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dourpeep · 3 years ago

Note

Howdy! Could I request a soft!dom!kazuha x sub!male!reader? I’ve noticed how little content there was for kazuha, especially the male readers. It could be a series of headcannons, a oneshot, Drabble— whatever you feel more comfortable with! :) I suppose thats all I need to complete the request?

And thus, the long awaited reply! My apologies for the long wait, dearest anon, but it's appropriate, in a way, to finish this the day that Kazuha's debuting!

I ended up writing a full-on fic because the woeful lack of Kazuha fics and even bigger lack of Kazuha x amab!Reader. And we can't have that, now can we? So without further ado, I hope you enjoy! :DD

Hold Me Tighter

Summary: A sweet, intimate night spent in the arms of the one you love.

Contains: ((NSFW 18+)) Kazuha x amab!Reader, soft dom!Kazuha, sub!Reader, grinding, frottage, rimming, sweet & romantic

In the moonlight, you’re draped in the soft silence wearing a thin robe, watching the clouds make their journey across the endless dark of the sky.

Up here, standing on the balcony with the view of the city spread out like a million stars, you can breathe.

It’s nice. But not quite as nice as the familiar warmth of the hand that slips within yours and the lips that press so sweetly to your cheek. Kazuha settles behind you, wrapping his arms securely around you and resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Good evening, something on your mind?”

You lean to the kiss, then turning to rub your nose against his. This little home of yours feels warmer when he’s around.

“Not in particular...” Another kiss finds itself on your jaw just below your ear and he hums in satisfaction. “What are you doing, Kazu?”

“Am I not allowed to kiss you?”

His lips brush down to your neck, and you tilt your head to give him better access. They trail over your pulse and stop at your shoulder. Shifting, Kazuha reaches to gently move your robe to reveal more of your skin.

Then he stops.

The question of why dies on the tip of your tongue when he drapes your robe back in place, instead replaced by curious confusion.

“You should come back inside, this—” He mumbles, tugging at the thin, silky material of your robe. “Will make you catch a cold out here. The air tonight is brisk.”

So you follow him inside the warmth of your home, humoring his worry.

With you in the safety of his arms now, Kazuha hums with a satisfied smile. You lean back to rest against his chest, your hand sliding up to rest on top of one of his.

Breathing in deep, he noses at your hair, mumbling about the subtle smell of your shampoo. He was right, it’s much nicer to relax inside where the cool breeze doesn’t nip at your skin. Instead, the chill is replaced with the gentle heat radiating off of your lover and a comfortable ambiance.

But the soft silence only lasts so long with the telltale feel of fingers playing with the ties of your robe, a warm puff of breath brushing against the exposed skin of your neck. They leave and trail up to trace over your collarbone and the fabric partly covering it.

Throat bobbing, you relax as his other hand slides from under yours to guide the fabric away from your shoulder.

Before he can drag his lips along the newly exposed skin, you wiggle from his arms, taking his hand in yours and guiding him to the bedroom.

Clothing quickly finds its place in a pile on the floor, leaving no room between the two of you as you lay on your back.

Tender, Kazuha leans down over you, cock pressing to your thigh and lips melding against yours. You gasp into his mouth and buck your hips when his start to roll slowly against yours, grinding down on your own aching member.

With each bump of hips, you moan, tilting your head back.

“Kazuha…”

Dragging his lips over down to the fluttering pulse beneath the surface of your neck, he breathes you in, smiling against your skin. You’re warm, pleasantly so against the length of his body, and the hand that’s settled on your hip slides down to cup your ass and give it a squeeze. Languid, he pulls your hips up against the rhythm of his thrusts.

Every slide of his skin against yours feeds the growing desire but soon his hips stop and your brows furrow at the loss of friction.

Watching as he pulls away, sitting up, your eyes drift between you. Oh, you whisper, seeing the shine of precum spread over your cock and his, how it’s messily leaking over your stomach.

Your cheeks flare and he chuckles, removing himself from between your legs. “No need to be embarrassed. Can you turn around for me?”

Nodding, you shift, pressing your chest to the soft surface of the bed with your arms tucked beneath the pillow under your head. Immediately, his hands are back on you, rubbing up your thighs and massaging your ass. They waste no time in exploring the expanses of skin with teasing brushes and squeezes.

When he lowers himself down onto the bed, his lips meet the round of your ass with a kiss. His hands slide to cup each side.

Holding the soft flesh in his hands, he spreads them, leaning down to trail his lips from where his thumb settles besides your puckered hole. He swipes the pad over it, marveling over the shaky sigh the sensation draws.

He licks his lips and locks eyes with you, chuckling when you advert them and press your face against your arms.

Kazuha’s tongue traces along the sensitive seam beneath your shaft, hot breath puffing against heated skin. He can’t help the way that his lips knowingly curl up when your cock jumps at the feeling.

“Ngh..”

As he laps at the sensitive skin, he blows cool air gently only to place warm lips back. The shift in sensation draws a moan from your lips, though muffled by the pillow, then a gasp. A bite to your thigh trails back up to tease just beside your hole, waiting for a whine to slip before his tongue circles around it. Tensing, you arch your back to press closer to him.

“Patience, dove.”

But as soon as he says that he plunges his tongue into you, groaning at the way you breathe his name.

He works his tongue, thrusting it into you before pulling it away to swirl around your entrance. Eyes closed, he presses another kiss to one of your cheeks.

When Kazuha finally pulls away, a thin thread of saliva left between his tongue and you, he slides his hands from your ass up your back, leaning over you.

“Left drawer?” A few moments are spent missing the feel of him.

The cap of the bottle opens with a sudden pop.

“It’s a little cold, okay?”

You jump at the feel of the cold gel pressing to your hole, and he quickly apologizes. But the temperature is fleeting and soon warms as he circles his fingers around.

“I’ll just use one first.”

Gingerly, he squeezes out a bit more lube before his touch returns to you. His fingers aren’t particularly large, so the first slides in with some ease. It pushes in, to the first knuckle, waiting for you to relax before continuing. When you let out a breathy moan, he pushes it in all the way.

The way you squeeze around the single digit makes his head spin.

“You think you can take another already or should I relax you more?”

So aroused, you urge him to continue.

A second slick finger prods and pushes into you, his hand twisting so his palm is facing up. Already you’re tempted to move your hips, to take them in further. He starts pumping his fingers in you, spreading them to drag along your walls and coax you to relax. Each movement draws a sigh from your lungs and your eyes flutter closed.

“Feels nice…”

But he clicks his tongue, teasing. “Just nice?”

The aimless stretching turns into the slow, careful drag in and out, fingers curving to press just a bit more against your walls. Another crook and—

Oh! Judging by the way your laugh hitches and your hips tilt back, he tries to brush against that spot again. And again, and again, until you’re effectively fucking yourself on his fingers.

“Getting close? I want you to tell me, use your words.”

“Ye—yes- Kazuh—hahh-“

The knot in your stomach tightens and breaks as you tumble over your peak, cock messily leaking white onto the sheets below, and your body trembles at the intensity of your orgasm. A third finger presses in and massages you through the haze of pleasure, making you whine.

Just the three make you feel so full.

“Feels good now, hm?”

But the smug tone hardly registers when you’re so focused on the added pressure pressing into your ass. He continues fucking you with his fingers, prolonging your pleasure, only slowing to a stop when you sob his name and tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

A shaky breath of relief accompanies the withdrawal of fingers.

Wiping his hand on his thigh, he settles besides you, kissing your shoulder and gently nuzzling his cheek against you.

“Was that too much…?”

You shake your head, still dizzy from your high. He shifts again, hardness pressed against you. But he makes no move to continue, instead smoothing his hand over your back in soothing motions. A few moments pass where he peppers you in gentle affection while you catch back up.

When you find the strength, you pull your knees up. Burying your face in the pillow, you mutter an okay.

“Relax for me…” He murmurs against your skin, kisses pressed along your spine to help calm you. “I’ll go slow.”

Guiding the tip of his cock along the cleft of your ass, Kazuha takes his time to swipe it along your taint. His heart pounds in his chest, urging him to hurry and feel you around his cock, and he’s sure that yours does the same. But he continues, deliberate, sliding back up your ass and back down. You press your face into the pillow to muffle a frustrated moan and he chuckles.

“Too slow?” You shake your head accompanied with the short chirp of a ‘no’.

When he finally presses against your ass, you’re relaxed and ready. With a murmur of your name, tender and sweet, he waits, letting you prepare. Lips on your shoulder, he carefully tilts his hips closer to yours.

And archons, the feel of him finally pushing past that first ring of muscle…

Kazuha watches the way you react, ruby eyes flickering over your back and thighs for any sign of discomfort. A sigh of relief puffs from his lips when you don’t tense up hard. Good.

“Keep going—”

Impatient tonight, then? But instead of laughing, since his own patience is being tested by the ache of his own desire, he hums and lowers his body to brush against yours.

Just a bit more and—

The sound that leaves your lips sends a rush of heat straight through his body.

“Mmnh!”

Ah, so he did find the right angle.

Focusing on shallow thrusts, he cants his hips back to hit that spot, each stroke slow. Every movement makes your head grow fuzzy and hips try and press back against his for more.

Drinking in your moans, Kazuha rubs and squeezes at your hip, murmuring sweet words of praise in your ear. You’re doing so well, taking him so well—

But right before the white-hot feeling of your pleasure spills over, he instead bottoms out in a fluid motion.

Frustration is quickly overridden by the realization of his hips pressed flush to your ass and his warm forehead between your shoulders. With the suddenness of your tight heat squeezing around him there’s only so much that he can do to will himself to calm down.

Blindly, one of his hands reaches for yours to intertwine fingers.

The cool of the air around you makes you so much more aware of the way heavy panting draws puffs of warmth against your skin, his lips just barely hovering over your flushed skin.

One second turns to five before his hips shift and start a slow pace and you melt against the sheets when he rolls his hips deeper, hips flush to hips.

Each thrust is so deliciously slow, his cock dragging against your walls and pressing up against that spot with every push back in.

Breath ghosts over your pulse as he rocks into you, pulling out and pushing back in entirely. Though the slight twinge of friction makes your breath hitch, the pleasure that washes over you quickly quells any discomfort. The feel of him going so deep with every movement leaves you gasping.

Slow, deep, he takes his time. Kazuha’s lips press to the back of your neck, blowing gently into your ear.

“Love you—”

As he murmurs, his hands travel along the length of your body, reaching to rub at your chest, at your thigh. His voice soft, he whispers these words like a prayer, over and over again as if their truth would only grow with each utter.

With the feel of you so tight around him, he can’t help but quicken his thrust, the slide of slick lube and your moans like music encouraging him. Your still intertwined hands press into the soft sheets of the bed, shifting with every meeting of his hips to yours.

He hits the spot again and you can’t help the plea that slips from you. “Touch me please-“

So he does, the hand on your hip sliding to meet your cock, teasing at your sensitive tip leaking precum and then up its length to wrap around your shaft. Every thrust makes it slip between his loose grip. Each thrust coaxing that familiar pressure to build within you.

You angle your hips more, closer to his. Though his hand leaves yours to grip your waist, he peppers kisses along your shoulders and whispers soft praise. So good, always so good for him.

The next brush against that spot makes you see stars and you’re left with shaking legs. When Kazuha pulls out of you, hissing at the way you clench around him in desperate attempt to make him thrust back in, the hand stroking you leaves.

“Wait—I’m so-“

He presses his cock between your spread legs, tip teasing against your shaft. He guides you to press your thighs together. Chest flush against yours, he thrusts quicker, gripping both of your cocks and stroking to the pace of his hips.

His moans pick up, raspy with need. So close—

Movements quickly become sloppy and his hand squeezes around both shafts to draw another moan from him and a gasp from you, edging closer and closer. The tension builds fast.

With a final slam of his hips against yours, pushing his cock between your soft thighs, he cries out your name and comes undone with warm white painting his hand and the sheets below you. Though sensitive, he weakly thrusts and continues to slide his hand along your shaft until you too feel the pressure in your belly snap and your spend mingles with his.

You let yourself collapse on the bed with limbs pleasantly numb, bringing a startled Kazuha along with you.

Ignoring the way your cum puddles beneath you, you laugh even though you’re already breathing hard as is. He rolls off from on top of you.

“Bath?”

While you try to catch your breath, your lover takes the hand closes to him in his, bringing it up to his lips to kiss your knuckles. It brings heat to your cheeks.

“Yes please.”

So after a few blissful moments spent just laying besides each other, you’re settled in the bath with Kazuha beside you. The hot water burns pleasantly against your skin.

Dragging a soft towel up along your arm he gently wipes, every movement slow and steady. The suds the cloth leaves smell sweet, light. When he finishes wiping the sweat and grime from you, his lips press to your temple.

“Want me to wash your hair?” A hum of approval from you is all he needs to hear before he carefully cups some of the water to pour over your head. “Close your eyes—”

It flows, wetting your hair and flowing over your features in little rivulets.

The pop of a cap follows as soon as he’s satisfied with his work.

As soon as his hands find their way into your hair, fingertips massaging your scalp, you can’t help but lean further into his touch. Kazuha chuckles, the sound pleasant in the way it reverberates in the room. He’s always so attentive, so soft.

Sighing, you smile, basking in the afterglow and comfort that he provides, morning still far ahead.

#anon asks #kazuha #kazuha x reader #genshin impact kazuha #genshin impact #genshin impact fics #genshin impact x reader #kaedehara kazuha #genshin impact drabbles #genshin impact smut #hehehee just in time for Kazuha's debut #dom!Kazuha #genshin impact x male reader

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butwhyduh · 4 years ago

Text

One Night Thing

Jason Todd x Reader

Warning: smut, alcohol

The reader needs a distraction.

One more drink, you thought, and then I go home to my apartment. That I’ll loose soon because I was FIRED. Over something beyond control. You took a sip of the burning liquor and hoped to fog your mind a little more. Maybe you’d get lucky and sleep like a log after drinking a bit.

But your luck was a little better than that. A clank of ice on glass brought you out of your sour mind and to the man sitting beside you. Tall with dark hair and blue eyes, he was striking. Little scars on his face and hands and dressed like biker in black leather, he looked like a perfect distraction for the night. Lucky you for being smart and drinking slowly and being pretty sober.

“Hello,” you said. He smiled and goddamn he had dimples. The buttery black leather jacket and tight red t shirt gave a great show of his fit broad chest. This guy was ripped and pretty fucking tall too.

“Hi. How are you doing?” He asked holding a cigarette. Not your thing but it actually fit him. He noticed your eyes on the unlit smoke. “You want it?”

“No I don’t smoke,” you said, taking a drink.

“Yeah, me either. I mean, I quit and I’ve just been staring at this stupid thing all night,” he said with a small little half smile, almost wistful.

“A bar isn’t exactly a great place to quit smoking,” you said and he laughed.

“Yeah. What brings you to a bar? In Gotham like this?” He said suggestively at the group around. Yeah, the bar was a little bit rough but your friend was a bartender there some nights so you weren’t exactly new there, despite not being a regular.

“What does that mean?” You said leaning in. You could feel your breasts be more visible in your low cut shirt.

“You’re a little too nice and pretty for a rough bar like this,” he said giving you a little look over. It was quick, not creepy or weird. You felt your skin heat.

“I’d rather not talk about it. Just needed a distraction.” You took another sip.

“What kind of distraction,” he said smoothly running his fingers along your forearm. You felt your skin prickle at his touch.

“What kind you got,” you asked, upping it by running your leg along his. He practically purred his next question.

“You wanna get out of here?”

“Dying to,” you said, feeling reckless. You had never gone somewhere with a complete stranger but then again you’d never been fired since your first job at 18 either so there’s that.

He finished his drink and grabbed your hand like he had done it 100 times and pulled you towards the door. “Less find somewhere new, doll.” The way he said that put a fire in your belly.

He took you to a bike parked on the side. Black and red, sleek, and looked expensive. He pulled a second helmet out and put it on you. “Have you ever risen a bike before?” He asked making sure it fit.

“Can’t say I have.” You sounded way more confident then you felt. “Are you good to drive?”

“I was drinking a coke all night. I thought I might get called into work. You good to ride?” He asked a double entendre as he towered over you. Goddamn he was tall.

“One drink in the last hour. Perfectly fine. What are the rules to this thing?” You asked. He raised an eyebrow and again seemed to size you up.

“Hold my waist, lean with me, and let me know if you got scared. I’ve done this a ton. Don’t worry,” he said before realizing what he said. “I’ve had a ton of riders. Like on the bike. You know what I mean.”

“I got it but watching you fumble over your words was too nice to stop.” You said smiling. He nodded and smiled.

“Nice. I’ll remember that,” he said climbing on the bike. “Hop on.”

You carefully climbed on and he pointed where to place your feet and pulled your arms around his waist. The smell of his cologne and shampoo were intoxicating. “Hold on,” he said smiling. He turned it on and started driving. You were both excited and scared. He was a stranger driving you down the highway at 2 in the morning towards a nice area of Gotham. You gripped his waist tighter on the curves. You could feel his abs under his shirt as his jacket shifted open. Finally he pulled into a parking garage of an unmarked building and parked.

“Okay, you can climb off,” he told you and you realized you could have released his waist a little while before. He helped you off and you noticed your blood was pumping with adrenaline. He climbed off, grabbed a backpack, and helped you out of the helmet. “I just realized I hadn’t even gotten your name,” he said softly, tucking hair behind your ears that had fallen out on the ride.

You told him and asked for his name. “Why would we ruin this with my name? Just call me Red,” he said looking at your lips.

“That’s not fair. Give me just one name,” you said cupping his cheeks. He looked conflicted for a minute.

“Then call me Jay. Let’s take this party upstairs,” he whispered in your ear. You felt your blood warm.

