#because you can’t just walk across a highway | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pennjammin · 2 months ago

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↳˗ˏˋexhaust pipeˊˎ˗ suguru geto.

╰┈➤ a pretty thing like you all alone with a stalled car in a foreign city is the recipe for disaster, but a kind motorcyclist stops to offer help and - now you’re staring at your own fucked-out reflection in his helmet.

word count.ᐟ 9.7k

content.ᐟMASK KINK. FOOD PLAY. IMPACT PLAY. PROTECTED AND UNPROTECTED. STRANGERS TO LOVERS. ALT!GETO. CUNNILINGUS. EDGING. SLIGHT SPIT KINK. DEGRADATION/DEGRADING NICKNAMES. AFTERCARE. AFAB!READER.

a/n: so this will switch POVs to give my masc/amab!readers out there a chance to step into the story. i hope you guys enjoy suguru’s pining over reader :)

➗

You can’t make this shit up.

The roar of cars speeding by is not helping the anchor in your stomach at the thought of being trapped on a foreign interstate in the middle of the night.

You’d just left a concert, it’s about three hours from your hometown, and you hadn’t bothered with a hotel because you knew you could make the drive. You had not accounted for your car deciding to stall on the highway, though.

And now it’s late at night. The moon winks at you knowingly, as if trying to tell you it’s going to be alright, but dread has already poisoned your nerves. You’re alone and vulnerable, and you don’t know where to go or who to call.

You find yourself crying in your passenger seat, phone battery nearly drained, the cold of the dark seeping through your clothes. You’re in the typical skimpy outfit that one wears to concerts and you’re cussing out the you who’d chosen something so non-weather friendly.

You nearly fold and call your parent, when an engine popping gets your attention. You look up and see a motorcyclist pointing to his right, signaling that he is merging across the lanes. Cars slow to allow him over until his revving engine gets louder to indicate his speed. You think he’s heading for the exit as he approaches the last lane but then - to your complete surprise he slows at the last minute and pulls onto the shoulder, feet walking along the asphalt as his motorcycle comes to a stop.

He pulls right behind your car and your stomach tightens with worry.

The man has thick forearms snaked in ink-black artwork, and black cargo pants that cause him to blend into the night like a thief. His boots are thick-soled and all you can imagine is him overpowering you and kicking in your skull.

He props out his kickstand, and your body tingles with fear as the stranger throws himself off of the bike and walks towards you, a backpack bouncing between his shoulders.

“Hey,” he shouts underneath his helmet, which is a black void that does not show a glimpse of his face underneath. “Everything okay?”

“No,” you sob, wiping your eyes before putting your hand on your pepper spray. “What do you want?”

“Relax,” the stranger puts his gloved hands in the air, “I just want to help you. Your car not working?”

You sniffle, keeping your hand on the pepper spray but softening the tension in your shoulders at his calm demeanor. “No, it stalled and won’t turn back on.”

The stranger does not make any noise for a second, but you see his chest rising and falling underneath his tight black shirt.

“Alright, um,” he glances at the heavyweight watch on his wrist, clearly noting how late it is. “There aren’t going to be any towing companies open this late. But I’m a mechanic, I can give you a ride home and then we can come back in the morning with my tools to give it a look.”

You shake your head, “I live three hours from here.”

“What? You aren’t staying somewhere close for the night?” he questions, voice full of surprise.

“No,” you shake your head, “I appreciate your offer, but I am going to sleep in my car until you return.”

He stands frozen for a second before leaning one hand against your car and ducking his masked head towards you. Though you can’t see his eyes, you can feel them.

“Absolutely not, you can crash with me,” he says softly. “I’ll let you sleep in my room, door locked. I know you’re probably going to say no, but…”

At this point, you have to weigh your options: stay in your car and risk someone breaking or crashing into it while you sleep, or take the gamble of getting kidnapped and murdered by the way-too-polite stranger whose face you haven’t even seen.

“Take off your helmet,” you hear yourself saying suddenly, fearing you’ve already made your decision, and it’s definitely an irrational one.

He doesn’t speak another word before his gloved hands come up and he pries the helmet off of his head, majestically shaking his black locks free and then staring down at you. His eyes are dreamy, twinkling at you as he raises his eyebrows, one of which has a silver bar pierced through it. His bottom lip has two similar hoops on it. He’s devastatingly beautiful.

With an all too-knowing smirk, he leans towards you again. “Do I look scary or something?”

Your voice is hoarse when you speak again. “Quite the opposite,” you say. “You don’t look like you’ll kill me…” you pause to take a deep breath. “So I accept your offer.”

“Great,” he smiles charmingly, propping his helmet on his hip before offering a hand to help you up out of your car. “You like Indian food? We can get takeout on the way home. Or… whatever you’d like. You’ve been through enough without me telling you what you’re going to eat, I mean…” he tapers off after his nervous babble, and you can’t help the little thump that awakens in your chest.

“No, Indian is perfect,” you say, engaging a smile, dropping your pepper spray before taking his hand and allowing yourself to be lifted with one swift pull.

He waits patiently for you to collect your things, and then puts them in his backpack, which he hands to you.

“You’ll be my replacement backpack for now,” he says, before grabbing your hand again.

You shouldn’t feel the way you do, all tingly and exhilarated. You should be on guard, with your hands free to defend yourself. Yet there’s something about those deep, lavender eyes that make you want to bounce up and down jump in and drown.

Cars continue to fly by without regard for the two of you being vulnerable pedestrians. Some don’t even bother to merge over. Wind blows your skirt and you flatten it down with a free hand, grateful the man’s attention is on trying to get you safely to his bike.

As he leads you to the motorcycle, you realize you’ll need to wear a helmet in the same moment that he’s passing one to you. It’s huge, and you’re sure you’re not the first girl to put it on. You don’t know why you let that thought, borderline jealousy, slip into your mind.

“I’m Suguru, by the way,” he says, slipping his own helmet back onto his head and slinging one long leg over the vehicle. “What do they call you?”

“Oh, uh,” you’re taken aback, finding yourself staring dumbfoundedly. You tell him your name and he nods, repeating it to make sure he’s saying it right.

“Nice,” he starts up the bike and it immediately begins gutting out noises from the tiny engine. “So, you getting on?”

“On what?” you say idiotically, before you gasp and walk to join him. “I mean- sorry, tired.”

“Quite alright,” he says, but there’s a smile in his voice. “Just hop on, and hold onto me as tight as you can.”

You obey his instructions, gently sliding down on the leather seat and leaning forward, pressing your small chest to his back. It’s solid and tense through his shirt, and you slowly wrap your arms around his stomach, feeling like your heart is going to pound right through his spinal cord.

You’d never ridden on one of these before, and to be honest you aren’t sure you’re past the “sleeping at a stranger’s house” thing, but it’s too late to go back now.

He puts the bike in reverse to allow himself some room to take off. You link your fingers over his lap, palms pressing against his abdomen. The whole ordeal feels so intimate; you’re grateful that he cannot see your, no doubt, reddened face.

And then it’s like a flash, you’re on the interstate, lights passing by and wind prickling every inch of your skin.

Suguru wastes no time zooming across the lanes, but you can tell he’s being cautious, not going as fast as he could. It’s probably because of you, you think, and you’re grateful because of the way your stomach is in knots.

Although, your body against his, the revving of his bike, the feeling of people’s eyes on you both as you tread through traffic has your cunt thumping - absolutely wrecked and desperate to be relieved. You’re glad your anxiety is dissipating, but you hadn’t expected it to morph into lust.

Suguru finally makes the stop, as promised, to grab takeout. The food and the two of you manage to make it to his flat in one piece. He resides in a small brownstone with big windows, which seems a little out of character for what you know about him so far.

He parks his motorcycle out front, locking it up securely, before taking off his helmet and instructing you to do the same.

“My hair probably looks insane,” you say as the helmet slides off, knowing it has a tendency to be flattened when you wear hats.

“Looks better, in my opinion,” Suguru nods, reaching out to take the backpack from you as well as the takeout bag. “Let’s go before the monkeys around here try to snatch our food.”

“Monkeys…?” you repeat softly, inquiring silently about his choice of insult but not pressing him on it.

Inside, you’re in awe at the sheer organization and cleanliness for it to be a man’s home. The open concept is welcoming, a beautiful arch separating the kitchen from the living room. You take in his massive kitchen space and your fingers suddenly ache to bake something, a small and secret hobby of yours.

“It’s nice in here,” you say softly, glancing around and hugging your arms.

“What’d you expect? A cold, dusty basement?” He laughs and sits the takeout containers on the coffee table, before shrugging his backpack to the floor and hanging his helmet on a peg on the wall.

While he takes your helmet from your hands, you nod at him. “Yes, actually. I’m still not entirely convinced you aren’t going to kill me.”

He sighs and checks himself in the circular mirror that hangs behind his couch. You can tell he takes pride in his appearance, adjusting his hair and allowing a single strand to fall over his forehead.

“At least your last meal will be good,” he jokes, glancing at you in the mirror.

When you freeze and don’t reply, he turns and puts his hands up.

“All jokes,” he assures. “C’mon. Let’s eat.”

And so it goes. You sit side by side on the couch, Suguru keeping a respectful distance. You face one another and you have one leg tucked under you as you poke your fork into your goat curry, careful not to let it drop onto his suede couch.

“So, what brought you into town?” Suguru questions, dipping his naan into his tikka masala, also making a clear effort not to spill.

“Concert,” you admit between bites, covering your mouth. “I planned to drive here and back home on the same day, that’s why I didn’t think I’d need to make arrangements. Stupid shitbox.”

Suguru laughs. “Well, the shitbox brought us two lonely souls together, if only for the night, so perhaps there’s some beauty in it.”

“How poetic,” you joke. “Do you have any hobbies besides… cars?”

Suguru considers for a moment, “I like to kick kittens and slaughter entire villages.”

“Ah, I definitely sensed that,” you nod sarcastically. “Me, on the other hand, I like to do lame shit like bake and crochet.”

“You like to bake, hm?” he inquires, just as a piece of masala paste drips onto his chin.

“Yeah,” you say, not bothering to break into the sob story of how it’s like therapy for you - how you’d discovered you were good at it and now, every chance you get you’re kneading dough and playing in flour.

Suguru hums. “You’ll have to bake me something when you’re in town again.”

Your hand suddenly comes up and you find your thumb swiping the masala paste off of his face. “Will do,” you say quietly.

Suguru freezes under your touch and side-eyes your hand, before turning to you as you quickly pull it away.

“Sorry, I’m a messy eater,” he says, grinning slyly, eyes darkened.

You swallow thickly and clean your thumb on a napkin. “All good. Just uh, didn’t want to embarrass you.”

He smiles a bit. “Aren’t you a sweet thing?”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t think that means I can’t still fight.”

“We still on this kidnapping kick?” He sighs. “After I shared my sacred Indian restaurant with you and everything.”

“Sacred?” you scoff. “Do you always share your favorite restaurant with girls you meet on the side of the road?”

“Well, you’re the first girl I’ve met on the side of the road,” he corrects. “So, yes, I guess I do. I’ll have to switch it up next time.”

You roll your eyes at his arrogance, and then decide you’re satisfied with your meal. “Alright, well I think it’s about time to turn in.”

“Right,” he nods. “You gonna sleep in that?” His long finger extends and points to your skirt, and you stare at the digit like a brat in heat, before shaking your head.

“I don’t have a change of clothes,” you say. “Obviously.”

“I know that, monkey.” Suguru narrows his eyes at you. “I have clothes for you.”

“Right,” you grit, “and don’t call me that.”

He doesn’t answer and instead rises from the couch, gathering all of your trash and taking it to the kitchen to throw it away. He quickly washes his hands and then gestures for you to follow him down the hall.

“Your home is lovely,” you say as you walk after him, examining his hallway that bares no pictures of anyone except himself and a boy with white hair.

“Thank you,” he says blankly, pushing open his bedroom door and saying - “Alexa, turn the light on.”

You giggle at the fact that he owns an Alexa, but don’t comment on it.

Once inside of his bedroom, he begins to paw through his dresser. The room reflects him: gold and black, skateboards and a golden helmet mounted to the wall. His bed is a dark abyss of black blankets and a tall headboard with warm white lighting behind it. It smells of eucalyptus and lotion.

“So like I said,” he clears his throat, “you can sleep in here. I’ll be on the couch.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to put you out of your own bed,” you object.

“Well, I’m certainly not putting you on the couch,” he argues. “But if you wanna sleep with me, just say that.”

You nearly feel your body explode into tiny pieces. The heat that had been present in your chest the first time he’d taken his helmet off has returned, but you have to shake it off.

“I’ll take the bed, alone. Thank you,” you hold a hand up and roll your eyes. “Dickhead.”

Suguru doesn’t say another word, but his face has stretched into a small, devious smile as he tosses a white shirt at you, plus a pair of pink shorts with candy hearts on them.

“Why the hell do you own these?” you ask in complete surprise, noting how they still have the tag on them.

“My best friend made me buy and wear them as a dare,” he says. “But they couldn’t fit all of my curves, go figure. I’ve been saving them for a rainy day.”

“Right,” you say, not believing such a story, but you don’t want to consider the true possibility that they belong to someone else. Not, you might add, that it should matter.

“My bed is nice and clean, ready to go. Charger is on the nightstand. Towels are in the bathroom.” He walks towards you and glances down at the clothes in your hands. “And feel free to ransack my kitchen, or bake or whatever, if you get hungry. I’ll be on the couch if you need anything.”

You look up at him. At this proximity, you can see the details in his irises, smell his musk, feel the heat on his body. You realize just how cold his bed is going to be, how strange it’s going to feel sleeping alone in an unfamiliar bedroom.

“Thanks,” you say softly, pulling your eyes away from him - but you know he’s already caught you staring.

“Goodnight,” he says, and you bid him the same before going to leave the room.

However, your foot gets caught on the plush black rug on the floor and you miss a beat - falling into him. His hand comes out immediately to stabilize you both and your body responds to his thick palm spreading out over your hip.

“Gotta be more careful, baby,” he murmurs, sliding his hand over the jean material of your skirt, allowing it to linger before separating himself from you.

You can’t even speak out of embarrassment. You aren’t sure he intended for you to hear the pet name, so it’s best you don’t comment on it. You spin on your heel and bolt out of the room, heading to the bathroom to shower.

When you return, smelling like fresh dove soap, Suguru has vanished. You see that the living room lights are off; he must already be sleeping.

When you settle into his bed, it’s a little cold, but the smell of a man and shampoo lingering all over the satin material of the sheets manages to comfort you. You don’t lock the door, you don’t even close it. You feel like you can trust him. Maybe you’re naive for it, but you don’t have much time to recant your decision before you drift off to sleep.

S. GETO

Suguru awakes later that night to faint rustling.

His eyes pry open reluctantly, blinking away sleep as he sits up straight, his guard up. He sees the glow from the kitchen, though, and realizes it’s probably just you. He rubs his eyes to fully wake himself before glancing over at the bright digital clock on the wall. 2:20AM.

He frowns. Why would you be in the kitchen at such an ungodly hour? He doesn’t mind, he'd told you to make yourself at home, but seeing how late it is concerns him.

He sneaks his way to the archway of the kitchen, preparing himself to accidentally startle you, but when he sees instead makes his arteries clench.

Pretty little you stands in front of the open fridge, back arched as you browse inside. The boyshorts he’d given you hug your body deliciously, accentuating the shape of your ass, and outlining your ever-so-juicy lips.

Suguru thinks back to when he’d first seen you sitting helplessly in your car. He’d of course thought you were sexy, but above that, beautiful. Your features fit you perfectly. His appreciation for your looks make his blood pump faster; this time, the blood is just pumping to the wrong place.

He continues to lean against the arch to the kitchen, cloaked in the shadows of the frame like a creep. You retreat from the fridge holding a stick of butter and navigate your way to the island - which is covered in dough and flour.

Are you really baking at 2 in the morning?

He likes seeing you so focused, carefully dropping the stick into a bowl, mashing it with a spoon.

Then, you perk up a bit. Suguru suspects you’ve sensed his gaze when your face flushes immediately, your body freezing. Then, you glance over at him, your seductive eyes locking into him in a way that makes his chest feel you’ve just taken a grip on his heart.

He holds his breath, unsure what kind of reaction you are going to have.

"Oh, did I wake you?" you ask finally, tone slightly nervous, eyes unable to stay in one spot.

"No," he lies, shaking his head. "I woke up to use the bathroom, but I saw the light on and wanted to..." Make sure you were okay. "Make sure I wasn't getting robbed."

You laugh. A soft melody that makes him feel obsessed and pathetic.

"You're half right," you say with an apologetic shrug. "You're definitely going to need more eggs when I'm finished."

Suguru chuckles and peels himself from the doorway, walking towards the island where you stand with the butter wrapper in your hand. He watches your demeanor shift as you sit the wrapper on the floury surface.

"So, should I call in report of an egg thief?" Suguru teases, stopping next to you.

Your eyes take a moment to meet his. Your gaze had been lingering on his bare chest; of which he’d forgotten about. He always sleeps shirtless, but he would have put on a shirt out of respect for you, had he known you’d be up together like this. He watches your pouty lips part, and he grows desperate to read your mind.

When you finally look at his eyes, Suguru has to swallow down his primal instincts. Something about the way you look - peaked nipples poking through the thin material of his shirt, areolas slightly visible, dumbfounded expression from you not realizing how close you are to being pinned to the damn island.

"I'll buy you another carton after my car is fixed," you murmur timidly. "I have night terrors and baking always calms me down after having them. I should have asked before just using your kitchen.”

Suguru just stares when your ramble comes to a conclusion. "Sounds like you're apologizing, but there's no need for that." He leans forward, putting a hand on the island, realizing just how awfully, deliciously he towers over your frame. How easily he could overpower you. “I told you that I didn’t mind. What was your dream about?”

You seem to shut down at his question though, timidness entering your features as you turn your head from him. “It was nothing,” you answer bluntly.

Suguru knows you’re lying, but he doesn’t think it’s his place to press you more.

After a moment of awkward silence, he asks “Alright, what are you baking?”

You seem delighted that he’d asked. You reach towards the oven and pull open the door, revealing a rising pastry on the center rack.

"I made something up with what you had," you shrug. "It's a sort of berry and honey cobbler."

Suguru’s stomach is rumbling already, combined with the pressure in his groin from the cock that threatens to slither out on its own accord. "It looks delicious, how long until it's done?"

You glance up at the clock. "About ten minutes."

"Ah, so I caught you ransacking what was left of my groceries at the perfect time," he teases.

You grin and turn back towards the island, pulling a bowl towards you both that is filled with a red compote. To Suguru’s utter surprise you dip your finger into it, the consistency appearing to be sticky and thick.

"This is the glaze I made for it," you announce softly. "Wanna try some?"

Suguru feels his eyelids drop. He leans forward and strands of his hair fall over his shoulders, shadowing his face to hide the way he feels himself drinking in the sight of you. He doesn’t trust himself to say more than a simple, “Sure.”

"Wait, it's kind of sticky,” you begin. “I'll grab a spoon.”

You turn to search for his drawer of silverware, but Suguru is quicker. He grabs your hand with the drizzled finger and watches as your neck snaps towards him in surprise. Your little doe eyes widen in realization, and there go your plump lips parting again - making it so incredibly easy if Suguru wanted to lean down and sink his teeth into them.

He thinks he might have made a mistake until he sees the mirrored longing in your eyes that he senses has been in his the entire time he’s been in here with you. So it feels like the only right decision now is to course your finger to his lips.

