, squeals of various greetings being thrown across the room.

You smiled gently at them, encouraging them to get changed, joining in to laugh at their jokes. The topic kept shifting from manicures to new boots before finally settling on Na Jaemin.

"Cap'n, what's going on with you and Jaemin?" One of the girls asked, batting her eyelashes softly. "A boy on the football team told me that you guys are dating."

Dating..that devil? A sin punishable by death! You repelled all instinct to shudder in disgust, instead choosing to maintain a neutral expression.

"I am absolutely not dating Na Jaemin. He's a despicable little mongrel and I'd rather eat my shoe—"

"Mon bébé chérie, why do you curse me like this?" Jaemin squeezed from the locker, voice like a wounded puppy.

"Did you hear that? I think it was—"

"No! It's my Jaemin impression. Isn't it so good?" You spluttered, voice rising in volume. You were sure that your face was a painful beetroot, breathing crazily as you over-exerted yourself.

"Cap'n, it was so good I almost thought Jaemin was in here with us!" She gushed, hands clasped. "You guys would be so cute together. Even if you don't like him, I think he most definitely has feelings for you."

The rest of the girls joined in at this, shouts of 'you should take a chance!' resounding in the hollow room. You'd already ruled out that as a possibility, chalking it down to his uncontrollable thirst for being a pest. Na Jaemin was your rival, the utter bane of your existence, a rodent that fed on robbing your spirits dry of any positivity.

"He'll get a chance when pigs fly." You muttered, noticing their eyes staring at you inquisitively, as if they knew something you didn't. Awkwardly, you smiled at the girls, ushering them towards the door, scanning the hallway after the last one had skipped out.

Jaemin untangled himself from the locker, straightening his limbs, pulling at his calves in a stretch. You peered over your shoulder, frown deepening at him.

"Did you mean what you said?" Jaemin breathed, walking into your personal bubble. He was way too close. His breath tickled your forehead, eyes dark with something you couldn't decipher.

He felt his heart pound against his chest, resisting the urge to pick the stray hair in your eye to the side. You were looking at him with a confused expression, nose scrunched, eyebrows furrowed. You were going to be the death of him. Devastated, he broke eye contact, feeling all forms of fight seep from his bones.

"You don't like me." You whispered, wincing at the wobble in your voice. "Everyone's just saying that....right?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"No. I want you to say no."

"I can't do that."

"Well, you have to say no. I don't want to hear the rest of your sentence — keep us as just this." You softly yelled, pointing between the pair of you. "Don't change anything."

"Okay. I'll leave, but only because you want me to. But, before I go..you've gotta start being more observant." He sighed, ruffling your hair before making his way out.

"I’m plenty observant. Wouldn’t be a good player if I wasn’t.”

"I’ll see it when I believe it. Oh, and the thing you said about pigs flying..”

“What about it?”

“Renjun’s working on it.”

You laughed heartily, locking the door behind you. So, Jaemin did in fact think of you as his Aphrodite — all those nicknames were genuinely created out of affections. 'Mon bébé chérie' held a lot more emotional weight than it did twenty minutes ago, and you had to breathe before your eyes prickled with saltine tears.

Fresh air hit you like a loaded delivery truck, Mother Nature delicately wiping the tears from your eyes, shaking you with a cold flourish, roaring your cheeks to life. The team had already started their warm-up drills, as opposed to the boys' football team who were cooling down from their jog.

You ran over, tightening your ponytail, shifting into 'Captain' mode. The coach pushed you into the circle, encouraging you to take the reins. "Team, we've been doing nothing but straight work. Let's make this session count before the match tomorrow." You shouted, feeling that familiar rush of adrenaline.

The team chanted back, settling into their positions for the first drill — a penalty shoot out. You stepped to the ball, striding back to gain a better angle, socks hugging your knees.

Giving yourself a five second countdown, you charged at the ball, foot pointed, kicking it with a passion that rivalled Lionel Messi. It rolled in the back of the net, flying past Hyejoo, who could barely even process it.

"Still got those fire feet, I see, Cap'n!"

"Lady Luck gave them to me for a reason." You boasted, smugness slapped all over your face.

From the corner of your eye, Jaemin snickered, winking at you when you turned to make eye contact. At least he had the audacity to keep up appearances in front of everyone, even if you had probably made everything awkward.

"My granny could kick better than that, babes!" He boomed from across the pitch, teasing smirk on his lips.

"Your granny lives in a retirement home and still calls on you 'Nana Banana'..it's not very nice to lie." You retorted, eyes narrowed, nearing his hunched form.

"Doesn't mean she can't kick your ass. Granny was a little Aguero back in the day."

"She can't if I'm the Manè, can she?"

"But I'm a Modric. I'll beat your ass, any day, any time." He grinned, leaning in to you. "In any way you want."

You heard blood pumping in your ears, your cheeks filling with immense heat. He grabbed your cheeks softly, grinning even wider when you flushed even warmer, a human sauna. Pushing a lock out of your eyes, he searched your eyes for any sense of rage, face softening at your lack of that emotion.

"Any..way..I want?" You mouthed silently, innuendo catching your attention again as you mulled over the words. "Na Jaemin, you're a dirty boy."

"I think you're the dirty girl." He hummed, saying the next sentence in an octave that made your head spin, quietly enough that only the two of you could hear. "Sauntering around in your little Victoria's Secret bra, cozying up to me without even batting an eyelash or covering up."

"These boobs are mine. I'm allowed to show them to anyone I want."

"So you admit to showing them to me? You admit that you were trying to put on a show for me?" He pressed, purposely craning his neck over you.

"I was trying to change. If you didn't come into the room like a little pervert, you'd never have gotten a visual of these."

"And yet I know how they look now. There's nothing that can erase that image."

"Fuck you, Na Jaemin."

"I think you meant to say fuck me, but I'll allow the slip-up just because I'm so nice." You squirmed under his predatory gaze, heat in your cheeks akin to a fever. "Better get back to training, Cap. Your team's got a match tomorrow."

You hissed at him weakly, choosing to walk away from his provocation, going back to the team, who were all smiling at you with a glint in their eye. By the looks on their faces, they'd definitely taken that exchange as a form of flirting.

Not that you were disputing it, of course.

The coach rounded the girls up, calling them to grab bibs. You relaxed, running over to take the last bib once you'd calmed down. Na Jaemin was a little toe-sucking, filthy mongrel who only knew how to charm his way out of everything — totally not your ideal type or anything.

His penance for being blunt coupled with that honeyed voice was what was throwing you off. Not your physical attraction to him. At least, you hoped so.

The shrill shriek of the whistle behind you shook you out of your mind, bringing your attention back to the practice game. With every shot at the goal, you could see Jaemin taunting you, making kissy faces.

After the first half, you weren't sure if it was real or if you were hallucinating — almost like a mirage, he was wearing that stupid little smirk and there was nothing more you wanted than to slap those lips clean off his face.

Soon enough, you clocked that it wasn't just an illusion, as he'd shifted to the opposite end of the pitch, the other boys from the football team watching from the stands.

They'd started jeering at every pass, exaggerating their reactions, commentary toeing the border of sexual harassment. You volleyed the ball on your foot, battering it into the stands, grinning widely as it hit one of the boys in the face, leaving his nose lopsided.

"If you're gonna be a sexist piece of shit, just fuck off. My team doesn't deserve to hear your brain-dead commentary, nor see your fuck face." You smiled, bite in your voice. "Kindly take the opinion that nobody asked for and shove it up your ass."

Jaemin's eyes twinkled with respect, breath caught in his throat at the dark look in your eyes. He felt his chest warm in adoration, heart doubling in size. "You heard the lady."

"Includes you too, Jaemin. Better get home before Granny Na starts missing her little boy."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Fuck off." You said playfully, recovering the ball. He waved you bye, lugging his bag over his shoulder, fixing the collar of his jersey. A beam touched your lips, face lighting up.

Jaemin smirked back at you, taking his leave. He dragged the remnants away with him, leaving the girl's football team alone in the cooling dwindle of Autumn light.

"Nice shorts." A tug.

"Oh? Na Jaemin complimenting me?" You mused in surprise, arms folded across your chest.

"You didn't let me finish." Jaemin whispered, standing on the sidelines of the pitch, pulling at the hem of your shorts. "Ooh, I can see your stubble. Better bring out the razor."

Your jaw tightened, feeling that rush of annoyance fill your veins again. The nerve.

"More stubble than you'll ever grow on that chin."

"At least I'm not a human Sasquatch."

"I've got hair in the right places—" You started, catching the innuendo, glaring at Jaemin's raised eyebrows. "—I know what I meant. Don't be such a dirty boy."

"Say it again. Love the way it rolls off your tongue."

You gaped at him, whole body blowing a fuse, skin reddening at his tone. Sweltering heat danced atop each fingertip, each muscle, making you jolt. His gaze was still glued to your face, relishing the quickly dilating pupils in your eyes.