The plain looking elevator had a card slot that he quickly inserted. He casually held your lower back a little too low on the ride up. The doors of the elevator opened a few floors higher to a plain but expensive apartment. Jay walked into the room and threw a backpack on the couch.

“This is your place. It’s... nice,” you said thinking it looked like the couch costs more than your apartment and car out together. The twinkling lights of the city were visible in the giant wall sized windows.

“It’s my dad’s place. Do you want a drink?” He asked. You considered the probable expensive liquor and wine to drink but the man standing in front of you was too tempting. The soft smell of his cologne had been in your nose the whole ride. He pulled off his jacket and laid it next to the backpack on the couch. You pulled your off too in the warm room.

“No,” you said. He turned around confused. “I want you,” you said way more confidently than you felt. Did I just say that, you thought. He raised an eyebrow again and walked over to you. Your heart pounded as he once again towered over you. You noticed how strong his arms were. His pecs were visible through the simple t shirt.

“What do you want of me?” Jay said, sliding his hands around your waist. Your arms wrapped around his neck. You kissed him softly. His lips tasted a little like bitter whiskey.

“What you got?” You whispered in his ears. He inhaled audibly.

“More than you can handle,” he said, sliding his hands down to your ass and cupping the flesh. You kissed down the side of his neck before coming back to his lips. He picked you up and you yelped before grabbing his shoulders. “I got you, baby. Don’t worry. I won’t drop you,” he breathed in your ears.

He started walking towards the bedroom. You kissed and nipped at the column of his neck paying attention to his pulse point. He kicked the door open to a slightly messy room. Papers were strewn around a desk and the bed had one side unmade. Jay walked over to the bed and laid you down. His arms made a cage over you as he looked you over. He liked the delicate blouse you wore, white with little black flowers, the front tied in a bow between your breasts like his own present.

“You’re fucking pretty,” he said huskily. You slid your hands along his arms, wishing he would do more. He pulled the tie loose and open the front of your shirt. “Baby,” he whined, taking in your sheer red bra. Your nipples were hard and exposed. He kissed down your neck. His teeth grazed your skin and you gasped. He chuckled before moving down. His tongue slid along the cleft of your breast before lapping at your nipple through the fabric. You mewed and you slid your fingers in his hair. He slid to his elbows and his hands held your waist as he switched nipples. The cool air on your wet skin harded your nipple even more.

He slid his hands down to pull your shirt off. Jay threw the delicate fabric across the room and you would have protested but he did a swirl thing with his tongue and it turned into a little moan. His fingers went lower to your pants but he pulled away from you after feeling around.

“Okay, how many fucking buttons is on this thing? Jesus. Help me out, baby,” he almost begged. You smirked and unbuttoned them. Jay hooked his fingers on the belt loop and slid them down. He went to pull your matching panties down but you pulled away.

“Not fair. You’ve got way too much on,” you said. Jay grinned and sat up. He pulled his shirt off by pulling the back over his head and threw it away. You looked at his chest. Holy fuck he looked good. Thick, broad chest with ab that you could see as he laughed. There was also a littering of scars in various places including a nasty looking little scar under his rib.

“Taking it all in, baby? Take your time.”

You ran a hand along his stomach and his muscles contracted with his breath. You boldly reached down and began unbuckling his belt that looked some sort of military grade. You hadn’t even bothered to ask what he did for a living. You unbuttoned his pants and pushed them down.

He was already hard in his underpants. You cupped him as he stepped out of his pants and he gasped before grasping your wrist. “Impatient.” He climbed over you, still holding your wrist, not that you put up a fight. He put it over your head and brought your other hand with it. “Stay,” he said and you found the command hot.

Jay climbed off the bed and grabbed stuff from the bedside table. He grabbed a condom and what looked like a silk scarf. “Do you mind?” Jay asked holding the scarf out. You shook your head and offered your wrists. He gently tied your hands to the headboard and even made sure it wasn’t too tight.

“Tell me if you want me to stop or let you go, okay?” He asked. His hands slid down your arms to cup your breasts.

“Yeah,” you breathed. His hands kneaded the flesh before going lower. Jay pulled the band of your panties down your legs and threw it in another corner. He had a pattern of throwing things. His fingers slid down to cup your pussy. You gasped. He slid his fingers along your slit and was rounding your hole before sliding in when his phone rang.

He reached over and grabbed it. With a finger on his lip to you, he answered the phone. His fingers lazily played with you.

“Hello..... no. I’m busy... not tonight. Well I don’t give a fuck what he thinks. I’m not coming in. I’m drunk. How’s that?” He said giving you a wink. His fingers moved faster and you bit your lip to hold your moan. You wanted to grab his arms but the scarf held your arms up. You whined.

“Shhh....” he said to you cheekily, “none of your business..... I don’t have to answer to you, bro,” he said on the phone before hanging up. His fingers slid deep in you and before you can ask what that was, you were moaning. Your hips moved with his hand trying to get more.

Jay pulled his fingers from you and you whined before realizing what he was doing. He grabbed the condom and slid it on his hard cock. He ran his cock through your folds a few times before finally sinking in.

“Fuck,” you gasped. His cock matched the rest of his body in size. You wanted to touch him with your hands but straining against the scarf had its own allure. Jay could see your eyes blown and lips swollen and hadn’t seen a prettier sight. “Please, move,” you practically begged and he smirked and started moving.

You weren’t quiet. He wasn’t as vocal but was softly grunting and moaning next to your ear. You watched the muscles in his arms ripple as he moved. You wrapped your legs around his waist wanting more.

“Fuck me, you do that again and I’ll cum right there,” he groaned. He grabbed your hips and pulled you off the bed a little to get a better angle. You pushed your head back and whined between your closed teeth, trying to quiet yourself.

“Baby, do you like it,” he asked in a husky voice. You nodded furiously. The tight grip he had on your hips felt delicious. You could feel yourself getting close. “I need an answer,” Jay said slowing down.

“No, more,” you begged.

“Do you like it?” He asked as you tried to move your hips faster.

“Yes, please, more,” you whined. He chuckled before thrusting at a faster pace. He adjusted his grip and went harder and faster and you felt your mind go blank as cumming was the only thing you wanted. “Don’t stop, don’t stop. I’m so fucking close,” you moaned. You could hear his heavy pants and his brow creased as he moved.

“God, you’re fucking hot looking like that. Are you gonna cum?” He purred staring down at you. His name intersected with a few “fucks” was the prettiest sounds to his ears. You nodded again. “Words, princess.”

“I.... I, you said as the words failed you. Instead you gasped and moaned your way through an orgasm. His grip on your hips was even tighter as he fucked you through your orgasm. As soon as you were done, he roughly thrusts through his own high. His thigh muscles twitched in the prettiest way. He panted before flopping on the bed beside you.

“Fuck me,” Jay said with a laugh. You chuckled.

“I think I just did,” you said back. He looked over, untied the scarf in one move, and pulled you close to his chest. His heartbeat was strong and you could feel his chest rise and fall.

“Yeah I-“ he started but his phone rang again. He groaned and got up. “I’ve got to answer this. What?..... you literally put a timer on your phone to call me? Between you and Dick... I’m a little busy.... fucking A fine. I’ll be there in an hour.... no don’t fucking tell him shit.”

He turned to you. “I’m sorry but that was work. I really don’t plan to fuck and leave but work calls.” Jay started pulling his clothing back on. “I’ll get you an Uber or whatever you want.”

“Yeah it’s cool. You said work would probably call you in earlier,” you said finding your underwear. Jay tossed you your shirt.

“You’re not mad?” He asked, surprised. Most girls would be yelling about him using them or whatever.

“No I’m not mad. It’s a one night stand. This saves me from sneaking out when you fall asleep,” you said with a shrug.

“Ouch. I mean, you would have missed out on a mean breakfast. Because I know the best Uber eats places,” he admitted and you laughed. “Can I call you sometime?”

“For a breakfast date?” You teased sliding your pants on.

“Definitely,” he said. His phone rang again. “Let me get your ride because I am being summoned by satan himself.”

“Ouch. The boss?”

“One and only. You can use the shower or eat or whatever before your ride gets here. I feel like such an asshole but I’ll be on the shit list if I don’t go,” Jay said throwing his shirt on. He failed to mention that Bruce Wayne was calling him and yeah he’d pay for not answering later.

“It’s fine. Really.”

“Date next week? Like a restaurant?” He threw out as he opened the door.

“Yeah just call me. Or text because no one calls anymore.”

“Definitely. I’ve got your ride on the way. He’ll take you anywhere for free.”

“Thanks,” you called as he ran out. About 10 minutes later a limo pulled in front of the building for you and a man introduced himself as Alfred.

“Yeah madame, I do a lot of driving for the boys. It’s really no trouble,” he said as you thanked him again as he drove in front of your place.

The next morning you got a text that said “hey” followed by “do you want a fucking amazing breakfast sandwich?”

You answered back “fuck yeah.”

#jason todd x reader #Jason Todd #Jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #Jason todd smut #red hood #batboys #dc #Friday night smut

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belligerently · 4 years ago

Text

walk with me 'neath the rising sky, we will make a choice for love and joy

pairing: bernie/serena rating: pg-13/light m summary: written for Jess Appreciation Day, this is for @ktlsyrtis because she deserves all the good things, and because there’s literally only one person i would have written this for, and it’s her.

s(he) was a stableboy, she was a girl, can i make it anymore obvious?

noble/commoner au (what time period is it in? how old are they? these are questions you don’t need to ask)

read the fic below the cut or via google doc

Horses are the thing Berenice loves most, in all the world. She makes any excuse to take her mother’s old mare out to the pasture, to the town center. She sits in the blacksmith shop while he shoes the horses that come in, keeps the horses calm, holds their faces with her hands, nuzzles against them.

“A shame yer a lass,” the blacksmith says one day, when she’s helping with a beautiful black yearling a calming hand against his neck, dark eyes staring into dark eyes. “Them up there at the manor are looking for a stableboy.”

“I’m not trained,” she says, her heart speeding up at just the mention of the position, at just the idea that she could work with horses.

“Not much trainin’ needed to shovel shit,” he says, holding the horse’s foot in one hand, hammer in the other. “All right, just hold ‘im.” Berenice presses her face to the horse’s cheek, breathing deeply the smell of hair and hay, lets herself live in the world where that’s all she has to think of.

She feels restless after the conversation, not ready to go home, feels like everything is jangling inside her, a plan half-forming in her mind as she walks. Without realizing, she finds her way to the edge of the manor property, right to the edge of their fields. She can see three horses grazing, one shaking its mane, a soft whinny carrying across the grass. Then a colt runs in front of the older horses, all gangly legs, whickering and circling, then stopping next to its mother.

Berenice could stare at them for hours. But the sun is setting, getting low in the sky, and her mother will be expecting her. Bread and stew for dinner, no doubt, Meager portions from her father’s salary, a few coins sent every month for guarding the borders. But it’s enough, and her work with the blacksmith, the occasional odd job around town, pay enough to supplement, to occasionally get sugar for cooking, or a new book to read aloud by the fire late at night. Her mother makes sweet rolls on Sundays, almost the same as the bread, in the end, but made all the sweeter by their rareness.

She fidgets in her chair at the table, an idea taken shape. There’s a bit of sadness tugging at her, the idea that this might be her last meal with her mother for some time, But there’s also a potential for her mother to live better, for Berenice to help, to do more. So she eats slowly, carefully, takes in her mother’s face, the wrinkles at her eyes, and she puts the bowls in the bucket, takes them out to the pump with her for rinsing, a scrub brush to get the flecks of stew off the sanded wood.

She also takes her mother’s shears from where they sit in the kitchen, used to cut vegetables, to do any number of household tasks that Berenice has never bothered to learn. She fills a pail with water, cold and crisp, and bends over to see her reflection, a long plait of hair spilling over her shoulder. Before she can change her mind, before she can think it all through, she takes the scissors to the nape of her neck, the braid falling to the ground, wisps of hair around her chin.

Her head feels lighter at once, almost bobbing up as the weight of her hair is lost. She doesn’t know if she looks like a boy anymore than she did before. With the scissors, heavy and indelicate, she tries to chop away at it, short enough there’s no way to tie it back. Good enough that someone not paying very much attention could think she was a member of the opposite sex.

It turns out to be surprisingly easy to get the position, once she turns up to the estate stables. The fact that she’s able to calm a horse with a quick pet to the nose, a soft whickering sound from her lips, that’s enough to impress the stablemaster.

“You look awful puny, but you’ve got a way about you, I’ll admit,” he grunts, and Berenice bites back a smile. She tells him her name is Bernard, and he just huffs. “Bernie’s good enough for the stables. You’re not a lord up there in the manor.”

Her first nickname, really.

The routine is simple. She wakes early and opens the stable doors, lets the horses out to the pasture. She mucks the stables for what feels like hours, her back sore, her arms getting stronger. New hay to lay out, bales to roll down from the loft. The same loft where she sleeps, a blanket and a pillow handed to her on her first evening. It’s warmer than she thought, the sounds of horses breathing telling her it’s safe, they’re all safe.

The stablemaster watches her push a bale out to the fields, sun high in the sky, and she knows she’s sweating through her thin shirt, that her breeches must smell foul. But he doesn’t say anything except, “There's more muscle to you than I thought.”

It’s as much of a commendation for her work as she can expect.

Occasionally members of the manor family come down for horses, and then Bernie is shooed away, told to bring the horses in from the pasture and then hide in the loft, or go back out to the field. She only sees the lord and lady from afar, their daughter joining them on a rare occasion. Sometimes she’s called in to help prepare horses for visiting guests, brushes them until their coats shine, saddles them up and then disappears.

The first time she meets one of the family is when the daughter comes to the stables unexpectedly, in the middle of the morning, when Bernie is still working with the rake, pulling mud and feces out of the stalls. She hears a delicate cough, straightens up, very aware of the streaks of mud on her face, of the odor that must be emanating from her.

When she meets the daughter’s eyes, she sees the slight wrinkle of the nose, the only sign that she’s not entirely comfortable in her current environment. Her skirts drag against the ground, and Bernie can see the hay stuck to the fabric, the mud encroaching on her clean shoes.

She almost curtsies, but catches herself in time to turn it into a low, awkward sort of bow. “Milady,” she says, gruffly, pitching her voice low. She almost hits her head on the wall of the stall, uses it to push herself back up, to hold onto as she feels nerves course through her body. She hasn’t had to talk to anyone, really, beyond another stableboy and the stablemaster. It feels like a test.

And the daughter is so pretty.

“No need for that, when it’s just you and me,” she says warmly, with a smile. “Serena is my name and it’s hardly ever used.” Her eyes are bright, dancing around. “Who are you? I haven’t seen you before.”

“Bernard. Ah, Bernie, ‘round here.” She props the rake against the stall door, stuffs her hands in her pockets, scuffs her foot against the floor. “Can I get your horse for you?” She feels like her whole face is on fire, like the scrutiny of this beautiful noble might make her explode. Serena nods, her lips still tipped up in an impish sort of grin, and Bernie runs a hand through her hair, aware of the ragged ends, the disarray. She never would have made a good impression, not even when she was dressed as a girl, well-washed and hair flowing over her shoulders.

At a half-trot, she makes her way out to the field, Serena’s horse in the far distance. She puts her fingers to her mouth, whistles, and every horse looks up, ambles towards her. Serena’s horse is beautiful, a pinto mare with a long brown mane and dark eyes that look human in their understanding. “There’s a girl,” Bernie says, when she’s close enough to touch. “Come on then, Elinor.” She wraps a few strands of mane around her fingers and leads her towards the stables.

Most of the stalls are clean, and that’s where she puts Elinor, brushing her out while Serena watches quietly from the other side of the door. Her head is tilted, her long brown hair touched by the occasional breeze, and Bernie steals glances whenever she can, notices new things every time. The cleft in her chin, the silver necklace at her throat, the sparkle in her eyes, the deft fingers plucking at a splinter in the wood next to her. Every little thing makes her heart clench, and Bernie doesn’t know what to do with it, has never felt it before.

When the blanket and saddle are on, everything buckled into place, Bernie hands Serena the reins, their hands grazing.

“Would you help me up?” Serena asks delicately, but Bernie can’t help but feel as if she’s being teased. She kneels down, makes a cradle from her hands and allows Serena to step on them, lifting her until she’s comfortably seated sidesaddle.

Bernie doesn’t miss that, enjoys the freedom the breeches give her, straddling a horse. She can go faster, longer, feels closer to the horse beneath her. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever go back. If she’ll ever want to. She doesn’t even know what’s next, after this. Will she stay in these stables forever? Will she be discovered? Punished in some unseemly way? There’s so much she doesn’t know, she just tries to think of the horses, of the present, of the life she has now.

Serena’s looking at her a little oddly, and maybe she’s been away with the fairies for too long. Bernie forces a smile to her thin lips, knows from her mother that she’s far from beautiful, and feels even less so in the presence of Serena, but her smile gets one in return, and that’s not nothing, as far as she’s concerned.

“Have a good ride, mil-Serena,” Bernie says, correcting herself at the mock-glare on the other woman’s face. With a gentle pat to Elinor’s rump, she helps guide Serena and her horse toward the open stable doors.

She hides when she sees Serena coming back, doesn’t know if she can take another encounter with the beautiful daughter of the lord of the estate. There are so many differences between them, a vast chasm that divides them. And it feels dangerous to let someone in, to be close.

She can hear Serena moving about in the stables below the loft, but doesn’t come down. Then she hears Serena’s soft sigh and a few moments later, sees her walking back up towards the manor, brown hair practically glowing in the sun, a halo shining against her tresses.

It becomes a bit of a pattern. Somehow Serena seems to know when Bernie is alone in the stables, always appears when the stablemaster is otherwise occupied, when Bernie’s alone with her work. There’s always a little edge to their conversations, like Serena has a joke she’s not telling Bernie, a laugh behind her eyes, a sparkle.