You watch as he parts them and then slowly slides the tip of your finger into his mouth. Whether you realize it or not, you gasp, so needily, and even more so when Suguru gently sucks the honey mixture from your finger - holding eye contact all the while, silently daring you to look away.

He swirls his tongue, knowing full well he’s already finished cleaning it of the sticky mess, just to make his point extra clear. He slides it back out with a pop.

He sees your eyes darken, in the most innocent, yet unknowingly sensual way. His mind begins to swirl with scenarios - him laying you down gently, and ghosting his lips over your naked torso to discover the kind of noises you make or contrarily; tossing you down and taking a handful of that beautiful hair, before delivering a series of the longest, hardest, sloppiest strokes you can possibly take.

"Is it... good?" you ask, your dry voice breaking his thoughts away from the blood rushing towards his pancreas.

"Delicious," Suguru breathes out, barely recognizing his own faraway voice, "have you tried it?"

You shake your head slightly, as if sensing his trap. “Not yet…”

"Hmm," he says aloud, dropping your hand and taking his fingers under your chin. "You’re so good at this.”

“A-Am I? I’ll have to try it before the cobbler is done,” you ramble nervously, clearly shying away from his touch, but he maintains his hold on your chin.

He doesn’t know what it is about you that has him so whipped in this short time. He feels so lost in his uncontrollable desire for you.

“I can give you a taste,” he finds himself whispering, faces just a few centimeters apart. Your body is mindlessly molding against his and he knows he’s got you.

You gasp into the small space between the two of you, and at the same perfect moment, he folds and crashes his desperate lips onto yours.

The kiss is hard and unsure at first, but it quickly softens as you surrender to his mouth. You melt into each other so easily, your breasts immediately glazing his torso and awakening chills all along his skin. He takes the closeness as a sign that it’s okay to put his hands on your sides, resting them idly atop the shorts.

Suguru can’t help but to let out a wanton grunt at the feeling of your body under his palms as he uses the pressure of his hands to rotate your positions. Now, your obedient little body is pressed between the island and his cock.

His hands slip under your thighs, which elicits a gasp from you. You break away from the kiss momentarily to stare at him as he effortlessly lifts you into the air and then plants your bottom on the island.

You both gasp as a cloud appears, but Suguru finds himself unable to care that he’s just plopped you down into a pile of flour. He doesn’t waste any time kissing you again, but he only remains on your lips for a short time before he connects wet, sloppy kisses down your jaw - and your hands slide desperately into the roots of his hair.

You spread your legs, inviting him to stand between, and Suguru feels his body jerk when you lock your calves into his sides. He moves his mouth back to yours and licks your lower lip, before sliding his tongue into your mouth and taking yours around it.

You clamp your teeth down on the muscle and suck on it like a little deviant - and it makes Suguru’s eyebrows furrow in sexual frustration. He needs you horribly, awfully.

He tastes the honey on your breath, sweet and dangerous, and his mind begins to cook up a disgusting idea. His fingers entangle in the shirt you wear, and the hem begins to rise over your stomach as he tugs it upwards.

“Suguru?” you mumble into his mouth, prompting him to reluctantly break the kiss.

“Mmh, do you want this?” he murmurs into your ear, loosening his grip on your shirt to prepare for the possibility that you’re going to say no.

Instead, you mutter ‘yes’ shamelessly quick, and in a white flash the shirt is poof - disregarded.

Suguru tries not to allow his eyes to bug out like a teenage boy who’s never seen breasts, but he feels himself failing miserably - even worse when his hands slither up to cup them, angling your nipples towards his face.

Your little body writhes, air escaping from your throat in the form of an encouraging gasp. Suguru grins and waits a moment before releasing them. The memories of his hands on your body appear in the form of powdery handprints, the both of you utterly covered in flour without a single care.

“Hmph,” you pout, and Suguru resists the urge to smack his hand across your nipple to put you in check - but there’s no telling if you’d enjoy that as much as he would.

“Hold still f’me,” he mutters, reaching behind you for the bowl of syrupy compote.

He feels your gaze burning into the side of his face as he pulls the bowl closer to your hips and dips his thumbs into the mixture. You can’t see this in real time as he does it, so your eyes look dumb and shocked when he brings his hands back towards your chest.

“I like causing pain,” Suguru blurts suddenly, holding his thumbs out and aligning them with your nipples. “Can I be a little mean to you, angel?”

You swallow, nearly gulping, but with reluctance you’re nodding in agreement.

“Words,” Suguru quips, pressing his body hard into yours to drive the message home.

“Y-Yeah,” you say and to his surprise, you add: “I also… like that kind of thing.”

“Mmm,” Suguru groans out. “Knew you were too good to be true.”

And with that, his thumbs are smearing your sweet little mix onto the buds of your chest - keeping them painfully erect as more syrup covers the areolas entirely.

You’re moaning just from his touch; he’s so impatient to hear the foul cries you’ll make when he’s clamping his teeth onto your sensitive nipples.

He sucks the remaining syrup off of each thumb, and then before you can question him, he latches his mouth onto your right nipple with desperation.

He can feel the bumps rise on your skin from the intimacy, your perfect body arching against him as he swirls his tongue hungrily. His lips purse as he uses his tongue to suck the skin raw and clean.

Your mouth is so dangerously close to his face, soft pants falling directly into his ear canal. He takes this as encouragement as his teeth sink into your nipple and his left hand strikes a heavy palm against your other.

The way you jerk in response is so pathetic, Suguru nearly laughs at you. Earlier, you were so helpless and scared - you’d been pretending to be tough, and now he has you so needy and submissive that it’s comical.

“Mmh,” you mumble into his ear, “again, please.”

Your little cunt must be so wet for him now. He wants to dip his fingers into your juice and force you to eat it, but he knows these things come one step at a time. He’s just so ready, so impatient. And he can tell you’re equally as ready.

He obeys you, just this once, smacking your breast again, his hand getting covered in the sticky compote. He breaks away from your right breast, deciding it’s time to clean off the other.

“That feel good?” he questions, though he knows based on your furrowed eyebrows and toes subconsciously clinging to the back of his legs that it does.

“Y-yes,” you grit, tugging his hair, causing him to growl. “Why’d you stop?”

“Patience is a virtue,” Suguru mutters, blowing cool air over your sticky nipple, flicking it slightly with his tongue and smacking his lips to taste the syrup.

“N-No,” you shake your head desperately, pleading. “Keep going.”

Suguru ponders on it, but ultimately he gives you what you want, though not without smacking your thigh harshly - making you yelp. He can’t speak with his tongue caressing the ring of your nipple so he communicates his threats for you to remember your place in the form of impactful hits. He cracks one on your abandoned right breast, and he knows it stings more because of his saliva that remains all over it. You whine in his ear and it only encourages him.

“Harder, you say?” he questions, detaching his mouth.

Now, his hands are coming down in rapid-fire. Crack, crack, crack. Your knees are bound to leave bruises on his hips with the way they’re digging into his skin. He’s growling now, unable to help himself. Your nipples feel so good on his tongue, and he can still taste the delicious honey mix. He wants to drizzle it all over you, make you into a writhing, sticky mess as he sucks it off.

YOUR POV.

Your cunt is pounding so badly, you can nearly feel the heat radiating off of it and landing directly on Suguru’s stomach as he sits up straight and looks down at you. His lips are wet and sticky, his hair stuck to his forehead. He looks so fucked, so hopeless. You’re equally as entranced, so caught up in his beauty, in the way his tongue feels, needing more.

You open your mouth to speak, but Suguru catches your lips with his own, and then his arms wrap around your body. He kisses you ferociously, berry and honey hot on his breath, before he takes his hand underneath your ass and lifts you effortlessly into the air. You’re forced to gasp into his mouth and he catches your sound with his tongue, encapsulating yours in it, lathering it up in his spit.

Just as Suguru begins to haul you away, the oven beeps. You groan into each other’s mouth as your heads break apart, and you lean onto his shoulder.

“Fuck, I forgot all about the cobbler,” you whisper against him.

He makes a noise of frustration before releasing you from his grip, your legs sliding down his body. He catches you by your hips, oversized hands holding you like a fragile piece of art. You bite your lip as you hesitantly part from him, and he watches you with patience for a moment before he heads to the fridge.

As you rip open the oven door, grab an oven mitt, and pull the pastry out with frustration, Suguru equips a cup of ice. You don’t think too much of it as you sling the pan onto the stove top before turning off the oven and nearly bolting back to Suguru, who instead of lifting you up, guides you by his free hand to the living room.

“Do you still want to do this?” Suguru questions, pulling you in front of him, until you find yourself standing in the dark with your back to the sectional.

There’s a small red light emitting from the corner of the room, illuminating his skin and making him look so terrifyingly beautiful. As you stand below him, you’ve decided you’d let him rip your guts apart if that’s what he requested.

“So much,” you say softly. Without any more instruction, you find yourself sinking onto the couch. “I hope you don’t think—”

“Think what?” Suguru interrupts, crouching in front of you, the ice in his cup shaking as he goes to place it down. “I have nothing negative to say about you. Besides, we’re having fun, aren’t we, pretty girl?”

Your cunt throbs at the pet name again. Your hands fly out, a little to your own surprise and land on his shoulders.

“Suguru, I…” the confession is shy on your lips for a moment, but you must let it be known. “I need you.”

“Mmm,” Suguru purrs, taking the cup of ice back into his hand, “How bad?”

“So bad,” you beg. “Please, no teasing.”

Suguru laughs at you and the noise sends another rush of adrenaline to your hole, now the material of his shorts is coated with your juices.

“It’s a shame we don’t have more time to learn about each other,” he coos. “You would know that I’m incapable of not teasing, especially when you sound so cute asking me for what you want, and I know that I can deny you.”

“Hngh, no,” you whine. “Don’t torture me like that.”

Suguru just laughs again, and you notice now that he has removed a piece of ice from the cup. He holds it in one hand, while his free hand comes up to your bare chest, applying a small amount of pressure to push you flush against the back of the couch.

You gasp as you find yourself leaning back, then Suguru is grabbing your hips, dragging them to the edge of the couch.

“Hm, you’re a little hot,” he observes, hand sliding up your leg and resting underneath the hem of the shorts. “I’ve gotta cool you down.”

“O-Oh?” you stutter, keeping your feet on the ground even though you fully suspect that Suguru is about to instruct you to do the opposite.

Instead, he sits up on his knees, still managing to tower over you because of how insanely long-legged he is. Your eyes watch lustfully as he pops the ice between his perfect lips and then clamps onto it with his teeth. He’s forcing you to keep your eyes on him with his own purple stare, then, his mouth reattaches to yours.

He drags the ice over your bottom lip, head moving slowly from side to side, and you shiver like a white in heat. The cold, cold ice leaves a wet trail behind as he pulls it down the side of your face, over a sensitive vein on your neck, then the outline of your collarbone.

Your back arches off of the couch, and you’re clawing desperately at his skin. He’s pretending not to notice as he’s continuing his trip down the map of your body, seeming to know it like the back of his hand even though he hardly knows you.

The ice slides over the peak of your breast agonizingly slow. Your nipples, still painfully erect, are sore from the events that had taken place moments ago - but Suguru doesn’t care.

He swirls that ice over them, even as you writhe and shake your head no, nails breaking open the skin on his trap muscles. His hair brushes your sternum, creating goosebumps, eliciting more purrs and gasps from your throat. Every part of you is responding to him, from your pulsing cunt, to your heart, to your collagen.

“Holy shit,” you whisper from above, and he grunts a little response before the ice finds your other abused nipple, teasing it softly before he applies full pressure with the melting ice, leaving your nipples sore and soaked.

You’re shivering uncontrollably now, breaths only able to come out in the form of short, quickened pants. Suguru’s showing no mercy. He’s approaching your belly button with the ice.

The ice is nearly gone, but now Suguru’s hands are sliding up underneath your squishy thighs, fingertips pressing into the flesh as he folds them up towards your face.

You gasp as his head has quickly jumped from your stomach to the heat between your legs. He dips forward and plants an extremely fat, cold kiss to the cloth of his shorts.

“S-Suguru,” you whimper out, but he’s too busy swirling what's left of the ice over the material, nearly eating you out through the garment.

You can’t take the torture. Your hands have fallen from his shoulders but now they’re dug into his hair like the reins on a horse, attempting to snatch him back up, but he’s so lost in his own pleasure he doesn’t budge.

“Shut up,” he grunts, the movement of his mouth making you squirm.

The second your body arches off of the couch, Suguru has his hands slid under the shorts and is dragging them down your legs. Without a change of underwear, you’d chosen to go commando, so the minute the shorts are off - your cunt winks him in the eye.

You fight the urge to shy away. Even as your legs begin to close, Suguru stops you immediately, hands coming up the inside of your thighs and applying pressure to your knees.

“Be good, slut, if you want to be able to cum,” he murmurs, turning back momentarily to grab his ice again.

You’re already shivering at the thought of the cold contact. Suguru pops a piece into his mouth and stares up at you as he moves it between his cheeks, opening his mouth and sticking out his tongue to show you the ice inside with a smirk.

You stare down at him in awe and surprise, until he completely distracts you when the coldness of his wet mouth makes contact with your clit. Just a small brush of his lips, but it’s enough to have you begging him for more.

“Please, more,” you cry, and Suguru laughs against your cunt.

He drags the tip of the ice between your folds, the metal of his lip rings simultaneously sliding on the inside of your lips. It feels incredible, every inch of the nerves at your core being tainted and overwhelmed.

Your heels are planted flat on his shoulders, and he’s grunting like some kind of wild animal ripping apart the flesh of its prey while the squelches of your cunt respond to him whorishly.

Suguru pops the ice back in his mouth and is now flicking your clit with his icy tongue, keeping the ice in his cheek while he works ecstasy through your bundle of nerves.

And just when you start rolling your hips in time with his tongue, he pulls away. He sucks on the ice while looking you in the eye and then, smack! His palm lands on your unsuspecting cunt and you scream.

It stings. Your clit is so sensitive from the ice already, but Suguru knows that. You know he does. Once the sting dissolves, your body begins to feel the pleasure that comes with pain.

“Hah - Suguru, fuck,” you mumble out. You’re slowly starting to have enough of the foreplay.

“Hm? What?” he questions, cocking his head like he’s got no clue what he’s doing.

“Please,” you say, not directly asking for what you want, letting the end of your sentence hang in the air.

Suguru fakes a yawn, “Sorry, I don’t know how to understand dumb little angels who can’t use their words.”

You frown and attempt to kick him, but he catches your foot, and at the same moment you see him swallow what was left of the ice in his mouth.

“Tsk tsk,” he says, clicking his tongue. “Bad kitty.”

You don’t have time to squirm away before he’s sitting up, taking your body into the air, and then slamming you back down onto the couch. You lay long ways now, head resting on the corner of the sectional, and Suguru creeps over you like a panther.

His bare chest rubs your own and he dips his head into your neck, lips still freezing and glazed over with spit. He drags his mouth over your pulse, pinning your arms above your head as you try to slither from below him.

“Say what’s on your mind,” he murmurs against your ear canal, “don’t keep secrets from me, monkey.”

“Hngh - don’t fucking call me that,” you grit, attempting to knee him in the stomach but he’s using all of his body weight to keep you down.

You lay completely naked and helpless below him, attempting to grind your sulking cunt over the clear bulge in his pajama pants. He keeps kissing your neck, grunting softly in your ear to make you feel worse about the fact that you are restrained - and denied his cock.

“What do you want?” he purrs, ghosting the tips of his top teeth over your jaw. “Speak up.”

You’re a muddled, moaning mess and he knows it - but you manage to mumble out a pathetic, “Your cock, Suguru.”

“Already? We just met,” he coos, tracing the shape of your cheek with his fingertip.

“Shut up,” you growl at him, wishing you could grip him by his bulge to show him what it’s like to be repeatedly teased and denied.

As if reading your mind, he releases one of your hands and quickly smacks the side of your thigh, then sinks his nails into the stinging skin to keep you from making another snotty threat.

“Watch your tone,” he directs, and then lifts your leg so that it rests against the back of the couch. “Be a good girl and wait right here, and keep your legs open.”

He lifts himself off of you, but not before he dips his head and spits a thick glob of glistening saliva on your cunt, walking away while the fluid slides through your folds.

You lay there in fear of punishment, unmoving, taking the time to catch your breath.

And then, when he returns moments later, you lay there still obediently sprawled out. He’s ripping a condom wrapper open with his teeth, and his cock is sliding through his hand.

You gasp. Despite it being mostly dark in the living room, you can see that his dick stretches nearly the length of your own forearm, all while glistening with his spit. Suguru catches your appalled face and smirks in the dark.

“Didn’t your mommy ever teach you that it’s rude to stare?” he questions, leaning over you as he rolls the condom onto his cock.

Your eyes are having a hard time prying themselves away, but you succeed when he leans down and presses a deep kiss to your lips, practically eating your mouth off of your face. He bites down on your bottom lip and grunts heavy breaths into your mouth as he finishes adjusting himself.

You lick his lip rings like a desperate slut. Your hands remain above your head as if he’s still holding them down; you’re disgusted at just how obedient he’s made you out to be in a short time.

Now he’s crawling over you again. But before you give him time to get settled, your mouth blurts a request.

“Put the helmet on,” you say meekly, watching as Suguru’s pierced eyebrows knit together in surprise.

“My motorcycle helmet?” he questions, and you nod. “Wow, trying to say I’m too ugly to stare at?”

You groan and roll your eyes. “N-No, I just, um… nevermind.” You don’t want to admit how the idea of him in his helmet makes you even wetter.

Luckily though, Suguru read your mind.

“You’re a nasty little thing, aren’t you?” he questions, and you notice how his hand slithers up to the wall, and acutely plucks the helmet off of its peg.

“Hmph,” you shake your head. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

You tilt your chin up defiantly and watch as he slides it over his face, adjusting the strap and closing the glass visor. Now, it’s just you and your reflection staring at one another, and you can see your poor body all marked up from Suguru’s impactful slaps.

It makes your cunt throb so unbelievably fast, and you think you’ll wither away if you have to go another minute without Suguru pumping inside of you.

“This was a great idea,” he says, voice raspier and deeper from the other side of the mask. “Now, it’s time to stretch you out, baby.”

You gulp. You aren’t sure you’ll be able to survive his cock. But you want to try. All that rumbles through your mind is getting it inside of you, of feeling the burn as it threatens to break through to your stomach.

“Please,” you whine, “I don’t think I can take much more.”

“Hmm, I guess you’ve been good enough,” he ponders aloud, and now his two thick arms are on either side of your head.

He’s letting your hands stay free, to your surprise, and you take advantage of it by dragging your nails down his torso. He momentarily falters, but then he’s pressing the tip of his cock to your folds - sliding it down, lathering it in your slick. Your toes curl, your knees find themselves on his hips. You stop and sink your nails into his pecs to threaten him, but he’s unmoved.

“Didn’t I tell you to be patient?” he questions, shoving his hips forward so that you feel a faint amount of pressure on your clit, and then it disappears as he pulls away.

“Ngh, how can I be patient?” you cry. “Quit being afraid to fuck me.”

“Afraid?” Suguru laughs and then his hand comes up, palm on your windpipe, fingers pressing pressure into either side of your neck. “You’re the one with fear in your eyes, little monkey. Don’t think you can handle my cock, do you?”

You frown and gasp, attempting to snap back at him, but your voice is cut off as well as your air flow. Suguru gives you no chance to fight before his hips press into you for good this time - and without even using his hands, the crown of his cock is pushing through the threshold of your cunt.