"I—"

"—Would rather have you speechless after our first time, not for your championship final. When you win, I'll buy you fucking adorable ice cream with the little star sprinkles that you like."

"Going to ignore you on that first statement, but the second one sounds like a motive."

"Win the match, and I'll ask you out. Properly."

You saw his eyes flash with something passionate, flakes of gooey molasses swirling behind the irises. Before you opened your mouth to reply to him, he pleaded silently for you to just take it as it was. "Gimme a chance. Who knows you better than your enemy? Nobody."

"I mean..."

"Only you know that my grandma calls me those corny names or that I see her all the time."

"Or that you lose every game that's not football because you're too lazy to pay attention." You added.

"And I know that you broke a guy's jaw because he was bothering Yangyang." He continued. "And I also know that you know one thing I've never told anyone."

"Ooh, what's that?"

"That I like you."

You looked away from him sheepishly, goosebumps popping up on your skin, and whether it was from the cold or from his words, you didn't know. He was looking down at you tenderly, ruffling your bed of hair, pressing a small, wet kiss to your forehead as the whistle blew.

"Don't play with fire, Na."

"You're more like a carpet burn."

You sighed, defeated. "Fine. I'll give you an answer when we win. If you're playing me, I'll break your arms."

"Okay. Go get 'em, Lady Luck." He smiled, waving you off as you scurried onto the pitch, face glowing under the fluorescent lights. Jaemin felt his chest tighten with pride, jaw aching from all the strenuous smiling.

With that absurdly contented face, you reminded him of a cross between a kid at a carnival and a man about to kill another. Your hair gathered wildly atop your head, a wicked glare painting your face.

This was you at peace, he deduced. Even with the gruesome of expressions, you looked calm. The pitch was truly your home away from home.

Two minutes into the second half saw you being carried off on a stretcher with a torn hamstring. You'd fallen to the grass, no sounds coming from your limp body. Jaemin swore he felt his heart plunge into his ass, and with a frantic flourish, he was coddling your head into his chest.

"Luck, don't die on me. I'm supposed to take you out for ice cream after this, and I stole Renjun's Baskin Robbins loyalty card to cut costs so if we don't go, I'll be getting beat up without having kissed your stupid face." He babbled, slapping your cheeks, scared that you'd genuinely lost your life.

You groaned, rolling slowly in the elastic. "Stop touching my face, I'll get acne." Mildly concussed, you soothed your throbbing headache, registering Jaemin's face looming over you. "Jaemin?"

"Oh, thank God. Thought I'd never see that unruly sparkle in your eyes again."

"Fuck off. My hamstring feels like a fried chicken mukbang and you're talking about my eyes."

"I can't cry before our first date. You'll think I'm a wimp."

"Already think that."

He hit your arm lightly, beaming at your focus on his face, meeting your eyes. You were glaring at him with a kissable pout on your lips, eyebrows furrowed — he wanted to pepper your face in balmy kisses.

The paramedic pushed him away, leading you to the ambulance. You flipped him off, yelling loudly as they wheeled you in, "Make sure you win! Won't forgive you if you don't."

The girl's football team had gathered around the door, all tight-lipped smiles and crumpled faces. They visibly brightened at your declaration, huddling together to recalibrate — the ref blew her whistle to call them back, summoning them back into position.

Yangyang and Donghyuck left the stands, rushing into the ambulance alongside you, closing the door behind them. Jaemin could faintly hear your loud curses, and sighed in relief, knowing that you'd be fine.

With two goals up, the team were at optimum working speed, playing loyally for your honour. Jaemin stood at the sidelines, holding your jacket in his hands as he recorded the match on his phone, wanting to send it to you later.

At 90 minutes, the girl's team had become the winner of the Division One Seoul Inter-district championship, and Jaemin was content. Not because it meant you'd go on that date with him, but because he could feel how much it meant to them.

Everyone around him was cheering madly, chanting and spraying assorted drinks in each other's faces, an infectious joy lingering in his veins. Amongst all the commotion, he'd somehow been pushed into the middle of the team, feeling their gazes boring into his frame.

"You like Cap'n, right?" The brunette said, eyes bright.

"No. I don't like her. She's my rival." Jaemin lied pathetically, trying to escape their judgement.

"Why were you in the locker room then?"

"Damn. How do you know that?"

"Cap'n is horrible at lying, so she's always upfront. She also cannot do an impression so she never attempts it."

"Wow, you guys sure know your stuff. Bet she's glad to have a team like you. I know I'm feeling a little jealous."

"Cut the smooth talk. If you like Cap'n, just be straightforward. She's more innocent than she seems, and can get her heart broken easily."

"Got it." He nodded, "Well...ladies, I have to thank you for the advice."

"No problem, but if you break her heart.." They chorused, "We'll break that pretty little nose." Fifteen studded feet swung at his face, narrowly skimming the bridge of his nose.

He flinched, caught off guard, grin bared. "Now, I definitely got that message. I'll be going to check up on her, what do you want me to say?"

"We've already called her and shown her the trophy, so we have nothing left to say, you, however...take all the time you need."

"Since I have your blessing, am I allowed to—"

"Don't finish that sentence. Keep in your lane."

Jaemin promptly closed his mouth, and bid them a goodbye, dashing into his car towards the hospital, stopping at Baskin Robbins to buy the ice cream he promised. He hoped you’d at least be able to eat the sprinkles (the ones you liked were expensive, and if you didn’t eat them, he’d just wasted an extra 2,500 won.)

In the hospital, you were now dressed in a medical gown, surrounded by the two idiots. It smelt like an experiment lab, and the spotless shades of ivory splashed on the walls made you feel a tad bit overwhelmed.

Your leg had already undergone the MRSI scan, and the nurses had told you that you’d definitely tore your hamstring, but surgery would fix it right up along with natural healing.

Of course, all those details lacked in comparison to your team finally winning the trophy you’d worked so hard towards — that excitement numbed the pain considerably.

“We thought you’d somehow died.” Yangyang confessed, grasping your hands in his clammy ones.

“You did.” Donghyuck sneered, pointing at him, continuing when he saw your face change in confusion. “Yang was convinced that you were invincible like Superman or something. He started blubbering about how you could definitely defeat the grim reaper in close contact and that should be enough to steal back your soul or whatever—”

“I’m just never going to ask questions again.”

“Jaemin was on the verge of a breakdown when he saw you fall. Never have I ever seen him run so fast towards a girl.” Donghyuck said, hand on chin in mock thought.

You blushed, remembering your promise about the ice cream and falling back into the bed in distress.

“What’s going on with you? I saw you two all friendly at the sidelines.” Yangyang murmured, eyes squinting in judgement. “Don’t tell me...you guys fucked before the game?”

Suddenly it was too hot in the room. You fanned yourself to cool down, slapping your own cheeks before pulling Yangyang’s ears. “Yeah, because I have the guts to just have my first time in a school setting.” You deadpanned.

“Naughty girl.” Both boys swooned, unable to note your sarcasm.

“Just because my leg is gone doesn’t mean I can’t harm you anymore. I’ll break your kneecaps.”

In the midst of your fight with your best friends, you spotted Jaemin opening the door, wearing that greasy smirk that made butterflies tickle your throat.

“I see a broken leg isn’t enough to stop you, is it?” Jaemin drawled from the door, hands behind his back. “Still threatening people?”

“It’s not threatening if they deserve it.” You mumbled, suddenly shy. Jaemin maintained his distance from you, arm outstretched, ice cream tub in hand. He was looking away from you, faint blush tinting his cheeks, lips squeezed in a puffy ‘o’.

“Not that I remembered or anything, but you did say something about liking these sprinkles.” He said, eyes darting around to focus on anything but you.

“I do...like these sprinkles..how did you know?”

“Everyone calls you star, and you’re cute. It’s your personality in an edible sugar shape.”

You rolled your eyes at his words, forgetting both Donghyuck and Yangyang were seated in the room. It felt like the two of you were just stuck in your own world, glaring at each other like a pair of lovers.

Unfortunately, that moment was cut short by your ungracious best friends, cooing annoyingly. They were squealing like little girls, incomprehensible screams of ‘our girl’s grown up!’ scraping your eardrums.

“Leave me alone!” You whined, face scrunched in discomfort, making futile attempts to push them away. “Jaemin...please get these two off me.”

“Asking your boyfriend to get rid of us? Already?” Yangyang hollered, one of Jaemin’s arms stopping him from jumping on you again.

“He’s not my boyfriend. As of now, he’s the only sensible one who isn’t mauling the girl with a broken leg, and that’s why I’m asking him for help.”

“Should I throw them out?”

“Yes —actually, do whatever. Let them go terrorise someone that isn’t me.”

“Your wish is my command.”