It makes a jolt run along under Bernie’s skin, like a bolt of lightning crackling down her spine. She looks forward to and fears the interactions in equal measure, feeling like she’s teetering on a knife’s edge and doesn’t know which way she’ll fall.

Serena tricks her, in a way, and they become friends without Bernie even realizing. Serena leaves books at the base of the loft ladder, when she learns Bernie can read. She asks how Bernie is doing, how she’s feeling, and seems to really care about the answer. Her fingers trail along Bernie’s arm when she’s moving past her in the stable. They are friends and they are something else, and Serena doesn’t know who Bernie really is.

That’s what worries her, underneath it all, that she’s lying to Serena, in a way. What Serena will think if she learns. And the only way Bernie knows to solve this problem is to shut off communication, to put distance between them. She spends an evening saying goodbye to all the things about Serena that she appreciates.

She says goodbye to Serena’s cleft chin, to those shimmering eyes, to the gently curling tresses. She says goodbye to the fluttering eyelashes. She says goodbye to her soft chuckle, to the way her lips quirk when she speaks with a double meaning. She bids farewell to Serena and hopes her thoughts may carry up to the manor, because she could never say goodbye to Serena’s face.

When Serena appears one afternoon, Bernie anxiously wipes her sweaty palms against her stained breeches. Serena makes a joke, and Bernie forces herself not to laugh.

“Mud in your ears?” Serena asks, craning around Elinor’s neck to see Bernie’s face but she just sucks her head away, gets the tack ready in silence. “Is everything all right?” she asks, moving closer to Bernie, and Bernie takes a step back, drapes the reins across Elinor’s saddle.

“Just fine, milady,” she says, and doesn’t meet Serena’s eyes. But she doesn’t miss the hurt look on the woman’s face, the way she hooks the stool with her foot rather than asking Bernie for help with mounting the mare. And then she rides off in silence, doesn’t even look back once.

It hurts, but it’s what’s right, and that’s what makes her heart ache all the more.

Serena doesn’t come back to the stables. Bernie doesn’t see her, even from afar. Weeks go by, and her life goes back to what it was when she came to the manor, a mundane routine of rote tasks, the same for one day as the next, little conversation to pass the time, no surprises at all.

On a warm day in the spring, Serena and her parents arrive at the stables, and, as is always the case, Bernie is shooed outside, away, too grimy to be seen by people in fancy clothing, too uncouth for the people who live in the manor. These moments are nice, though, for as few and far between as they are, moments where Bernie can enjoy the horses, enjoy the nature around her, unclouded by tasks and to-dos.

She nuzzles her nose against Dom’s forelock, breathes in the scent of him, and he exhales softly, her hair fluttering in the breeze. She hears a whinny, a little in the distance, and looks down towards the stables, sees Serena standing there, looking at Bernie, a gloved hand shading the sun from her eyes. She hasn’t seen her in so long, and the time apart has not made her any less lovely.

She half-wonders if Serena will call out to her, but there’s nothing, and Bernie can only think of how much she misses the sound of Serena’s voice. Someone must say something inside the stable, because Serena turns, goes into the dark interior, and doesn’t look back. Dom nudges Bernie with his nose, a push against her shoulder, velvety soft and gentle.

“Yes, yes, I didn’t forget about you,” she murmurs to him, pressing her lips to his face. She pulls an apple from her pocket and holds it out, fresh-picked that morning, and his lips and teeth are wet as he takes it from her hand.

She only leaves the field and Dom when the family have left on their ride, sauntering down the manor path, to the forest, and Bernie tries not to think of Serena’s sun-dappled hair, of the way she sits so tall and proper, never wavering in the knowledge that she is everything she should be.

It’s later that day, when the sun is setting, and Bernie is closing stall doors, lining them with fresh hay for the night, that she hears the footsteps she has come to know instinctively as Serena’s. She turns at the sound, and sees her there, a lantern in hand, hair loose about her shoulders, her nightgown and shawl pale and stark in the darkened barn.

She’s about to bow, to curtsy, something, because of the shock of seeing Serena has overtaken her senses, the word “milady” already forming on her lips, when Serena speaks first.

“You saw me.” It’s the first time she’s heard that voice in ages, and she tries not to feel staggered with relief. It’s still so husky and lovely, the way the blacksmith’s wine feels slipping down her throat. Serena says the words without a question, they both know what happened.

“You were the one watching,” Bernie answers gruffly, patting Raf’s head, brushing back his mane, hears Fletch whickering to him from the next stall over. Serena’s hand on Bernie’s shoulder makes her movements halt, makes her freeze in place. It’s the first deliberate touch, real and true, without the guise of reins or tight space, or whatever they were fooling themselves by thinking.

Serena’s hand tips Bernie’s face towards her own, her fingers so delicate. She seems all the more lovely for the flickering candlelight on her face, her skin warm, alight in the dark, her eyes all the more sparkling. She doesn’t say anything else, just looks at Bernie with those brown eyes for a long moment, something Bernie can’t quite fathom dancing behind them.

And then she leans forward and presses a kiss to Bernie’s lips. It’s chaste and short, but for all that, it still sets Bernie on fire, blazing on down through to her fingertips. “Oh,” Serena says, seemingly as poleaxed as Bernie feels. It seems she’s about to lean in again, but Bernie steps back, her heel hitting a water pail, a clanging noise halting the quiet horse murmurs.

“I, uh, there’s something I have to take care of,” she says, the words sounding unconvincing to her own ears, her cheeks bright red, and she knows they’d be warm to the touch, forces herself not to think about Serena touching her face again, those delicate hands, free from callus and wear, gentle against Bernie’s sun-soaked skin.

She climbs the ladder, fumbling in the dark because she doesn’t have her wits about her enough to take a lantern of her own, just Serena’s bobbling light from below to guide her. Bernie leans against a hay bale, head tilting back, straw poking against her neck. Trying to slow her heart, slow her breath, she closes her eyes and tells herself to be calm. Tells herself not to be afraid of this, even though it’s the very thing she feared most.

She doesn’t move again until she hears a soft, “Good night, Bernie,” from below, and the sound of Serena’s retreating feet, the barn left in darkness once again.

Only a week passes before Serena appears again, this time in the afternoon, when Bernie is alone in the stable. Apparently still in possession of the gift for finding the time when no one else is about. She acts as if they never lost time, leaning against the door of an empty stable and watching Bernie. She tells her a story of her tutor trying to woo the newest maid, of how he tripped and nearly got the tap from the water pump outside the kitchen stuck in his rear.

She makes Bernie laugh so easily, and that sound is so foreign, even to her own ears, except in the company of this woman. She thinks of Serena’s bravery, of the way she leaned forward, and it’s enough to spur her into asking:

“Why’d you kiss me?”

Serena’s smile deepens the brackets around her mouth, and her eyes look like they’re lit from a light source of their own. She stands, moves toward Bernie again, and it’s all so familiar and still heart-wrenchingly new and Bernie feels as if she’s been rolled from a turnip cart, ass over tea kettle, not knowing which way is up. Serena is close enough that Bernie can feel her breath, those soft exhalations.

“Because you’re handsome,” she says, her fingers ghosting against Bernie’s hair, shaggy and unkempt, “because you make me smile. Because my horse likes you. Why’d you run away?” She presses forward, some unimagined rid of steel at her back and Bernie would never want to argue with her, knows she would lose in an instant.

She swallows, tries to find the words to say, and all that comes out is an ech of Serena. “Because you’re beautiful. Because you make me nervous. Because I like your horse.” Her smile is small, and there’s the unspoken tenor of her worry about employment, about the coins she’s given once a month, the coins she sends to her mother. “I don’t want to have to leave,” she adds quietly, ducking her face down, wondering if a true man would ever voice these hidden fears, if perhaps her mask is already slipping.

“You won’t,” Serena promises, and she sounds so sure. Bernie envies the conviction in her voice, threaded through with the same steel that runs down her spine. When she steps forward this time, Bernie knows what to expect, and this time, when she kisses Bernie, Bernie kisses back.

She’s been kissed by boys in the village, alternatingly gruff and teasing, but never real, and that’s what is different, the wanting that makes Bernie slide her tongue between Serena’s lips, that makes her push Serena back up against the stable door, that makes her hands tangle into Serena’s hair.

It’s just as silky and soft as Bernie might have imagined, slipping through her fingers. She feels as if she’s gasping for breath and Serena is the air she needs. It’s like the time she fell through a hole in the ice on the lake near town and her fingers scrabbled and clawed at anything, trying to get a firm hold on something that would help her.

That’s how kissing Serena feels, like the only thing that will save her.

When they part, Serena’s cheeks are flushed, pretty and pink, and her tongue darts out to lick her lips, her eyes dark and full of want, and maybe even need, and Bernie feels a monster uncurl in her stomach, desire rearing its head.

“Lady and a commoner. Doesn’t seem like a good match,” she says, casting her eyes downward, because if there were ever a time to protect herself, it should have started months ago, but now is as good as ever.

“It’s the only match I’m interested in,” Serena says, reaching for Bernie, those slender fingers touching the sleeve of Bernie’s tunic, but she steps away from her grasp, backwards toward the center of the barn.

“We can’t,” she says, and Serena tilts her head, looks as if she’s considering something, making a decision and Bernie isn’t even sure what the options are.

“Don’t shut me out,” is what she finally says. “I’ll live like a nun in your presence, chaste and pure, only let me still be your friend.” The words are a plea, and Bernie can hear the quiet desperation, thinks for the first time that while she has the horses and the whole of the outdoors as her home, Serena has none of that, a lonely existence inside a stately home.

“Friends,” Bernie says, offering her hand to shake, resisting the impulse to spit on her palm, the way she did years ago with the boys she grew up with, trading buttons for shiny stones.

Serena’s hand slides along Bernie’s, and her touch is deliberate, her face serious, and she clasps Bernie’s hand tightly. Bernie thinks she’ll remember Serena’s expression for as long as she lives.

And they’re both true to their word. Serena still visits, as often as she ever did, maybe more. She says she’s still almost running out of excuses to disappear from the house in the afternoons, that when the weather turns cold, it will be even harder to escape. “Imagine, I tell them I want to do my sewing outside and I can see my own breath. I’d come back an icicle.”

Bernie is tempted to offer to keep Serena warm, but she thinks that’s against their agreement, against what’s good for them both. So she just smiles and says, “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

Serena starts bringing Bernie books again, and then starts reading aloud while Bernie curries the horses. Her voice carries through the barn, and Bernie even notices one of the boys that’s in charge of fetching and carrying for them lingering to listen to the stories. It makes the day go by, makes the world seem larger and more wonderful.

When Serena can only escape in evenings, when dinner is eaten and the sun is disappearing, she comes with a lantern and climbs the ladder to the loft, skirts gathered in her hand. Bernie’s there to help her up the last few inches, to hold the light as a guide. She drapes her blanket over a bale of hay to keep Serena’s skirt clean, and thinks that she looks a pretty as a painting, perched upon the hay.

It smells sweet and clean in the loft, and Bernie boasts that she can tell which horse is which, just from their snores, their exhalations of breath, and Serena laughs at that, says she’s going to test Bernie some time.

Her face is relaxed and open, carefree, and when her laugh mingles with Bernie’s soft chuckle, the small smile that’s become wider, more brave, over the last few months stretches across her face. And because she wants to, because she can’t help herself, she leans in and kisses Serena, kisses her smile like she might capture that joy for her own.

Relief washes over her when Serena kisses back.

It’s a novel experience, to do this while seated next to each other. She has more leverage, she has more to hold herself up when her limbs feel weak from pleasure.

Serena, too, seems to feel a certain freedom here too, her hands traveling along Bernie’s neck, her shoulders, into her golden hair. Bernie feels a pang when she thinks of a world where Serena could have braided her hair, run her fingers through the long blonde strands. She hasn’t seen herself in anything but the reflection of water in the horse trough, knows how shaggy her hair is, how unkempt, and she’s been using a bit of leather to tie it back, thinks perhaps she needs to find some scissors in the storeroom.

All thoughts fly from her head when Serena’s teeth bite gently against Bernie’s lower lip, when her tongue slips into Bernie’s mouth. It’s heavenly, like the softest velvet, and she wants to bury herself in feeling. She’s lost in sensation, in action, logic and reason gone from her mind. Serena’s hands slide underneath Bernie’s tunic, her fingertips warm, but leaving goosebumps in their wake.

And then she freezes, stops, pulls away, and Bernie flushes beet red, can’t believe her carelessness. Serena’s hands found the binding around Bernie’s breasts, the strip of cloth she took from her mother’s house and has worn every day since.

“Were you injured?” Serena asks, tentative, unsure, like she wasn’t being gentle enough, like perhaps she thinks she’s made an injury worse. Bernie shakes her head automatically, before she can even think of a lie. This evening that began so innocuously now feels of paramount importance.

The friendship they’ve built, the companionship, this bond. Bernie can’t lie any longer, can’t go a moment more without telling the truth. Her face still pink, from exertion, from nervousness, from embarrassment, she pulls the tunic up over her head, lays it aside on the floor of the loft, baring herself in the candlelight.

Serena looks at her questioningly, her fingers twitching like she wants to touch, from curiosity or desire, Bernie isn’t sure, has to quell the feeling that rises up at the thought of their bare bodies pressed together. Slowly, Bernie begins to undo the wrapping, shame fading away in the face of the gravity of the moment. She’s never shown herself to anyone, only her mother and any horses that happened to be watching while she swam naked in a pond in the forest.

“You’re. You’re not a man,” Serena says, her voice not tinged with disgust, as Bernie feared, but wonder, a tentative excitement. And butterflies begin to take roost in Bernie’s heart, a feeling like hopefulness. And then Serena reaches for Bernie’s pale skin, still untouched by the sun, even for all the days spent in the field. Serena’s delicate, gentle fingers touch just below her breasts, touch the space in the center of her rib cage.

“I’m not,” she says, her hand coming up to hold Serena’s hand against her skin. The air feels warmer, like it’s holding more weight for them in this moment.

Serena doesn’t say anything, just looks at Bernie with that considering look that Bernie’s come to know so well in the last year.

“You’re not,” she says again, finally,, and this time, she leans forward to kiss Bernie, her hands purposeful and sure as they travel along Bernie’s bare skin. And she is sure as she lets Bernie pull at the ties of her dressing gown, and she is sure as Bernie lays her out against the hard floor of the loft.

Neither of them are sure about what they’re doing, neither of them experienced with a man, much less a woman, beyond what they know of their own bodies. But Bernie discovers the warm wetness between Serena’s legs, and sees the way her head tilts back, her eyes glassing over in pleasure. It’s a sight Bernie will never forget, as long as she lives.

The late night visits become commonplace, and they learn what is good, what stokes the fire best between them. When Serena decides to try placing her mouth on Bernie, right there, beside her thigh, Bernie feels as if her head might burst from the sheer magnificence of it. Her tongue is wonderful in Bernie’s mouth, and Bernie will never tire of it. But her tongue between her lower lips is another sensation entirely, and Bernie thinks a new galaxy will be born from the feeling that exploded inside her.

Serena finds other ways to help, appearing one afternoon with scissors from her dressmaker, and stands behind Bernie, her breasts grazing Bernie’s shoulders, and trims her hair, wisps of blonde catching in the breeze and floating away. She whispers to Bernie that she’s going to cut a lock of her hair to put in a necklace, to keep her always close.

Along with the scissors, Serena brings more fabric for Bernie to tie around herself, softer material, lighter, even helps her wrap it on occasion, when she’s spent too much time in the loft.

She also tries to think about what’s next, coming up with solutions, endless ideas of how they might be able to live out their lives together. Perhaps Bernie could disappear for a month, come back as a prospective lady in waiting. But they both know that’s not the life for her. She just wants to work with horses and to be with Serena, the only two things in the world that matter to her. She tries to reassure Serena that they can meet in the stables, that this is enough, that it can be enough. She thinks she’s trying to reassure herself, too.

“We could just...ride away,” Serena says one night, the flame from the candle casting shadows about her face. She reaches out and tucks a short strand of blonde hair behind Bernie’s ear. She never seems to get her fill of touching Bernie. “We take Elinor and we go.”

It’s tempting, so tempting. Her words are lined with hope, and Bernie can imagine the press of Serena’s back as they ride together, their bodies moving with the horse. “You couldn’t leave your family,” she says, because for all that Serena escapes to the stables, Bernie hears the love for her mother, for her sister, threaded through her words and in her stories.

“I would, for you,” Serena says earnestly, pressing her lips to the hollow in Bernie’s collarbone.

“We have this,” Bernie says softly, “and it’s good.” And she thinks, perhaps, that they have a someday. When Serena takes over the estate, when she can live the life she chooses. There’s a future for them, in this world. She can feel Serena’s eyelashes flutter closed against her chest and presses a kiss to the top of her head.

She’ll wake Serena before morning, and they can watch the sun rise before she leaves. They have this.

#ktlsyrtis #jess appreciation day #save a horse ride a campbell

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imnotrevealingmyname · 4 years ago

Note

17, 29 or 44. Whichever one you find most intriguing. Also, my original ask was funnier but tumblr is being a dick. Also I love you and you are an awesome writer and hi

I did 17 AND 29, because an anon (hi, nonny!) asked me to do the 17th one. So I did two different ones. (I'd originally planned to do all three, but I can't write 44 rn, for some reason.

Here goes:

17.

Ice Cold

"It's cooooold,"you whined, rubbing your sweater clad arms in a vain attempt to warm your hands.

"I told you to wear gloves, didn't I?"Loki grinned, amusement lacing itself through his smug voice as his arm tightened around your shoulders.