The two of you make mirrored fucked-out noises of desire. You whine as your walls try to stretch around him, but the friction is causing it to burn. You can only attempt a gasp underneath Suguru’s death grip on your throat.

“Mmh, so tense baby,” Suguru purrs, “relax. You can take it.”

You shake your head, or attempt to. Your hand rests on Suguru’s wrist, your fingers digging in to the bone as you attempt to let your body get used to Suguru filling you up. You stare at yourself pathetically, hopelessly in his visor. You can feel his eyes watching you take him, watching your lips part as you attempt to breathe despite him restricting your airflow.

Your elastic walls finally start to contract, allowing Suguru to bottom out. He rests like that for just a moment, barely giving you time to swallow him up before he’s pulling his hips back and entering again.

You moan in time with his long strokes, and he keeps his pace slow until you’ve got him completely slicked up. Now he’s moving in and out of your hole like butter, and you’re crying below him.

“Oh, so fucking good,” he grits, dipping his head closer to you, so you’re forced to keep staring at yourself.

His abdomen glistens as he begins to sweat. Your eyes don’t know where to look; they’re traveling over his sculpted muscles like a pervert in heat. He notices and drums his hips harder into you to throw you off - and your eyes squeeze shut as you’re overrun with pleasure.

You secretly wish you could see the way Suguru’s face is twisted up under his helmet, but somehow, the gift of suspicion is much more thrilling. Feeling like you have no idea who’s fucking your guts up makes you even wetter. Suguru can tell, and he’s using all of your juices to his advantage. You’re dripping all over his expensive couch while neither of you find time to care.

“Agh - Suguru, please!” you shriek, knees falling closer to your chest.

Suguru takes his hand off of your throat before tucking each hand underneath your thighs, pinning them to your chest, cockhead hitting a new and deeper angle this way.

“Fuck, ‘m so deep,” he mumbles, hips losing their synchrony, strokes becoming sloppier and needier. “God, y’sure you have to go home tomorrow?”

“Mm-mm,” you hum, brain jumbled as he nearly begins to tap your uterus. “Gonna stay here and get fucked forever.”

“So good for me,” Suguru coos, smacking the underside of your thigh and hastening his pace. “So fucking good.”

“Hah - so deep,” you comment, attempting to use your hands to press on his chest, but it means nothing when Suguru is overpowering you with his hold on your legs.

Your arms fall limp, and you accept defeat as your cervix gets rammed over and over and over - nasty, wet noises engulfing the air as you squeeze yourself around Suguru for his pleasure.

“Feel you pulsing,” Suguru grits, “don’t do that…”

You pretend not to hear him and keep flexing your muscles, and the veins in his cock tap against your spongey walls in response.

“Suguru,” you pant, “Suguru, Suguru. Let me ride you.”

He hums and keeps pumping, “You want to get on top, naughty girl? Wanna make me feel good?”

“Y-Yes, please,” you beg, opening your eyes and staring in the direction of what you assume are his eyes on the other side of the helmet visor.

“Hm, I suppose I’ll allow it,” he tuts, and before you know it, he’s sliding out of you and you’re cold and empty inside. You need him back deep inside of you, so you waste no time sitting up the minute he lets go of you.

Suguru laughs, a piercing noise that disrupts the silence in the room. “You’re dripping all over my suede, pretty girl. Gonna be able to smell your mark, even when you’re gone.”

You roll your eyes, but can’t deny the heat in your cheeks as you slither into a standing position, switching with Suguru as he sits back on the couch and opens his arms for you.

Your stomach lurches with butterflies at the simple, intimate gesture. You crawl onto his lap, straddling him, and his arms engulf you in a bear hug. You lean forward to align yourself with his cock, and then, you’re reaching for his length and peeling the condom right off.

Suguru’s back arches off of the couch at the overstimulating feeling - and he gasps underneath his helmet. “Mm, you want it raw?”

“Wanna feel the real thing,” you say desperately, tossing the wet condom onto the floor with your lustful brain disregarding the dangers of it.

“A person who takes what she wants,” Suguru taps the chin of his helmet thoughtfully. “I like it.”

You don’t answer him because you’re too busy aligning your hole with his now dry cock and slicking it back up in a mix of your juices and his precum.

Now it’s your turn to make him writhe, and he does, his thigh muscles flexing under you - his hands breaking open the skin in your back.

Then you’re shoving him back inside of you, and it takes you no time to slide down the complete length. You lean forward, hands on his chest, moaning as you readjust to him for a second time.

“Oh, Y/N,” Suguru chirps, “you fit me so well, don’t you?” And then he’s hitting you on your sensitive nipple again, before taking it between his index and thumb, pinching and applying painful pressure.

“So well,” you repeat mindlessly, pussy swallowing him up to his balls, before raising your hips again in the same motion that feels pleasurable to you.

Suguru helps you by sliding his hands to your hips, showering you in dirty praises like so tight, nasty slut, perfect for me.

S. GETO

You feel so good, snugly wrapped around him, dripping all down his cock like a needy mess. Your face is so beautiful when it’s fucked out, as you focus on trying to take all of him.

You’d done so good, taking all his hits and teasing, the least he can do is let you use his cock for your pleasure. And it’s his pleasure, indeed, to do so.

He hums as he watches you from the other side of his visor, your breasts bouncing in his face, your lip snapped under your teeth. It’s everything he can do to prevent himself from filling you up with cum so soon - but you’re making it so hard.

He’d have never guessed you’d end up like this when he’d rescued you. He’d honestly just been trying to be a polite samaritan, but he isn’t going to knock the situation the two of you have found yourselves in.

He notices that you’ve started panting harder, your hips have gotten slower. You’re wearing down, but based on your pulsing cunt around him, you’re close.

Well, that just won’t do.

He takes his hands and goes in for your hips, trying to bite down his primal instincts when you whine pathetically in response. He takes you and lifts you up off of him, and you nearly shriek as his cock plops out of you and lands erect against his stomach.

You stare down at him in horror, “Suguru, I was so close!”

“I know, I’m not an amateur,” he teases, before he shoves you back down onto his cock and uses his grip on your hips to slide you up and down on it like you’re just a fucktoy.

Your eyes roll to the whites, and you start moaning again, unable to argue with him - until he repeats the process and rips you up off of his cock again.

“Stop!” you cry out, hands flying up to his shoulders and clawing at them, as if that’ll make a difference.

Suguru smirks under his disguise and plops you back down, not even half way before he’s taking you off again.

By now, you’re catching on, but he still recognizes how close you must be to cumming.

You barely let out soft moans now, all of your noises coming out harsh and frustrated. He thinks it’s cute when you try to threaten him, or cuss at him.

“You wanna cum?” Suguru asks you, eyebrow raised, though he knows you can’t see it.

“God, please,” you beg, staring at him as hard as you can, and he knows you’re trying hard to find his eyes.

He decides to help you out when he takes the helmet off, shaking his hair free. Now he looks up at you, taking in your face without his visor in the way. You’re so desperate to be back down on his cock but he holds you at tip length, just kissing the inside of your cunt.

He takes one of his hands to your throat, but this time he’s gentle. He applies enough pressure to bring your face towards him, but not enough to cut off your air like last time. He presses a soft kiss to your lips, distracting you, making you melt and whimper.

Dumb little brat.

The minute your body softens and you’re leaning your chest against him, purring in his ear, he starts drilling his hips up harshly against your thighs. His cocktip kisses the end of your pussy and each time he hits the squishy barrier, you bite down on his earlobe.

You’re so good for him, he thinks. He has to convince you not to leave - but he knows that’s selfish. He doesn’t care, because he needs your cunt all to himself, whenever he wants it.

“You got it, pretty girl,” Suguru coos, fucking into you as mean as he can.

His arms wrap around you and you hold onto each other like you’re free falling from the sky - whining and moaning and hissing and cussing until finally, your pretty cunt pulses rapidly around him and then quenches as you begin to cum.

Suguru feels his own orgasm overcoming him and he starts to pull you off of him - but you fight back.

“I-It’s okay, you can cum inside,” you moan deviously into his earlobe, nearly unable to speak as you cum all over his cock.

Suguru shakes his head violently, though he wants to so bad - he rather glaze your skin with his nut.

“Mmh,” he hums and then overpowers you, flipping you back onto your back before he pulls his cock out of your pussy and strokes his length until it spurts his hot cum all over your belly.

You writhe and roll your hips as it lands on your skin, and Suguru pants heavily as he milks himself for all he’s got. You look so delicious underneath him again, this time slicked up with his semen.

And as if to seal an already perfect experience, you slide your finger through it and then shove it into your mouth, where you slurp it clean.

“Mm, delicious,” you mutter, “have you tried it?”

Suguru chuckles at you before leaning down to kiss you again. “So beautiful covered in my cum, you know that?”

You nod shyly and entangle your hands in his hair. “I admit, you look hot in the helmet, but your hair is too pullable to be hidden away like that.”

Suguru feels his face heat a bit but he plays it off by dipping his head downwards so that you can’t see. “You’re too sweet, gorgeous.”

You pant as a response before saying, “Why’d we do that?”

Suguru freezes. “A-are you regretting it?”

“No,” you answer quickly. “I’ve just never… hooked up with someone before.”

Suguru chuckles. “Well, pretty girl, we don’t have to call this a hookup.”

You smile up at him and then he’s tucking his arms under your back and lifting you up for what feels like the hundredth time.

It isn’t long before Suguru is carrying you to the bedroom and cleaning you off with a cool towel, applying ointment to the raw spots on your skin and serving you a cup of ice water.

He’s trying not to think about you leaving the following morning. Every time he does, his stomach begins to hurt and his chest throbs.

But for now, he has his little rider entangled in his arms like the two of you have known each other for an eternity - and he’s grateful you’ve forgotten about the cobbler you baked, because he can’t bear for you to get out of bed right now.

“How are you feeling?” he questions, noticing your breathing has slowed and you are close to sleep.

“Exhausted,” you mumble sleepily. “Pipe does that to you.”

It’s all he can do to stifle an unearthly laugh at your joke, before he pets your hair until you join each other in sleep.

—

Yall im so sorry this is probably so shitty!

This one was the most requested that’s why it’s going first - I hope it meets your expectations. :]

~ pennjammin

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #jjk smut #suguru geto smut #jujutsu geto #geto smut #geto x reader #jjk geto #geto x you #geto suguru

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abbyshands · 9 months ago

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fix you by coldplay makes me think about ex gf!abby anderson criminally speeding down a highway. it’s raining, it’s freezing, and she shouldn’t be doing this, but she is. you were seconds away from saving what you had with her, but too late, it was over, she didn’t want you. then she went home, approached her door, and she saw you. saw the times she picked you up in her muscular arms, kissed you like you’d fade if she didn’t as she dragged you inside. she saw you on her couch when she got into her living room, sprawled across her lap as you rambled to her. tried to sleep it off in her bed, but she didn’t see you this time, she felt you, cuddled up in her arms as she kissed you to sleep. and then she cried, she bawled, because she had lost you. she had been an idiot, because how could she have let you go? then she left the house, got into her car, and fucking sped. rain falling down all around her, battling to get to you as fast as she could. like someone, someone wiser, who would never let you go, would get to you before she could. and she couldn’t allow it, she wouldn’t. you didn’t open the door at first when you heard her knock. you were numb, exhausted, sick. you couldn’t speak to a soul, not when you were like this. not when you had lost the only person who could make you feel what you did for abby. and who could even be here at this hour? but her knocking is deafening, goddamn incessant, and you can’t ignore it. you get up from bed, walk to the door, and your heart drops. it’s her. and your eyes are red. your heart is frigid, vacant. you can’t feel a thing but the cold, rainy wind on your cheeks as soon as you open the door. and abby’s there. blonde braid soaked, face red. she’s been out here for a while, obviously. but she couldn’t leave, not when you were at stake. “abby?” you’d mumble, and she wouldn’t even answer. she cups your face in her hands, pulls you close, kisses you. and when she pulls back? “baby,” she whispers, and it’s sweet, and it’s endearing, and it’s sorrowful, but it’s home. her kiss says sorry. what she calls you only yells it. and when she pulls you into her arms, embracing you like she’ll never let you go again, because she won’t? she doesn’t need words to explain it. “i promise you i will learn from my mistakes.” because she would never make the same one again.

and just to add in this lyric: “tears stream down your face, when you lose something you cannot replace” abby anderson could never replace what was irreplaceable. you were everything to her. you were perfect. all that she wanted. all that she craved, come hell or high water, no matter what happened. and she’d be damned if she ever let you slip from her fingers again.

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majestyeverlasting · 2 months ago

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𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧 | 𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬

Paring: Bucky Barnes x Reader [established relationship]

Summary: During a getaway from the bustle of the city, you can’t shake the looming suspicion that there’s more behind this sweet escape [3.6k]

A/N: Haven't written for Bucky in a while, but it's where it all began. If you like fluff, sensuality, and a reasonable helping of angst, this one’s for you. Enjoy!

Summer seems to have slipped away before you’ve had the chance to say goodbye. But it lingers in many ways, one of your favorites being the gentle tan of Bucky’s skin. Reminiscent of days at the beach and lingering outside simply because you can.

The air has grown much cooler now, the sun at least seeming to have slipped further away. It’s a suitable enough excuse for the way you’ve become more persistent in your pursuit of his warmth, even now, as you tuck your nose into the center of his bare chest. Or maybe it’s your way of quelling the irrational fear that he too would somehow slip away.

No matter how many new beginnings there were, how many times he walked away from the call of duty, the same inevitability circled back around. One that entailed him leaving to be who others needed him to be. You’d taught yourself to worry less, to enjoy the now.

The eggshell sheets sink off your frame as you force yourself away from him, sitting upright and welcoming the slight stiffness that comes along with a good night’s sleep. The curtains are drawn closed, and it's early enough in the morning that light doesn’t pour in too strongly from around the edges. There’s an ambience to the dimness, one the mourning doves outside contribute to with their calls.

Sensing your withdrawal, Bucky rolls onto his back, the soft linen pooling at his hips. They fall just beneath the faint protrusions of the bones. But he doesn’t open his eyes. Not even when you brace yourself, mattress dipping, to lean down and press kisses along his waist in plush light drops. You trail them up to his jaw, his face growing hotter with each kiss, leaving no hope of quelling the tingling beneath his skin.

Just as his eyes flutter open, you straighten up and slip out of bed away from his reach. He watches the pretty line of your back as you saunter towards the bathroom—laughing. First at him, then with him, as you peek over your shoulder to where he lays flushed with a blossoming smile. Moments later, you find yourselves under the warm spray of the shower.

By the time you make it outside, there’s a fleeting ombre of colors in the sky. Pink and orange closer to the horizon and pale blue everywhere else. It’s something you have to make out through the trees as you sit on the porch bench. They’re everywhere, tall and strong. Your legs are draped over Bucky’s lap. He absentmindedly strokes your shin with his thumb as you redirect your gaze back to the travel brochure you’d carried out with you.

It was something you’d picked up at the welcome center earlier this week when you arrived in Chicot County. The last stint at this safehouse was brief. A result of a threat that ended up being dissolved almost as soon as it arose. This time around, the two of you were here because you wanted to be. Some time away from the city, Bucky had said. So you packed up the truck, secured his motorcycle in the bed, and hit the highway.

Upon noticing the distant way he’s begun looking out at the yard, you point to a name listed under the breakfast directory. A promising diner. “I feel good about this one,” you say.

Bucky narrows his eyes. “You sure? ‘Cause I don’t know if I can survive room temperature eggs again.” His amusement remains from yesterday’s pick. The eggs might not have been hot off the stove, but you’d been smiling across the table from each other nevertheless. Grateful for good company and a solid playlist playing overhead.

“Could’ve fooled me. Your plate was spotless by the time we left.” You poke his side. When he hardens himself against reacting, you do it again.

“Okay, alright,” Bucky says through a smile that betrays him, curling in on himself.

Satisfied, you admire the way his hair falls past his ears now. Only his beard is peppered with specks of white. The black shirt he’s wearing loosely contours around his muscles, and he’s got black cargos to match. He looks good like this in the early morning light.

Swinging your legs from his lap, you scoot closer with the intent to kiss him. But he leans away with the ghost of sparkle in his eyes. It’s as good a poker face as he can manage.

When he stands, you follow, the porch creaking under your footsteps as he leads you back inside. The moment the front door shuts, he presses you against it, dipping his head to capture your lips in a soft kiss. He never gives in fully, remaining right on the cusp of where sweetness surrenders itself to the deeper urgency of desire.

“Can we take your bike?” you murmur against his warm lips.

He pecks the corner of your mouth, your chin. “Whatever you want.” He punctuates with a final peck on your lips.

•••

Everything about the diner is lovely. The food, the staff, the patrons. That’s what makes time seem to glide by so fast. Pictures of people from the community hang on the walls, and different shelves bear charming trinkets. The two of you are seated in a booth along the front window, watching people flutter in and out as your meals begin to digest. Bucky’s legs brush against your own where they’re extended beneath the table.

Soon, a minivan pulls up right out front. After the couple gets out, the back doors slide open and five kids pour out wearing smiles. The oldest boy can’t be any more than twelve. The two youngest are still in their pajamas. Bucky’s lips upturn.

“I used to want a bunch of siblings,” he admits.

You turn towards him. “Really?”

He nods, almost shyly. “Always seemed like it’d be a lot of fun,” he says. “Nevermind we lived in a shoebox in Brooklyn.”

You offer a fond tilt of your head. “Would you still have wanted to be the oldest, or the youngest?”

His answer doesn’t take long. “Oldest.” The sound of laughter marks the family’s entrance. “I was eleven when Becca was born and it was the best day of my life.” He’s quiet for a moment, reminiscing. “She’s what made me realize there was something outside of myself that I wanted to protect.”

A small smile pulls at your lips. “That’s really sweet.”

He nods, tapping his knuckles against the table a few absentminded times. Then a weighted look settles in his eyes, like there’s something else he needs to say. It evokes a sense of knowing within you, even though nothing has revealed itself. The suspicion doesn’t unsettle you. Instead, you ride the wave, figuring if you’re swept out to the sea and the two of you diverge for a short while, it’s nothing you haven’t braved before.

You extend your hand across the table and leave it face up. Bucky takes it, calloused palms against your softer ones, rubbing the back of your hand. No words pass between, and you’re happy to join him in his silence. You’d wait forever if you had to.

He gives your hand a squeeze. “Just thinking.”

“You do that quite a lot.” There’s a lilt to your voice.

On your way out the diner, the oldest boy from the family locks eyes with Bucky, face glowing with recognition. But the kid doesn’t say anything or make a scene, just lifts his hand in a wave that barely rises above the table. Bucky waves back. And the boy grins, knowing he’d just seen a superhero in the flesh.

•••

The ride back to the house is even prettier than when you first came. Bucky takes a different route so you can pass alongside the calm waters of Lake Chicot. There’s no words to express how beautiful it is, especially with wind rushing against your bodies. Bucky is steady and solid where your arms are wrapped around his middle. There’s a practiced ease to the way he mans the handlebars as the engine rumbles on.

When you make it to the straight shot half a mile away from the house, he accelerates for the thrill of it. It feels like you’re flying. But Bucky isn’t taking you home at all. He zooms past the turn that leads to the long driveway and continues onwards to an unknown destination.

Dust kicks up behind you when he eventually turns onto a narrow dirt road. It grows dimmer, the trees stretching upwards on either side blocking out the sky. Bucky slows down to an easy cruise. Despite the questions that arise in your head, you continue hanging on and enjoying the ride.