On that, Jaemin escorted both boys outside, shutting the door on them, cutting off the beginning to their long-winded rant with a smile. That left the two of you alone.

Oddly enough, the silence wasn’t stifling but rather a conversation of the mind — you were able to see what he wanted to say by looking into those mocha coloured eyes. You threw the ice cream tub in the bin, reaching for Jaemin’s hands shyly.

He’d sat down beside you on the bed, just staring at you like you were an abstract painting, a mosaic of a splendid array, unable to take his eyes off you. He took your hand warmly, running his fingers over your calloused knuckles, sharing his heat with you.

“Jaemin.” You yawned, head falling onto his shoulder. “I’m saying yes to your date. If I didn’t get injured, you could’ve taken me out today, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry. Being with you is enough for me, even if I do want to comment on your horrible tackles during the match.” Jaemin teased, grabbing your hand a little tighter.

“Haha...I’m dying of laughter.”

“Hey! None of that here.”

“Sorry. I’m just happy. My team won our first championship, which we’ve been trying to do for three years, and I feel on top of the world. All those years of boys being absolute dickheads to us about our abilities, trying to put us down have amounted to this moment. I’m at peace right now.”

“Don’t apologise. I should be sorry instead. It was easier to talk to you if I pretended I hated you. I shouldn’t have been like that.”

“I accept your apology. But..I think it was cute you couldn’t tell me you liked me! That’s so endearing.”

“Fuck off.”

“That’s my line! Well, you were always attractive to me, even when you were being a dickhead. Now that I think about it, you’re at your hottest when you’re being mean.”

“Is that so?” Jaemin mused, rolling onto his hands, dangling over you, lips eerily close to your own. “Do you want me to treat you mean, keep you keen?”

“Firstly, don’t ever say that again.” You stopped him, hand placed on his chest to push him away lightly. “Secondly, I’ve never had a boyfriend or my first kiss. That means no experience.” You slurred that last part, rushing the words so he wouldn’t be able to hear.

“Cap’n, you’re telling me that I’ll be your first?”

“Not if you don’t ask me out.”

Jaemin sat back beside you, looking up to the ceiling. This was the moment. He took a deep breath, standing up before you, hands rubbing his stomach softly to calm down.

“I wanted to do a real dramatic confession, but I rushed over here in fear that you wouldn’t be able to hit me again, so I’ll have to stick with my speech.” He cheesed, trying to ease himself of his nerves. You laughed, hissing in mock anger when he wore that stupid grin. “I like you. Like a lot. Sometimes, I come to school with a dirty scowl on my face, but then I see your face and start smiling like a love struck fool. You’re someone that I wouldn’t want to lose.”

“Jaemin, you little mongrel. Come here.” You waved him over, arms outstretched in a hug. “Even though I know your ego won’t let you ask me out properly, I would love to be your girlfriend. However, if my heart is broken..I’ll be stoning your car.”

“Thought you were gonna say that you’d break my face.”

“That too.”

He snuggled closer into you, peering up at you with shining eyes, not wanting to move too much to keep you comfortable. You grinned back at him, placing a soft kiss on his head, running a hand through his hair.

That familiar silence returned, and that’s how you fell asleep with Na Jaemin enveloped in your chest. Although you’d broken a leg, Lady Luck seemed to have twiddled her fingers to send you a ‘get well soon’ present, the ever cunning Na Jaemin.

Five months later had you no longer hobbling around on crutches like a hobbit, but walking proud and tall. Jaemin drove you to school (using the excuse of carpooling) and helped you take your books to first period everyday — the alpha male in him winced seeing you attempt any ‘heavy lifting’, and he’d made it a routine.

“Can you fuck off? I can carry this.” You complained, pinching his side. “Just because I see a physio biweekly doesn’t mean I’m about as able-bodied as a monkey.”

“Got the hair to be a monkey.” He snorted.

“Look who’s talking, Mr.Sasquatch. Bigger feet than his prints, you little scoundrel.”

“Big feet means big—”

“Don’t finish that if you wanna keep the body part in question.”

“—heart. Dirty girl.”

You felt the honey pooling in your stomach, kissing his cheek in haste to escape his relentless teasing. He shut up at that, pulling you back to kiss you properly, attracting the attention of everyone in the hallway.

“Get to class.” He announced as he parted from you, enjoying your petulant face. You hit him softly, flipping him off from behind you, blowing him a kiss.

Ah, Na Jaemin. You still hated him. Just a little less this time.

#na jaemin imagines #jaemin imagines #jaemin scenarios #jaemin fluff #na jaemin scénarios #na jaemin fluff #nct imagines #nct dream imagines #nct scenarios #nct fluff #nct #nct dream #nct2020 #kpop imagines #kpop scénarios #kpop fluff #kpop #nct smut #kpop smut

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littlestarofthewest · 4 years ago

Note

*chants softly* Do it - write that modern AU uno fic that the fandom doesn't realise that they desperately need 👿😏😘

Remember this? This came up between Christmas and New Year’s 2019 xD And now I finally did it.

Pairing: Arthur x gn reader | Words: 2325 | Rating: mildly nsft | Tags: strip Uno (yes, you’re reading this right), modern AU

The party is in full swing around you, but you have no desire to join in. It's been a while since a new year made you hopeful, and all the happiness and well wishes for another promising year sound forced and wrong in your ears.

It's too loud, and it smells like alcohol and too many people in a small space. You can barely breathe, so you head along the corridor to the rooms that are off-limits to the other guests. You don't feel like crashing in John's and Abigail's bedroom, so you take the next room that's part office, part storage room. In the past, you sometimes crashed here for the night.

You close the door behind you with a sigh and are about to head for the couch, but then you spot someone sitting in front of it on the ground. He's hunched over a little and looks up when you stop dead in your tracks.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't know somebody was in here."

"It's alright," the guy says, offering you a kind smile.

A little lamp next to the sofa throws a soft shadow on his face, and you recognize the beard and nice features. You've seen him many times in photos around the apartment.

"You're Arthur, right?" you ask. "John's friend slash brother?"

Arthur chuckles. "Yeah, I guess you could call me that."

"I'm Y/N, Abigail's friend."

Recognition shows in Arthur's face, and he nods. "Friend slash soul mate slash the only person who understands Abigail whenever John acts like … well, John."

"So you have heard of me."

"A little, here and there," Arthur says, "mostly good."

"Mostly?"

Arthur grins a little one-sided, and something warm rises up in your stomach. You always thought that Arthur was handsome based on the pictures. It's way worse in person.

"I didn't mean to crush your party-" you start, but Arthur interrupts you.

"It's alright. I understand the urge for some peace and quiet. Please stay."

"Thanks." You move closer and sit down on the ground, putting your first and only drink down on the table next to the lamp. "What you got there?"

"Uno cards, if you believe it," Arthur says, and you both look at each other and speak at the same time. "John."

Arthur laughs, and you take a sip from your drink, enjoying the view. You definitely prefer Arthur's company to all the fake happy people outside.

"You gonna shuffle those all night, or are you ready to lose?" you ask.

"Lose?" Arthur measures you with a raised brow. "Around here, nobody takes me on."

You wave your fingers at him. "Come on then. Deal."

Arthur shuffles the cards for real now before setting up the first game, and you try to figure out if you've ever had a stranger New Year's Eve. Sitting in a friend's apartment playing Uno with a stranger is not a plan you would have made.

About two minutes later, Arthur puts his last card on the pile. "See?" he teases, but you just shrug.

"Beginner's luck."

You go back and forth with dealing the cards, and although Arthur wins the first three games, you soon catch up, making you both even again.

"So, why are you in here?" you ask, sorting your cards.

"I only came because John and Abigail wanted to set me up, but she didn't show," Arthur says with a shrug. "Didn't feel like partying after that."

"That sucks. Did her plans change?"

"More her perspective, I guess," Arthur says, something defeated in his voice. "Saw my profile picture, and suddenly she changed her mind."

"Nah, that can't be it."

"Why not?"

"Because you're gorgeous."

"I- What?" Arthur stumbles.

"I'm telling you that you're a very attractive man," you say while watching your cards. "And Uno, by the way."

"Oh, well, thank you, I guess," Arthur says. He puts another card on the pile, his cheeks now sporting a red tinge. "You're very nice."

"Just honest. And I win."

You grin at Arthur as he collects the cards to shuffle again. "You really are a worthy foe. We should make this more interesting."

"What, like strip poker?" you joke and Arthur laughs.

"We only have Uno cards." He's about to deal, but then he looks at you with a mischievous spark in his eyes. "Although it doesn't make much difference, really."

You look at each other and there's a sudden tension as if both of you wait for the other to chicken out or laugh. You wish you could, but the idea of getting Arthur naked is too tempting, even if you might lose some of your clothes yourself.

"We should probably lock the door," you say as casually as you can.