"Don't say,'I told you so,' or I'll shove snow down your shirt,"you grunted, giving in to the kiss he pressed to your forehead. Laughter made his torso shake against your body, and you shivered- though the cold probably wasn't the cause, this time around.

Before you could even squeak, Loki had pulled you into a deserted alleyway. It was slightly warmer here; the wind was not as biting. But it was still snowing.

"Better?"Loki breathed in your ear, arms wrapped tightly around you.

His neck was exposed beneath his scarf- it had come loose, and the expanse of smooth, white skin was too irresistible. You pressed your nose to his neck, inhaling deeply, and hummed noncommittally.

In all honesty, you didn't notice when your mouth opened, or when your tongue peeked out to taste his skin.

"Little minx,"Loki growled, and before you knew it, he'd pressed you against the wall and was plundering your mouth with his own.

Moaning unabashedly, you tried to steady yourself.

Lord, he smelled so good… And he was so warm…

Feeling rather intoxicated, you lapped at teeth, your fingers stroking the hem of his sweater, thumbs pressing into the small of his back, sometimes wandering to the perfectly rounded curve of his ass.

So warm…

Shuddering with both the cold and your desire, you pulled him closer so you could feel every inch of him along every inch of you, revelling in the feeling of his teeth clamping down on your lips, his tongue stroking the sting away…

You slipped your hands under his sweater, unable to resist his warmth, and let them navigate past the waist of his jeans, and down his boxers, so you were cupping his butt.

So warm…

Loki gasped into your mouth as you groped him, flinching slightly at the cold.

"What're you doing?"he groaned out, and you giggled drunkenly against his lips.

"You're so warm,"you murmured, stroking along the cleft of his ass with one hand, while the other travelled back under his sweater to feel the way his muscles rippled in his back.

Without so much as a warning, he yanked your hands away- and lifted you into his arms as if you were but a feather.

"I'm going to get you warm now. So. Very. Warm. Just you wait, you little seductress,"he growled.

29.

The Sweetest Wine

Your heart was pounding.

Loki was sitting beside you. Right beside you. On the couch.

Okay, maybe that wasn't so romantic, or anything, but… You'd never been alone in a room with him, not for so long. And definitely not on the same couch. Sharing the same blanket.

Everyone had gone back to their rooms, and it was just the two of you.

Maybe you'd stayed behind with the hope that this moment would come to pass.

And it had.

And you were staring.

"You're staring,"Loki said suddenly, breaking off your train of thought.

His thigh was touching yours, you noticed dimly, a deep crimson spreading over your neck and cheeks.

"I- there's something on your lips,"you blurted out, and then flushed at the terrible excuse you'd just given him.

Lips? Seriously? You couldn't choose any other part of his face?

Mentally facepalming yourself, you gazed at him sheepishly, wishing you could die on the spot.

Loki looked even more amused, now. He moved closer to you, turning himself fully to face you. On the way, his hand brushed yours, and settled in the space between your palm and your thumb.

Resisting the urge to grab his hand, you refused to take your eyes off him, struggling to retain some semblance of control.

"Is it here?"Loki said, drawing the words out, touching the fingers of his other hand to his upper lip. You shook your head numbly.

There hadn't been anything on his lips, truly.

But now there was something on his lower lip, right below the spot where it touched the upper, over the luscious swell of it.

It looked suspiciously like a speck of dark chocolate.

Loki shifted closer.

You were totally not using this as an excuse to stare at his lips.

He chuckled softly.

You'd said that aloud, you realized.

You couldn't bring yourself to care.

He lowered his hand to your other hand, which was resting on your knee, over the blanket.

Never once breaking eye contact, he raised your hand to his mouth, and placed the pads of your fingers on his lips- deliberately far away from the chocolate, that was now threatening to fall over his lip in a delicious rivulet.

You wanted to lick it.

Loki let his hand hover over yours for a moment- possibly making sure you weren't about to pull away. Then he slowly removed his hand.

His other hand was creeping over your palm, you noticed with a shudder.

He was much too close now.

"Would you wipe it off?"he breathed. You shivered slightly. His breath was hot on your face, now.

Your thumb flitted meditatively over his lips, simply tracing them for a moment, memorizing the shape of them, the soft curves. Pretty pink bow...

The chocolate caught on your thumb, and you stroked over the spot a few more times than was strictly necessary.

Before you could pull your hand away, his fingers were curling around yours.

His gaze darkened, somehow, and time seemed to shudder into a standstill when he slipped your thumb past his lips, and closed his mouth around the end, his famed silvertongue tasting the chocolate with measured, deliberate strokes.

His lips looked delicious, like this. Curling around your thumb, opening to take it inside, letting it slide along them...

You wondered what they'd feel like on your lips.

He let go of your thumb, and you nearly whined.

"I'm sure they'd feel wonderful,"Loki murmured, moving even closer, until his thighs bracketed yours. He didn't object to you keeping your hand on his cheek.

Just another inch.

He was staring at your mouth.

You took a deep breath and turned your attention back to his lips.

His breath smelled of chocolate, mint, and… winter.

You found yourself wondering what he would taste like.

Simultaneously, your gaze moved up to each other's eyes.

Something drew you in, perhaps. Probably Loki himself. But it felt like something was drawing you together.

Like a magnet.

Your lips met.

He tasted like the sweetest wine.

----

I'm fully aware of the fact that these aren't drabbles, but I can't help myself. Oof.

Tag list (open; please specify which fics you want me to add you to): @frostedgiant @green-valkyrie @teenagereadersciencenerd @is-it-madness @official-and-unstable-satan

#drabbles #requests #not-quite-a-drabble #Loki #Loki fic #loki fiction #Loki love

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newbornwhumperfly · 4 years ago

Text

the ink bled right through...

CW: allusions to attempted non-con

so i love @much-ado-about-whumping and i love their beautiful characters – Déomas and Rhys – and i love writing spinoffs of other works rather than my own stuff (hehe) so here we are!!!

you’re so inspiring & kind, Bel, so here’s A Thing insp. by your boys and your love of sartorial whump!

title from “colour me in” by damien rice

Déma is rumpled.

It is the first thing which catches Rhys’ eye as he stumbles upon the slighter figure in the hallway to Rhys’ office. There is at times an aura of disheveled roguery Déma has, making what Rhys would deem sloppy in another person seem dashing. Daring. Charming…like it suited him somehow.

Yet now, there is nothing of the windswept to his hair, auburn strands sticking up here and there like the mop of an unruly child, ruffled by his mother. His shirt is crumpled, creased, unevenly untucked. A button on his trousers is undone halfway up and the lacings are loosened, partially-tied, as though they had been yanked.

Furthermore, the way he darts at Rhys’ rounding the corner puts him in mind of a spooked horse. Rhys glimpses the whites of Déma’s eyes before the man crooks a smile at him.

“Hey, Rhys. Just heading to grab a quill from your office.”

Rhys frowns.

“Are you alright, Déma?”

The smile is...wrong. He didn’t meet Rhys’ eyes and as Déma tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, Rhys sees -

“Are you hurt?”

A scuff, berry-red, sits bright on Déma’s temple. But when Rhys goes to brush his hair back, to see, to help, Déma glides back. The whites show once more and the smile flattens, paper-thin.

“It’s nothing, mother.”

“Don’t give me that, Déma, what happened?”

Déma opens his mouth to speak and pauses. His gaze, unsmiling and skittish, darts over Rhys’ face before he shrugs into an airy reply.

“If you must know, Sir Percy and I had a...small tiff. About my...availability to his, ah, affections. His feelings were hurt but he’ll...he’ll get over it.”

His smile broadens, razor-edged, and now, closer, Rhys sees his rosy lips are darkened. Bitten.

Rhys’ stomach floods with ice and his hand flies to his rapier.

“Sir Percy? He, Déma, did he hurt you?”

A stupid question. Rhys’ gaze rakes over Déma again, taking the detail in with new horror.

He imagines the man in question. Taller than Rhys, heavier, threat stocked in wide shoulders and massive arms. A brutish man. He imagines those meaty hands on Déma and the ice melts, boils, turns to anger with a dizzying speed.

“Where is that bastard?”

He’s gritting words through his teeth, flushed, aching to fight. Déma frowns and narrows his eyes, a cloud darkening in his expression.

“I appreciate you’re such a gentleman, Rhys, but it’s all quite in the past now. Under the bridge, if you will.”

Déma quirks his eyebrows, grins – thin, sharp, bright as foil – and tosses his head back, flicking Rhys’ concerns away like a fly and the fringe of his hair slips to veil his left eye, to hide the mark on his temple.

Rhys has the sudden thought that this was his intent.

“Déma, this son of a bitch hurt you, you can’t just expect me to do nothing.”

He’s hot. He’s burning up. He needs to spread that fire to something else, to watch it burn, to hurt whoever saw fit to touch and take and harm because they possessed some modicum of power.

He grips his pommel harder and harder and doesn't even realize he’s taken an urgent stride forward until Déma starts again and steps back again, putting space between himself and Rhys. The wariness which burns, bright, in Déma’s eyes makes Rhys feels scorched by it. He wants to cry but instead he widens the space by stepping back himself.

“I’m, fuck, I’m sorry, Déma-”

“It’s fine. Just...just don’t make this-, Rhys, don’t-, just let it go. Alright?”

Rhys bites, hard, on the inside of his cheek, the throb easing the harsh thrum in his veins. His muscles, defined with swordplay and archery, clench around his hot blood, as useless in their strength as his fury-sorrow-frustration is sitting idle in his veins. He feels helplessand he hates it. He trembles with the want – the need– to help.

But…

Déma is glancing up at him through the russet locks, coy – yet his bitten lip is worried by his teeth and there’s a tension coiled through him, the coquettish brace of hands on hips failing to disguise how his slim shoulders are hefted nearly to his ears and his dark eyes are watchful, wary…a plea in the pinch between his brows.

Rhys wants to push but this isn’t about what he wants – it’s about what Déomas wants.

He also has some sense – an instinct unique to his lover – that Déma is fragile right now and any indelicate word, any sudden touch, will make him spring, snap shut like a mousetrap. So he breathes. Releases his tension with his exhale. Unclenches his fingers from his sword-hilt, palm swirl-grooved from the carved pommel, and – slowly – reaches for Déma’s chin. Cups it, rubs the cleft with his thumb, soothes. Cradles Déma’s neck, thumb soothing there too, circling behind the ear. Tries to cool the heat of his fury to a tender warmth, to pour his desire to protect, his concern, his fondness for Déma into his touch.

“Of course, Déma. Whatever you need.”

Déma sighs and with the breath, the ribbon of tension untwists in his body. He allows himself to be soothed and Rhys knows he made the right choice. Déma’s dark eyes soften and the sharp edge of his grin has dulled when he pecks at the ball of Rhys’ thumb, nuzzling, feline and malleable.

“Thanks.”

Rhys’ heart takes its turn to clench now, like a fist behind his ribs, the muscle seizing in his chest, creeping up to his throat, on all the things he wants to say – vows, reassurances, pleas.

But all he does is pair his palms in a cradle of Déma’s face – so sharp and so soft and so precious – and swoop into a kiss.

Demá hums into Rhys’ hungry mouth and when he pulls away, a bit breathless, he’s bright again.

“Well, speaking of water under the bridge, I’m all messy anyhow. Want to, uh, help me tidy up?”

Rhys slides his fingers through Déma’s hair, skimming his brow, kisses his mouth again, his little nose, his temple.

“Of course, Déma.”

It will have to be enough.

For now.

Sir Percy was jumped.

Or at least, that is what the chambermaid whispers to a fruit vendor, the murmured gossip snagging Déomas’ ear as he pays for a plum (and sneaks another, smaller plum for good measure). If the girl was to be believed – and she should really learn to whisper better, not that Déomas is complaining, but honestly – the knight was allegedly accosted by a masked man upon venturing home. The maid caught a glimpse of the aftermath, her master howling and cursing up a storm.

Broken fingers. Busted nose. Battered ribs. Shoulder sprained so badly it was nearly wrenched from its socket. Two black eyes and many a sore spot. He’d also, the little maid recounted with a note of glee, been kicked between the legs quite a lot.

Déomas did not blame her one bit for her schadenfreude. Sir Percy was well-known for his wandering hands – it is good riddance they are hurting now. Some might call it poetic justice or even divine intervention.

Personally, Déomas scoffs at the notion of a deity and if there was one, they certainly seemed to possess the same biases as mere mortals by dropping further favor into the fat laps of those born favored. However, it is nice that the pervert got knocked down a peg or two.

Déomas rolls his shoulder - the bruise hidden below his shirt still sore, purple shadows lingering from the demanding clutch of meaty, mail-gloved fingers - before taking a bite of his plum.

A thought tickled at the back of his skull but it was swept aside as he wove his way between stalls, hunting and gathering remaining fruits – fresh fat berries of red and black and blue – in preparation for supper. He was baking a tart and it was going to be sumptuous and Rhys would agree.

He wasn’t baking it forRhys – Déomas loved pie. He would certainly do this all for himself, whether Rhys were involved or not. Certainly.

By the time the evening hour rolled around, a crisp, golden pastry is cooling on the sill of Rhys’ office. Déomas had charmed a flask of sherry off the cook and a sparkling compliment had left a glow to her wrinkled cheek as she thrust the bottle at him, grumbling something which sounded suspiciously like insufferable.

Rhys, however, is uncharacteristically late.

Déomas is sipping at a refill of his glass of sherry when Rhys sweeps through the door, apologizing profusely, dropping a soft kiss, another, once more to Déomas’ brow, breathlessly detailing some tale about horseshoes and cobblestones and really believingit would take an hour and Rhys is so fretful that Déomas forgives him immediately, scarcely pouting at all as he mellows under the kiss. He cannot be all that upset with anyone who says Déma so sweetly and is so very handsome.

Déomas blames the quite excellent alcohol for that thought.

He blames the sherry further for the fact that it takes him a good while to notice that Rhys is…less than perfectly put together.

Rhys’ doublet is rumpled. A closer peek shows a seam has split along the shoulder at one spot, disrupting the perfect symmetry of stitches.

There is a spot of blood, nestled like a gem with the creamy folds of linen.

“Déma, I’m so sorry, I...I lost track of time. i had to take care of something and it got away from me.”

If Déomas were a little more sober, he might nod and smile and tell Rhys not to mention it. He really might just pull Rhys into a chair, straddle him, and kiss him senseless. But Déomas has never left anything he should leave be well enough alone and there’s a nervous weight to Rhys’ shoulders which provokes Déomas’ curiosity.

“Bullshit.”

Rhys seems to very nearly drop his sword, setting it upon the desk with a heavy thump.

“D-Déma?-”

“Bull. Shit. What’d you do?”

Déomas is not suspicious. Nothing so childish. Nothing so jealous. He is...worried. Rhys looks heavy. A weariness lays over him - he has had to do something, something he doesn’t like, and there’s something about that which Déomas doesn’t like. Not at all.

Rhys raises his chin, his deep, dark eyes direct and bold in the firelight.

“You won’t like it. But...if you ask me, I’ll tell you the truth.”

Déomas gazes back, just as steady, just as firm, and nods.

Rhys sucks in his cheek, biting, he does that when he frets, and sinks into the chair beside Déomas.

“I know you told me not too...do anything. About him.”

Rhys spits the pronoun like poison, like he wants to get it out of his mouth, and Déomas doesn't ask him to clarify. He just waits, only the crackle of the blaze in the hearth disturbing the pregnant space between them.

“I tried to make it random. Something which couldn't be tied to, to anything in particular. But I...I had to. I had to do something, Déma. Someone like him can’t just believe he can do this. To anyone. But especially...especially not to you. Not in my own home. Not ever. So I...hurt him. Nothing permanent. Less than he fucking deserves. But...something.”

He finally looks away from the dancing tongues of orange, blue, red fire to glance at Déomas. His dark face is drawn tight with uncertainty. He is resigned. Resolute. Hopeful. But there is still that familiar tenderness, a concern and a care, to be found in his expression, rolling under and over the anxiety, spilling through the cracks, filling in the blanks. Ever-present.

“I understand if...if you’re angry with me.”

Seized but an urge, nameless as it was undeniable, Déomas surges from his chair and drags Rhys into a kiss. It is hungry, messy and missing lips for cheeks, scattered, falling again and again, one kiss becoming dozens in his need to touch, to appreciate, to...to be near Rhys, as close as he can be.

Finally, Rhys gasps for air, weakly chuckling as he presses their brows together and Déomas sinks into his strong arms, feeling folded up and held and safe.

“You’re a mess.”

“Hardly.”

“Hmm. For you, it’s practically a pigsty. You’re a disgrace to your class, Milord Rhys.”

The man snorts, startled into indignity, as he pulls back to smile ruefully.

“Help me to tidy up?”

Warmth pools in Déomas’ ribs. He kisses - again - Rhys’ cheeks, his eyes, his mouth.

He’s so beautiful. So good. So...Rhys.

Déomas never wants to leave this warm room, these warm arms, this feeling, ever again. He does not say so. Instead, he drops a fleeting, final peck to Rhys’ lips.

“Gladly.”

well....there we have it!!! a lil’ softness

#i'm SO nervous about this but...ahhhh *throws it anyway*#deomas and rhys #much-ado-about-whumping #whump #whumpee #caretaker #sartorial whump #my writing #angst #emotional whump #hurt and comfort #rhys #deomas #references to attempted non-con #references to manhandling #manhandling

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detroitbydark · 5 years ago

Text

You wanted a part 2?

You got a part 2. I wasn’t going to write this but than @fanficparker made a point to ask where it was.

Heads up this is dirty. And certainly NSFW

Warnings: dom/sub tones, mild degradation, a healthy helping of the word slut, spanking and more ass than I thought I’d ever write.

Prompt: “We’re all searching for someone who’s demons play well with ours.”