You eventually pull onto a plot of land that rests along the lake. There’s a makeshift parking pad that overlooks the water, and a sloping trail that leads down to a grassy space that sits closer to the bank. Tucked into the trees is a small wooden cabin with a thick lock on the door.

Once you climb off the motorcycle and secure your helmet on its hook, you take a thoughtful look around, relishing the breeze. A comfortable silence lingers between you until Bucky combs a hand through his disheveled hair, gaze falling on you.

“I never had the chance to bring you out here. It’s real peaceful.” He pauses for the soft slosh of the lake’s shore, the rustling of the trees. “Thought you’d appreciate it.”

“Where exactly is here?” you ask.

Chuckling, Bucky nods in the direction of the cabin as he begins heading that way. The dirt crunches beneath your feet until you reach the grass, twigs snapping. Rather than pulling out a key, Bucky presses his thumb to the underside of the lock and it releases.

The air is thick as you step inside, having been shut in for so long. Even then, as it thins, you can smell the familiar undernotes you always associate with Bucky’s skin. Almost everything is contained within the four walls of one main room. There’s a small kitchen composed of a couple cabinets, a sink, and a stove. The kitchen table is small with one chair. A twin sized bed constitutes what could be a living room.

As you soak it all in, your eyes catch sight of a polaroid picture on the wall near the bed. You take a few steps closer, footsteps clunking gently against the wood.

“Awwww, it’s us.” Both of you look so different. Bucky’s hair is shorter. “Back in Brooklyn before we started dating.”

His stomach flutters when you peer back at him, still gushing. “Yeah. I used to stake out here during jobs.” The look in your eyes insists he continues. “Liked the town so much I eventually requested another safehouse. A nicer one that’d accommodate the two of us—the one we’re staying in now,” he says, thoughtful.

“It’s definitely been a while.”

You hum in agreement as you walk around. There isn’t much, but it’s enough. “What about the bathroom?” He points to a door that you’d completely glossed over, the grain of the wood blending in with the rest of the walls.

Then, in the corner of the room, a small handle on the floor catches your eye. Bucky follows your gaze. “There’s a storage room down below.” He pulls his lower lip between his teeth, debating with himself. “For weapons. Did you wanna see that too?”

You lift an easy shoulder. “Why not?”

After pulling the hatch door open, Bucky descends the ladder first to get the lights. The rungs creak with his movements. When it’s your turn, he stands at the bottom, guiding you down with his hands hovering at your waist.

Back on the ground, all you see are guns. Everywhere. Different makes and models. They span every inch of available space on the walls, forming an extensive array. Some look so intricate and peculiar that it’s hard to believe they’re functional. A glass display case rests in the center of the room that houses an impressive collection of knives. The blades are so clean they glint.

The entire room is a testament to a skillset that exceeds the most practiced among men. Defying the very bounds of human capability and teetering over into a league of its own. Yet for all the times you’ve ever looked at Bucky, you’ve never perceived him as a threat. Or as anything other than human even though the hands of science had sought to strip that away from him.

He’s already looking at you when you turn back to him. “Wow.” You breathe out a laugh. Bucky’s eyes nervously flitter to the ground. “Do you know how to use all of them? Like, even the fancier ones?”

His bicep flexes as he rubs the back of his neck. “I do.” Then, he finally comes around to the fact that you’re impressed, not afraid. He smiles a little too. “They don’t hand ‘em out to just anybody.”

A snort escapes you, and you push his chest. He captures your wrist in the process, guiding your arm up to hook around his neck. You raise the other on your own accord, taking a step closer as his strong hands settle on your waist. He touches his forehead to yours.

“Can’t go around talking about this place now that you’ve seen it.” He feigns seriousness because he knows you never would.

“That's a bummer. I was thinking about hosting a potluck.”

A startled laugh bubbles out of him, coated in fondness. There were no secrets regarding who he was or what he’d done, but reality had a way of piercing through to the bone when the evidence was as tangible as these four walls. When it was hanging all around you, each weapon having been graced by the hands that now held you.

He exhales. “I love you.”

•••

The two of you end up on a blanket down by the lake. You, on your back with your knees propped up, and Bucky upright with his legs stretched out. Yet again, having fallen into thought. You remain like that for a while, embracing the stillness. Soon, he can feel your eyes settle on him like you’ve figured something out.

“This whole trip,” you start, groaning as you sit up. “It’s not really just because, is it?” Only a small fraction of your tone is unsure, willing to welcome the possibility that you’d been reading into his contemplative hazes all wrong.

“You have to go away again.”

Bucky shifts, his muscles rippling beneath his shirt. There’s a few seconds where he doesn’t say anything at all. “Yeah, I…yeah.” It’s the truth. That’s all he’s got left, all he ever offered to you. It was just harder to present it this time. “At the end of the week.”

This past year of simply existing and traveling with you had been a luxury that settled deep in his bones. He didn’t want the thought of his departure to taint what time you had left.

“A few weeks ago I ignored a call,” he starts. “Then the same unknown number kept calling and calling.” He motions with his hand as he speaks. “So I finally picked up the phone.”

In your chest, seeds of suspicion have taken root and grown into a realized truth. Snaking through your rib cage, settling beneath your skin. “And you agreed to whatever they asked.”

He nods, eyes meeting yours.

“I was trying to gauge when to tell you. Didn’t want it to be the only thing on your mind.” Guilt spreads through him when your jaw ticks and you look out towards the water. He continues with a slight waver in his voice. “I figured if I at least got us down here, we could stay until I got a better idea of what’s going on.”

“In case anybody tried to bother us in Brooklyn,” he adds. You hum a small sound.

“You can go back if you want. That’ll be your choice to make,” he realizes. “I’m sorry.”

As a gentle breeze passes through, you take his hand and pull it closer to you. He watches as you open his palm and trace the lines there. Your touch is so light it sends small currents of electricity up his arm.

“You wanna know something,” you murmur, his fingers twitching as you continue on with your slow, thoughtful trails. “I had a hunch. I don’t know if that’s better or worse than certainty.” His breath stills when your finger does. “I guess now I know for sure though, right?” Your acceptance is underscored by a soft edge.

“Yeah.” It’s a rasped breath.

He almost doesn’t believe your somber smile because there’s a hint of levity woven around the outskirts, stuffed between the cracks. “You could’ve told me sooner so you wouldn’t be ruminating about it.” You raise his hand to your lips and press a kiss to the center. “I promise I would’ve been okay.”

You’d already experienced it all—unexpectedly waking up alone, seeing him off within a moment's notice, being told in July that he wouldn’t be home for Christmas. Maybe things were different this time because he’d gotten such a profound glimpse of what life would be like if he hung it all up. Both of you knew there was really no such thing, but it was nice to pretend. Your brains couldn’t tell the difference.

“So are you okay?” he asks.

“Are you okay?” Bucky huffs a low laugh at that.

Going on missions didn’t phase him. He knew how to fight. It was something he did well. Sometimes he hated himself for the primal rush it gave him, the itch it fulfilled. There was something about being presented with a target—an objective—even after all these years, that he could never back away from. If there was a job to do, he was going to get it done. By being an equalizer, an asset.

You, with your pretty smiles and steady convictions, were the first person to truly make realize that wasn’t all he had to be. Fighting was easy, but being still was harder. He’d realized he wanted a balance of both, and that he was allowed to have it. There was no judge waiting for him to choose one over the other. Being in a relationship with him meant nurturing this duality without attempting to sever the two ends or stomp one out. They formed a worthwhile whole that was embedded within his being.

“Only if you are,” he finally says.

“I’m okay,” you promise. Then you tilt your head. “You look like you don’t believe me.”

Bucky exhales. “I really was gonna tell you sooner, I just…couldn’t,” he says, shaking his head in hindsight's clarity. “You have the right to be upset.”

“I’m not, Buck. I wish I could be, but I’m not,” you admit. “You’re still here. It’d only be a waste of time.” You angle more towards him, leaning in a little closer. “I think something might be a little wrong with me anyways. I kinda just want to kiss you...”

His brows pinch together before he smiles all boyish, unable to help it. Like he can’t quite believe you’re real. “Is that what you wanna do? We can do that.” He cups your cheek, running his thumb along your lower lip.

You hum, leaning into his touch. “But maybe that wouldn’t be productive given the circumstances.” There’s a playful lilt to your voice that he’s grateful for. That you’re grateful to have found yourself. It was mending in times like this. “Feels like you should be doing target practice or something. Or maybe I can hold up some boxing mitts for you—”

In what feels like seconds, he has you on your back, hovering above you. Your purse your lips to keep from breaking into a lovesick smile. “Wrestling works too,” you manage. There’s a flutter in your stomach from his display of strength alone.

Bucky’s eyes are the prettiest shade of blue as he gazes down at you. Lines gather at the corners of them as he smiles, his hair falling in a short curtain framing his face. Right along with the warmth in his chest, settles the premature weight of missing you. He doesn’t let it take over, or try to push it away. It’s the very thing that grounds him in the moment all the more. It would eventually be the spark that made him find his way back to you.

He runs a finger along your jawline, making you shiver. Then he whispers against your lips, “I liked your first idea.” As your lips part further in an exhale, he nips at them one at a time, licking just past them. Testing the waters before diving in.

You disappear in the warmth of his lips, his tongue, the scratch of his beard. He squeezes your thigh, your waist, then cradles your jaw as best as he can. Everything is tender. Like he’s aware of the solidity of your presence but distantly afraid you might break. Bucky’s always been that way.

He eventually pulls away, allowing you to find your breath. Rolling off onto his back as the warmth simmers in his cheeks. Rather than finding words to fill the space, you bask in this secluded moment, both staring up at the same sky. Grateful that, at least for now, you still had a little more time.

Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky fic #bucky fluff #bucky angst #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x female yn #sebastian stan #bucky x female reader

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madi-writes-things · 9 months ago

Text

Stay… (Jake Webber X Reader)

Summary:

“I’m at the hospital” “What do you mean?!”

Word Count: 1,046

TW: Hurt/Comfort, Arguments, Car Accidents, Hospitals, Head Injury, Use of Y/N

You almost never fight, but everyone has their breaking point… and tonight appeared to be both of yours. It wasn’t even anything big. Jake had to go to an important dinner meeting, and you felt left out. By the time he got home you were already in a mood, which only pissed him off. He was just trying to help, but you refused to tell him what was wrong.

“It’s not a big deal.” you lied through your teeth. It hurt your feelings when he didn’t invite you to dinner, when you knew for a fact that the other influencers had brought their partners. “Don’t worry about it” your words were laced with venom.

A look flashed across his face that was unreadable, but his words quickly filled in the context. “Oh… so that’s what we’re doing?” He was really starting to get mad now. It was too late to tell him that it really didn’t matter, and that you just want to forget about the whole ordeal. “You refuse to tell me why your mad, and you just get pissy when i ask… I’m done trying to have a rational fucking discussion with you”

You knew that he was right, but his words just made you more upset. “I shouldn’t have to fucking tell you why I’m mad Jake, maybe if you thought about anyone other than yourself you could figure it out!” At this point tears were streaming down your face, and you could see that they had started to form in his eyes as well. You didn’t mean for it to come out that harsh, but you also didn’t know how else to make him understand that he really hurt you.

“I can’t stand you when you act like this…” He turned to walk to your shared room as he said this. The pain in your heat grew tenfold hearing him say he couldn’t stand you. You knew he didn’t mean it, but that didn’t soften the blow. You immediately walked into y’all’s room and stated grabbing clothes from your drawer, quickly packing them into a tote bag. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He looked confused.

“Since you ‘can’t stand me’ right now, i figured I’d get out of your hair… I’m going to a friends house.” You watched as he tried to think of something to say, before eventually deciding to let you go. You both needed some space and time to reset.

You quickly packed enough clothes for a week, before going down to your car. You wanted him to stop you, but you knew that he wouldn’t. You don’t blame him, you knew he didn’t want you to go… but you also know that he needed space too. As you started driving you realized that you didn’t know where you were going, you decided to find a lot to park in and call a friend.

As you exited the highway you noticed that traffic was coming to a stop, so you started to slow down. A strange sense of panic rushed over you as you looked in your rear view mirror. Oh shit oh shit oh-

***

You woke up 3 minutes later to EMS crowded around your car. You quickly roll your window down and ask what happened. As they explain what happened you reach up to touch your throbbing head, only to see blood on your hand as you pull it away. You got very light headed at the sight of the blood, and suddenly everything was dark again.

***

As soon as you got to the hospital you knew you needed to call Jake. You waited until thy were done with your exam, partially because you wanted to know how bad it was… but mostly because you were scared that Jake wouldn’t answer. How were you supposed to know that Jake had been crying since you left, just hoping you would call. The phone rang three times before you heard a sleepy voice greeting you.

“Y/N?” You realize that you didn’t responded fast enough when he speaks again. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m in the hospital.” Your voice breaks a little at the end, you haven’t stopped crying since you woke up in the ambulance. Unfortunately for the EMS people you refuse to talk abut anything other than the fight.

“What do you mean!?” This broke you, you couldn’t handle the thought of Jake being mad at you anymore. “Y/N, where are you?”

You told him what hospital you were at, and that you were okay. Jake was there in less than five minutes, you didn’t question how he got there so quick. As soon as you saw him you started crying… again. You could see the look on his face change from worry to relief to shock within three seconds of finding you. You understood why… the nurse had let you look at yourself in a mirror, and it wasn’t good.

Once he registered that he had found you, he rushed to you. “What happened, are you okay?” He reached up to inspect the bruises and small cuts on your face. You flinched away. It hurt to move your face, and someone touching it right now wasn’t something you wanted to think of.

“I’m so sorry… for everything” Jake quickly assured you that hew was sorry too, and that it wasn’t your fault that any of this happened. “They said that i could go home as soon as i got a ride.”

***

As soon as you and Jake got home he started making a bed on the couch. It didn’t register what he was doing at first. “You can take the bed, I’m sure it isn’t good to sleep on the couch after an accident.”

He was being so respectful, but all that you wanted was for him to hold you and tell you that everything was going to be okay. “Don’t…” It was so quiet that he almost didn’t hear it, you didn’t know what to say. “Can you please stay with me, I don’t want to be alone.” He followed you to y’all’s shared bed, doing his best to hold you without upsetting a bruise. You fell asleep to him telling you how much he loves you, and you’ve never felt safer.

———————————————————

I hope that y’all enjoyed it, feel free to send a request my way.

-Madi <;3

#johnnie and jake #2010s youtube #hot emo boy #jake webber imagine #hurt/comfort #car accident #jake webber fluff #jake webber #jake webber imagines #jake webber x reader #Jake Webber angst #Madi writes things #madi makes things

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nauticallyhypnotical · 8 months ago

Note

can i request sebastian teaching a shy f!farmer how to touch herself after learning that he's her first serious boyfriend (with a bit of a praise kink sprinkled in?)

Even though you and Sebastian had been dating for a few weeks, the two of you hadn’t really had a whole lot of time to yourselves as a couple. You were going to remedy that—tonight, you had made special reservations for a new sushi restaurant in Zuzu City. After that, you were going to take him on a romantic moonlit walk through your favorite park, and then bring him back home to your farm. You were quite nervous, as you were still a virgin and wanted to impress Sebastian. You neglected to mention to him on the ride into the city how long you spent getting ready, mulling over various outfit choices in front of your wardrobe and rhetorically asking your dog, Clover, for advice on what to wear. Eventually, you settled on a skin-tight purple dress adorned with little gold stars, the sleeves drooping loosely down your arms.

You’d wanted him to think you were pretty. Needed it, more than you needed the air you breathe. Your heart just about burst out of your chest when he picked you up from the farm, his chocolate brown eyes lighting up when he saw you, his voice gravely and low as he says, “hey, sweetheart, aren’t you just perfect?”

Embracing him on his motorcycle as you rode the highway into the city made your skin feel as though it were on fire, or frozen solid, or maybe both at the same time. You felt electric as you clung to him, arms wrapped tightly around his chest. Even with a helmet on, the smell of his cologne wafted into your nose, and you inhaled deeply. He smelled like the embodiment of autumn, with notes of apples and cinnamon, and it drove you crazy with desire. You almost laughed at yourself, the fact that you waited so long to have him and now that you did, you were too scared to do anything about it.

Sebastian noticed your apprehension during dinner after about the third time of you blushing and looking away the second you two made eye contact. He looked at you endearingly with a smile on his face as you acted as shy as when you first met him, and he reached a hand across the table and encompassed it around yours. You nearly jumped out of your skin from the unexpected contact, and you timidly raise your eyes to meet his.

“What’s got you so worked up, doll?” he asked, his husky voice sending a shiver down your spine. You pondered for a moment on what to say.

“I just...I just wanted this night to be nice, but I can’t seem to get my nerves under control...” the vulnerability was making your heart pound, and your whole face felt like it was on fire.

“You’re my first boyfriend, I'm basically just winging it over here because I don’t know what to do,” you looked away at that, unsure of what Sebastian must think now that he knows how inexperienced you are. Instead of pulling away, he just rubbed circles on your hand with his thumb.

“Who said this wasn’t nice?” he finally said after a moment of silence. You met his gaze.

“I’m eating my favorite food with the world’s most beautiful girl; how could this not be a nice night?” He let go of your hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“And if I'm your first boyfriend,” he murmured, a rosy blush dusting across his cheeks as he stares longingly into your eyes, “I have to make this a night you won’t forget.”

After paying for your meal, Sebastian took your hand and the two of you walked down the still bustling streets of Zuzu, the city that apparently doesn’t sleep. You took the opportunity away from your shared friends, as much as you loved them, to really talk with Sebastian about things you really couldn’t say in your tiny little village. You talked about why you really left your old life behind to start over in a town so small no one really knows about it, and he opened up to you about his troubled family life. By the end of the conversation, your dislike for Demetrius grew stronger.

As the cool crisp air chilled further and conversation slowed naturally, you began to really focus on the sounds of the city. You were intrigued to hear the faint thumping of music coming from what should be an abandoned Joja Co warehouse. Outside the door, a big man was standing by, arms crossed over his broad chest as he watched any passersby.

“Wanna check it out?” Sebastian asked you, matching your curiosity. You nodded, and he led you over to the door. You assumed the big man was eyeing you down as you approached, if his eyes weren’t obscured by black sunglasses. You wondered how he even saw anything, wearing sunglasses at night.

“Password?” the man said gruffly. Sebastian made a point of briefly checking his surroundings before leaning in and whispering “midnight serenade”. The bouncer rapped on the door twice before stepping to the side, allowing whoever was on the other side to open it for them.

“How did you-?” you asked. Sebastian just shrugged and gave you a mischievous grin.

“Lucky guess,” he said. Inside the warehouse, they were immediately enveloped in a world of dimly lit ambiance and pulsating music. There was a surprising number of people, some of which were very engaged with the party lifestyle. Sebastian led you to a corner of the warehouse that was less crowded and invited you to dance with him. You had two left feet, but that didn’t stop you from accepting his proposal. The two of you laughed as you allowed the pulse of the music to fill your veins, fueling your movements. For the first time in a long time, you felt uninhibited, and you wondered how long the feeling would last.

Yoba, it seemed, had other plans.

The party was rushed by the ZPD, or Zuzu Police Department. Apparently, Joja Co did not appreciate occupants in its unused warehouse, even if they had no plans to do anything with it.