"Yeah, that's a good idea."

You get up to lock the door, and when you come back, Arthur deals, both of you acting as if nothing changed, but you feel a constant wave of heat running up and down your body. Before, you didn't really care much for your cards, but now every move counts.

Arthur's the first one to win, but the second he puts down the card, he looks like he'd rather take it back. "Look, you don't have to-"

You interrupt him by taking off one of your shoes. "You're just worried you're going to lose."

"Fine, you're asking for it."

Arthur wins again, getting your second shoe, followed by you winning for the first time. Like you, Arthur loses his shoes first, and then you agree to count both socks as one item. That's how Arthur ends up shirtless pretty soon after. You tell yourself that a naked torso is really nothing special, but for some reason, you play your worst round.

"You seem to have a hard time concentrating," Arthur teases, and you hate that he actually noticed.

"Shut up," you grunt, focusing on the cards. Still, you can't help but peek at Arthur once in a while.

"How did you end up here then tonight?" Arthur asks.

"My ex is back in town and hung around in front of my apartment, so Abigail suggested I hang out here."

"Something to be concerned about?" Arthur asks, his voice making clear how he thinks about a stalker-y ex.

"It's not that bad, really. They're not dangerous or anything, just annoying," you explain. "It's probably just a desperate 'alone on New Year's Eve' thing. Like I'd do that again."

You roll your eyes, and Arthur chuckles. "One of those, huh? Just gotta wait them out then. And this is your shirt gone."

He puts down his last card, and you get to your feet. "I'll go with the pants first if you don't mind. I'm hot anyway."

"Suit yourself," Arthur says nonchalantly, but you can feel his eyes on you as you slide the fabric down your legs.

Arthur looks away again when you sit, but your skin still prickles, and you wonder how much more of this you can take. Playing freaking Uno shouldn't be this hot.

Lucky for you, you get a good hand, and despite your lack of concentration, Arthur's the one who has to get rid of his pants next. You try your best not to stare at his junk but fail miserably. Suddenly you're very concerned about what could happen next. Arthur must think the same.

"Glad we locked the door," Arthur grunts, "I don't need strangers looking at my junk."

"I'm a stranger, too, aren't I?"

"You called me gorgeous; you can do whatever you want," Arthur says.

You know he's joking, but that doesn't stop your brain from imagining things you could do to or with him. That very pleasing but also distracting train of thought loses you your shirt in the next round. Still, Arthur's the one who has to get rid of his underwear first.

This time, you have the decency to look away until he sits down again, and the red on Arthur's cheeks is back.

"So, what now?" he asks. "Can't exactly take off more if I lose."

After what you just thought about, your brain seems to have lost all sensible ideas, and you blurt out the first thing on your mind. "Truth or dare."

Arthur chuckles. "Really? And next up is 'spin the bottle?'"

"Hey, we're playing strip Uno," you huff, "you really want to get judgemental on me now?"

"Alright, alright, 'truth or dare' it is. Just deal."

You deal the cards with butterflies taking flight in your stomach. You don't even know what to ask or dare Arthur, but the alternative is to get naked yourself. Either way, you're in trouble.

The round goes on and on, both of you putting on more cards rather than losing them, but then the game turns in Arthur's favor until he forgets to say Uno. You have better luck then, finally winning the round.

This time, it's you who tries to offer a way out. "Look, you don't have-"

"No, no, that's what we agreed on," Arthur says, waving his fingers at you. "Come on, ask."

"Alright, truth, or dare?"

Arthur studies you for a moment, his gaze so intense that a cold shiver runs down your spine. "Dare."

All kinds of stupid things run through your mind, but you don't want to make Arthur look foolish, especially in front of anybody else. You want to keep him all to yourself.

"I dare you not to move, no matter what."

Arthur raises his eyebrows in surprise but stays deliberately still. You take all your courage and crawl over to him, scattering the cards without a second thought.

When you reach Arthur, you run your cheek along his one like a cat before placing soft kisses along his neck. You hear him take in a sharp breath, but he doesn't move.

You look up to him, and he keeps still as you move closer, your lips hovering so close to his that you can feel his breath. It takes all your willpower not to kiss him, but you're still playing after all.

"Your turn," you say, looking right into Arthur's eyes. They're a nice shade of blue but with an almost golden circle in the middle.

"Truth or dare?" Arthur asks.

"Dare," you say way too fast.

Arthur's lip twitches into a smile, but he still doesn't move. "I dare you to come closer."

You crawl into Arthur's lap, very aware of the fact that only a tiny piece of fabric keeps you apart. With your arms around Arthur's neck, you make yourself comfortable, but your faces are still inches apart.

"Truth or dare?" you ask.

"The truth is that I didn't say Uno on purpose," Arthur says. You believe him, which means that he wanted for this little game to start.

"Trickery," you say, running your fingers through his hair, "how very naughty of you. I think that entitles me to dare you again."

"Sounds fair."

You move even closer, your fingers teasing Arthur's neck. "I dare you to touch me."

Arthur places his hands on your knees before running them up to your thighs. You get goosebumps all over your skin and can't help that you fidget a little. The friction takes its toll on Arthur. You can feel him pressing up against you while he runs his hands up along your body.

"Truth or dare?" he asks, his fingers dancing over your back.

"Truth. I want you to kiss me."

Arthur caresses your shoulders while he looks at you, his fingers climbing your neck in slow motion. The touch makes you shiver, but you stay right where you are, letting Arthur cup your face with his hands. Only when there's a barely-there pull, you move, finally closing the gap between you and Arthur.

You can't remember the last time someone kissed you this gently, and you melt against Arthur, promising yourself to stay in his lap for as long as you possibly can.

Arthur deepens the kiss, the taste, and warmth of him making you forget where you are until there's a harsh knock on the door.

"Hey, Y/N? You in there? It's me."

You feel like being doused with ice water, and your fingers dig harshly into Arthur's shoulders.

"Who's that?" he whispers, worry in his expression.

"My ex," you whisper back.

"Come on, let's talk," comes the voice from outside.

Arthur raises his eyebrows in question, and you immediately shake your head, so he tilts his head to face the door. "Do you mind? We're trying to hook up in here."

There's silence, and you bite your lip so you won't laugh. Sadly, your ex doesn't give up that easily. "Who is this?"

"It's Arthur; you might want to remember that name the next time you skulk around somebody's apartment."

It's silent again, then your ex clears their throat. "Just call me, okay? We can talk about this?"

You look at Arthur, slightly shaking your head, so you both stay quiet until you're sure your ex is gone. Arthur leans back with a sigh, resting his head against the couch. "That was not a turn on."

"I'm sorry," you say, running your fingers over his beard. "Like I said - annoying."

Arthur watches the ceiling for a bit before he takes your hands, threading your fingers together. "You know, I have an apartment, too. No exes hanging around that one."

You laugh. "Getting me naked here doesn't mean you can get me naked over there."

"I just borrow these cards, and we'll see what happens."

He kisses you again, and you have to admit to yourself that you'd rip your clothes off in an instant if he asked you to. You still act like you need to be persuaded. "Fine, you may take me there and try again. You might lose, though."

Arthur smiles. "I'll take that risk."

Getting dressed has never been such a thrill for you. Maybe the new year wasn't so bad after all.

#arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 fanfic #my writing #rdr2 modern au #fulfilled requests #fangirl-ramblings

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rootin-tootin-cum-shootin · 4 years ago

Text

Inosuke College AU

Word count: 1,350

Major: Kinesiology

Minor: Psychology

Sports: Judo, Rugby

Clubs: Tanjiro signed him up for a ceramics club, and he goes only to try and one up him (Which is not the point of the club at all smh) but he attends every meeting without fail.

He's that dude that walks into the lecture hall wearing the most outrageous and eye-catching outfits

You just can't help but see him and instantly know what he's like to talk to

Neon orange athletic shorts with a hawaiian shirt so stereotypical it makes your eyes twitch in displeasure

Add some burkenstock sandals worn with mismatched socks and you have Inosuke

Just by looking at him you know he is quite the personality to work with

And he is, but he is intelligent and definitely pulls his weight in projects

Will chastise his classmates if they get injured while doing the more active labs

But he does that while tending to their injuries so you know he cares about their wellbeing

It's quite sweet of him!

Well it would be if every 3rd word wasn't a swear

That doesn't mean he has terrible grades though.

No he actually does quite well in his courses and there's one simple reason as to why;

he's genuinely hard working

Which surprises nearly everyone who sees him.