The lights are low when Haz tosses you unceremoniously on the bed. You stare up a little dazed as he peels his shirt off. You can’t help the way your eyes trail over his body, admiring all the hard work he’d put in at the gym. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips as you follow the fine smattering of sandy blonde hair from his naval to where it disappears below, into his jeans.

“Eyes up here.” He demands, his voice gruff. “I think I know what my pretty girl needs.”

You can’t help the eager nod. You’re arms are still bound behind your back and your shoulders ache duly from lack of movement. Harrison must notice because he moves to untie your wrists. His calloused fingers grip your wrists, moving them in front of your body where he massages the light red marks left by the rope. It feels so nice to have his hands on you, you can’t help let out a soft moan. He drops your hand immediately.

“Needy little slut, can’t even let me touch you without thinking about being fucked can you.” There’s humor in his voice as he strokes your chin, tipping it up to look at him. “Tell me, darling. Tell me what you are.”

Your voice trembles as you speak, desperate to please him so he’ll let you touch him and be touched in return.

“I’m you’re little slut.” You say softly, “all I want is your cock inside me.”

Haz jerks you up quickly by your arm spinning you and pushing your face back down into the bed before you can even fully understand what’s going on. His hands cracks down over your ass and you yelp in surprise at the sudden sting.

“Did I ask what you wanted?” His hand comes down again, this time on the other cheek. You can feel heat rising into the flesh, imagine seeing the red hand prints. God you wanted to see them.

“No!” You whimper hoarsely as he begins alternating each round globe of your ass with firm swats, “I’m sorry!” You whine out, panting at the sensation your left with when he suddenly stops and steps back. You don’t dare look back to see what he’s doing because you already know. Harrison was a visual person and you have no doubt he’s admiring his handiwork, your reddened ass thrust into the air, your cunt on full display for him. As if reading your mind you feel the soft graze of fingers down the cleft between your cheeks, dipping into your sopping wet folds. You force yourself not to arch back into his touch. You need to be a good girl for him.

One finger dips slowly into your core, you can feel the cool metal of his ring as he slides in all the way to the knuckle. Your muscles involuntarily clamp down around the digit. It makes him chuckle as he pulls it out. You can hear the filthy wet sound he makes as he licks your essence from it.

“Such a sweet girl for me. Aren’t you? You love it when I put you in your place don’t you?”

“Yes. Please…” you whine.

“Please what princess?”

“Please Haz I want to make you feel good.” His fingers dips back into your folds collecting more of your slick before moving around to sit by your head.

“How are you going to do that, little one?” He asks running his finger over your lips.

“Please let me suck your cock…” you plead as he slips his finger in your mouth and you taste your own arousal on his skin. Harrison stands suddenly and you watch with heavy kisses eyes as he drops the zip of his pants and pushes his jeans and briefs down in one motion. His dick springs up immediately, red and waiting with a drop of precum decorating his slit.

Harrison chuckles as you stare hungrily.

“Get on your knees before I change my mind and decide to fuck your face.” You scramble to do as he demands as he sits. Your fingers graze over his full balls and he grabs your wrist roughly.

“No hands or I’m going to tie you back up, understand?” You bite your lip hard and place your hands on his thighs for support. Looking up he seems to be ok with this and you breathe a sigh of relief as your tongue samples the drop of precum.

You lay soft, worshipping kisses along the head of his cock, enjoying the silken feel of skin over his rock hard length. He grunts once before his hand knots in your hair and he guides your mouth down over his length.

“Suppose I have to teach you everything.” He grunts as he guides your head up and down. His grip tightens when you hollow your cheeks out and let your tongue sweep over him.

“That’s right, dirty little thing. My cock is the best thing you’ve ever had in your mouth, isn’t it?” You moan out a yes that’s muted by your current predicament. The vibrations cause Harrison’s hips to jerk up and you gag as his thickness slides down your throat. He holds it there while you struggle to breathe through your nose, your eyes watering with exertion. Just when you think you can’t take it anymore he pulls your head off and you drag in large breaths of air. His thumb runs through the saliva running down from the corner of your mouth.

“Do it again.” He demands and you quickly slip back down until you feel his balls against your chin. He gives tiny thrusts into your throat only letting you up for a short reprieve before encouraging you down again. Your eyes look up and you find he’s watching you intently.

“Love seeing the pretty little mouth full of me.” He growls, biting into his own lip and panting, out a breath, before he pulls you roughly off. He takes a few calming breaths before he looks at you again. Sitting pretty on your heels, your breasts pushed out for him to see. He takes each pretty pink nipple in handle and pinches, twisting just enough to have you crying out.

“Fuck it” he growls after a moment. “Get your ass on the bed.”

You scramble to lay on your back but he stops you and drags you back toward the edge. “Hands and knees like a good girl” he demands and you swear you can feel your juices running down your thighs, you’re so ready to have him inside you. Harrison moves on his knees behind you, taking his length in hand he runs it through the sloppy mess that is your sex.

“Remember, good little girls don’t come til they’re told so.” He grips your hip tightly and you choke out a strangled “yes” as he lines up the top of his cock and pushes into you in one quick motion.

Your back arches sharply as you feel his hips settle against the juncture of your thighs. He’s so thick, feeling even more so without adequate time to adjust. He repositions, pulling out nearly all the way before snapping his hips and making you fall forward on your forearms.

“Sweet little slutof mine likes having her ass in the air.” He grunts out. “Maybe next time I’ll fuck that instead. That’s what you want, yeah?”

You can’t even speak as he sets a demanding, punishing pace. It takes everything in you to push back against him, crying out each time the head of his cock rubs against your cervix. You won’t be able to walk when he’s done with you but you don’t care.

His hands splay over your lower back, using it to guide you roughly back against him. The room is filled with slick, slapping sounds as arousal slick skin meets.

“Please, please….” you whimper as he continues his brutal pace, “let me touch myself.”

He laughs darkly behind you, “fine, touch yourself like a dirty little girl, but if you come before I do I swear I’ll take it out on your ass.” Your core flutters around him. “Yeah I knew you’d like that idea.”

You ignore his taunts as your fingers work in tight circles around your clit. You’re absolutely soaked and your fingers slip easily over the tiny bundle of nerves. Harrison’s rhythm begins to falter as his hands fall to your hips, fingers digging in. Your body is quickly approaching its own climax and you fight to hold it off until your given permission.

So close. So close. So-

“Come for me now baby” Haz grunts. “Now!” His sharp demand is all it takes to push you spiraling, over the edge, the world narrowing around you as you feel his hips stutter than the familiar sensation of his thick, ropey cum filling you up. Your arms give out from under you as your body is racked with aftershocks. Haz’s hips finally stop their gentle motion as he pulls out and takes a step back.

“Fuck Princess.” He growls but it’s not the same tone he had just a few minutes ago. “Baby you’re absolutely gorgeous with my cum leaking out of you.”

You glance over your shoulder with a worn out smile as he takes one more look and heads off to the bathroom, coming back with a warm wash cloth.

He encourages you to lie on your back and gently cleans you up before sliding under warm covers with you. His eyes are so soft and loving as he rains tiny kisses all over your face.

“Was that everything you wanted, love?”

You nod sleepily, “it was perfect. And I have some ideas for next time.” You say with a yawn.

Harrison chuckles quietly pulling you against him. “Next time, eh? How about we get some sleep and we’ll talk about next time later?”

“Love you, Haz…” you murmur.

“Love you too, darling.”

#harrison osterfield x reader #harrison osterfield smut #haz osterfield #harrison osterfield #probably going to hell for this.#editing what editing?

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arukou-arukou · 5 years ago

Text

Listen, I had a peach with my dinner and my brain just...went in directions. (In other news, I can’t believe I am tagging a damn thing “lemon” for the first time in like a decade.)

Early Marvel 616, Steve/Tony, Lemon, Rimming, I also can’t believe I wrote this, what is wrong with me? Inappropriate peaches

Maybe bringing back the enormous peaches from Japan had been a subconscious thing on Tony’s part, but then again, maybe it hadn’t been. He’d been picking through the designer food court at Maruzen and the huge pink blush of peach fuzz had caught his eye. Peaches were a special treat, right? Especially when they bruised so easily coming up to New York from more southerly climates. Peaches would be a nice treat. And they were so...pink. Pinker than any American peach he’d ever seen. And...they were packed in underwear. No one had ever accused Tony of having good impulse control anyway. He had to have them.

Boxed up and down $400, Tony bore his peaches straight to the airport and onto his private jet, and within thirteen hours, they were in the Avengers mansion common kitchen, laid out for all and sundry to see. He took momentary pleasure in the bemused shock from Jan, Thor, and Hank, the disapproving sniff from Jarvis, and then promptly forgot about his huge, pink peaches. Until he came in later that night for coffee.

As he stepped into the kitchen, he beheld Steve, who immediately caught Tony in his azure blue gaze. He had a peach in hand, and his other hand was fingering the satin lining of the ridiculous box. The moment he had Tony’s attention, he moved into action. The hand that had been at the box rose and oh so slowly slid the panties down off the peach, hooking them on his finger and twirling them ponderously through the air. He’d chosen a bright red pair, and Tony’s eyes followed them round and round until another movement caught his attention. Steve had brought the peach to his face, lips to the fuzz, nose to the stem, and he was inhaling.

Filthy, Tony’s brain supplied, but he barely had any blood left flowing in that direction anyway, so he just let the thought waft away. Steve’s eyes grew heavy, his obscenely long eyelashes drifting down until they hooded the last of the blue, and Tony could see the movement of his jaw, the only indication that he’d licked his lips. Bereft of a visual, Tony’s brain supplied the rest. Steve’s mouth there, his fingers there, complete with peach lube. Steve looked up through his lashes and Tony couldn’t have moved if Galactus himself were descending on Earth. He nosed the cleft of the peach and then licked it, licked again and then ever-so-gently bit at the giving flesh. Steve’s teeth in my cheek, Steve’s tongue on my... Tony clamped off the thought.

Tony had never seen anyone eat so slowly or with such intent. Juice dripped down Steve’s chin, down his forearm. The heady scent of peach wafted toward Tony, sending him swaying as though he’d inhaled fairy ambrosia. All the while he was arrested in Steve’s gaze. At one point, Steve left off the fruit to lick at the juice on his arm, as meticulous as any cat, his tongue as pink as the peach skin, his expression self-satisfied, though a heady blush had blossomed across his cheeks and down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his T-shirt. When the last of the juice was gone, he returned to his prize, all the while still spinning that ridiculous pair of tiny panties on his finger.

An eternity later all that was left was the pit, and Steve popped it into his mouth, sucking at the flesh and juice, pushing it into his cheek to chew briefly, sucking and hollowing again. He extracted it again, pursing his lips around it to catch the very last of the fruit, and Tony watched the way his lips went pink and wet with the effort. With an astounding precision, Steve placed the pit on the counter and looked up at Tony again, still through his lashes. Tony allowed himself to be frozen for all of three seconds before turning tail and bolting out of the kitchen, not waiting for Steve to speak.

He spent the next half hour in the shower, getting very friendly with his hand and wondering if the whole thing had been a jet-lag induced fever dream. Had that really happened? Had Steve really...gone down on a peach? In the kitchen? All while Tony watched? Surely not.

“What did I do wrong?” Steve moaned into his hands, trying desperately to hide the burning of his cheeks. “He was right there! Why didn’t I...?”

“Because you’re both the thickest men I’ve ever met?” Jan guessed, though her palm rubbed soothing circles up and down his back. “Steve, just go to his room. Bring lube and some condoms. Use your words. For all Tony knows, you’ve just got a thing for peaches.”

“But he was right. There.”

“Honey, I admire your gumption with our little peach panties, but I’m telling you, you’ve got to tell Tony your feelings. In short simple words. Multiple times. He’ll never believe you’re into him if you don’t. He’s too self-deprecating for anything else.”

“I don’t know if I know how.”

“Are you Captain America or not? I think you can handle a little love confession. And besides, how else are you going to get that sweet ass?”

If Jan’s goal had been to shock him into action, she succeeded, because he gave her a dirty, affronted look. “I’m allowed to admire. Tony certainly does his squats. But if you want that ass to be yours, you have to do something about it.”

“Right. Something. Right.”

Steve stood, hesitated a moment, and then crossed to his bedside table where he extracted the supplies Jan had mentioned. His entire face was firecracker red, but he marched resolutely to the door, refusing to be ashamed that he had sex and enjoyed it. “Go get him, honey,” Jan encouraged, and Steve managed a pained smile before he disappeared down the hall.

Tony was just getting read to open his toybox and relive his peach fever dream when there was a knock at the door. He huffed a breath of frustration and then carefully slid his dresser drawer closed, cinching his robe a little more tightly as he crossed his bedroom. He expected Jarvis, though in hindsight, he couldn’t have said why. What he got instead was a broad chest, a flaming face, perfect blue eyes, tousled hair.

“Tony, hi, uh...hi.”

“Hi,” Tony managed, somehow bypassing the sudden and huge lump of nerves in his throat.

“Could I have a word?”

Unable to cough up another word of his own, Tony stepped aside and gestured, welcoming Steve into his room. He was acutely aware of his freshly cleaned backside, of all the prep he’d done in the shower while thinking of a fervent night with a few old favorites. Steve was right there, still blushing like a bride, head bowed, looking up through those damnable lashes.

“Jan says I’m being a coward, so I’m just gonna come right out and say it. I’d like to have a relationship. With you. A...uh, sexual relationship. And a romantic one. But, uh, I saw the peaches, and Jarvis said you brought them from Japan, and he had this...tone, when he said it. It just got me thinking. And maybe...maybe I’m barking up the wrong tree. And if I am. That’s okay. Your friendship means the world to me. And I don’t want to ruin that friendship. But. I have feelings. For you. And I’m sorry if what I did in the kitchen made you uncomfortable. I don’t know what I was thinking. They were just...there. And so perfect. And the little panties. It made me think...well, it doesn’t matter what they made me think. I think that was pretty obvious. I mean, I was pretty obvious. But maybe I wasn’t? I--”

“Steve,” Tony finally managed to unfreeze, stepping forward to catch Steve’s flailing hands and stop his verbal vomit. “I...uh, yes? I mean, first. Could you pinch me? Just here?” He held out his arm expectantly and after a moment, Steve bowed to kiss his knuckles.

“I’m not gonna pinch you, Tony.”

“Then how do I know I’m not dreaming?”

“Maybe have a little faith?” Steve’s bashful expression had softened just a little, a smile hitching at his mouth, making him look a little more boyish.

Tony hawed out one sad squeak of a laugh and then nodded. “Faith. Right. I’m very good at that.” But all the same, he dropped his arm, taking Steve’s hand again. “You...you really want me?”

“I absolutely do.”

“Not just for sex?”

“Not just for sex. I care for you so much, Tony. More than you can imagine.”

The very thought sent Tony’s head spinning, and he very nearly lost his balance right into Steve’s chest. He caught himself at the last moment and ended up holding the fabric of Steve’s shirt instead. “Well then, I’m yours.”

“Yeah?” Steve’s entire face lit up like a Christmas tree, and something in Tony swelled and went squishy. At the same time, he was aware of his low-level arousal, back after his gratuitous shower and prep. In answer, he maneuvered, pulling Steve back to Tony’s massive bed until the back of his thighs hit the edge. He flopped down, trying not to feel self-conscious as his robe jostled loose and spilled open. After only a moment’s hesitation, Steve followed, kneeling onto the bed and kissing Tony.

For a first kiss, it was fairly tentative, both of them not quite sure of the reality of their surroundings, of the reality of their feelings, but then Steve moaned and drove down a little harder, urging Tony up the bed. “What,” he panted, his hands on either side of Tony’s head, “what do you want?” His hips were already driving down, a sweet delicious friction that had Tony longing for more.

“I should think that was obvious,” Tony mumbled against Steve’s mouth, his hands free to explore, and explore they did, mapping the muscles of Steve’s back, the perfect globes of his ass. “Come on, Mr. Peaches-and-Cream.”

Steve snorted and pulled back, studying Tony’s face as he caught his breath. “Yeah?”

“Hell yeah. I only wish I’d known ahead of time. I would’ve put on a nice pair of panties.”

“Next time,” Steve breathed, hustling to peel his shirt over his head. Tony was caught between the pleasure of watching Steve’s abs flex and the delicious warmth of the idea that there would be a Next time, that Steve would want this with him again and again and again.

With his shirt gone, Steve dug into his pockets, producing several condoms and a small bottle of lube, which Tony plucked up curiously. He couldn’t help the laugh. He really couldn’t.

“Georgia peach?”

Tony was treated to the pleasure of watching Steve’s blush crawl down his chest to his nipples, but in retaliation, Steve loosened the robe belt, baring Tony to the humid air between them. “It’s...I...you underestimate how long I’ve been thinking about this.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve whispered, bowing to press the word into the skin of Tony’s scarred chest, the strangely smooth swatch of skin across his pecs. His hands rubbed hot trails up and down Tony’s thighs, urging them wider so Steve could settle between them. “Where’d...where’d all your hair go?” Steve murmured absently, sucking little bruises into Tony’s stomach. “I remember you had...”

“Waxed. Gone. Oh god,” Tony arched into the heat of Steve’s mouth, so glad he’d already come once that evening. All his dreams were coming true, it seemed, and even though he was half-afraid he’d wake to discover some nefarious super-villain had trapped him in a virtual reality, he was grateful all the same that he wouldn’t pop off the second Steve’s mouth moved south of the equator.

Steve hummed thoughtfully into Tony’s skin and wriggled down the bed, one hand sliding beneath his own hips to undo the fly of his jeans and begin the process of shimmying free.

“It’s strange. But nice. I’d love it either way, though.”