With hearts pounding and adrenaline rushing through your veins, you find yourselves swept up in the chaos, frantically weaving your way through the crowd as you try to evade the authorities. You swiftly exit the warehouse through a side door and race through dimly lit alleyways to get as far away from there as possible.

You’re still laughing when you finally reach Sebastian’s motorcycle, still parked in front of the sushi restaurant, now long closed.

When you finally reach your farm, you ask him if he wants to spend the night, and it makes your heart flutter when he doesn’t hesitate to say yes.

You get inside, and you both collapse on your sofa, tired from the day’s events. You instruct Sebastian to pick out a movie to play on your old box television while you toss some wood into the fireplace and get it lit, quickly returning to cozy up to his side.

As the movie plays, and the fire crackles in the background, he lets his fingers trace idly along your arms, causing goosebumps to rise to the surface of your flesh. You nuzzle into him, and a gasp escapes your lips as his hand roams upwards, caressing your neck and threading through your hair. You can barely concentrate on the movie as Sebastian lightly scratches your head, and you grasp at his shirt when those slender fingers of his wrap around a lock of your hair and gently tug. He pulls your head back and exposes your open mouth to him, and with the movie now forgotten in the back, his tongue is sliding against your own. He brings his other hand up to cup your face, and a heat blooms deep within you. You maneuver your body until you’re straddling his hips, and with his hands now free he uses them to slide up your dress until they rest on your hips, his thumbs massaging in slow circles.

The moment you pull away from him to catch your breath, Sebastian looks at you with lust in his half-lidded eyes.

“How far do you want to take this, tonight?” he asks you, his voice low and full of desire. You blush and shy away from his gaze, now noticing the abundantly clear hardness forming underneath you. You bite your lip and slowly roll your hips against his, relishing in the way Sebastian inhales sharply at your motion.

“Well,” you begin to say, “I’ve never done this sort of stuff before...Maybe you can show me what to do?” Sebastian groans when he hears you say that, and he buries his head in the crook of your neck, licking and sucking on a spot that made you feel ticklish. He grips you harder as you writhe around on his lap, arching your back so your chest presses against his. He detaches himself from your neck just long enough to pull your dress up and over your head, and he takes a moment to admire your beauty. You felt self-conscious under his gaze, so you instinctively moved to cover your chest with your arms, but his grip on your wrist halts your movements.

“Don’t hide yourself from me, princess,” he commands, his authoritative tone making you drop your arms. You allow him to unclasp your bra, spilling your breasts out. He grabs them with both hands and begins to massage them while pinching your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. You’re moaning at his touch, and he watches you with amazement.

“You’re so beautiful, you know that?” he asks, leaning forward to place a kiss on your chest. He grinds his erection into you with his words.

“You’re so, so perfect, baby,” he says between kisses. You squirm delightfully with his praise, needing it more than life. You realize that all you want to do is make Sebastian proud as you bring your hands up to card your fingers through his soft, dark hair. He looks up at you with a soft look before taking your lips in his own, releasing your nipples to grab your thighs and reposition you with your back on the couch. His fingers hook under the waistline of your panties, and he fervently removes them.

Sebastian pulls away from you to stare at your fully exposed body, your face flushed and chest heaving as you pant for air. Your legs are spread with him in between them, one dangling off the couch, and he takes one of his fingers and drags it slowly along your slit.

“Shit,” he hisses, bringing it up to his mouth to taste. “You’re so fucking wet for me.”

“Is that good?” you ask shyly, and he chuckles.

“Oh, sweet girl, yes. You’re so good for me,” he coos. His words of affirmation are so important to you, your hips twitch upwards in response. You spread your legs wider, allowing him to get a better look.

“I want you to stick a finger inside, can you do that for me?” he instructs. You nod, sliding your hands down your body and using your left hand, you spread your lower lips wide. With your right middle finger, you tease at your entrance and push inwards, gasping lightly as you curl upwards.

“I want to hear you, baby girl,” Sebastian says. You begin to whine as you pump your finger in and out of you at a slow pace; he doesn’t take his eyes off you for a second as he unbuckles his belt and unzips his trousers, pulling them off his body leaving him in only a t-shirt and boxers. He finally releases his hardened cock from its pitched tent, its tip dribbling a small amount of precum. He wraps his hand around his member and begins to masturbate, nearly choking on his words as he manages to sputter out, “p-put another finger in.”

You do as you’re told, slipping in your ring finger, while using the digits on your left hand to rub your clit in circles. You feel pressure building up inside you, like a thread waiting to snap, the heat in your body feeling as though you were set aflame. You’re rubbing on a spot inside that has you seeing stars and feeling high. You chase that feeling, hoping Sebastian knows how hard you’re trying for him, and soon that thread finally snaps with your climax as you cry out your performance.

“Good girl,” he says with a predatory tone, and when you pull your fingers out of your twitching vagina, he’s lining himself up at your entrance. He grabs your wrist and makes sure you’re paying attention as he cleans your release off your appendages. He’s pushing into you as he licks you at the same time, the lewdness of it all causing your already flushed cheeks to deepen in color; you felt hot, everywhere, and the overstimulation of your senses was causing your peak to rapidly build back up. Sebastian clutches one of your breasts with his free hand like you might slip away if he doesn’t keep hold of you.

“Can you cum again for me, sweetheart?” he asks once he releases your fingers with a wet pop! You whimper as you shake your head.

“I-I don’t know if I can, Seb,” you manage. Sebastian flashes one of his crooked, toothy grins that made you fall for him.

“Aw, course you can, sweetheart. I'll get you there,” he purrs, and he cradles your head while leaning down to slip his tongue in between your parted lips. He’s massaging the muscle against your own in tune with his thrusts, and the hand playing with your boob now grips onto your fleshy hip. You’ve never felt closer to Sebastian, but still, it’s not enough. You need him deeper; you need him to never leave your side again.

This time, your orgasm crashes down like a wave, an ecstasy like you’ve never felt flooding your whole body. You tremble and shake against him as all you can do is whimper into his mouth. He swallows up every last sound, his own moans better than any song he and Sam could produce. It doesn’t take long for him to follow, and he pulls out to finish on your chest. He rests for a moment, catching his breath.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he finally says.

“I’ll grab a towel, get you cleaned up,” he’d been to your house countless times with Sam and Abigail, so he was quite familiar with the layout already. It didn’t take long for him to return with a rag, but it was enough time for you to doze off. Sebastian looked down at you fondly, and cleaned you up slowly, admiring his handiwork. When he was satisfied, he grabbed a blanket from your bedroom and crawled into the sofa behind you, draping an arm over your waist and holding you through the night.

#stardew valley #mdni #sdv sebastian #anon #sdv smut #a little bit of fluff #i absolutely think seb would have a thing for pet names

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starillusion13 · 1 year ago

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Imagine your friends!NCT are secretly mafias, falling in love with you…

[I’m doing with my bias line so if your bias is missing means they are my bias wreckers and as am being ot23(I will always be their supporter so don’t expect I love any of the members less) please read the end note.]

Remember this is my top bias line:

Lee Taeyong

Being the leader of the biggest mafia gang, NCT he is very passionate about his life. Never for once he thought of getting you in his life. An innocent but suicidal girl but also a very daring girl. He is attracted to you because of your multiple personalities and this is the reason he finds you different from other girls. He is good at pretending that he is not getting attracted to you day by day or simply he is deeply in love with you. But what about you? No one knows as you are just friends with him, a very close one. It’s a very simple story. But the problem is that you are only familiar with mafias in story book but you don’t know the dark secrets of your cute and handsome friend, Lee Taeyong.

Kim Doyoung

Your most caring friend who literally takes care of you like an older brother but he has made it clear not to call him your brother. He treats you more than you ever need. He takes you on luxury friendly dates when Taeyong(his bestfriend) is busy or that man would not leave his chance to tag along( you are afterall spending his money even with Doyoung). His gummy smile is everything you need before going to work. Those gummy smiles hide the devilish smirk when he is torturing his victim brutally and his sharp eyes watching the helpless condition of them. But to you, he can heal your every pain as a true friend.

Jung Jaehyun

the most charming guy you have ever met. Anyone would want him as their boyfriend including you but you bet he has girlfriend as you feel he hides things from you and that can be possible if it’s his gf. Once late at night you came across him on the streets and you thought him as any celebrity and that’s how your friendship began. He has the show-off attitude and would always buy you costly dresses, jewelry and other accessories and urge you to wear them on friendly dates and workplace. He has this possessiveness in his every move and words as if he owns you. He is a loyal NCT mafia member who has swear not to get distract by anything but why he is losing his mind for you.

Lee Mark

the sweetest and the most innocent guy. You feel this urge to protect this silly boy from this cruel world. Cruel world? He is a walking devil with a facade of innocence. His silly speech, his innocent heartily laughs and his securing embrace is like alluring you to trust him with your whole. But it’s a trap to keep you close. You don’t know how his awkward behaviors in front of you are just the opposite when he plants bullets in his enemy’s head and throat. His soft big and innocent eyes are the dangerous hell-hole for his victims.

Lee Jeno

well, you doubt him as a gangster sometimes because of his physique and personality. But He can’t be because next moment he is giving off his eye smile melting your heart along with his sweet gestures. A perfect soft boyfriend with some dominating aura. He likes to order you around like those are simple and sweet but somehow he has that controlling attitude. His helpless and worried expression if you are hurt for some reason is just the opposite from the one when he makes sure to burn the victim or bury it 6-feet under and his eyes burning with the rage of revenge, nowhere to be seen those cute eyes looking at you in awe and adoration.

Lee Haechan

a playful menace. You question sometimes why you are being friends with him in first place. His teasings are out of hand and loses your mind but the next moment he is the dearest friend to you. But you have fun with him in sleepovers, sneaking out for late night long drives playing ‘Highway to Heaven’ and he sings along the song’s bridge, his fav part ‘oh she’s so bad, I’ll make it last’ and looks at you in your eyes. Even behind his mischievousness, there is a lover boy. He cuddles you to comfort and a perfect bestfriend and you are thankful for such a nice friend. But you don’t know that the annoying boy with heavenly vocals is a hacker of the ruthless mafia gang, NCT.

Na Jaemin

a total cat person. He even has an insta account for his cats and mentioned himself as their father and you as their mother. A boy with heart on his sleeves and he doesn’t let a moment to fall in vain without making you blush. A family man and not gonna lie you have a little crush on him. His endearments and sweet gestures always make you feel like that you are a couple and sometimes some people even assume it. Even if you deny it, he proudly smiles and agrees with them. But this sweet Angel boy is the devil who can shoot someone and bury them in a stance and then act like he tugged his cats in bed to sleep.

I’m writing such above things just casually because even if it’s late at night yet am not feeling sleepy😭 actually I was preparing a NCT! Mafia draft so felt like sharing some imagines. If you guys need any particular member imagine then you can send me asks(also Yuta Lucas Renjun Ten Yangyang and Kun are also in my bias list tho🥹)

Should I make a NCT! Mafia series with my bias line x reader? Of course after finishing ‘Like We Just Met’?

Perma Taglist: @mymoodwriting @justhere4kpop @anyamaris @yeoobin @icchyi @jwnghyuns @piratequeen-queenofgames @dinonuguaegi @oreharuuu @hwanring @sanwifesstuff @kiwiisnthereoops @kiwiraccoon [open!]

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candycandy00 · 1 year ago

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Pick Me Up - A Gojo x Reader x Geto Halloween Fanfic Part 1

Gojo and Geto are two serial killers who enjoy seducing their victims before killing them. Every year on Halloween they have a friendly competition, and this year the target they both choose is you.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

The first two parts will be fairly short and just serve to set up the way these two operate. The third part starts the “main part”. Any feedback or comments are greatly appreciated! Divider by @violetbudd

Smut. 18+. Fem Readers. Implied death/blood/gore (“offscreen” for now). Consensual sex. Gojo and Geto are both bisexual. First part is Gojo x Reader only. Geto will be the focus of part 2.

Unbelievable. You left your house with nearly a full tank of gas. Now, just thirty minutes later, your car is running on fumes on the darkest, loneliest highway in the area. You even double checked when you stopped at that gas station just outside of town to grab snacks.

You’re on your way to one of several Halloween parties taking place this weekend in the days leading up to the actual holiday. This one was supposed to be one of the best, out on the old Johnson farm.

But now you find yourself forced to pull over on the side of the road because your stupid car is out of gas. Must be a leak, you figure as you cut the engine and grab your phone from the passenger seat. You groan when you realize there’s no service. Of course not. You’re out in the boonies.

With an annoyed sigh you climb out of your car and hold your phone in the air, trying to catch a bar or two. No luck. Glancing at your car, you wonder if you could actually see gas leaking from the bottom if you look. But you don’t want to ruin your sexy Little Red Riding Hood costume. The skirt is so short and so tight that you don’t think it’s physically possible to squat down in it.

You walk a few steps away, still holding your phone up, still hoping for a signal. This is the last place you want to be stranded. Over the past two weeks, four different women close to your age have been found murdered along this road. Their deaths were gruesome, violent, and bloody. Two of them had their guts ripped completely out. The other two had apparently been skinned alive. Someone leaked a crime scene photo online and you saw it without meaning to. You couldn’t eat for two days after that.

So when you hear the sound of an approaching vehicle slowing down, you feel a mix of fear and relief. It could be someone who could help you. It could be a crazed serial killer.

You turn to look back toward your car, and your heart feels like it freezes in place when you see the rusty white van with blacked out windows pulling over. It might as well have had a huge sign on the side that said “Axe Murderer Inside!”

The thought crosses your mind to just run. But then you remember you’re wearing stiletto heels and an outfit that would be practically impossible to run in. Plus, whoever this is obviously saw you and are in a working vehicle. Running would do you absolutely no good.

You walk slowly back to your car, and as you start to pass by the van, the window rolls down on the passenger side. You nervously glance inside. Leaning across from the driver’s seat is a man wearing dark sunglasses. His hair is snowy white, styled in that way that looks slightly messy but was clearly done on purpose. He has a young, incredibly handsome face, and when he pulls his sunglasses down to look at you, he has the most breathtaking blue eyes you’ve ever seen in your life.

“Need some help, sweetheart?”

You can’t help blushing a little as you notice those gorgeous eyes moving up and down your figure. Your skimpy costume covers very little, and definitely enhances what it does cover.

“I ran out of gas,” you tell him. “I think I have a leak.”

“Want me to take a look?” he asks, a friendly smile on his face.

“Sure, if you don’t mind.”

He cuts the van’s engine and gets out. When he walks around to your side of the van and you get a full view of him, you feel yourself clamping your thighs together.

Oh fuck, he’s hot. Like, really really hot.

He’s tall enough to tower over you, and his loose black jacket does little to conceal how his toned body moves under his clothes. When he steps closer, you can smell expensive cologne, and when he squats down beside your car, his thighs spreading apart, you have to fight the urge to insert yourself right between his legs.

The man bends his head down and looks under your car, holding his shades in his hand. “I don’t see anything. Are you sure you didn’t forget to gas up?”

“I’m sure,” you tell him.

He stands back up and comes to stand right in front of you, his height dwarfing yours. “I can give you a lift. Where are you headed?”

“Oh, could I just borrow your phone?” you ask with a smile. “I can get a friend to pick me up.”

“No service out here, sweetheart, but I’d be happy to take you wherever you want.”

You stare at him, weighing your options. You know it’s dangerous to get in a vehicle with a strange man at night. Especially one in a van like this, on a road where women are turning up murdered. But hot damn he’s gorgeous! The thought of being in an enclosed space with him is soaking your tiny thong panties.

Fuck it. I’m taking my chances.

“Do you know where the old Johnson farm is?” you ask him.

He grins. “Sure do. Hop in.”

He opens the passenger side door for you and even helps you climb in. Like a gentleman. You wonder if this gentleman knows how badly you want to suck his dick as you slide into the seat.

As the two of you drive toward the Johnson farm, your mind races for ideas on how you could get him to join you at the party. Your friends will be so jealous if you show up with a snack like him on your arm. You watch him as he drives, admiring his large but elegant looking hands on the steering wheel, imagining them grabbing your ass.

He glances sideways at you. “So what’s going on at the farm tonight?”

“A Halloween party,” you answer.

“That explains the outfit then,” he says with a laugh, his eyes roaming over you again.

You cross and uncross your legs, trying to draw attention to your bare thighs. “You can come too if you want. It’s open invitation.”

He gives you a look that makes you melt, a knowing look, as if he can read your mind. “I’ll think about it,” he says, his eyes torn between the road and your legs.

You settle into the seat, subtly letting your legs spread slightly apart. There’s enough room for him to put his hand up your skirt. You hope he’s thinking about that.

The night outside the van window zips past you, and as you look out, you realize he’s missed the turn off to get to the farm. “Hey,” you say suddenly, “you missed the turn.”

He doesn’t slow down at all, but glances at you and asks, “I did? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it was back there on the right.”

He doesn’t reply to you. Instead, he pulls off the road and drives down a dirt path, lined on either side with trees. You feel your heart pounding when he stops the van in a dark and empty place.

He gives you a sultry sidelong look, his beautiful eyes seeming to glow in the darkness of the van. “Do you really wanna go to some stupid Halloween party?” he asks. “Or do you wanna get fucked in the back of my van?”

The brief spike of fear you felt when he parked instantly vanishes. You suddenly lean forward and kiss him, practically crawling across the seat. He kisses you back, his lips soft but crushing, his tongue in your mouth, the taste of him sweet.

After a moment he pulls away and looks you in the eyes. “Want me to rearrange your insides?”

“Fuck, yes, please!” you breathe out. “I want you inside me!”

He runs his tongue across your lips and grins. “Oh I’ll be inside you alright.”

Minutes later, you’re in the back of his van, your micro mini skirt hiked up around your waist and your corset style top untied halfway down, allowing your breasts to spill out. The back of the van is big enough for you to stand up straight, but the insanely sexy stranger has to hunker down a bit to fit.

You watch with almost unbearable anticipation as he opens his black pants and pulls his cock out. It’s rock hard, and fucking enormous. You’ve had plenty of dick in your life, but this one might be a challenge.

A challenge you’re excited to accept.

Soon enough he has you pinned underneath him, the two of you on the floor of the van, his mouth on your neck, one hand in your hair and the other bracing himself as he thrusts into you with wild abandon.

He’s good. Almost too good. You’ve never been fucked so hard or so deep in your life, and you wonder how the hell you’re supposed to be satisfied with any other guy from now on.

You don’t even know this man’s name, but you think you’re in love.

He draws back to sit up on his knees, pulling your hips into his lap and fucking you from a slightly different angle, one that lets him go even deeper. You moan loudly, arching your back as his thumb strokes your clit. You’ve never felt more incredible than you do right now, cumming on a stranger’s massive cock in the back of a van.

A few more thrusts later, you feel his grip on your hips tighten as his cock twitches inside you.

You look up at him sharply. “Hey, don’t cum inside-“

“Too late,” he says as you feel him shoot a huge load directly into you. It feels fucking fantastic, but you’re not looking to get pregnant, and you wish he would have asked first. Oh well. What’s done is done.

He slowly pulls out, and you lie back, catching your breath and giving him a perfect view of his cum leaking out of your pussy. Guys love that sort of thing, or so you’ve heard. You raise your head slightly to look a him, and those crystal blue eyes are indeed staring at your body. But there’s a strange look on his face. It’s not the expected desire or lust, but something else. Something frightening.

He turns and begins rummaging through a box near the back. When he faces you again, he’s holding a rough-looking rope in one hand and a large shiny knife in the other.

He grins at you. “I satisfied your hunger. Now you can satisfy mine.”