But that only makes him work harder

You see Inosuke decided to actually get an education for the simple reason that everyone assumed he was too stupid to do anything with his life

He originally wanted to do Zoology but then he realized that he has too much energy, which ends up scaring off most animals

Which defeats the whole "study of animals" part of Zoology

Of course his Mom was in his corner despite this, really only wanting her son to be happy and find his own success

So he wouldn’t make the same mistakes she did in her youth

Inosuke actually got advice from his mom which helped him settle on Kinesiology as his degree

But once he settled on his degree he was set in stone

His pseudo-step dad offered to pay for his schooling but Inosuke said "I would rather swallow a truck whole than be indebted to you"

And then took out a shit ton of loans to pay for everything

Which only amused his pseudo-dad and made his mom worry a tad

He manages to work a part time job flipping burgers over the summer which was enough to let him pay for his books and meal plan outright for the first year

And yet despite seeing him bust his ass to be able to go to school people still tried to dissuade him from doing anything further with his life

Which only made him work harder

His whole attitude towards school is "man this sucks but also fuck anyone and anything that tries to make me quit: No You"

Inosuke even takes pride in the dropped jaws that come from seeing him at the top of his courses

The boy has never once gotten lower than an 80% on an assignment

He does best in his statistics course simply because both Tanjiro and Zenitsu are also enrolled in that block

Inosuke is competitive

In his other courses nobody stirs up that aggressive competitive spirit like Tanjiro and Zenitsu do in their shared Stat course

And with the pair of them around him, Inosuke feels the urge to out do both to the point where he likes to imagine their feelings of inferiority will crush them like a 1 ton block of the densest concrete imaginable

Inosuke actually made Zenitsu stop breathing from sheer shock and awe when he realized what Inosuke's minor was

Psych is Zenitsu's major (the duo don't share any courses for psychology so they didn't know until then) and it caused Zenitsu to go on a rant to the effect of, " to think that pig headed idiot is doing better than me, that must be a lie! LIAR"

That rant made Inosuke laugh so hard he fell off the table he was sitting on

He actually bruised a rib because of it

It remains Inosuke's favourite memory of Zenitsu because of this

And he wants to see how else he can make him turn purple with rage

Hence he often comes up with weird ways to try and express his perceived academic superiority over his friends rivals

Zenitsu falls for the weird competitive schemes Inosuke comes up with

Tanjiro decidedly does not, in fact he doesn't really care so long as nobody actually gets hurt

Does that stop Inosuke from trying to outdo him? N o p e

If Tanjiro gets 96% on an assignment Inosuke must get 100%

What can I say Inosuke is a competitive guy

And it works for him as motivation

Maybe a little too well if Inosuke has anything to say about it

(He was embarrassed bc he got called out publicly at his grad ceremony for not just outstanding academic excellence but by the elderly head of the department for "being the Kinesiology student with the highest grades since the founding of the department" )

The metal he received from the department head totally does not hang on the wall in his mom's house

Speaking of competitive spirit at school

He trains really hard for both Judo and Rugby

Its a great way for Inosuke to burn off both his aggression towards all the frustrating people he's stuck interacting with and his pent up energy

Kicking ass just makes his temperament a lot easier to deal with for others and he will use ' sports practice' excuse to leave whatever social situation he doesn't want to be in

He just really likes contact sports okay

And by God is he good at them

Like takes home trophies and metals kinda good

Which also aren't being kept at him mom's house where he definitely doesn't have displayed where she can see them and be proud of him

However due to his tendency to be aggressive with the intensity of interest he has in things

Tanjiro signed Inosuke up for a ceramics class

He thought that Inosuke would do well with something relaxing to do while still keeping it tactile enough to keep him interested

It did not go over as well as Tanjiro had hoped

But despite this Inosuke still goes to every single club meet up without fail

Is he good at it? No

Is Tanjiro? Definitely

Does that make Inosuke steaming mad? Yep

Inosuke generally sucks at making clay things symmetrical

So every plate or bowl or vase he makes ends up lopsided

Inosuke will die before he admits to Tanjiro that he was glad for being signed up after he gave his Mom the successful first mug he made and she smiled brighter than she had in years

It was bright green with blue and purple childlike butterfly drawings on it and the glaze wasn't spread evenly so it looks a little patchy

And the handle is proportional too large and thin for the cup itself

But Inosuke's mom loves it more than any other mug in the house

And now every time he goes home to see her and she uses that mug, he finds himself quite happy

But he will deny it thoroughly.

All in all he loves getting the chance to go to College

He may hate the judgy people he's forced to encounter regularly but Inosuke does adore the chance to learn and explore new interests

Not to mention the people he gets to interact with

Even if he knows the debt will weigh heavy on his bank account for a long while.

He still thinks it was all worth it.

#inosuke hashibira #demon slayer #demon slayer au #demon slayer inosuke #demon slayer modern au #inosuke hashiriba college au #demon slayer headcanons

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liibrii · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter 1: Still the same

Ojiro Aran x fem!reader

Synopsis: In Aran's eyes you've always been someone he could lean onto. Before you lost touch after graduating that was. Now that you've found a way back into his life, cracking under the weight of the world, he's determined to be there for you as you were for him. It really is only the question of time before he falls in love with you again but he soon starts to realise he might not know you all that well to begin with...

Genre: hurt/comfort, angst, slow burn, friends to lovers

Warnings: timeskip spoilers, internalised guilt and shame, intrusive thoughts, self doubt, depression, anxiety, swearing, use of alcohol

wc: 3.1k

a/n: if you wanna be tagged lemme know. as always feedback is greatly appreciated! a big thanks to @rosecaffelatte for the help with header and dividers!

“I dig the new look. But why just the beard, why not grow some nice moustache too? You could twirl them during matches. Like some super volleyball villain.“

Aran's coffee goes down the wrong pipe. “Is that how ya see me?” he asks during coughs.

Years later and your laughter still sounds the same. Warmth spreading through him is still the same. It's been a few months since you moved to Tokyo to finish your degree. “Better late than never, right?“ you told him the first time you got coffee together. An unfamiliar bitterness laced your voice then.

“Me? No. But the opponent might.“ You add some sugar to your cup before making a sip. Aran remembers seeing your favourite drink on the menu and wonders why you ordered something else. Maybe you just don't like it anymore. It has been some time since he last saw you.

Almost four years to be exact. Has it really been that long? He remembers the reunion as if it happened yesterday and graduation only a day before.

“We're graduating in a few days so I made you all a little something.“ You pulled neatly wrapped gifts from your bag. “Don't look so suspicious.“Seeing team's faces made you scrunch up your nose. “It's just a framed picture.“

You made one for everyone, even the first years who were merely bench warmers. It's the picture of the entire team taken after you returned from your last nationals. Aran remembers vividly how insistent you were on hanging team banner in the background. 'We don't need memories.' “But I sure do,“ you joked.

There's a hand written message on the back side. A different note for every single member.

“Take that 'Tsumu!“ shouted Osamu back then and pushed his frame under Atsumu's nose, “Look here, 'Don't tell 'Tsumu but yer my favourite twin!'“

Atsumu sneered at his brother: “What're ya talkin' about? 'Tsum-Tsum yer on the way of becomin' the best setter the world has ever known. And don't tell 'Samu but yer my favourite twin!' Take that ya pig!“

Aran laughed with the rest of the team. How typical that you would play twins against each other to create chaos. 'Aran,' his note read, 'don't forget to stretch properly after practice! And please, never sprain your ankle during matches. World doesn't have to know all your socks have holes in them.'

The first time he noticed your absence in his life was only months after graduating. The volleyball club manager who yelled at the cheering squad in front of the entire gymnasium for making a first year cry during a practice match. Fearless.

You were there when he needed someone to lean onto. With a snack and a sports drink, staying late just to make sure he didn't go overboard with practice. A light slap on his shoulders when he was wallowing in self doubt. On the days it got especially bad you pulled a pack of ritz crackers from your secret stash of snacks and bought him a drink on the way home. Sometimes you'd sit on the stone fence by the crossroad where your path home diverged, gossiping for hours about your classmates and teachers. Aran found it so easy to tell you all the trouble weighing on his mind. Be it about school or volleyball, you listened. Even when he knew he was talking nonsense, even when he knew his worries were just unfounded doubts you listened.

“Better to try and fail than to never try at all,“ you once told him.

Aran's lips curved into a small smile. “Where did ya read that? Some ancient philosopher?“

“No, it's a song.“ You pulled out your phone from the pocket and offered him a headphone. “Wanna listen to it?“

It really was no surprise he fell in love with you.

But he never spoke of how his breath caught in his throat, how his heart pounded whenever you were around. How could he when he had always known that look of pure love and adoration in your eyes would never be meant for him?

How could it be when you were so obviously in love with Kita?

No matter how much his heart ached for you he had to admit you and Kita were a match made in heaven. Years later and he still remembers the pictures in your room, you and Kita aged five or so holding hands, bruised knees and dirty cheeks, you and Kita on your first day of elementary school, you and Kita graduating Middle school. You and Kita joining volleyball club together. You and Kita locking pinkies on the way home. You and Kita. Always you and Kita.