“Yeah?” Tony breathed, more and more of his brain focusing single-mindedly on the teeth that were now nipping at his belly-button.

“I remember all that hair on your chest, curly, cute.”

Tony gasped as Steve’s hands circled closer to where he most wanted them. “Could grow it back. For you. You might like--ah--everything down south though.”

“Oh?” Curiously, Steve propped himself up and took a proper look. When Tony had said he waxed, he meant everywhere. Only a neatly groomed thatch of pubic hair remained at the base of his cock, and his balls and ass where completely smooth. Boldly, though not without his ever-present blush, Steve ran a finger down and down and down, taking in all that smooth olive skin. “No peach fuzz,” he murmured, and a moment later, Tony guffawed and then burst into a real laugh, quickly quelled.

“That’s okay. This is nice, too.” And just as quickly Tony’s laughter died away because Steve dove down and replaced his hand with his mouth, kissing and sucking his way down Tony’s balls to his perineum and then down his crack to his hole.

Tony gasped, and kept gasping, suddenly at sea, rudderless, being washed out on the tide of Steve Rogers’ wicked tongue. Steve’s arms mad their way under Tony’s hips, hitching him up for a better angle, and Tony, in turn, clutched at Steve’s hair, trying desperately to find shore again. Steve was relentless. It was so wet, so filthy, his tongue so present, his lips so soft and pliant one second, demanding the next. In and out, in and out, Tony becoming wetter and sloppier all the while.

He barely registered the click of the lube cap, but then there was new cool slickness down his balls and crack, and the sudden and welcome intrusion of Steve’s finger. Tony yelped into the close air of the bedroom and felt Steve begin to withdraw. Desperate to keep him where he was, Tony clamped down his thighs, crossing his ankles behind Steve’s head. He couldn’t catch the air to breathe, but he fought with everything in him to arch into Steve’s touch, to say with his body that Steve should stay, that Steve should love him.

Acquiescing, Steve’s finger shifted deeper, driving the cool lube in alongside his tongue. So filthy. Tony had a stray thought to be glad he’d cleaned up, to be glad he was like this for their first time. And then he was swept away again, deeper, higher, slowly moving toward the crest. He didn’t want to reach it without Steve, though.

Gasping for breath, he managed to start speaking, or maybe he’d been speaking gibberish all along. Either way, he began a steady chant. “Steve, Steve, Steve, want you, inside, fuck me, Steve, need you, gonna, please, Steve.”

And Steve answered, amazingly, swiftly, when had he even slid the condom on? When had he lost his jeans and underwear? It didn’t matter. He was out at sea with Tony. He was inside him just like that, almost too much, and above Tony, he groaned, freezing with the first breech.

“Oh, Tony,” he whispered, his hands on Tony’s cheeks, loving, cherishing, still wet from lube and saliva. The very thought sent Tony reeling and he arched up into the heat of Steve’s body, yearning for more, deeper, harder, now. Steve answered, groaning and shifting his weight, getting better leverage, pressing in and in and out and in.

Sex had never been like this before. It had never left Tony feeling so utterly powerless and powerful all at once. Steve above him, sweating, ruddy faced, panting with exertion he shouldn’t be feeling given his super-soldier body. Everything about him glistened pink and wet and new, his hair in disheveled spikes from where Tony had been pulling at it. Steve filled Tony’s whole world, and took him further and further, higher and higher, sent the blood roaring in Tony’s ears like a maelstrom. Steve, fucking him in earnest , his pace relentless, the slap of skin on skin, higher and higher and higher and his hand on Tony’s cock, there, squeezing, stroking, oh god, the crest...

Tony came and came and came, bearing down on Steve as he tried and failed to catch the breath he’d lost. He didn’t care. He didn’t care. The world was a white wash of wonder and he was away, floating, never coming down. Above him, Steve groaned and grunted and bowed, his sweat dripping down onto Tony’s chest.

An eternity later, Tony did come down, though he clung to the beautiful haze of where he’d been, letting it fill his body with easy lassitude. Steve was on top of him, chest-to-chest, still inside. His warm breath spread across the thick muscle of Tony’s trapezius, which ached with the first twinges of a love bite.

“Wow,” Tony mumbled, kissing at Steve’s ear because it was in easy reach. “Wow.” Steve turned and fumbled into a sloppy kiss, his hand running through Tony’s hair. The sweet taste of artificial peach sent Tony laughing, helplessly turning away.

“What?” Steve asked, blinking down at Tony.

“Peaches. You, my peaches.”

It took a few seconds for Steve to catch on and then he grinned, that beautiful full-chest blush spreading across his skin again. “It’s your fault. You’re the one who bought them.”

“And you’re the one who made love to them right in the middle of the kitchen.”

“And you’re the one with the perfect peach ass, so it’s definitely on you.”

“Hmm, perfect peach ass. Somehow, I suspect I’m not alone in this.” To prove his point, Tony ran his hand over the curve of Steve’s right butt cheek, appreciating the peach-fuzz coating of hair there. “Yeah. Yeah, you’ve got 100% grade-A American peach right here, too.”

Steve snorted and finally rolled off, carefully clutching at his cock to take the condom with him. He removed it, tied it off, pitched it with perfect aim into the trash can next to Tony’s desk, and then flopped down. With the heat of Steve’s body gone, Tony became instantly aware of how sticky he’d become.

“Mm, want to join me for a bath?” He felt Steve’s gaze on his face and glanced over, only to see a flash of hesitance there. “You can tell me about your day,” Tony continued, turning so he could take in more of Steve’s expression. “I’d like to hear it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you have to tell me about where you found those ridiculous peaches.”

“With pleasure, my peach. With pleasure.”

For the curious, those underwear peaches are absolutely real, though they come from China, not Japan. These are the Japanese peaches I was thinking of, which cost roughly $200 for 4 kilos.

#writing #fanfiction #steve/tony #stony #lemon

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raywritesthings · 7 years ago

Text

If They Knew Sweet Little You 2/7

My Writing Fandom: Doctor Who Characters: Donna Noble, Wilfred Mott, Sylvia Noble, Tenth Doctor Pairing: Doctor/Donna Summary: Donna’s dull, regular life is turned upside-down thanks to an incident from the past she can no longer remember. Some NSFW elements this chapter. AO3 link

It didn’t take long for word to get out. She’d mind what they were all saying and thinking about her less if she had any proof it wasn’t true.

Donna resigned herself to her fate of being the subject of scandal and gossip for the next several months, and possibly years, by secluding herself even further. She found she didn’t really miss all that chattering with the girls, and it left her more time for things she ordinarily neglected like reading. For no reason at all, she found herself revisiting Agatha Christie more often than not. Her books were just so brilliant. She made sure to balance it out with less murderous material though; wouldn’t do to have that be the sole influence on her baby.

Of course, not even a lack of invitation could deter Nerys for long. She came round one afternoon and made herself comfortable on the couch while Donna made tea.

“You called me desperate, remember? And look where we are now. Is it true you don’t even know who the father is?”

“Isn’t that what people are saying?” Donna carried out two cups and sat on the sofa across. She could feel a headache coming on, though this one at least she knew the source of.

“I thought maybe it was that doctor what’s-his-name of yours. Susie Mair said she saw you hanging about with him again a few months ago.”

“Susie Mair doesn’t know what she’s on about,” said Donna. “I don’t know any doctors aside from Simmons, and he’s a bit old.”

Nerys gave a snort. “Right, that’s why you showed up late to your own wedding with the other one.”

Donna froze, cup halfway to her lips. “What are you talking about?”

“You ran off from the wedding and came back to the reception with him in tow. It’s no wonder Lance left you.” Nerys looked at her more closely. “Don’t you remember?”

“No.” Donna pressed a hand to her temple; her headache was getting worse. “No, I don’t. What was his name again?”

Nerys shrugged. “I don’t think you ever said.”

“Well, what did he look like?”

“Tall, I suppose. Brown hair. Well, I haven’t seen him in nearly two years!” Nerys defended when Donna gave her an unimpressed look. “He wore that suit with the pinstripes.”

“Oh, you mean John!”

“John?”

“Yeah, John Smith. He’s like a friend of my grandad’s or something, I don’t know.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I hardly know him.”

“Sure,” said Nerys, looking anything but convinced.

Donna nearly started laughing. ��Seriously? Mr. Skinny Smith? Do you know me at all?”

Well, at least Nerys was still good for a laugh.

She did occasionally venture out, of course. Usually to the shops or other small errands. One morning, she went into town with her mother for some things, parenting books and the like. She even bought a CD that played Mozart, since everyone was always saying that made babies smarter for some reason. If her baby was anything like her, it’d need all the help it could get in the brains department.

Mrs. Wrightly next door was out pruning her garden when they pulled back into the driveway. Her mother glanced at the woman, then muttered, “You better get inside.”

Donna rolled her eyes. “I can still get bags, mum.”

It was as she reached into the boot that she heard their neighbor say, “How embarrassing.”

Donna froze. Mrs. Wrightly wasn’t looking at her, but it was pretty obvious she didn’t consider her garden shears embarrassing. She’d never had a problem with her before. Was that really what everyone thought of her now?

Her mum had stopped as well, and Donna could feel her ears starting to burn. She’d known on some level her totally unexpected pregnancy wouldn’t do her reputation any favors, but couldn’t they leave her family out of it?

“I’ll just get inside—”

“Hold these a minute,” said her mum, passing her the bags she’d already grabbed and marching straight up to the border between their home and Mrs. Wrightly’s.

“Were you saying something, Doris?”

The other woman looked up and plastered a smile on her face. “I’m sorry?”

“I can see you looking at my daughter when her back’s turned,” said her mother point-blank. “Passing judgments.”

“Why, Sylvia, I’d never!”

“Well, I’ve heard your Vanessa’s been sacked again, but you don’t see me standing there lording it over you. At least I’ll actually have a grandchild instead of a son-in-law who behaves like a child.” She raised herself up to her full height, which was at least a good bit taller than Doris Wrightly, and said, “So next time you want to look down your nose at my family, maybe you ought to just mind your own?”

She turned about and came back onto their path before the woman could do more than simply gape at her. Donna wasn’t faring much better.

“What?” Asked her mother as she took back her share of the bags.

Donna’s mouth snapped shut. “Nothing.”

They exchanged a look just as the front door closed behind them. Then the both of them dissolved into giggles.

“Did you see her face?”

“Oh, I should have let that woman have it ages ago.” Her mother calmed, smiling with satisfaction. “Help me put the bags away, and I’ll start on dinner.”

Things were actually pretty good with her mum, which was almost more of a surprise than the baby had been. Donna had felt as though she and Gramps had been tiptoeing around her lately, but she was too relieved they were supportive of her right now to bother about it. It wasn’t as if they knew anything more than she did.

She couldn’t help continuing to puzzle over the identity of her baby’s father, though. What had he been like? Why had she done it? If he wasn’t going to stick around, Donna hoped she could count on whoever he’d been to have passed on some good genes at the least. Some ruggedly handsome type who was no good for her but she could never resist, with broad shoulders and a cleft chin.

That wasn’t what her mind supplied for her at all when she dreamed.

Donna couldn’t recall when they’d started. Maybe a little after she’d discovered she was pregnant. She didn’t think she’d be able to paint a clear picture of him if asked. It all sort of started to slip away from her as soon as she woke up. But instead of long walks on a beach at sunset, they went running through streets or over hills with some unknown danger in hot pursuit — yet Donna’s heart would pound and her cheeks would flush all the same as she grasped his hand tightly in hers.

They would come upon creatures Donna had the strangest impression she ought to know the names of; they would take tea together under a starry sky that looked nothing like the one visible from her grandad’s hill; they would lie together on a couch or on a bed that was comfier than any Donna had found in real life. And, her type or no, in the dreams Donna knew she was absolutely in love with this man.

But he said the weirdest stuff.

“And that is how they do it on Teluria. Approximately. Or so I’ve read,” said Donna’s mad dream man one night, his head rising from between her spread legs as Donna took in great gasping breaths to come down from what she felt could be fairly classed as an earth-shattering orgasm.

“Knew that tongue was...good for something.”

“It’s multifunctional.” As if to demonstrate his point, he kissed and licked a path back up her body that ended at her mouth, and his tongue plunged in without hesitation.

There was something about him that tasted different, and it wasn’t until she was sucking at the underside of his jaw where something wet had trailed down from his lips that she realized it was her. She was tasting herself on him, an utterly new experience; there’d never been a man she was with before who had done that for her, let alone kissed her after, not even when she’d asked.

Donna moaned against his skin and slipped a knee between his legs, her thigh brushing against the prominent bulge in his trousers.

His hips rocked forward as he rubbed against her. “Donna. I need- I need—”

“Yeah, me too, Spaceman.” She reached for his fly to give him a hand, in more ways than one.

“Donna,” he groaned again in her ear. “Oh, Donna, that's — that’s gonna have to stop if you want me to last long at all.”

“What, bit of a hair trigger?”

“No. I don’t know,” he gasped in her ear as she gave him a final stroke, then took her hand away.

“Aw, that’s okay. After what you just did, I haven’t the heart to tease you.”

“You’re too kind,” he huffed, shimmying out of the remainder of his clothes, some suit pants with stripes. Donna licked lips that felt dry all of a sudden; it wasn’t as if she was wholly unfamiliar with his body by now, but here they were finally about to go all the way.

She raised her arms to bury her fingers in brown hair and drag his lips back to hers as he repositioned himself between her legs. He hummed a sort of question to which Donna broke off the kiss in order to nod in answer. For one absurd moment she was struck with the thought so much for not mating and then—

Her alarm cut through the dream more effectively than a slap in the face, and Donna reached blindly for it with a frustrated groan. She didn’t know if it was pregnancy hormones or what, but that had been some of the best sex she’d ever had — and she’d never actually had it!

It had been so long. Well, with one notable exception she couldn’t even remember, she was forced to note as she placed a hand over her stomach. She still wasn’t showing, but she felt firmer there than she was accustomed to.

Lance had said something those two years ago about wanting to do things proper and wait for marriage, and Donna had been too excited to be getting married to disagree. Then before that...yes, it really had been too long. No wonder she’d nearly soaked her panties over a fantasy.

She was due at the OBGYN in two hours, though, so there wasn’t much time to dwell on it. Donna showered and changed and sat for breakfast with her mum and Gramps. By the time she was sitting in morning traffic it was half out of her mind.

The news she received from the OBGYN took care of the rest of it.

“What do you mean there’s something wrong?”

“Not wrong, necessarily. Just different. The baby’s still healthy.”

Oh sure, like that was at all reassuring. “It’s healthy but it’s different than other babies? And how does that work?”

Doctor Kafka clicked her pen a couple times. “I’m not too sure myself. I want to refer your case to a specialist.”

“And they can figure out what’s wrong with me?”Asked Donna. “Or the baby?”

“That would be the idea.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” She demanded. “Call them!”

Doctor Kafka did. And that specialist called in another specialist who called in two more and so on. It felt like Donna was going in every other day to see this or that expert in this or that field. And yet for all their expertise not one of them could tell her one bloody thing! All they kept saying was that her baby was ‘different’, but no one seemed quite able to tell her how or why.

“And they keep saying it’s healthy,” she told her grandad over a cup of tea that was doing little to soothe her nerves. She’d already shredded about five tissues to bits as they talked. “But how can that be when there’s all this fuss?”

“Well, there’s no point hoping it’s worse.”

“I know,” she sighed. “I guess I’m just worried is all. I mean, I already didn’t know anything about the father, and now there’s all these people saying it’s not growing right or the way it’s supposed to at this stage or whatever. Is it something I’m doing wrong?”

“Oh, sweetheart, of course not.” He reached across to pat her hand. “Look, why don’t me or your mum come along with you to the next one, see if we can’t get some answers.”

“Can’t hurt. Thanks, Gramps.” Donna stood with one hand resting over her stomach, which was only just beginning to show now. There was a whole person growing inside her, and she would move mountains just to keep them safe. Unfortunately all there seemed to be to do was get plenty of rest and watch her diet. She felt so useless, not that that was any different than normal.

“Think I’m gonna turn in early,” she told her Gramps and left before he could reply.

Donna dreamed that night she was sitting on the edge of a rooftop overlooking London. She was wearing a wedding dress, the one she’d always liked from Chez Alison, only it was wrinkled and there was dirt or something on the hem, and the veil was missing. In the dream, Donna didn’t seem to care; she was too busy trying not to cry.

Then someone placed a jacket on her shoulders, their hands lingering for just a moment. The suit jacket was brown with pinstripes and still warm. She didn’t know what to say; no one ever did this sort of thing for her. It calmed her somewhat, and things didn’t seem so bad as before.

The person joined her on the ledge and took out a ring. Donna’s stomach did a strange little flip-flop as she looked to her right — and froze.

Everything seemed to shift into sharp focus, and Donna realized she recognized the man she’d been spending all her dreams with.

It was that John Smith.

—

Wilfred watched Donna trudge up the stairs for bed, then stood himself in order to pace. His granddaughter’s pregnancy was causing some concern amongst all those medical people. They couldn’t make any sense of it. Never seen something like it before.

Could it really be?

Not long after, Sylvia came in through the front door from a night out with the girls. “Well, what have you two been up to? Where’s Donna?”

“Went to bed. Sylvia, love, there’s something I gotta tell you. It’s about the baby.”

She looked at him. “It’s alright, isn’t it?”

“Well they’re telling Donna it’s healthy. But they don’t really understand what’s going on with it, cos it’s not developing like, well…”

“Like a human baby,” Sylvia finished for him. Wilf nodded. “Oh, God,” moaned his daughter, sitting and placing her face in her hands.

Wilf stood there, unsure of what to do. There wasn’t much he could say in comfort.

“What if it hurts her? What if it doesn’t look human when it’s born, and she remembers?”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I don’t know, but there’s someone who might.”