You start to get up, even though your legs are numb, but he quickly jumps down and uses his knees to press you to the floor.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” you scream, struggling against his weight.

He’s already wrapping the rope around your wrists, pulled above your head. “We’re gonna have fun all night long, Little Red Riding Hood,” he says with a devious, slightly unhinged smile. “The big bad wolf is here to gobble you up!”

The knife in his hand glints in the dim interior light of the van as he brings it closer to your body, then uses it to cut away the clothing that had bunched up around your waist. His hand rubs over your stomach, pressing slightly into the soft flesh.

“I’m gonna dig around a bit in here,” he says, and all you can do is scream incoherently as he begins his grisly work.

Tag List:

@loyal-to-my-dilf @unearthlydream @noodlejitsu @itzmeme

If you’d like to be tagged in future parts, please comment to let me know! You must be an adult to be tagged!

#Gojo x reader #gojo x reader x geto #gojou satoru x reader #gojo satoru #gojo #Gojo smut #Geto x reader #tw: death

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callsign-venus · 1 year ago

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Just Our Luck | Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Reader

Description: Despite how hard the universe tries to ruin it, you and Bradley have the perfect night.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: fluff, nudity (in a PG-13 way), bradley being protective, unwanted touching (from a stranger), swearing

a/n: this is my first fic that I've published (both on this blog and also in, like, years), but I'm ready to get back into fic writing! hope you enjoy x

Lately, work has been hard for you and Bradley both. Though your version of “hard” is mounting pressure to meet ridiculously short deadlines, and his version is more like two near-death experiences, you both acknowledged you deserve a nice night out. Bradley made a reservation at an Italian restaurant on the other side of town, and you splurged on a dress you’d been eying for months. It clings to your frame deliciously, and you spend a moment longer than usual in front of the mirror, admiring yourself. It was even a good hair day, you couldn’t believe your luck.

“You ready?” Bradley walks into your bedroom, momentarily fiddling with a button on his blazer. But when he looks up and catches sight of you, it loses his attention. He’s on you in a few quick strides, one hand finding its rightful place between your ass and lower back, the other near the nape of your neck, his fingers skimming the skin where it meets your shoulder.

“Gorgeous girl,” he says as he breathes in your freshly applied perfume.

“You’re pretty gorgeous yourself.” It’s true – you love when he gets dressed up for date nights. You would happily take him in sweaty fatigues or – better yet – nothing at all, but it makes your heart swell knowing he planned a nice outfit with you in mind.

He fingers the low back of your dress. “Can’t wait to come back home to this.”

“I’ll be all yours,” you seal your promise with a kiss. “But only after you get me a nice glass of pinot noir and a heaping serving of fettuccine alfredo.”

“You’re the boss.” He squeezes your ass before letting you go.

You gather your purse and your phone, feeling the warmth of his eyes as they follow you across the room. Then, you two are out the door, his arm around you once more.

He opens the door to the Bronco, and you slide in.

As Bradley pulls out of the driveway, you feel the tension of last week begin to melt away. When his hand finds your bare thigh, you can’t even remember what was stressing you out to begin with. Driving with Bradley was a cure for everything. His smell (something salty and a little woodsy) and his dad music envelope you, his assured grip on your thigh one of your favorite ways to be touched. And if you get sick of the view outside the windshield, you can always look to your left to get a better one – one that comes with a mustache, aviators, and more-often-than-not, a cocky smile because he catches you looking from the corner of his vision.

“Fuck.” Bradley slams on the breaks as the car ahead of him comes to a near complete stop. His arm flies up to your chest to cushion you as you jolt forward. “You ok?”

“I’m ok.” You chuckle. You’ve had time to get used to his aggressive driving by now.

His hand falls back to your thigh.

“Fuck me,” he says.

Gleaming taillights welcome you into the bumper to bumper traffic that packs the highway.

“I’m sure it will clear up,” you say, but you don’t believe it yourself.

It didn’t clear up. In the end, you two make it to the restaurant. Unfortunately, you’re almost an hour late.

“Sorry,” the hostess says more to Bradley than to you, “our next available seating won’t be for another two hours.”

“There’s nothing you can do?” He asks because he knows you’ve been looking forward to this reservation since he made it a week ago.

“I’m sorry, but no,” she responds.

You grab his elbow with your hand and steer him out of the restaurant.

“Jesus, I am so sorry,” he says you walk out the door and trade the smell of roasted garlic for the secondhand smoke of someone’s cigarette.

“It’s ok,” you say despite your rumbling stomach. “Neither of us even thought to check traffic.”

“Yeah, but I should’ve. Now our night’s ruined.”

“Don’t say that, silly boy.” You peck a quick kiss on his jawline. “At least now we get to see the sunset.”

You’ve made it back to the Bronco, and from this vantage point, you can see the ocean across the street. It is awash with a reflection of the red and pink clouds above. You two stand for a moment, soaking in the view.

“Hey, what about seafood for dinner?” Bradley points across the street to a squat blue building with large windows and a neon sign reading Uncle Mo’s.

You scan the parking lot. Not very many cars. You could probably get seated right away. “Sure, sounds good to me.”

You and Bradley stare at each other from across the lopsided table, making a shared mental note: if a restaurant is not busy on a Friday night, do not eat there.

But by the time you had realized your shared mistake, you were already being sat down at a sticky vinyl booth. Despite the great views of the beach (which Bradley let you face), it was clear that Uncle Mo’s had little to offer in terms of comfort and cuisine. A slightly fishy smell permeated the restaurant, you had to ignore a suspicious puddle on the table, and the food in front of the few other patrons didn’t exactly look edible.

When you order a glass of red to make yourself feel better, you expect it to be less than stellar. You expect to be not-so-pleased with it. However, you don’t expect to end up with it splashed all over your lap — and your new dress.

“Fuck.” It seems to be Bradley’s favorite word of the night. He knows how much you were looking forward to this evening, he knows how much time and effort you put into looking flawless, how much you both deserved a nice evening after the last couple weeks. And now you were looking at him, your eyes shining with unwept tears, a wine stain bleeding across your chest and your lap.

Before you can react, the waiter is on you – dabbing your lap with paper napkins. He smushes around the wet mash of napkin, making the stain worse. You want to shove him away. Mistakes happen, but you don't need a late twenty-something’s hands all over your lap. But the whole thing is already an ordeal, and you don’t want to cause a scene.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, “the glass just slipped, I’ll —”

“Stop touching her.”

Thank god Bradley is always willing to make a scene for you.

Your eyes meet his with a silent thank you, even though the waiter is too overcome with the napkins and babbled apologies to hear the quietly rumbled threat.

An uncharacteristic frown darken’s Bradley’s features. He stands up, all muscle and golden skin and perfectly ruffled hair. “I said: stop touching her.”

The waiter takes one look at Bradley Bradshaw and scurries away, hands full of damp napkins.

“Sweet girl,” Bradley coos as he takes your hands in his. “We can’t catch a break tonight, huh?”

You shake your head.

“Wanna get out of here?” His eyes are so deep, searching yours for a way to make it up to you — even though nothing has been his fault.

“Yes,” you whisper.

He pulls you gently to your feet and immediately his arm is around you like a shield. Though the night has been disastrous, you’re so glad you’ve been able to spend it with him. Even now, reeling from a stranger’s unwanted touch and the ruin of your new dress, you feel perfectly safe in his arms.

Once you are settled in the car, Bradley turns to you, his finger rubbing a sweet circle against your wrist. “Want to get ice cream?”

Normally you would never turn him down for ice cream. But nothing tonight has gone to plan, and you don’t want to risk another mishap. Besides, you already know exactly what you want.

“I just want to go home and be with you.”

“Can do, pretty girl.” He pulls your wrist to his mouth and gives it a kiss before pulling out of the parking spot. Luckily, traffic isn’t so bad on the way home.

But the rain comes fast.

Angry clouds roll in from over the ocean, splashing torrents of rain across the streets of your neighborhood. The windshield wipers whine with effort, but they can’t clear the rain fast enough. Bradley slows down to about 10 miles per hour — the slowest you’d ever seen him drive.

“Just our luck,” you groan.

“The price of a beautiful sunset.” Bradley pulls into the driveway. “We can try to wait it out.”

You shake your head. “The stain on my dress is already setting.”

“Ok, give me a second.” Before you can even shout his full name, he wrestles himself out of his blazer, tosses it on your lap, and slips out of the car. He races to your side.

Already, he’s soaked.

You shriek as he wraps his arms around you and lifts you out of your seat. You raise his blazer to cover you both as he makes a mad dash to the front door, but even so you are both drenched by the time you cross the threshold.

He stands on your welcome mat, which absorbs all the water dripping off the both of you. The rain had cooled his skin, draining it of its usual warmth, but you don’t mind. You drop the sopping blazer and plant your palms on his cheeks.

“Bradley Bradshaw,” you say, “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.”

You share a rain-chilled kiss that sends a shiver across your skin. As if he can feel the goosebumps on your arms, he slowly walks you to your bathroom. Inside, the rain is nice. It sends a lively hum through the house, and tap dances across your bathroom skylight.

He sets you down on the tile, then turns the taps of the bathtub. You watch amused as he holds his hand under the water until the temperature is just right, then he turns back to you.

“Sweet girl.” He brushes a strand of wet hair off your cheek.

You pull him in for another kiss.

When you finally pull apart, he lifts your dress up over your head. Then, he unclasps your bra, and hangs it up on a towel hook to dry. Then he kneels on the cool tile and pulls your panties down so you can step out of them.

“Not how I pictured getting naked at the end of tonight,” you laugh.

“There will be other nights.” Bradley smiles as he stands and takes you in – not lustfully, just appreciative of your body, of you. “Believe me, tomorrow will be a fresh day.”

“It better be.”

He kisses your forehead. “I promise.”

You take a deep breath, knowing that he’s right.

“Ah,” he straightens suddenly. “I almost forgot.”

He opens a cabinet under the sink and retrieves a bright pink bottle — it’s the bubble bath you had pestered him to get at the store the last time you went.

“It’s time we put this to good use.” He dumps nearly half the bottle under the still running spout. Almost immediately, the bath swells with pearly-white bubbles.

He scoops you up and lays you down gently in the tub. The water immediately brings warmth back to your bones.

“I’ll be right back.” Bradley scoops your dress off the floor, and pads off to tend to the stain. Though you appreciate him trying to save your dress, you wish he was sharing this bath with you instead.

You drag your hand through the fast-growing mountains of bubbles. After a minute, you turn off the tap, then sink lower in the tub.

How did the night go so wrong, but end up so lovely?

Your answer walks through the door, lit candle in hand. The subtle scent of lavender bleeds into the room.

“And there you go.” He sets the candle on the counter, looking mighty proud of himself. “Need anything else?”

“Join me?” You hold out your hand to him.

A giant smile cracks across his face. In a second, he rips off his clothes and is gingerly stepping behind you in the tub. Slowly, slowly, he sinks down, his lips finding the curve of your shoulder and peppering small kisses while his hands massage your lower back. You lean back against him, a small sigh escaping your lips.

“Can my dress be saved?” You ask.

He smiles against your soapy skin. “If the detergent and hydrogen peroxide have anything to say about it.”

“Thank god,” you say as the last of your tension dissolves in the bath water around you. “If I couldn’t wear that dress again, I would just die.”

“You would die? How do you think I would go on living knowing you could never wear that again?”

“I did look good in that dress, huh?”

“Good?” Bradley wraps one arm around your stomach. “Darling, you looked beautiful. So beautiful.”

The rain dances on the rooftop, the storm not having lessened in the slightest. You don’t mind because it sent you to this bath with Bradley, brought his thumbed circles to your lower back, his sweetened whispers to your ears. If this evening’s disappointments had all led you to a bath shared with Bradley Bradshaw at the end of the night, you thought it was more than a fair trade.

#bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster x reader #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun fanfiction #tgm fanfiction #fluff #bradley bradshaw fluff #rooster fluff

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autisticlancemcclain · 1 year ago

Text

Keith is well and completely aware that his boyfriend is, objectively, a bad bitch.

He’s seen him shoot through the crook of someone’s arm to disable an entire warship. He’s seen him wink and brush by seasoned Blade and send them stumbling. He’s seen him choke someone out with his legs alone. (He’s been choked out by Lance legs. Several times. He’s even instigated that happening.)

But one thing Lance is before anything else; before he is a paladin, before he is a friend, before he is a badass, before he is anything, he is a complainer.

“You never take me anywhere,” he is fond of whining, as if they are not on a floating hunk of metal and polymer in dead space at all times. Or getting shot at. They are in the equivalent of the cross-Atlantic highway at three in the morning in a century old car that breaks down every two hundred miles like clockwork, and also sometimes they just get bombed out of nowhere. That is their life.

We never do anything, he says. Bah. Sometimes he thinks he is going to scoop his boyfriend up and — throw him at something.

But he knows that would never. Not really. As much as Lance drives him batty (and he does drive him fucking batty — he’s been huffy at Keith for a week because Keith didn’t listen to him on a mission, in a dream, and died. He has had an attitude for six days), he really and truly loves Lance more than anything. He loves the way Lance snorts when he laughs and trips over his own two feet more often than not and talks in his sleep and forgets English words and shrugs about it. He loves the magnitude of Lance’s smile and the endless brown of his eyes and the way he always kisses Keith’s clavicle before bed and doesn’t know he does it. He loves the way Lance leans into him without thinking when they sit next to each other and holds his hand when they walk. He loves how Lance fights for a way to meet his eyes when missions go to shit and asks him what to do next just to help Keith focus on something. He loves the way that his jacket was mysteriously fixed the time the old thing wore a hole along the seams and Lance played dumb about it like it could have been anyone else. He loves the way Lance coos over every animal they stumble across, no matter how horrifying, the way he cries his eyes out at every single movie and smacks anyone who looks at him. He loves the way Lance’s entire person always just seems to bubble out of him, like he’s holding his bleeding heart with open fingers.

Keith loves him in a way he didn’t think he deserved. And so it bugs him, really, that he can’t take Lance places, can’t buy him every ugly flower he wants or take him to hole-in-the-wall clubs to dance like Keith knows he wants to or even just go to the space mall with him.

Floating junkmobile in space or not, Keith is going to treat him or die trying. He is.

“So we’re not even close to something with gravity?” Keith clarifies, perhaps a touch desperate.

“Farther than your brain can conceptualise to even an asteroid,” Coran confirms, with no subtle amount of amusement.

Keith purses his lips. “Could we, like…travel there?”

Coran holds his gaze for a moment, eyebrow raised, then returns to the medical supplies he was sorting through.

“I’m afraid not, dear.”

“Why not?”

“I’m quite fond of not getting ambushed.”

“What if you just dropped me off? Then you can go back to not getting ambushed.”

“No.”

“I’ll keep my comm on! For real this time! Just a couple vargas.”

“Unfortunately not, Number Three.”

“Please?”

Keith does his best to widen his eyes the way Lance does it when he’s trying and succeeding at getting his way. He somehow dilates his pupils on command, which Keith doesn’t know how to do, but he figures he can most certainly try. Coran likes him, anyway. He said so.

“Child.” Look of amusement still slotted firmly on his face, and also somehow sporting a piece of wizened reading glasses that he was not wearing three seconds ago, Coran carefully sets down the equipment he’s holding, standing to walk over to Keith. He places a hand on Keith’s shoulder and leans in. “I am not dropping off one of the leaders of Voltron alone on a swap moon for a ‘couple vargas’. You understand why.”

Keith sighs petulantly. “I would get super murdered.”

Coran hums. “You would get super murdered, yes.”

He claps Keith’s back heartily, nearly sending Keith sprawling, then turns back to his sorting. Keith waits til his back is turned to silently and dramatically fall to his knees and mime screaming like Troy Bolton in the third High School Musical Movie (Shiro has too much of an influence on him). He had really hoped Coran would magically have a solution.

“Although,” Coran says, making Keith jump and scramble to his feet (thank every deity to ever exist that Coran keeps his back turned or Keith would crumble to humiliated dust), “if you’re looking for a change of scenery for whatever reason, there are lots of secluded places in the castle.”

Keith flushes red. He knows that’s not how Coran means it — only Hunk knows about them, having magically been able to keep his mouth shut after the whole found-your-lion debacle — but he can’t help where his mind goes, and he’s standing in front of someone who is for all intents and purposes his father, basically, or at least one of them, and it’s horrible and embarrassing and the worst. Imagining that in front of Coran, who once cried and told him he’s just so proud of the man he’s becoming, is just — no. He can’t handle having a father figure again. He’s going back to being a sad orphan.

Well. No.

Whatever.

“Okay bye Coran,” he says loudly and tellingly, practically sprinting out of the room in mortification. He considers ducking into his room to see if Lance is there, but he knows Lance will ask what’s up, and the idea of explaining to him and then hearing him laugh himself to tears adds a beautifully shiny cherry to his sundae of suffering and he decides otherwise.

He ducks instead into the kitchen, hoping it’ll be empty at this time so he can eat his feelings away, but of course that’s not the case. Hunk stands with his hands on his hips at a counter, knife clenched in his right hand, glaring at what Keith hopes is a vegetable of some kind.

“Hey, Keith,” Hunk calls, slowly moving his knife so as to not startle the vegetable.

The vegetable twitches. Keith pretends it doesn’t, choosing to ignore its existence and hoisting himself up to sit on the counter while Hunk is too distracted to stop him.

“I have a dilemma,” he whines when Hunk fails to ask further questions.

“You and Lance are slowly morphing into the same person,” Hunk comments idly. “I have to deal with two of you now. It’s exhausting. Go back to hating each other.”

Keith smiles. “No.”

“Ugh.” He makes a sudden move towards the nightmare vegetable and it panics, throwing itself off the counter in sad vegetable suicide and splatters on the floor. Hunk sighs for a very long time, then reaches for a rag. “Tell me about your dilemma then, catboy. I am looking forward to clowning you.”

“I need to take Lance on a date,” Keith says. “An amazing one.” He tries to be cool and normal for three seconds before remembering that Hunk caught them making out on a moon when they still pretended to hate each other and knows there is no worse shame. “One that is worthy of him, you know? I want him to feel treasured.”

Hunk raises his eyebrows. “Take him to the space mall to commit crimes again. He loves doing that.”

“Coran said no.”

“Observation deck?”

“Makes him sad.”

“Pool?”

Keith tilts his head to the side, considering. “Well, maybe. But we do that all the time. Plus anyone could just walk in on us.”

Hunk groans loudly, chucking the dirty rag at Keith’s face. Keith manages to dodge but only barely.

“You two and your stupid sneaky shit. Do you have any idea how annoying it is to cover for you two so you can giggle about your secrets?”

Keith grins guiltily. “Love you, Hunk.”

“Shut up. I hate you. When everyone finds out I’m going to point and laugh. I don’t even understand why you bother.”

Keith shrugs, twisting the rag sound his fingers. “It’s not…” He sighs. Hunk must sense the shift in the air, because he stops what he’s doing and hoists himself up next to Keith, even though he hates it when people sit on the counter, and leans against him. Keith shoots him a small, grateful smile.

“There’s something special when it’s just the two of us, I guess. Like being in our own little blanket fort. The lighting’s low and every sound feels muffled and it’s hard to breathe and everything else fades, for a bit.”

Keith doesn’t know how else to describe it. His Pa used to build him blanket forts, when he was really little, and he would stay in there until it collapsed on top of him. The same safe feeling settles in his chest when he lies in bed with Lance, when they stand back to back in battle, when they’re as closely pressed together as they can be. Like he’s wrapped in blankets and floating on air.