He was so jealous back then. It drained so much of his energy trying to prevent the sneering beast from taking over. So much suppressed emotions trying to protect the friendship he to this day holds so dear. But no matter what he did he couldn't prevent his insides clenching every time you took Kita's hand. Well, why did he even expect you'd chose anyone but him? You've known him your entire life. Kita was your best friend from before either of you even knew what that meant. He understood you better than anyone. Why would you ever choose anyone but him?

For years you were happy and for years Aran believed he had moved on. Once in passing Kita even bashfully mentioned marriage. Aran congratulated his friend, even looked at engagement rings with him. That night he cam home and collapsed on the bed dazed from emotions erupting back to the surface. In his lonely, empty apartment he cried his eyes out. Never before had he been so angry at himself. He believed he was over you. And with one single sentence from Kita vines carrying your name sprouted thorns and pierced his heart.

He was a terrible friend, wasn't he? Perhaps this was his punishment for wishing you were in his arms instead. You are happy, right? So why can't that be enough? Even if it's with someone else, if he really loved you then knowing you are happy should be all that matters, right?

You were happy. Until you weren't. Aran was never glad to learn you and Kita broke up. But he wasn't sad either.

“I always thought ya and Shinsuke were gonna be it.“

Warm sunlight dances over your face. You stare out the window, the gaze of your eyes sorrowful. Aran doesn't remember ever seeing you sad. You've always been the happy one, the one capable of lifting others' spirits no matter how bad it was.

You stir your drink. “I thought so too.“ When you lean back your eyes still search for something in the street. “But that's how it goes you know, sooner or later you realise you've been wrong. One way or another.“

You're trying to sound carefree and Aran's heart cracks a little. Why are you trying so hard to conceal the pain? Don't you trust him?

You are still his friend. He's starting to think that maybe... Maybe he isn't yours anymore. He shouldn't have brought up Kita. Idiot.

“Our semi-final match is next week. Ya comin'?“

Before you answer a small voice chimes in. “Uhm, excuse me? Ojiro-san?“ The boy's eyes sparkle with excitement as he asks for an autograph and a picture and Aran's more than happy to oblige. Two other kids show up and then their parents and some of the guests who had been throwing glances at your table for some time. Aran takes his time taking pictures and exchanging pleasantries. Meeting fans is the one aspect of being a renown athlete he likes.

When he turns back at you there's a fond smile on your face. “Remember those times when you thought you had no future in volleyball because you didn't get invited to youth training camp?“ Your voice softens. “Look at you now. Ojiro Aran, outside hitter of Japan's National Team.“

The light trace of pride in your voice makes his face heat up. “I was lucky to have friends who believed in me.“

“True. I better get going, my shift stars in an hour.“ You stand up and collect your things. “Talk to you later!“

What little of time you spent together always seemed to fly past too rapidly. Aran watches through the window as you hurry down the street. His coffee has gotten cold.

His spike wins them the semi-finals. In the eruption of cheering he can't hear your voice but he does see you bouncing on your heels right beside his family. You're wearing his jersey. Not a replica, it's the same jersey he wore the last season. You jumped from happiness when you opened the present. One more for your small collection of former teammates' jerseys.

Aran beams and waves in your direction. If he could he'd run over to hug and spin you around just like he used to do back in high school but he's called away. By the time interviews are over you're long gone. A part of him really hoped you would wait for him. Just like you did back in high school. All there is is a message telling him he was amazing and you're proud of him. His heart swells and for the rest of the day nothing can wipe the wide grin off of his face.

At the after party alcohol runs in rivers. Since there's no practice scheduled for tomorrow his teammates go wild. Aran downs his fifth or sixth shot having lost count a while ago. He's warm and giddy, from the victory, the alcohol, the girl on his lap running her hands up and down his chest. What was her name again? She pulls him to the dance floor, her hair is the same colour as yours and her body feels so nice against his... She looks at him funny when he calls her your name. He gets lost in the blasting music and dim lights, the haze of all the drinks and the arm around his waist.

The sound of the alarm clock might as well be a sack of rocks someone dumped on his head. Even still half asleep the blunt throbbing in his head is becoming unbearable. He wraps himself tighter with the thin blanket. Futon beneath shifts as someone climbs over him.

Or perhaps he's just dreaming.

When the second alarm rings Aran's eyes begrudgingly flutter open. He struggles to pick up the phone trying to hit that snooze button. He rubs the sleep off his eyes. That's not his phone.

The alarm is still ringing. Oh, he's going to have one hell of a headache today. His fingers shake when he finally finds the 'stop' button. For a few moments he lies motionless though the pounding of his heart rings in his ears. Last night is a haze of disconnected voices and pictures. The futon beneath him is too small to be his and he doesn't recognise the pattern of the sheets either. He probably slept with some girl from the party. Better get up and get the awkward 'morning after' conversation over with.

Sitting up he discovers all his clothes are still on. The room doesn't look familiar, yet the smell... There's something homey and intoxicating about it.

Standing up is a feat on its own. He's dizzy from the sleep and the alcohol and has to grab the edge of the desk to steady himself. He closes his eyes and waits for dizziness to pass. In the weak morning sunlight sipping through the window he notices books and pencils strewn all over. There's a framed picture on the window ledge. It takes a moment for him to recognise it.

Last year of high school, the last trip to the beach you made together. Akagi is giving you a piggy-back ride, Omimi holds both of your popsicles with a fond look on his face. Aran stands beside him, carrying the inflatable ring you guys later accidentally popped on a rock, and on the edge of the group is Kita. His face is covered with a post-it note.

Sudden sickness twists his stomach and it's not just too much alcohol to blame. He slides open the door and looks around before walking down a short hallway to the kitchen. You're just packing your bag. “Look who woke up from his beauty sleep. Want some breakfast?“

“Bathroom,“ is all he manages to utter.

“Last door on the right.“

He finds it not a moment too early. How embarrassing, to be throwing up at your place. He feels your hands rub soothing circles on his back as he leans over the toilet. Once his stomach settles down you hand him a glass of water and some headache medicine. His head is spinning. When he finally collects himself enough to stand up on his own you hand him a new toothbrush. “I gotta go in a few minutes. Professor doesn't like us being late.“

“What happened?“ His voice is hoarse.

“You had a drink too much Mr. Lightweight,“ you say with a loop sided grin. “A girl form the party called me in the middle of the night asking for someone to pick you up. It's a good thing she did cause everyone was so drunk they couldn't stand straight. You guys really did take celebrating to a whole new level. I did take you to your place but when we got there your keys were gone. So might want to look into that. Also I'm pretty sure I strained a muscle dragging you up the stairs.“ You glimpse over to the clock on the wall. “Listen, I really have to go. My roommate'll be home all day so you can stay if you want. And when you get hungry just take something from the fridge. You gonna be alright?“

Aran nods. Fuck, even that hurts. “Need to sleep it off,“ he mumbles.

You give him one more pat on the back before you leave. He struggles for a while trying to unscrew the tube of toothpaste. Never before has brushing teeth posed such a challenge. He washes his face with ice cold water that does nothing to improve the headache or his mood.

He collapses back on your futon. So, this is your room then. It's nothing like the one he remembers from back home. The Vabo-chan plushie team gifted you for your birthday lies on the pillow. It still holds the ball Omimi made at the last moment, not that he was the one given this task in the first place. It was meant as a joke yet you brought it with you to Tokyo. Aran snuggles it, noticing how pale and worn out it's becoming. He drifts back to sleep, thinking he should tell the others you still have it. They'll be glad to hear it.

No matter how hard Aran tries to pay you back the money for the taxi ride from the party you refuse. The only payment you're prepared to accept is a trip to the seaside. The moment you see the endless blue water you run closer, discarding your shoes on the beach. Seeing you splash around in the shallow water makes him laugh.

He lays out the blanket and watches over you. It's good seeing the exhaustion on your face being washed away. Even if you didn't complain at all and said nothing he could tell balancing college and work is taking its toll. Despite smiling and appearing as carefree as always you seem tired. Aran is starting to fear you'll break under the weight of whatever it is you refuse to tell him.

He lays back on his bag, basking in the warm sun. Soon he dozes off. Once he wakes up you're laying beside him and scribbling in the margins of an article you have to read for an upcoming lecture. He lets you work and simply enjoys your presence. He missed hanging out with you, even if you don't do anything special he's just glad to have you around.

As evening falls he draps his jacket on your shoulders. You always loved stealing – not stealing he corrects himself, borrowing- you always loved borrowing jackets and hoodies.

“Hey Aran? Can... Can I tell you something?“ You hide your face beneath the hood of his jacket.

“'Course ya can.“

“Remember the old maple tree by the crossroad?“

Aran thinks for a moment. “Ya mean the one Suna dared ya to climb and ya fell down from?“

“That one yeah.“ A shadow of a smile flies over your lips at the memory.