Sylvia looked back up. “Dad, you can’t mean him. He said it wasn’t safe for Donna!”

“Well that was before we knew about all this, wasn’t it?” Donna being pregnant had to change things, right? The Doctor couldn’t have known about it or he would’ve said. “And we need him. Donna needs him, and so does her baby.”

“How are you even going to find him? He didn’t leave you a number.”

“No,” he agreed. “But Donna found him once. How hard can it be, really?”

First thing the next morning he went down to catch the bus and put his friends on alert. If anyone saw either the blue telephone box or a man in a suit and coat with sticky-uppy hair, they’d give him a call and make sure those things stayed exactly where they were until he got there.

“Now listen, this is important,” he stressed. “We have got to find it, right? So phone around. Phone everybody. Sally, will you get onto the Bridge club? Right. Winston, you try the old boys. Bobby, want you to ring the skiffle band, right? Between us, we've got the city covered.”

“The Silver Cloak!” Minnie said with a grin.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“Who is he, then, this Doctor?” Asked Winston.

“No, I can’t tell you that. I swear.”

“It’s not about Donna, is it?” Minnie continued the questioning. “Everything’s alright with her and the baby?”

“Yeah. Well, that’s why we need him. We need the Doctor now more than ever.”

No matter how much the others pressed, he refused to give any more details. It wouldn’t do getting out that Donna might be having an alien baby.

The best thing to do would be to find the Doctor as soon as possible and then get Donna away from all those specialists. He didn’t want his granddaughter or great-grandchild to become some scientific curiosity. Imagine if they took the baby away; his poor girl would be heartbroken. If anything good had come of this, it was that Donna was much more animated than she’d been those first two months after she’d been home, and he couldn’t bear to see even that little bit taken from her.

She even came up on the hill with him most nights again, like this one.

“You ought to have a chair.” Wilf half-stood, but Donna was already easing herself onto the blanket.

“I’m alright for now. Not like you should be on the ground.”

“I’ll go down to the shops and buy another tomorrow,” he resolved.

She smiled up at him. “Alright.” Donna rested a hand on her stomach. “And then once this one’s born we can get a baby seat. I think it really likes stargazing. I can feel it move when I look through the telescope.”

His eyebrows rose up his forehead. “It’s moving already?”

“Yeah.” She frowned. “That’s what they mean about it growing weird. And to think all the money I’ve spent on pregnancy books, and they’re all useless.”

The back door opened and Sylvia called up to them, “Donna, shouldn’t you come inside? It’s getting colder at night.”

“I’ve got blankets!” Donna hollered back. “Honestly it’s like she’s afraid any minute now something terrible’s gonna happen.”

“Your mother’s a worrier, been that way all her life,” he remarked. “She just wants to see you happy and settled.”

Donna considered that for a long moment, then asked, “Gramps, did I invite John to my wedding?”

He gave a start in his chair, nearly upsetting his thermos. “Who? What wedding?”

“The one that didn’t really happen. Lance,” she reminded him.

“Oh, yes, that fellow. Er, well I don’t remember much about the guest list. Didn’t even get there myself. Which John was that?”

She snorted. “Which John, he’s your friend, isn’t he? John Smith?”

“John- John Smith? That John?” She nodded. Wilf worked to keep his voice steady as he answered, “No, no I don’t think so, sweetheart, why do you ask?”

“I dunno. I feel like I remember — and then Nerys was saying last month...suppose it doesn’t matter. Lance and all that is ancient history.” She shook her head. “What have you got that thing pointed at tonight?”

“Oh, nothing really. Just looking.” He doubted very much the blue box was about to go sailing across the sky, so he motioned her forward.

Donna put her eye to the telescope. “Well, for nothing really, those stars are beautiful. Oh! There it goes. Here.” She reached for his hand and placed it over her belly.

Wilf waited, and then he felt it. Not quite strong enough to be a kick, but something was shifting around in there. “Bless me, it really does like them!”

“Well, it runs in the family. Maybe this Noble will be the one to make it up there, Gramps. How does that sound, baby?” She cooed. “Do you wanna be a spaceman?”

Wilfred’s smile dimmed, and he drew his hand back. “Maybe its mother can go along, too.”

Donna laughed. “What would I do up there? Can you picture me on the International Space Station? Probably just get in the way all the time.” She stood and stretched. “Think I’ll head down before my legs fall asleep. You’ll be fine?”

“Yeah.” He sat in his chair as Donna’s footsteps faded away, and the door opened and shut. Then Wilf stood and began putting his things back; he didn’t feel much like stargazing tonight anymore.

#ten x donna #doctor x donna #donna noble #wilfred mott #sylvia noble #tenth doctor #the doctor #doctor who #my writing

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lyraparadigm · 7 years ago

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Isaac Lahey Song Fic - Part 1

Aaand my Daniel Sharman obsessions has made me write this...

Song: Oh my, my, my by Taylor Swift

I was eight, and you were nine I looked at you like the stars that shined In the sky, the pretty lights.

My eyes fell to the long forgotten pictures stuck to the headboard of my old bed. It felt weird being in this house again, after all these years. Taking the pictures down, my fingers traced the faces of two kids, arm in arm with wide grins on their faces. I remembered that day so vividly. It was the last time either of us had smiled at each other like that.

And our daddies used to joke about the two of us Growing up and fallin' in love And our mamas smiled, and rolled their eyes And said, ‘Oh, my, my, my’

I chuckled at the bittersweet memory of our mothers sitting by the pool, sipping on cocktails and laughing about me and him, whilst our Fathers were by the barbeque, joking about their kids growing up and falling in love.

“ISAAC!” I had screeched as he had pushed me into the pool, diving in right after. I had grabbed onto him for dear life while he splashed water in my face.

“I told you I wouldn’t let you drown.”

I still remembered his dimpled grin and the sparkle in his eyes. Our parents had taken a picture of that moment – two kids in a pool, grinning at each other.

Those were the best years of my life – of both our lives. Our world seemed like it was one block wide; my house and his. We’d play all day in the summer, running around each others yards, playing football and swimming in my pool. Life was good…till that one night our mothers had gotten into a car accident. Everything fell apart after that.

Our Fathers both blamed each other, refusing to let me and Isaac see each other anymore. Then Dad had decided he couldn’t handle living in Beacon Hills anymore. He couldn’t live in this house anymore where every turn he took reminded him of my mother. He couldn’t stand seeing Isaac’s Father or their house next door. I had sobbed myself to sleep the night we left town. I caught a glimpse of Isaac’s face through his bedroom window as our car drove off. That image had imprinted itself in my mind. His chubby cheeks, puffy eyes and an open palm, plastered to the window pane. I held out my hand too, as if to reach him. That was the first time I had felt my heart break.

~*~*~*~

Take me back to the house in the backyard tree Said you'd beat me up; you were bigger than me You never did, you never did Take me back when our world was one block wide I dared you to kiss me, and ran when you tried Just two kids, you and I Oh, my, my, my, my

Eight years later and I was back in Beacon Hills. My Father had finally decided it was time to face his demons. He was much wealthier now; wealthy enough to be able to buy back our old house, right next to the Lahey’s…except they didn’t live there anymore. We heard rumours that Isaac’s father had turned abusive after Cam, his eldest son, had died in combat which had resulted in him channelling his anger on Isaac. That was the second time my heart broke. My Dad learned of Mr. Lahey’s death and found out that Isaac now lived with someone called Derek, which explained why neither of us had seen him yet. That’d change soon though – I was about to start at Beacon Hills High School tomorrow.

Well, I was sixteen when suddenly I wasn't that little girl you used to see But your eyes still shined, like pretty lights

My heart pounded as I entered the classroom and stood at the front. The Teacher had just told the class I was a new student and had asked me to introduce myself. The moment my name slipped out of my lips, I caught Isaac’s head snap up to face me. He looked much the same, I decided. His eyes still shined like stars in the night sky and his cheeks still dimpled when he smiled. His hair was still the same shade of mud blonde I remembered and his lips were still as pink as the cotton candy we both loved as children. He looked the same, sure, but his entire manner was different. He was hunched over his text books, his mouth gaping at me. He hadn’t uttered so much as a word as I walked past him and took a seat behind him. I watched him as the class went on and took note of how reserved he was. It saddened me to see him like this – like he wasn’t confident of himself anymore – like silly things didn’t just make him grin and laugh anymore like they used to. He looked beaten down, exhausted and hurt. I had a feeling that last emotion was due to me.

When class ended, I caught up with his long strides and beat him to his locker.

“Isaac.” I panted as I leant against it, my eyes misting as I came face to face with him. I didn’t wait for him to acknowledge me, I simply wrapped my arms around him and buried my head against his chest.

“I’m sorry.” I mumbled. He was hesitant in returning the hug but once his arms were around me, he squeezed almost painfully tightly.

“I heard…I know what happened…I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you but I promise Isaac, I won’t leave again.”

~*~*~*~

Take me back to the creek beds we turned up Two AM, ridin' in your truck And all I need is you next to me

The days flew by fast as we hung out more and more, pretty soon we became inseparable again. He introduced me to all his friends at school and while they were secretive at times, none of it bothered me much. I had Isaac by my side and he was all I needed. It felt so surreal to spend time with him again and after all those years apart, it was quaint how we seemed to instantly fall back into all our old routines. He’d climb up the tree outside my bedroom and sneak in, late at night. We’d spend hours playing checkers, eating candy and watching tv at an incredibly low volume so we wouldn’t wake up my Dad. It amazed me how Isaac always seemed to be able to hear the words. He’d lean close, his lips brushing against my ear, and he’d murmur them in a low voice. It made me shiver every time, so he’d wrap his arms around me just a fraction tighter to warm me up. Soon my sheets started smelling like him and my hoodies too. He’d never stay the night though – he’d say he respected my Dad too much, so I’d give him a kiss on the cheek and say goodnight.

One night he turned up at my doorstep, drenched to the bone. His eyes were filled with sorrow and his voice cracked as he told both me and my father that he had nowhere else to go.

‘Derek kicked me out’

My Dad had placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and had drawn him into a hug.

“You live with us now, son.”

I took him up to the spare room and brought him a fresh set of towels.

“What happened?” I asked as I gently pushed him onto the bed and stood between his legs as I began drying his hair with a towel.

“I don’t know.” His voice was muffled, “He just kicked me out. I guess he didn’t want me anymore.”

He was crestfallen and my heart ached. Cupping his jawline, I tipped my head down and rested my forehead against his.

“Then he’s an idiot who never deserved you to begin with.”

I pressed kisses to his forehead as I hugged him tightly and promised, “You’ll never feel unwanted again.”

“I never do, when I’m with you.” He whispered, a strange light filling his eyes. I smiled warmly and made to leave but his grip on my waist tightened.

“Don’t leave me, please?” His eyes were large and round, filled to the brim with a sudden desperation and my heart broke for the third time. Cupping his jaw with both hands again, I pressed kisses on his forehead, his cheekbones, the ridge of his nose and the cleft of his chin. I paused as my lips hovered over his, indecision plaguing my mind but his need for me far outweighed any of my concerns, so he tugged me into his lap and wrapped me in his arms. His lips found mine in abrupt desperation, years of longing culminating in this very moment.

~*~*~

My father found out about us two weeks later. It was rather embarrassing and entirely Isaac’s fault. He had all but seduced me into abandoning the dirty dishes in the sink in favour of making out with him. The second Dad had climbed up the stairs, Isaac had dropped his chores and had grabbed at my waist, lifting me up and placing me on the counter top. Before I could so much as open my mouth in protest, his lips had slanted over mine, making me lose all other thought. His lips were a drug and I was addicted to everything that was Isaac Lahey. I moaned softly into his ear as his mouth blazed a trail down my neck, sucking and nibbling.

“Isaac”

“God.” He panted, his fingers digging into my hips, “If you keep saying my name like that, I won’t be able to stop.”

Placing slow, wet, open mouthed kisses along the column of his neck, I mumbled, “Don’t stop.”

His eyes had darkened in lust and I felt a ripple of heat spread through me.

Then the loud clearing of a throat interrupted us and Isaac all but leapt away from me. My Father stared at him with stern eyes and grim features.

“Needless to say, you’ll have to find some place else to live.”

~*~*~*~

Take me back to the time we had our very first fight Slammin' of doors 'stead of kissin' goodnight You stayed outside till the morning light Oh, my, my, my, my

The longer we had been dating for, the more I seemed to be bothered by his abrupt disappearances and flimsy excuses. It felt like he was keeping things from me and that upset me. It all came to a head when I bumped into him leaving Allison’s house rather late at night. He had tried to fumble his way through excuses, claiming he was just over at hers for a school research project but I had refused to believe him. I had yelled and screamed, accusing him of not being unfaithful.

“It’s clear to me now. You’re looking for a way out,” I spat hatefully, “So I’ll give you one. We’re done, Isaac. Go be with Alison now.” I had slammed my front door in his face and had spent the rest of the night crying myself to sleep. As morning dawned and I sluggishly opened the front door to collect the day’s paper, I jumped at the sight of Isaac curled up on my front porch. I realised he had stayed the night, right outside my house. He awoke then, his eyes puffy like mine from crying all night.

“I don’t want to be without you.” His voice shook, “I promise I’ll explain…please hear me out?”

He didn’t wait for an answer though as he rose to his feet, cupped my face in his hands and closed his eyes.

As they snapped open again, they gleamed golden.

That day I learnt my boyfriend was a werewolf.

~*~*~*~

#taylor swift #song fic #teen wolf #imagine #daniel sharman #isaac lahey #isaac lahey smut #isaac lahey imagine #teen wolf imagine

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lostcauses-noregrets · 8 years ago

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Lostcauses Fic: Chrome

This is for @flecksofpoppy who pointed out that while there's plenty of fan art of those leggings, they really deserve some fic. Also for @fullmetallizard and anyone else who has grown to love Levi Ackerman’s fabulous fashion disaster.

“You’re not going out wearing that!”

Levi gapes at his flatmate aghast.

“Wearing what?” Petra’s looks down at herself, nose scrunching into a little frown.

“That!” Levi waves his hand vaguely in his friend’s direction.

“You mean these?” Petra peers at her shiny silver leggings, frown turning into something a bit more apprehensive. “Why? Do they make my ass look big?” She cranes her head over her shoulder in an unsuccessful attempt to see her petite bottom.

“What the fuck? You’ve barely got an ass!”

“What’s wrong then?”

“Looks like something a twelve year old girl would wear.”

“No it doesn’t!” Petra huffs. “I’ll have you know this jacket came from a chi chi little boutique in the West End and the leggings are from a really cool Japanese outlet online.”

“I don’t care where they’re from,” Levi snorts dismissively, “I’m not going out with you looking like that.”

“And who made you the fashion police all of a sudden?” Petra pouts, sticking her chin out defiantly.

“Just saying…”

“Just jealous more like.” Petra sniffs haughtily.

“What the hell would I be jealous off?”

“My lovely new leggings!”

“Fuck off. I wouldn’t be seen dead in that fashion disaster.” Levi replies, clearly horrified.

“Ooh get you Mr Style Icon.” Petra cast a sarcastic eye over Levi’s black jeans and equally black t-shirt. “You know Levi, for a gay man your wardrobe is awfully straight.”

“Fuck you.”

“Y’know, I can kinda see you in these.”

Petra sidles up to Levi and waggles one shiny leg in front of him.

“Fuck off.”

“You’re no fun. Anyway, I don’t care what you think, I think I look hot.”

“Mutton dressed as lamb more like,” Levi mutters under his breath as Petra turns away to pick up her bag.

“I heard that Levi Ackerman!” Petra whirls around and prods Levi hard in the chest. “Right, if you’re so convinced that this is such a fashion faux pas why don’t you put your money where your mouth is?”

“What the hell are you talking about Pet?”

“If I can pull wearing my fabulous new leggings tonight, you have to wear them to the club next weekend.”

“No fucking way.”

“Don’t worry honey,” Petra smiles sweetly, patting Levi on the cheek “I’m sure you’ve got nothing to worry about if I look like mutton.”

The clubs is as busy and noisy as might be expected for a gay club on a Friday night and Levi can feel a headache starting as soon as he steps into the dark, strobe lit interior. He makes one circuit of the dance floor with Petra before retreating to a quieter area at the back of the bar. He’s promised his friend he’ll stay for one drink at least. By the time he’s finished his drink, Petra has already disappeared into the crowd with a tall person wearing glasses, a wild smile and messy hair tied up in a pony tail. Levi pulls out his phone, shoots her a short text message telling her he’s leaving and to call a cab to get home, then he makes his way out of the club, sighing with relief as he exits the hot noisy club into the cool night air.

Levi wakens late the next morning; he doesn’t work on Saturdays so there’s no hurry to get up, though his desperate need for tea forces him out of bed just after nine. The flat is quiet and peaceful, perfect for a relaxing Saturday morning. Levi is on his second cup of tea when he realizes that the flat is altogether too quiet and that he has no recollection of hearing Petra coming home the night before. He hastily reaches for his phone and, sure enough, there are three messages from Petra sent at four in the morning. The first is a blurry selfie of Petra and the messy haired person he’d last seen her with at the club. The second reads going home with Hanji, going to make cocktails & toast & cheese. don’t wait up! The third message, sent a few minutes later simply says i win ur turn next wk. It takes Levi a moment to figure out what it means but when he does, his stomach drops. Fuck. Petra pulled. He’s lost the bet.

It’s Sunday afternoon before Petra stumbles back to the flat, still wearing the silver leggings and the smuggest grin Levi has ever seen in his life.

“No.” Levi states flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Absolutely fucking not.”

“A deal’s a deal,” Petra chirrups before collapsing onto the couch and demanding coffee, blankets and crap tv.