“Do that, then,” Hunk says softly. He grabs Keith’s hand and squeezes it softly. “Lance loves you, dude. He just wants to spend time with you. He complains because of who he is as a person, but he doesn’t…he swoons about you, man. It’s honestly kind of embarrassing.”

“It is, isn’t it.”

For all of his poking and whining, Lance was the one to move his stuff into Keith’s room. It was Lance who pulled him in with a smirk when Keith knocked on that door, asking what they were next. Lance who pulls him back under the covers in the morning and peppers kisses to his skin, Lance to whisper their first I-love-you, fast and near silent like a gasping inhale, Lance who thought Keith was asleep when he whispered you make me happy like no one else into his hair.

Lance wants him. Plain and simple. In whatever way they have, floating piece of junk or not.

“You got something?” Hunk murmurs.

“Yeah,” Keith says softly. He smiles at his friend, eyes crinkling when he grins right back. “Yeah, I got something.”

He thinks about blanket forts and low lighting and feeling like floating. He thinks about the first time they were ever a team on the castle. He thinks about all the picnic dates in all the romcoms Lance makes him watch.

Suddenly he can’t sit still for another moment. His blood feels like it’s buzzing, and his fingers twitch. He has an idea and if he doesn’t implement it immediately he’s gonna die.

“Get out of here,” Hunk says tiredly, shaking his head in amusement. “You stress me out. Go bother Lance.”

Keith presses a smacking kiss on his cheek because he is, at the core of him, annoying. The action startles a laugh out of him, because at the core of him, Hunk is not nearly as much of hater as he pretends to be.

“Bye Hunk! Love you!”

He runs out of the room to Hunk’s rolled eyes and his own wide grin, heading straight for the pool — he’s got some prep to do.

———

He’s shifty the whole day and he knows it. Lance knows it too, based on the narrowed, judgemental eyes, long, considering glare, and the way he flicks Keith on the forehead mid-spar and says “You’re being shifty, weirdo.”

Keith grabs his hand and kisses it just to make Lance smile on reflex and then scowl about smiling when he’s trying to be mad. It’s all very predictable and amusing.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says lightly. He even pitches his voice to sound more innocent and everything, just like Adam taught him.

“Ugh,” Lance responds.

They go back to sparring, and Keith can’t keep the smile off his face for the life of him. He’s just — so excited. He can’t wait. (And, also, his refusal to answer Lance’s questions is visibly pissing him off, and that’s always fun.) He makes an excuse after a couple hours, kissing Lance loudly and obnoxiously on the cheek before running off, leaving him in the training room and circling the castle three times to make sure he’s not being followed before ducking into the kitchen. As Hunk had promised yesterday when Keith had explained his plan, there are dozens of supplies laid out on the counter and a detailed instruction manual. Keith makes a mental note to clean Hunk’s tools until they are shining in thanks.

Keith, says a pink post-it note on the manual, you’re a whipped loser. Love, Hunk.

Keith grins, folding up the note and tucking it in his pocket. He takes inventory of the supplies, making a special note of the weirdo lump shaped fruit that Keith knows taste like strawberries, that Lance is obsessed with and Hunk often has to literally claw out of his hands when they’re on ship so that Lance doesn’t eat them all. (Actually, now he just puts a lock on the fridge. It’s a problem. Lance loves those strawberries more than Keith, probably.)

Confident that Hunk will keep Lance distracted and praying that no one comes into the kitchen and asks him what the hell he’s doing, Keith gets started. He chops up vegetables, whisks up batters, cuts sandwiches into cool shapes (a sword, Mothman, and an elaborate brachiosaurus) for three straight hours, tucking everything away into a basket and then into the very back corner of the fridge and hiding it behind a case of soda that no one but Keith likes. He barely manages to finish cleaning up the kitchen by the time Shiro and Pidge stroll into the room to get dinner, and both of them eye him suspiciously.

“You’re early,” Pidge says, eyebrows raised.

“You’re never early,” Shiro adds. “I usually have to go send someone to drag you.”

“I’m hungry,” Keith says primly. He’s not, really, since he’s been snacking on stuff as he’s been cooking, but he marches over to the goo machine and squirts himself a bowl anyway. He’ll pull a Lance and feed half of it to the mice, it’ll be fine.

The rest of the team files in a few minutes later; Allura with her hair stuck up in a million places and her nose nearly pressed to her tablet, Coran guiding her by the shoulders so she doesn’t walk right into the counter (again); Hunk and Lance side by side, Lance aggressively swinging their joined hands.

“Hello!” he announces loudly to the room, and it says something about him that every single one of them smiles on reflex, saying hi back.

Lance takes his usual spot next to Keith, Shiro on his other side, Hunk across from them. Under the table, Keith links their ankles together, because no one will look for it and every time it makes a pleased flush grow on the back of Lance’s neck.

“Guess what,” Lance says twenty seconds into a comfortable silence because nothing makes Lance squirm like not talking for ten seconds.

Allura sets her tablet down because she is nosey. “What?”

“I beat Keith at sparring today. Twice,” Lance brags.

Keith scowls at his goo. That’s true, but only because he fought dirty. Keith had him pinned and Lance kissed him, and what was Keith supposed to do, shrug that off? Unlikely. And unrealistic. It’s not like Lance is going to be doing that to fight enemies.

Well. He better not.

“Because you cheated,” Keith mutters.

“Nope, nuh uh, didn’t happen. You are just old and grey and losing your abilities.”

“I’m barely one year older than you!” Keith cries.

Lance smirks. “Elderly, basically. Geriatric. I went easy on you today because I was worried about your knees.”

“Oh, you fucking —”

“Boys,” Shiro interrupts sharply.

They both jump.

“One meal,” the Black Paladin sighs, hand sliding down his face. “Just — one fucking meal, where you two don’t fight.”

“I don’t get it,” Pidge comments, irritated furrow to her brows. “You guys hang out, like, all the time. You’d think you’d be able to talk without jabbing at each other.”

“I think they’re just weirdos,” Hunk says flatly looking at them with a very pointed expression. “I think they just enjoy going at each other. Like weirdos.”

Beside him, Lance averts his eyes, biting his lip to hold back laughter. Keith looks away so he doesn’t have to do the same.

“Sorry, Shiro,” Keith says, working hard to keep his tone neutral. “I’ll do my best to not rise to Lance’s bait.”

“And I’ll try really hard to be okay with stinky mullet’s presence as a whole,” Lance promises.

Shiro only shakes his head and sighs harder. Keith reaches over and pinches his boyfriend’s thigh in revenge.

After dinner, and an aggravated pinching contest that ends with them straight up brawling beside the table and the team looking like they wanted to pelt food good at them, they wait for everyone else to head out to the common room before making their way down to their rooms.

“We’re not joining everyone else?” Lance questions, looking pointedly at their joined hands, blatant as they are in the hallway.

Keith hums, lifting their joined hands and looping around Lance’s shoulders, pulling him closer. Lance stumbles into him, laughing as Keith manages to catch him and keep them both upright.

“Nope,” Keith says, smiling into his hair. He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively — God, he really is becoming Lance. “They’re all tired of us, I think. Perfect opportunity for us to have some time without any interruptions, I was thinking.”

Lance grins. “Sounds good to me.”

The stumble into their room giggling.

———

Hours later, Lance is half asleep on his chest, and Keith traces lazy shapes onto his back. The hallways are quiet, even if he strains his ears. The only thing he can hear is Lance’s even breathing, and the steady thud of his heartbeat. He checks his watch — ten thirty. Everyone else is asleep or close to it.

It’s time, he thinks.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, lips pressed to Lance’s hair. “Wake up.”

“‘M not asleep.”

“Good.” Keith shifts slightly, forcing Lance’s head to move, which earns him a sharp smack on the arm. He grabs Lance’s wrists and holds it there, rubbing a thumb on the palm of his hands. “Up you get.”

“No.”

“C’mon, Lance.”

Lance groans loudly. “I am comfortable,” he laments. “Your tiddies are comfortable. I’m not moving, Pillow. Lie down in silence and be grateful you have the honour of sleeping with me. I’m a delight.”

Keith snorts, but doesn’t back down. “Get up or I tip you over.”

“Yeah, right.” Lance settles right back in, confident in the knowledge that Keith would do nothing of the sort.

Well, he’s wrong.

Careful to tuck his hand over the back of Lance’s head and neck, Keith flips them over at whip speeds, sending them sprawling over the side of the bed and onto the floor in a heap of skewed blankets and flailing limbs.

“You’re such a butthead!” Lance shrieks, smacking him repeatedly on the chest. Keith once again grabs both his wrists and holds tight, pinning him to the floor with his own body weight. He knows Lance isn’t really mad because he hardly puts up a struggle.

“I love you,” Keith says in response, leaning over to peck his boyfriend smack between the eyes. Lance huffs, grinning. “Come on. We’re going somewhere.”

“Ugh,” Lance groans again, but he grabs the hand Keith offers and pulls himself up anyway. He mutters derisively the entire time he gets dressed, but Keith wisely decides not to push it. “Let’s go, dingus. You better be bringing me to a five-star restaurant and then hotel.”

Keith bites back a grin. He knows his line.

“And where the fresh hell am I meant to find that, bastard?” he responds dutifully, wrapping his arm around Lance’s waist and tucking a hand into his back pocket as they walk.

Lance smiles coyly, leaning into him. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Keith rolls his eyes, smiling. “C’mon. We gotta stop in the kitchen first.”

Ignoring Lance’s pestering questions, which is one of his favourite hobbies, Keith steers them towards the fridge and grabs the basket he prepared, tucking it under his arm before Lance can steal it to look.

“If you peek I’m tossing it in the incinerator,” Keith warns.

Lance pouts. “That’s biphobic.”

“You’ll live.”

“Nope. I just found out the love of my life doesn’t accept me for who I am. I’ll try to choke it down, try to get over it, but it’ll eat me alive. Every night after you fall asleep I’ll cry until I pass out. Resentment will build. Eventually I’ll start turning away every time you kiss me. And then we’ll fight, and I will be too heartbroken to defend our relationship, and then all will crumble and we’ll be bitter exes until we die. I see it all now.”

“There are actual playwrights that are less dramatic than you,” Keith observes, looking at Lance’s gesturing in amusement. “I’m pretty sure most of them would beg for lessons.”

“They would be lucky as hell to have me.”

“They would be, baby.” He’d aimed for mocking, but his voice comes out fond and gooey and whipped and he knows it. Lance knows it too, judging by the shy little smile he sports, the pleased flush on his cheeks.

“Where are we even going?” he asks, a clear change of subject. “We’ve been walking the halls for ninety years.”

Keith scoffs. “We have not. And we’re going to the pool.”

Lance stops them mid-step, groaning. “Aw, come on! It’s nearly eleven, Keith!”

“And?” Keith asks, tugging him forward. He goes, but not without whining.

“You are the worst pool partner. You never just want to chill and float. Oh, no, it’s gotta be laps, you fuckin’ jock. Fuckin’ — olympic tryhard ass.”

Keith doesn’t even try to hold back his laughter, and through all his groaning Lance is laughing, too, and even when he’s complaining and being ridiculous and mocking Keith, Keith loves him. There’s not a second of the day when Keith doesn’t.

“Just come on,” he says, finally pulling them into the pool. “You’ll like it. I promise.” He holds his hands up to Lance’s eyes, raising a brow in question, then laying his palms over the top of Lance’s face when he isn’t told to stop.

Lance sighs, but he lets himself get manhandled, let’s Keith guide him up the walls like Coran showed them until they’re finally settled at the edge of the pool. Keith sets down the basket, takes a deep breath, and removes his hands from Lance’s face.

“Happy everyday,” he says quietly.

It takes Lance a moment to register the set up in front of him — the giant blow up kiddie pool floating on the real pool, layered in pillows and blankets. The projector on the wall, queueing Lance’s favourite movie — 10 Things I Hate About You, even though Keith can’t stand that movie and never lets it get picked during family movie nights. The soft lighting sending waves of dappled light reflecting all over the room, making the browns of Lance’s eyes shine gold. The scent of chocolate covered strawberries coming from the now-open picnic basket in Keith’s hands.

Lance m, predictably, bursts into tears.

“You — you jerk,” he cries, flinging himself onto Keith, who barely manages to catch him with an oof. “You are — the worst person alive. I despise you.”

Keith grins, setting down to basket to hold Lance in his arms properly, squeezing him as tight has he can, trying to — say, what he feels, with his body alone. Because there aren’t words for it, he doesn’t think, the way Lance is the first person he seeks out in any room he’s in, the way one touch from Lance has the tension melting from his body in bad days. How even when they’re at their worst and screaming in each other’s faces, there’s a voice in Keith’s head three times louder than anger that booms, don’t you dare hurt him. How he hasn’t felt this kind of safe with a person since his Pa; since he was tiny and young and not afraid of the world yet.

“I take it I win this dating thing?” Keith teases, face tucked into the crook of Lance’s neck.

Lance laughs wetly, breath still shuddering and tears still leaking out of his eyes, and turns his head to kiss him slowly, hands pressed to either side of his face.

“You’re a dickhead and I love you more than air,” he says, smile wide and breathtaking. Keith has to bite back to urge to do something insane like ask him to marry him. God. He’s so — hngh. How is Keith supposed to explain. What he is to him.

“C’mon,” Keith says instead of any of that, voice kind of hoarse. He wraps their hands together and pulls them closer to the edge of the pool, kneeling down and reaching out to steady the floatie and holding it as Lance crawls in. He hands him the basket and tumbles in after him, falling onto his chest, and he feels it shame as Lance laughs, quiet and fond, and he knows he won’t be able to move away. So he settles into him and Lance’s hands come up automatically to rest in his hair, and Keith fumbles for the remote and plays the movie and hands him strawberries and watches Kat and Patrick fall in love and thanks anyone who is out there, from every atom in his body, for getting Lance’s dumb ass tied to a tree and having Keith the only one available to save him. And for the magnetism, between them, and the way Keith has never been able to hide himself from him.

“I love you,” Lance whispers as Kat reads her poem, fingers tangled around locks of Keith’s hair. “I mean it. I do.”

Keith turns his head slightly to kiss the inside of his knee, eyes closed, breaths heavy. “I know.” He lets himself bask in it, Lance’s love, and smiles. “I love you, too.”

———

first part

based off this video

259 notes · View notes

dilemmaontwolegs · 2 years ago

Text

Already Gone || MV1 {4}

Pairing: Max Verstappen x spy!fem!reader Summary: Try as you might, you can’t stay away from Max for too long. Warnings: criminal activities, implied smut WC: 2.8k

F1 Masterlist || One || Two || Three || Four || Five

It was official, you were insane. That had to be the reason why you found your way back to Monaco.

The last month had seemed more like a year and every single day had dragged out as you tried to keep yourself distracted by moving from place to place. But nothing worked. Max consumed your waking thoughts and invaded your dreams.

Your freefall through Europe had started in Norway since it had been the first flight leaving the country after you finally retrieved your go bag from the safe house in Camden Town. You tried not to look back as you searched for a place to start over, forcing yourself to move forward even though your legs felt like lead.

Sweden came next, then Denmark, but neither country had what you were looking for either so you crossed into Germany. The luxury apartment in Cologne had everything you needed to have a fresh start as a nobody and you should have been comfortable, but it too didn’t feel like home. So you had locked it up and got back in your car, hitting the highway and letting fate decide where you ended up.

You mindlessly walked with your head down to shelter your phone from the rain that drizzled upon the cobbled streets, your thumb swiping through the hundred of pictures you had taken with Max. You had only stopped in the random city because you could no longer ignore your rumbling stomach but when you saw the country flag hanging from a war memorial statue you froze.

You looked around, paying more attention to your surroundings and not the memories the photos held, as you struggled to remember even passing through the Netherlands before reaching Belgium. Everywhere you turned you saw signs you had missed, the city name surrounding you: Hasselt.

How did you end up here?

Max was the answer. You were a victim of your own mind and it had been leading you back to him this entire time. But this still wouldn’t be enough. You didn’t want to be where he was born, you wanted to be where he was.

You wanted to make things right. You needed to make things right.

So there you were, walking along the private street lined with perfectly trimmed hedges towards a wrought iron gate that would never stop you from reaching his door. But the man stationed in front of it might.

“Shit,” you cursed as you turned down the driveway of his neighbour. You hadn’t factored in that he may have been given a protective detail as a result of your actions. It didn’t change your end goal though, merely the plans of getting there.

It had been a few years since you last scaled a fence but you managed to pull yourself up the one on the back boundary and not break a leg when you jumped down the other side. It would have been much easier to sneak around at night but you weren’t patient enough to wait that long but you did keep to the shadows as you reached the house and tested the backdoor.

You hardly breathed when the latch clicked and the handle turned. The sound seemed too loud in the quiet suburb and you froze as you waited to hear the shouts of alarm, but they never came. All you heard was the loud purring of Achilles as he padded across the kitchen floor to brush against your legs.

“Look at you, you’ve gotten so big,” you whispered as you picked him up and snuggled him to your chest, a weight lifting from your conscience knowing Max had kept his promise. “I missed you too.”

You placed him back on the floor with one last scratch behind his ears before silently rounding the corner and ducking past the front window and tiptoeing up the stairs. You had spent too many nights in this house to count, made too many memories, to just walk through it without feeling the ache that came from missing it.

You skipped the stair that always creaked and stepped to straighten the picture of him and his mom on the wall. It was your fault it was on a lean, your shoulder had knocked it one night when you fell asleep on the couch and Max had carried you up to bed.

The only thing that had changed in the house was the door to the storage room that now had a gaping hole in it. Questions flooded your head at the possibilities ranging from Max lashing out in a fit of rage and putting his fist through it to a more worrying thought of someone else doing the damage. Was that why he had security? Did someone attack him?

Your hands shook at the thought and you clenched them into fists as you swore you would find out what happened, and make sure they paid.

The anger that had quickly filled you evaporated the instant you heard his voice and your feet carried you towards the sound you had missed dearly.

You watched him for a minute from the side door to the corner office, taking in the exhaustion that saturated him from his wild hair and dark bags under his eyes to the unkempt beard he was sporting.

“I’m fine,” he grumbled to one of the Red Line racers and the lifeless tone cut through the excitement you had felt when you spotted him in his simulator, his eyes focused on the screens in front of him.

“When did you become the liar?”

Max’s hands tore his headset off as he spun to find you, an apparition he could hardly believe was standing in his home. Time slowed as you stared at each other and the very air seemed to freeze as you connected with those blue eyes that had haunted your nights. No photo could ever quite capture the true shade of azure they were, you had relied upon your memory but even that did not do them justice.

“Hi.” You broke the silence and the moment in time was shattered, sense coming back to Max as he pulled the power plug from his simulator to cut the live stream before jumping to his feet.

“How did you get in here, Y/N?” he asked, looking out the window that overlooked the front yard to see the security guard still stationed at the gate.

You shrugged and looked down at your feet. “The backdoor was unlocked.”

“I have so many questions.”

You had expected as much as you went to the adjoining room and took a seat on the edge of his bed while he leaned against the set of drawers.

“I can’t promise answers to everything, but I won’t lie to you, Max,” you swore as you buried your hands in your pockets.

“That’s more than I thought I would get,” he muttered before taking a deep breath and crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Fine, an easy one to start with. Would a locked door have stopped you?”

Your shoulders bounced with a laugh. Reaching the back of your head, you pulled a long hair pin out and eyed the curved hook that you held out to him. “Not a standard one at least.”