“Everyone thought Oomi-sensei would throw ya outta the club. Shouldda seen the second year's faces when they thought we'll lose our precious manager.“

“A few months ago I walked past it. Thought about climbing it.“

“Lemme guess, ya couldn't? College life sucked all the strength from yer arms? Told ya ya should exercise more.“

“I was scared.“ You take a deep breath. “I climbed that tree a thousand times before. And now I'm too scared to even touch the lowest branch.“ You fidget with the hem of his jacket. “It scared me so much you know, not noticing how much I've changed.“

“Ya haven't changed that much.“

You look at him. “Haven't I?“

“No.“ Lies. A part of him knows it's lies. “Yer still the same. Our precious manager.“ He playfully pokes your shoulder. Yeah, you're still the same. You're still the you he remembers. “Yer my friend. Fearless. Always there to kick some sense into me.“ You're still the same girl he fell in love with all those years ago. “Yer one of my best friends. Nothin's gonna change that. Besides-“

“I hated you.“

Seagulls' calls. Waves crashing on the shore. People chatting in the distance. “Well, hate might be a bit too strong...“ You pull your knees to your chest and hug them, your eyes fixed on the waning light on the horizon. “I was so envious of you, you know? Of all of you... You, Akagi, Omiren,... You all knew what you wanted, you going pro, them going to college, and Shin... Even back in school I was the odd one out. I couldn't admit to myself that I envied you. Now I know it was wrong. So fucking childish. But that's how I felt.“ You can't bear to look him in the eye. “Sometimes I still feel like the one who has no idea what to do with her life...“

A lump forms in Aran's throat. He had no idea. Too blinded by your light, too engrossed in his own feelings to notice what was happening underneath your carefree facade.

“Knowing that tell me,“ you glance at him and tears in your eyes glimmer in the last beams of the setting sun, “can really nothing change our friendship?“

Ch. 2: Tattered

#ojiro aran #ojiro aran x reader #ojiro aran imagine #ojiro aran angst #aran x reader #ojiro aran x y/n #hq #haikyuu x reader #inarizaki x reader #inarizaki angst #all that is gold #libri scribbles

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katedrakeohd · 4 years ago

Text

A Very Merry Birthday (6)

[Masterlist]

Rated: Mature 18+

(3 🍋s on fire, because we're talking threesome here.)

Characters involved: (TRH)Drake & Kate Walker, Preston Davis the bodyguard.

Content warning: Sexual situations (dubcon, masturbation, threesome), swearing, angst, fluff.

Word count: 6000+ (buckle up, get your popcorn and prefered beverage ready)

Prompts included: From Wacky Drabbles- ( they appear bolded in story, but not necessarily in order)

#82 - I didn't realize I needed your permission.

#84 - Just keep moving.

#85 - Do you want me to leave?

Tagging:

@darley1101 @sfb123 @mom2000aggie @fluffyfirewhiskey @jovialyouthmusic @sirbeepsalot @kingliam2019 @no-one-u-know @nikkis1983 @glaimtruelovealways @texaskitten30 @bbrandy2002 @marshmallowsandfire

Drake leaves Preston alone in his room to get changed. Standing in the silence of the hallway all he could hear and feel were the sound of his blood rushing through his ears and the thud of his heart in his chest and throat.

Being alone with Kate was his favourite way to spend an evening, and now he had invited another man over to participate. He was still unsure how this night was going to go. The thought of watching his wife touching another man in a sensual way was outside of his comfort zone. He had to trust Kate to not take this too far. He also had to keep himself from wanting to murder Preston for taking pleasure out of touching and kissing his wife. And somehow he had to find pleasure of his own if he was to perform adequately to please Kate. Fuck, this feels all kinds of wrong.

He sees Preston come out of his room with his hair combed, dressed in trousers, but in bare feet. Drake gives him a wry grin and runs his fingers back through his own hair to fix it. Preston's rakish good looks were already exaggerated by the thickness of his mustache and the scruff of his stubble, making Drake feel less masculine with his shaven cheeks and neatly trimmed hair. He suddenly understood how Maxwell felt about Drake showing off his chest hair at the beach, or when he rolled up his sleeves to do a strenuous task. Drake's stomach was suddenly in knots and he wished he had some whiskey to take the edge off his nerves. He doesn't know what to say to the mountain of a man standing next to him, so he just acknowledges him with a nod and then knocks at his hotel room door.

"You don't have your key?" Preston asks, keeping his voice low.

Drake shakes his head, speaking softly, "No, I gave it to her."

From the other side of the door they can hear Kate ask with a playful sing song tone of voice, "Who is it?"

Drake leans against the doorframe and then says, "Room service."

The door opens and Kate looks them over with a smile on her face, "Hello."

Drake grins, "I believe you ordered the two for one entertainment special."

Kate steps back to allow them to come into the room. "Yes, yes I did. Come on in."

After Kate closes the door behind them there's a brief awkward moment as the two men glance at each other and then toward Kate expectantly. With a gentle smile, Kate walks over to Drake and stretches up on her toes to give him a kiss on the cheek. He wraps his arm around her back to hug her to his side and she rests her hand on his cheek, whispering in his ear.

"You've done well, my love. Why don't you go off to the bathroom, brush your teeth, and freshen up a bit while I talk privately with Preston for a moment?"

Drake looks quickly to Preston and then lets go of Kate, keeping his voice low, "Are you sure? Maybe I should stay."

Patting him gently on the chest, she grins, "Don't worry. We'll be fine. I'm not going to start anything while you're gone."

Drake looks between Kate and Preston, trying to fight the uneasy feeling in his gut. Walking over to the bed he keeps an eye on them as he sits down to take off his shoes and socks. "No funny business, Preston. I know very well how irresistible Kate can be."

Preston smirks at him, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I promise to keep my hands to myself, sir."

"Good."

After Drake disappears into the bathroom, Preston breathes a sigh of relief, relaxing a little. "Is he always like this?"

Kate grins at the bodyguard, leading him further into the room. "Drake's complicated."

She sits down on the end of the bed and he settles down into the comfortable armchair opposite.

"Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

Kate shrugs, crossing her legs and arranging her skirt around her knees. "You can ask."

"What's it like to be married to a guy like him?"

"It's interesting, sometimes infuriating, definitely intense, and absolutely incredible."

Preston chuckles, "That's a lot of 'I' words to describe someone."

Kate glances toward the bathroom, wondering how much Drake can overhear.

"Trust me, Drake's the whole alphabet. The only drawback is that he just won't shut up about his feelings."

Preston chuckles again, "Good one. I know I have some 'a' words to describe him too. But I'll keep those to myself."

Kate nods, "Considering that he's your boss, I think that's smart. I want to apologize again for hurting you. I was afraid if I hadn't stopped things that Drake might have hurt you worse."

Preston looks down at his lap, "You could have just slapped my face again."

"Yeah, I know. So are you still sore?"

Preston leans forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees, "A little tender, there will probably be bruising tomorrow, but not my first time taking a hit to the groin."

Kate appraises him over again, lifting her eyebrow, "So you've gotten handsy with an unwilling date before? You don't strike me as that kind of guy, Preston."

He shakes his head, "Nah, nah. I've just been dumb enough to play backyard sports without a cup."

Drake returns from the bathroom, "Oh yeah? What kind of sports did you play?"

Kate interrupts before Preston can answer, "Don't tell me you two would rather discuss sports, than play with me. If so, I'll just send Preston back to his room and you two can chitchat on the drive home tomorrow."

Drake shakes his head, placing his hands on his hips, "No, after all the trouble I went through to get him here, I'd rather see what kind of play you have in mind."

Kate glances between her two men with a smile, "Before we play we need to set some rules."

"Ok," Preston says, sitting back in his chair.

Drake nods, "But, don't forget about my stipulation that I brought up earlier."

"Which is?" Preston wants to know.

Kate sighs giving Preston an apologetic look, "Drake insisted that no part of you was allowed inside of any part of me."

Preston frowns, "That kind of reduces any sort of fun for me in this situation doesn't it?"

Drake folds his arms across his chest, "Well yeah, sorry to burst your bubble but I'm just trying to protect my marital relationship here. I don't want this, whatever it turns out to be, jeopardizing my marriage by turning into some future affair between you two."

"You know I'm the one who is supposed to be in charge here right? One night of fun isn't going to ruin anything. Trust me, Drake." Kate insists. "We've already been over this."

Preston digs into the pocket of his trousers, pulling out a foil condom packet, "And if you're that worried about what might happen in the heat of the moment, I did bring protection."

"See? There you go, Drake. He came prepared. Now let's get this party started. And as the Duchess in Charge, I am deciding our party games."

"Sexual party games, seriously?" Drake grumbles, rolling his eyes.

Kate gets up from the bed, "Oh come on, Mr. Crankypants. I know you'll enjoy them, and besides I'll be explaining how we play each game as we go."