Levi does not intend to give in without a fight. He dedicates every spare moment of the week thinking up any excuse that will allow him to wriggle out of the bet with his dignity intact.

“I’m skint. I can’t afford to go out this weekend.” He tries on Monday evening.

“No problem”, Petra smiles sweetly, “I’ve just been paid.”

On Tuesday morning he tries coughing unconvincingly.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to go out on Friday, I’m coming down with a cold.”

“No you’re not,” Petra snips without even looking up from her cereal.

“How the fuck do you know, Nurse Ral?”

“Because,” Petra waves her spoon at him, “on the vanishingly rare occasions you do actually get ill, you always deny it. Honestly Levi you one of these guys who’d stand there with their arm hanging off claiming it’s only a scratch.”

She does have a point.

“There’s no way I’ll get into your stupid fucking leggings,” Levi protests on Wednesday, “they’re way too small.”

“Nuh uh.” Petra sticks her head out of the bathroom where she’s dying her hair. “These leggings are made of the stretchiest fabric known to mankind, I’m sure you’ll manage to squeeze your ass into them sweetie.”

“It’s not my ass I’m worried about…” Levi mutters darkly.

“But what if I rip them?” He pleads on Thursday, desperation giving way to despair.

“Rip them? Hoping so see some action are you?” Petra smirks. God dammit she can be annoying sometimes. “Well if they come down in a blaze of glory so be it. They helped me pull, maybe they’ll work the same magic for you!” She reaches across the couch where they’re sitting and ruffles Levi’s hair. Levi wishes for death.

By the end of the week Petra’s almost supernatural ability to get her own way wins out and Levi regretfully concludes that he will either have to move out and find a new flat, possibly even adopt a new identity, or suck it up, and wear the fucking leggings.

Saturday comes around with swift and awful inevitability and finds Levi standing in front of the mirror in his bedroom, gazing at his reflection with abject horror. After several false starts he has regretfully concluded that the only way he is going to be able to wear Petra’s hideous leggings is if he goes commando. That still doesn’t make getting into them any easier. Petra has offered to help of course but he refuses to let her into the bedroom on the grounds that he is half naked and she refuses to stop laughing.

“Oh come on Levi,” she had pleads from the other side of the door, “don’t be a baby, there’s no need to be shy. You know I’m not remotely interested in dick, yours or anyone else’s!”

It takes a great deal of undignified maneuvering to worm his way into the leggings but once they’re on, Levi can’t help admitting that they feel rather nice. The fabric is fine and stretchy and the metallic surface feels smooth and cool to the touch. However it’s when he turns round and looks in the mirror that the full horror of the situation really hits him. The leggings hug every curve and cleft of his nether regions, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. In fact the silver sheen actually seems to accentuate his assets, highlighting the outline of his dick, the cheeks of his ass.

“Fuck.” He groans, burying his face in his hands.

“Leeeeevi!” Petra pleads, between fits of giggles, from the other side of the door, “come on, we’ll be late, you can’t stay in there all night.”

Shaking his head, Levi grabs the longest shirt he can find from his closet then, taking a deep breath, he opens the door.

“Oh my god! Petra squeals, eyes round as saucers. “Oh. My. God!”

“Right, fuck this,” Levi snaps retreating back into his room and attempting to slam the door.

Petra is too quick for him though.

“Uh uh, no you don’t.” She catches him by the arm and drags him back out into the hallway with surprising strength for one so small. “No, no, no. We made a deal.” She wags her finger sternly at Levi. “Right now, stand there.”

She plants Levi firmly on the spot and walks around him to admire the view. By the time she’s facing him again her gleeful grin has been replaced by a small pout.

“Damn, Levi, unfair.”

“You’re telling me this is unfair?”

“No, it’s not fair, these leggings look better on you than they do on me. How the hell do you do that?”

“I look like a fucking oven ready chicken,” Levi mutters.

“Oh don’t be such a drama queen. It’s a gay club, silver leggings are practically dress down for a Saturday night. Come on, time to go. I told Hanji I’d meet her at the club just after eleven.” She tosses the black satin jacket at Levi and, ignoring any further protests, ushers him out the door.

Petra is right of course, amongst the lycra and sequins and booty shorts, Levi’s silver leggings are far from the most flamboyant thing on the dancefloor. In fact the only person in the club who sticks out like a sore thumb is a tall blond guy propping up the bar who’s wearing an electric blue suit, complete with white shirt and red tie. I mean, who the fuck wears a suit and tie to a gay club on a Saturday night?

Levi doesn’t have time to check out the conspicuous blond before Petra is dragging him onto the dance floor. The DJ is on top form tonight, mixing up the usual high-energy trash with something a bit heavier, a bit more bassy. It really hits the spot. As Levi looses himself in the music and the euphoria he can’t help noticing that the silver leggings allow a certain freedom of movement and he’d be lying if he didn’t notice the admiring glances cast his way as the lights shine of the skin tight silver fabric.

By the time Levi fights his way off the dancefloor almost an hour later he’s dripping with sweat and gasping for a drink. He makes his way over to the bar and is shouldering his way through the throng when he hears a voice at his ear.

“You look hot.”

Levi turns around to give the stranger his best death glare and finds himself looking up at the blond in the blue suit. The very tall, very gorgeous blond in the blue suit.

“Subtle,” he drawls sarcastically.

Not remotely daunted by Levi’s fuck off attitude the man throws his head back and laughs.

“No, I meant hot as in you look like you need to cool down, though now you come to mention it…” He grins and there’s something wolfish there that intrigues Levi. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Levi sweeps a swift appraising eye over the man. Talking of hot…

“Sure,” he shrugs. “Just water.”

Levi retreats to a relatively quiet corner away from the bar and the man returns shortly afterwards with carrying a gin and tonic and a bottle of water. Levi gulps down the cold water gratefully. He can feel the man’s eyes on his throat as he swallows and when some of the water trickles out of the corner of his mouth to pool in the hollow of his throat, he doesn’t wipe it away.

“I’m Erwin,” the man says, as Levi lowers the bottle from his mouth. His eyes follow the trail of water sliding down Levi’s throat.

“Erwin…” Levi draws the name out over his tongue. “So what’s your story?” He nods in the direction of the man’s suit, one brow raised in query.

“Excuse me?” The man looks confused for a moment. “Oh! You mean this? The suit? I was at a work colleague’s wedding. The maid of honour was trying to pair me off with the best man, some lanky guy with a ratty little moustache, so I thought it was time to make my excuses.”

“Not your type huh?”

“No,” Erwin replies, and there’s that predatory glint in his eye again, “not my type.”

Levi lifts the bottle to his lips again, drinking slowly. Erwin’s eyes never leave his face.

“I like your leggings,” Erwin comments as Levi caps the bottle and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Are you taking the piss?”

“No not at all. Chrome is very next season.”

“Chrome…what?” Levi stutters. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Chrome accents,” Erwin explains as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “They’re going to be everywhere come spring. You’re way ahead of the curve.”

Levi eyes the man flatly.

“And you know this how? What are you, some kind of stylist, or designer or shit?”

“Me? God no,” Erwin laughs, “but I do work for a publishing company that has a lot of fashion and lifestyle titles in its portfolio. You just pick up on this kind of stuff. Apparently chrome is the next big thing.”

“Chrome huh?” Levi deadpans “Not sure it’s really my colour.”

“Oh I don’t know. It accentuates…” Erwin pauses, letting his gaze track slowly down over Levi’s body and back up to his face, “the colour of your eyes.”

Levi snorts, but really, he was just thinking exactly the same thing. The man, Erwin, has the most impossibly blue eyes he has ever seen, which are only highlighted by the electric blue of his pristine suit. It’s a winning combination.

Now Levi is a man who appreciates good grooming. To say that rough trade is not his thing would be the understatement of the century, however there is something about that immaculate blue suit, the neat side swept hair, the man’s clean fresh cologne, that brings out a primal urge in Levi to see the handsome blonde completely wrecked and ruined. The thought sends a bolt of heat straight to his groin, making him fidget uncomfortably.

Blondie, of course, notices.

“Are you all right there?”

“These things are fucking strangling me,” Levi mutters, feeling the heat rising to his cheeks.

“They are rather,” Erwin coughs politely, “form fitting.”

“Form fitting?” Levi can’t help choking back a laugh. “You have no fucking idea. I nearly did myself an injury trying to get into them. Fuck knows how I’m going to get them off.”

“Well if you need a hand, I’d be very happy to oblige,” Erwin replies without missing a beat.

“Fuck. You’re really not subtle are you?”

Erwin leans in, and when he speaks again, Levi can feel his breath hot against his cheek.

“Says the grown man in the silver leggings and the satin jacket. Shall we go?”

Levi answers by fisting his hand in the red tie and dragging the man down for a long bruising kiss.

They’re already half way to the door of the club when Levi stops.

“Hang on, I need to text my flatmate.”

He pulls his phone from the pocket of Petra’s satin jacket.

I’m off Pet, see you tomorrow

Going home already? Petra texts back immediately.

Maybe. Maybe not.

“omg! u pulled? did you pull? did my leggings work their magic again?

Fuck off.

Levi snorts out a laugh.

“Something funny?” Erwin asks.

“No, just my stupid flatmate. Come on lets go.”

Before shoving his phone back in his pocket and following Erwin out the door, Levi shoots off one last text.

PS I’m keeping your leggings

#lostcauses fic #eruri #erwin smith #levi ackerman #crack fic #this is becoming a habit #i just love levi's outfit tho #he's fabulous #fashion disaster #snk

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tatooedlaura-blog · 8 years ago

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Eighth Christmas

the series is as follows so far:

First … Second … Third … Fourth … Fifth … Fifth Christmas, Part 2 … Sixth … Seventh … Eighth … Ninth … Tenth … Eleventh … Twelfth … Thirteenth … Fourteenth … Fifteenth … Sixteenth … Seventeenth … Eighteenth … Nineteenth … Twentieth … Twenty-first … Twenty-second … Twenty-third

———————–

Scully spent Christmas Eve at Maggie’s surrounded by loud family, mounds of presents, her mother’s recently acquired goldfish and what felt like a gigantic hole where her heart should have been. William enjoyed his Merry-Go-Round ride from relative to relative, drooling, patting, sitting up and pulling hair whenever possible. She, on the other hand, spent her time staring into space, remembering the two Christmases that Mulder spent with her family, sitting behind her on the floor, hand gently resting a hair’s width from her thigh, shin folded against her back end as he shuffled up close, watching the festivities over her shoulder, his breath so close to her, so warm and soft on her neck.

Suddenly, a restlessness shook her, a need to move, a need to see him, a need to hold him so strong she had to stand, pacing back and forth to the confusion of her mother, who watched her quietly from the couch. Her circle took her from the living room to the kitchen, down the hall, past the bathroom and stairs, soon returning to the living room. She traced the path four times before she found Maggie standing in her way in the darkened hall.

“Honey, are you all right?”

Rooted there, hands playing with themselves, wringing absently, “I need to go home, Mom. I just … something … I need to go. I’m sorry. I know it’s not that late but if you won’t hate me, I’m going to get going.”

She didn’t want to see them go but something in Dana’s tone of voice drove her to nod her head, “of course. Just tell everyone Will kept you up late last night and you both need your rest.”

Crooking an eyebrow and trying to smile, “lying on Christmas Eve. God will not approve.”

“I’ll deal with the repercussions but I think it will be fine.” Giving Scully a hug, “just don’t forget to come back in the morning. I’ll have been too long away from my little Will by then.” Stepping back, Maggie gave her a soft look, “we’ll be up at 6am, like usual, Mass at 9, breakfast at 10:30, like always.”

“We’ll be here, promise.”

With a smile, “do your best.”

&&&&&&&&&&

Scully managed to get into her apartment and lock the door before she stopped dead in her tracks, her senses coming on line instantly. Putting Will’s carrier gently down on the floor partially under the end table, she slipped her gun from her waist, then began scouting the apartment, not sure what was bothering her but looking thoroughly through every room, closet, behind ever door and under every bed. Once she was satisfied, she returned to the living room, retrieving Will first before her eyes finally processed what was different.

Hanging on the Christmas tree, dead center and nearly hidden by an angled branch, was an ornament that had not been there earlier in the day.

Spinning quickly on her heel, she half expected to see him standing behind her, ready to scare the bejesus out of her, kiss her, hug her, cry when he saw how big his son was becoming. Instead, she only saw an empty kitchen, cold and dark, the misery overwhelming her instantly; she’d missed him, missed him sneaking in, missed him wanting to see his little boy and her, missed him so close she could smell his soap and taste his skin.

She burst into tears.

&&&&&&&&&&

It was well after midnight before she finally began dozing, her head nodding, her ears finally relaxing to every sound made within the apartment. She was just slipping into a half-formed dream of Mulder when she felt a pair of ice cold lips on her own. Eyes flying open, Scully saw him, so real and so very close that the first thing she did was swing, heavy-fisted, catching him squarely at the top of his cheekbone, sliding her knuckles across his closed eye and ramming into his nose. After a millisecond of hesitated confusion, she was crouching over his hunched form, Mulder holding his face and groaning.

Yanking his hands away, she twisted his head towards her and kissed him, amazed he was real and whole and in front of her when she missed him the most.

He kissed her back for a few moments, then pulled away, whispering, “what the hell was that!?”

She met his mouth again and he stopped asking questions, too busy running his hands over her, pulling her tightly against him, to worry about a bruised cheekbone and burning eye. He only separated enough to pull the sweater over her head, making a note to comment on it eventually, once he remembered how to say more than a moaned ‘I love you’ in the general vicinity of her bare breasts, smooth thighs, curved ass and valleyed back.

&&&&&&&&&&&&

The fear, however, set in the moment the pooled sweat between them began to evaporate. He felt her muscles tense, coiling in preparation to defend him, to kill him, to throw him from her house in fear for their son’s life.

His hands came down on her upper arms, his leg holding her knees, voice almost inaudibly, “don’t do this yet … please?”

She beat him to the punch, sliding sideways from his grasp and off the bed, shivering suddenly in the cold darkness, “do what? Wonder if somebody’s going to break in here and kill you? Shoot you in my bed?”

Mulder shushed her as he sat up, pulling the sheets around his shoulders, “yell any louder you’re going to wake up Will.”

“What the hell are you doing here, Mulder? You’re supposed to be hiding somewhere, far, far away from the eight thousand people who have you at the top of their shit list.”

Seeing this might not go as smoothly as he’d hoped, he sat up, pushing aside sheets, reaching out to wrap his fingers around her hip to pull her closer, “I couldn’t stay away. Not on Christmas. The guys have been dropping hints that I’m somewhere in southern Florida and the surveillance team that had eyes on you tonight gave up and went home to their families or their bottles of whiskey or their mothers, I have no idea, but Byers gave me the all clear to come in and I did and you belted me.”

Stomach clenching, “there’s a team on me?”

“Yeah. Skinner’s guys so not too terrible but I couldn’t have anyone, not even Walter, know I’m here so I had to wait until they left.”

By now, she was trapped between knobby knees, thigh muscles giving under the pressure of his hold on her, “then where did the ornament come from?”

Not smiling, wishing with all his heart he’d been the one to hang it, “I gave it to Frohike to hang for me in case I didn’t make it inside.”

She kissed him again with a fierceness fueled by six-month separation, her lips hovering over his when she finally pulled back to catch her breath, “do you want to see Will?”

His arms tightened around her, a spasmodic jerk of nervous anxiety, “yes, please.”

After pulling on pajamas, she retrieved their son, climbing carefully into bed before laying him between them. Mulder settled beside him immediately, head against the mattress alongside the boy’s, staring in wonder at his perfect nose, curved chin and pursed lips, “God, Scully, how can I ever leave him again?”

“You don’t have to.”

Allowing Will to blur slightly as he focused on Scully over his head, “please don’t make this harder. I have a few more hours then,” tears ran rivers down his cheeks at this point but she made no move to clear them, “God, don’t fight with me now, okay? I can’t handle it.”

Heart breaking, she cried with him, watching him smooth his fingers over light eyebrows and reddening hair, button nose and chin cleft, apple-round cheeks and near-translucent eyelids. Quiet tears fell on small pajamas and Scully held her boys as close as possible while they snuggled on the rumpled bed, breathed lullabies sung to sleeping ears. Mulder lived, for a brief moment, the mundane, homebound existence he wished for and dreamed of every hour he was awake and every moment he slept.

Eventually, exhaustion drove her to sleep but Mulder remained alert, basking in the precious time he was part of a family again.

His family.

His tiny, bigger than the world family.

&&&&&&&&&&&

He stayed until just before dawn, holding his boy close for the last hour, cradling him to his chest, memorizing his smell, his fingers and toes, his hummingbird heartbeat and the sounds he made, from cooing to grunting to that soul-melting sigh that made Mulder shut his eyes, try to absorb the perfection that was his son.

&&&&&&&&&&&

Scully woke to an empty bed, Will gone but making noise on the baby monitor, demanding breakfast and a clean diaper. The depression settled in quickly, the cold, heaviness of the apartment telling her he was already gone.

Moving automatically to Will’s room, she found a note hanging from the crib, taped and innocently waiting to be read. Forcing herself to wait until she’d changed Will and fed him, she finally settled him on her hip before unfolding the paper.

An hour later, she forced herself to get both of them ready for the return trip to Grandma’s house, Scully finally giving up halfway through, moving to the tree to examine yet again the ornament he’d left behind: one of a little boy in an oversize Yankee jersey, cap askew, glove at his feet, bat too large to hold up off the ground with the words ‘Daddy’s Little Home Run Hitter’ written underneath.

On the opposite side, Mulder had carefully printed in his trademark Sharpie “I love you” and the year.

#felt a pair of ice cold lips on her own #daddy's little home run hitter #msr #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #christmas series #my writing

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