"Mr. Crankypants. I bet you were a barrel of laughs at birthday parties when you were a kid," Preston laughs.

Drake shoots him an angry glare, and Preston smirks back at him, "Speaking of name calling, that brings up an issue. If she's directing the action, I need to know how I'm supposed to acknowledge you both. In my job I use, 'Your Grace, Sir, and Ma'am.' And I don't know if that works here, considering how intimate we're all about to be."

Drake breathes an annoyed sigh, jabbing his thumb in Preston's direction as he addresses his wife, "If I hear him saying your name in any sort of passionate or seductive way I'm seriously going to lose it. I'll kill him with my bare hands."

"Ok, fine. To safeguard Preston's life, and my husband's precious ego, I'll allow Preston to call me 'K'. Is that neutral enough?"

Drake nods and so does Preston.

"And so he'll be 'D' then?"

Kate shrugs, "Works for me, but I'm still using both your proper names."

Drake folds his arms, "Ok, so what's happening first?"

"We undress of course, and I'm hoping neither of you are shy. Because I want you and Preston to undress each other. But I want everyone to keep their underoos on for now."

Drake sticks his hand in his pocket, grabbing a handful of Kate's panties. "Um, but you aren't wearing yours."

Preston swallows, "Sh..she's not?"

Drake pulls the lacy undergarment out of his pocket, "Nope. I took these off of her earlier."

Kate holds her hand out, "I'll take them back now."

He dangles them off his finger and then drops them into her hand. "So who is the lucky guy that gets to put them back on you?"

"The first guy down to his underwear gets to slide mine back on, but here's the catch, the other guy gets to take my dress off of me," Kate says with a grin.

Preston pushes himself up out of the chair, an amused twinkle in his eye and a smile tugging at his mouth, "So one of us gets to touch you from the top down, while the other gets to touch you from the bottom up? I like how you play games K. Fun for everybody."

Drake steps forward to place his hand on Preston's arm, "Curb your enthusiasm there, cowboy."

Preston shakes his arm out of Drake's grasp. "If you're gonna get grabby then help me out of my clothes, D."

Drake turns to face Preston, staring him down as he untucked his dress shirt. The olive that Kate threw at him earlier falls out and bounces off Preston's foot. He looks down, "Is that an olive?"

"Don't ask," Drake mutters, undoing the buttons on the cuff of his sleeve, "I'm gonna help you out here, since you're dressed a lot more casually than I am."

Preston laughs, grabbing Drake by the sleeve to stop him from undressing further, "Hey, stop cheating. I'm supposed to do that for you."

Drake looks down at Preston's simple t-shirt and dress pants, and sees that he isn't wearing a belt. Damn, I want to be the one putting her panties on. Maybe if I take my time he'll get me down to my underwear first. Shit, that means he gets to touch her first. Damn you Kate. You're determined to piss me off with these party games.

Kate twirls her panties around her finger, "Come on you two, get with the baring of skin already. Don't make me take this dress off myself."

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Drake mutters, as he undoes the button on Preston's dress pants and then plucks at the fabric of his shirt to untuck it.

"Watch it there, D... I'm ticklish," Preston smirks as he works on the last two buttons of Drake's shirt.

"Shut up, Preston," Drake grumbles, as he hears Kate giggle.

"I didn't know watching two guys undress could be so entertaining. Keep going."

Preston undoes Drake's belt and dress pants next, staring him in the eye as he pulls down the zipper. "Lemme guess, your underwear are black too."

With a frown, Drake brushes Preston's hands aside. "Hands up, Meathead. I'm gonna pull up your shirt."

Preston's protest is muffled by Drake's yanking of his shirt up toward his head. "Hey, the name calling isn't necessary. And ouch, you pinched me."

Drake makes sure to mess up Preston's hair as he tugs the shirt off of him and tosses it aside.

"Hah, you're just jealous of my hair," Preston laughs as he brushes his back into place with his fingers.

Drake barks back, "Hardly, and your mustache looks ridiculous."

Preston shrugs, "Whatever you say, babyface."

"Hey! I'm fully capable of growing whatever beard I want. I just chose to shave before my date, and get a haircut. I..I wanted to look good for Kate," Drake argues, catching his wife's eye briefly, and then squaring off in front of his bodyguard again.

"No arguments here, Honey, but you're still overdressed. Preston, be a dear and even the playing field by taking off my husband's shirt. Then you'll see he has no trouble in the hair department."

Preston unbuttons the cuff on Drake's other sleeve and then peels back his shirt, letting it slide down his arms to the floor. Drake places his hands on his hips. The motion, combined with

the weight of his belt and the phone in his pocket makes his dress pants fall down around his ankles. "Whoops, looks like I'm down to my underwear first."

Preston turns toward Kate, "He did that on purpose."

While Drake steps out of his pants, Kate shrugs and tosses her panties at him. "Here you go."

Drake tucks the edge of the lacy waistband into his mouth, mumbling as he relieves Preston of his pants, shoving them down over his ass. "There..ffinsh the rest of tht yrself."

Slipping Kate's panties over his wrist, Drake steps over to his wife. "Before I hand you off to him, and I'm forced to watch as he strips you naked, I want something first."

Kate licks her lips as he reaches up to cup her face in his hands, tilting her head back. "Oh, and what's that?"

As he leans in for a kiss the firm pressure of his mouth against hers almost hurts, making her whimper. He was determined to remind her that no matter how Preston touched her, he was the most important man in her life. When he finally pulls back, her lips are tingling.

He whispers a soft apology against her cheek when he sees her pained expression, "I'm sorry. Just please promise me something."

"What?" She whispers back, as he leans his forehead against hers, softly stroking her cheeks with his thumbs.

"Make sure he asks your permission before he touches you anywhere. If he's rough with you in any way I'll never forgive myself."

Stepping back, he sees her nod. "Okay," she whispers.

Turning away he glares at Preston, "She's all yours, but I'm warning you that I'm watching your every move. If I see your hands treating her with anything but the greatest of respect, I'll break your fingers and then I'll break your face. Understood?"

Preston nods, "Yes, understood. I promise to be as gentle as possible."

"Good. Oh and Preston?"

"Yeah?" He asks, as he steps out of his pants. His heart threatened to burst out of his chest, it was pounding so hard.

"Make sure she enjoys every second of it."

…

Drake's underwear weren't black afterall, they were blue. Preston's were grey. Kate's were black silk and lace. Drake was currently running them through his hands, and occasionally wrapping them around his fist. He watched Preston approach Kate, hoping he'd chicken out, or at least trip and fall on his big mustached face. His feet were big enough, but no such bad luck. Staring at Preston's back, with its broad shoulders and defined muscles made him feel small. Glancing down at the other man's large hands, he felt an ache in his gut over the thought of them being capable of touching Kate with tenderness. The way Kate's eyes traveled over Preston as he smiled at her, made Drake feel sick. He didn't want to watch Preston undress his wife, but at the same time he couldn't look away. He knew the satiny fabric of her dress wouldn't need much encouragement to slide down off of her, and after being tempted all evening by how great she'd looked in it; he was just as eager as Preston to see her naked.

Kate sized up Preston as he stood before her. Physically he wasn't much taller than Drake, barely an inch, but his posture was straighter. He seemed to tower over Kate, and her line of sight was mostly filled by the wall of his chest covered nipple to nipple by a golden mat of curly chest hair. When she looked up, his lip curled upward in a smirk, making his mustache twitch.

"I'm going to touch you Preston, are you okay with that?"

He sucks in a nervous breath and nods, "If it means I get to touch you back, then go right ahead."

Kate tries not to focus on the significant bulge in his underwear as she looks down, but it wasn't easy. She wasn't going to touch him there, not yet. She starts by stroking her fingers slowly up his arms beginning at his wrists. His fingers twitch, and she can't help noticing his chest rising and falling as his rate of breathing increases.

"If you're affected this badly when I touch your arms, then what's going to happen if I touch you somewhere else?"

"I..I..don't know."

The amount of meat on his limbs was slightly more than Drake's but it was definitely more muscle than fat. Kate knew Drake's measurements off by heart because she helped him pick out his suits. If Preston were to put on Drake's clothes by accident, one flex of his muscles would split the seams.

When Kate's hands make there way up to rest on his shoulders, his hands are still hanging by his sides. She pouts up at him and the desire in his eyes as he gazes back is obvious.

"What's the matter Preston, don't you want me?" Kate asks, lowering her lashes and then slowly looking up to search his face.

His eyes widen momentarily in surprise at the unexpected seduction she was laying on him, "Is that a trick question?"

"No."

"You're either trying to kill me, or get me killed, asking me something like that."

"Well, answer the question."

Continues here ..>

#drake walker #choices #long post #drake x kate #henry cavill as preston davis #tw: dubcon

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