He shook his head but didn’t seem surprised by the answer. “How did you learn that? How did you become…whatever you are?”

“That’s not as easy to answer,” you admitted as you pushed the pin back into your hair. “There was this foster mum, a particularly nasty woman. She liked the money the state gave her but not so much the kids. She would lock us in the attic and as the oldest it was up to me to sneak out and steal food, clothes, money. Turns out I was pretty good at it.”

“Fucking hell,” Max said quietly as his hands fell at his sides and you saw the pity in his eyes. You didn’t want pity.

“It is what it is. My turn for a question,” you said as you pointed to the hallway. “What the fuck happened to the door?”

“What? Oh, that,” he said as a small smile appeared on his face, instantly making your heart feel lighter. “Achilles got trapped in there and I had to break him out, poor little guy must have been terrified.” The smile disappeared as he realised that had probably been how you felt as a child and he swallowed deeply before crossing the room and sitting beside you on the bed.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” he confessed as he rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head in his hands. “Why did you come back?”

“Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you too.” You reached into your pocket and pulled out the small thumb drive you had prepared on your journey to Monaco. “This is everything you need to destroy Ferrari,” you said as you placed it into his hand and closed his fingers around it.

“What is this?” he asked as you spotted a dress between the almost closed doors to the wardrobe. You rose to your feet and opened it wider to see your clothes that had been left at his place on numerous occasions hung neatly beside his. “Y/N, what is this?”

You trailed your fingers over the thick motorcycle jacket he would wear, the one you would rest our helmet on as you tucked in behind him to shelter from the wind on a ride. “Correspondence, payments, data reports, everything to prove what they hired me for,” your voice almost failed as emotion thickened your throat, “and my testimony.”

The air shifter as Max stood up and you turned to see his brows pinched together. “But that would mean…”

“I’m done running, Max.”

“So that’s it? You’re done?” he shouted as he raked his hands through his hair. “You’re giving up and happy to spend the rest of your life in prison?”

“I’m not happy about any of this,” you shot back as you took a step closer and tipped your head back to look him in the eyes. “But I can’t live with the guilt of knowing I ruined your dream.”

“My dream was to be world champion, and I already won that twice,” he stated as he opened his hand, letting the thumb drive clatter on the floor. “I don’t care if I lose every race this year, liefje, I’m not going to lose you again.”

The drive crunched under his heel as he destroyed the evidence his team needed before he pulled you into his arms. Your head fell forward as relief crashed into you and your fingers desperately clung to the back of his shirt as you held him close.

“I thought you would hate me,” you whispered as your tears wet his shirt.

“I wanted to. I tried to, but,” he breathed into your hair as his arms encircled your wait. “Ik hou van jou.”

You had lost all hope of hearing those words on his lips again so it took a moment to process that had really said them to you, but the instant your brain caught up so did your body. You were already rising on your toes as you threw your arms around his neck and crashed your lips with a sound of delight.

“I love you too,” you promised between the gasping breaths you took as his kiss trailed down your neck and he guided you backwards.

Your legs hit the bed as he pulled your shirt off and it fell from his hands as his eyes darkened while they drank in the sight before him. The dutch you had learned from him was limited but you recognised the word for beautiful before his lips were on your skin where they belonged once again.

“What happens now?”

Your head was resting on Max’s chest, one leg draped over his as you listened to his heartbeat. You had been lost to the sensation of his fingers running up and down your spine that you didn’t comprehend the question until his touch disappeared.

“I suppose I should have a chat with your boss.” His eyebrows lifted at your suggestion and you chuckled as you trailed your fingertips over the soft curls below his navel, the blond hair catching the afternoon sun that spilled into the room. “I’m out of a job and a girl needs to eat, maybe I can put my skills to some good use?”

“No,” he shook his head adamantly. “No more secret agent spy shit. You don’t have to do that anymore, I’ll take care of you.”

You smiled against his warm skin as you pressed a kiss to the centre of his chest and peered up at him. “I was thinking more along the lines of security work, keeping the secrets safe instead of stealing them. Atonement for my sins.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure Christian will want you in a mile radius of the factory, or England,” he laughed and the sound only fed your smile.

“I can be pretty convincing.” You slipped out of his embrace and grabbed your clothes from the floor as he sat up and made to follow. “Wait here, I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Where are you going?” He frowned as you pulled your jeans on and threw your shirt on next as you left the room.

“To talk to the moron at the gate!”

“Woah, hold on,” Max called as he rushed out of the bed, a heavy thud and a curse telling you he caught himself up in the tangle of bedsheets. “Y/N!”

“He had one job, Max, one job.” You skipped down the stairs and his feet hit the landing at the top. “Anyone bastard could have snuck past and gotten into your house.”

You threw the door open and broke into a sprint as Max raced to catch up, his shout alerting the guard to your presence.

“You!” you growled as you pointed a finger at the man.

“You!” he shouted in alarm at the same time, his hand reaching for the phone on his hip.

“Stop, both of you!” Max demanded as he caught you around the waist and planted you behind at his still shirtless back. “Paolo, she’s not a threat.”

“Debatable,” you muttered as you crossed your arms. “I’m not a threat to you, but he clearly isn’t doing a great job at protecting you. Here, give me that,” you didn’t wait for an answer as you swiped the phone off Paolo, Christian’s number already on speed dial and connecting.

“Paolo, everything alright?” Christian answered.

“I’ve gone by many names, but Paolo isn’t one,” you said with a smile before you heard a door shut loudly in the background and the sound of leather creaking as he sat down on his office chair.

“What is it you want?”

“This isn’t just about me, the question is what do we both want?” You looked at Max as he stood stoically between you and the angry security guard, the dominance in his stance making you hot and bothered all over again. “I’m looking right at him, Mr Horner. So I suggest you pick up the beautiful fountain pen your lovely wife gave you for your anniversary, walk over to the planner on the wall behind you and find the time to meet with me.”

“Put Max on the phone,” Christian demanded quietly.

An offended scoff escaped your throat at the request. “I haven’t hurt him, I’m trying to help you keep him safe. I’ve already proven that the people you hire to protect him aren’t up to par.”

“Put him on the phone.”

“Fine. Tell him when and where you want to meet.”

You tossed the phone to Max and walked back inside the house, climbing straight back into the sheets that were still warm and smelled like him. It was the feeling of being wrapped in a cocoon of safety and the sense of home you had been searching for since you were a child. It had been right here.

It was the soft sigh that had you blinking your sleepy eyes open to see him leaning in the doorway, a playful smile on his lips. “You’re insane.” He pushed off the door jamb and pulled back the sheets to join you under the blankets, your bodies moulding together like two puzzle pieces.

“Says the man that goes 200 mph in a tin can.”

“We must both be insane,” he chuckled as he kissed your temple, “because we’re heading to the UK in the morning.”

You smiled and looked up at him, seeing your reflection in his eyes like glancing into a perfectly serene lake, endless depths hidden within them. You took his hand and traced the life line that slashed across his palm before following the love line that branched off it. You had danced your way over moral lines your entire life but now you had found the lines you wouldn’t cross.

“I told you I could be convincing.”

Click here for post five.

Tagging: @octaviareina @omgsuperstarg @mvclff1 @alwaysclassyeagle @icantcomeupwithamusicalname-blog @laneyspaulding19

#max verstappen imagine #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen fanfic #f1 rpf #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #formula one imagine #formula 1 fanfic

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seafoamwaffle · 8 months ago

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Next Stop: Pelican Town // Stardew Valley AU

Ever since @norinenglish posted about their stardew ranchers fic concept I haven't been able to get the idea out of my head, so I've decided to make it everybody's problem.

I'm not going to be following the farmer's story beat for beat, instead, I'm just taking it as a loose inspiration and seeing where it takes me. Is there going to be more? Who knows, certainly not me!

First draft of Jimmy coming to the valley can be found under the cut :D

The bus travelled down the lonely highway, the slight unevenness of the road sending Jimmy’s head bumping against the window. There were endless mountain ranges just on the other side of the glass and peaking between the small crevices he could even see the ocean. Verdant grass covered every inch of the place—such a far cry from the dull greys of Zuzu City.

Which, he supposed was the point. Looking back at it, it was only a matter of time before the city chipped away at the last bits of himself until all that remained was just a shallow husk of a being. It was too loud, too full, too much.

Though who was he kidding? He could blame all his recent troubles on the city all he wanted, it wouldn’t get him anywhere. There was no guarantee things would get better in Pelican Town either.

Positive thoughts, Jimmy, warned Pearl’s voice somewhere in the back of his head. Positive thoughts.

Right. Things at least—probably?—couldn’t get any worse than they had been. And now he at least wouldn’t have to burden his cousins with coming all the way out to Zuzu City to keep an eye on him.

It had been their idea to have him move back to Stardew Valley in the first place. Grian had suggested he stay with him up in the spare bedroom of his cabin, though Jimmy had resisted the idea with all his might. He’d caused them enough trouble as it was. The last thing they needed was to have him leeching off their kindness at all hours of the day and invading their personal space.

After that conversation though, the incessant need to move out of that city to get away increased tenfold, until his small apartment full of stuff that wasn’t even his own began closing in on him, until there was no longer enough space for him to even breathe.

“What about Gramps’ old farm?” Grian had asked as they were lounging on the couch one evening. “You wouldn’t have us breathing down your neck all the time there and we’d be a few minutes walk out if you ever needed company.”

“Have you been to that place at all in the past few years? It’s so overgrown you can barely get to the house!” Protested Pearl. Her legs were draped across the both of them while she nursed a bowl of popcorn in her arms.

“Okay, so it needs a little bit of cleaning up—”

“Understatement of the year.”

“—but it would solve our conundrum here, right Timmy?”

Two sets of eyes turned to stare at him as Jimmy shifted uncomfortably in his seat and pretended he’d still been paying attention to the long-forgotten movie playing in the background.

“I… I think I’d need to sleep on it.”

Up until that point he hadn’t thought about the old ranch much. Though he had spent most of his early childhood there, he and his mum moved to Zuzu City after Grandpa passed away. He can’t even remember if they ever came back to visit, although that’s not exactly something he could ever blame her for. What was there to return for besides memories now painted over by grief?

He had loved that place to bits as a kid. How could he not? It was a pocket of the world that always felt as if it had been carved out just for him, endless fields and meadows he could run around until he could no longer catch his breath, chasing around friends whose faces he could barely recall anymore. And the animals—the chickens, the cows, the goats, creatures that at times understood him better than any person could. He wanted to become a vet because of them, though that dream was now long forgotten, locked away with every other ambition.

It had been the happiest he’d ever been.

That realisation had hooked its claws underneath his ribs and refused to disappear, reminding him of its existence with each breath he took.

He could have that again if he gave it a try.

At first, he attempted to squash that idea down as best he could, to lock it away in a small box tucked at the very back of his mind. It tasted too much like the sickly sweetness of false hope and he wouldn’t—couldn’t let himself be overtaken by it again before he inevitably came crashing down into reality.

But it was too persistent, growing louder and louder the further down he attempted to push it. So, when he had gone through the few things he still owned from back then and found the deed to the old ranch tucked between photo albums and Grandpa’s old books, it felt as though fate had made the decision for him.

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀

It was all too soon that the bus hissed to a halt at a small clearing with barely any indication that there was a bus stop to begin with, besides a ticket machine tucked to the side that anyone could miss easily if they didn’t know it was there. With dread and anticipation both mixing in the pit of his stomach, he stepped out into the open.

“Timmy!”

Before he processed what was going on, there was an arm that hooked around his neck, pulling him down enough for Grian to reach and ruffle his blond hair. It took him a moment to pull out of the grasp.

“What happened to a good old-fashioned hello?”

“Welcome to Stardew Valley!” A theatrical voice boomed from the side, immediately catching Jimmy’s attention.

On the dirt path leading to the bus stop stood a man dressed in elegant reddish clothing. He leaned heavily on an ornate cane while his other hand held a matching tophat. A wide smile overtook his features. Behind him he caught a glimpse of Pearl, sitting on a wooden fence.

The stranger made his way over to them. “I’m Scar, mayor of Pelican Town.” He offered a small bow, before placing the tophat back on his head and offering Jimmy the now free hand.

“I’m—I’m Jimmy Solidarity.” He stumbled over his words as he shook the hand of this clearly important man. His brain wasn’t going to let him forget that for weeks to come.

If he noticed anything amiss, Scar didn’t comment on it. “I’ve heard a lot about you! It’s not every day someone new moves it. It’s quite a big deal! The entirety of Pelican Town is anxious to meet you.”

The words sent Jimmy’s stomach tying up in knots and though he attempted to cover that up as best he could, the pitying look Pearl sent his way told him he hadn’t done a good job at it.

“How ‘bout we take him to the cabin first, yeah? I’m sure others are gonna be able to wait until he gets settled in.”

Scar’s smile never wavered. “Why of course, of course. Just follow me!”

An uncanny feeling crept up his spine as they walked down the dirt path he must’ve walked through thousands of times as a child. It seemed much smaller now, the wooden fences surrounding it were much worse for wear. Something so familiar growing into something foreign.

They stopped once they reached another big clearing and oh—he’d thought Pearl had been exaggerating about how overgrown the property had become. But weeds and debris stretched as far as he could see and where there used to be fields full of crops now grew sturdy trees.

And the house… Well, it looked as though no one had set foot in or around it in more than a decade, which he supposed must have been the case.

“Told you it was bad,” Pearl half-snickered, though there was no real malice in her tone.

“You’re exaggerating! With enough time this can all be fixed up easily.”

“Says the carpenter. The house looks like it’s being held together with duct tape and Gramps’ old stubbornness! Are you sure this is even safe to stay in?”

Grian waved a hand in dismissal. “I went to check it over a few days back. It’s not a luxury hotel or anything, it’s covered in about an inch layer of dust and I’m pretty sure most of the wiring and plumbing needs to be redone, but it’s not going to collapse at a moment's notice.”

“Reassuring,” Jimmy chimed in, though his gaze wouldn’t leave the old house. It stood tall, with warm-toned wooden walls and a big front porch leading to the reddish front door. The attic window had been broken, with plastic stapled on from the inside to prevent rain from soaking the inside.

This was what had become of his childhood home. A broken, empty mess.

“I mean, it’s got character, it’s rustic!” Scar jumped in.

“Crusty’s a better way to put it—”

“Listen,” Grian jumped in, cutting off whatever Pearl was about to say. “I’ll help you get it back into proper shape as long as you’ll get all the materials, deal?”

Jimmy mumbled something vaguely affirmative as he continued staring at the overgrown ranch in front of him.

It was going to be one hell of a fresh start

#these new dreams #seafoam drafts #traffic stardew au #stardew valley ranchers #jimmy solidarity #pearlescentmoon #grian #goodtimeswithscar #team rancher #trafficblr #seafoam archives #stardew valley #sdv

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seat-safety-switch · 2 years ago

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In my neighbourhood, there used to be a hospital. Eventually, the government decided that it was “too old” and had to go. Dangerous, they said. Obsolete, they said. Can’t afford to have sick people in it, they explained. And then the building just sat there, empty, rather than being full of doctors helping people. This story is not about healthcare, or even about the time that I had to drive myself to the other, worse hospital across town while holding my own gaping wound closed with a ratchet strap held in my teeth. It’s about urban exploration.

For those of you unaccustomed to the word “urban,” simply replace it with “city.” Same deal with “exploration:” big word, just means “looking-at.” Together, you’re looking at stuff in a city. Now we’re all on the same page. Urban exploration is what folks who break and enter into abandoned buildings, storm sewers, and disused industrial mechanisms call their practice. It’s pretty dope: you go into a cool old building, take lots of pictures of cool old stuff, and then spend the rest of the week wondering if that fever you’re running might be because the old YMCA had a swimming pool full of pigeon shit and you just went wading through it “for fun.”

The old hospital, through these eyes, was primo. Big ol’ building, full of abandoned machines, long hallways, and windows to set up eerie photographs. It also had a sanitarium, which was only grudgingly converted into a cafeteria in recent years. This inconvenient fact will not stop those of you with overactive imaginations from believing that you are being stalked by a malevolent spirit of one of the patients, which is additional free entertainment for both you and the other members of your exploration party. Fun for the whole family! Actually, on second thought, don’t bring the kids, because they snitch, and then the security guards will start chaining up the doors and removing all the dusty autoclaves full of rusty surgical tools.

If there is something negative to be said about urban exploration, it’s that they don’t let you drive your car in there. There’s a lot of walking, you see, and my feet get tired after a mere four or five hours of running around in a blind panic through a series of identical corridors, wondering if that creaking sound is a security guard, or the building’s superstructure imploding. Things would be a lot easier if I could bring my three-thousand-pound 1970s Chrysler product along for the ride, because at least then we could store snacks in the back seat, and maybe some of the mice in the trunk would find a new home. Maybe we’ll get lucky and Little Government will give up on the idea of maintaining the highway next.

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galaxymagitech · 8 months ago

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Bleed the Poison Out

Written for Dick Grayson Anniversary Week: Day 3 Prompt: Apologizing to Dick

@dickgraysonweek

Summary

When is an apology not an apology?

Bruce apologizes to Dick. The apology turns into an argument and the argument turns into another apology. Standing on the smoking dumpster-fire of the past, Dick tries to find a way on. Two steps forwards, one step back.

Characters: Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne

Warnings: Discussions of physical and emotional abuse, possibly depiction of emotional abuse.

Dick drives home in the rain. It’s a good thing that there aren’t very many cars on the highway at this time of night, because he’s doing a pretty poor job of keeping his eyes on the road.

The car skids through a puddle, throwing up a dirty, toxic spray of water onto his windows. Dick ignores it and tries to keep his hands from shaking on the wheel. Things had been going well, damn it! He’d been trying, Bruce had been trying. Batman and Nightwing. Batman and Batman. Surely, the two of them can get along if they just put their fucking minds to it.

But Damian had needled and Jason had raged and Tim had gotten that closed-off look of his and Duke had thrown up his hands in disgust and stormed out, and that had left Dick and Bruce standing on opposite sides of the cave, tempers high and rising higher.

It hadn’t gone well. The fight wasn’t even supposed to be about the two of them, but Dick couldn’t resist bringing up old arguments, could he? It didn’t matter that he was right, they had fucking moved on, and—

Dick swerves, ignoring his turn signal as he crosses over a lane and then onto an exit in an almost 90 degree angle. The momentum throws him against his seat, but he makes it out into Blüdhaven. He needs to focus and leave the self-reflection for when he’s not manning a several-ton souped-up vehicle.

---

Twenty minutes later, Dick enters his apartment, tossing his keys on the table by the entrance with a tired sigh. Immediately, he feels on edge. There’s someone else here with him. It could be one of his siblings, it could be Deathstroke, it could be anyone, but—but it’s probably Bruce. The World’s Greatest Detective can’t ever just leave things be, can he?

That’s not fair. Dick doesn’t leave things alone either. It’s just that he normally waits until the argument’s already started to bring shit up instead of seeking out fights.

He catches a glimpse of a suspiciously-Bruce-shaped shadow and forces himself to relax. If this fight is going to get nasty again, he deserves a cup of coffee first.

Unfortunately, Bruce clearly doesn’t have the same plan, shifting silently out of the darkness.

“Hey,” Dick says, unable to keep the bite out of his voice. He steps into the kitchen and considers the table. There are five chairs, which isn’t enough for all his siblings, but it’s all that could fit. When the Titans are over or there’s a large Batkid gathering, they normally hang out in the living room, sprawled all over the couch and the softest rug Dick could find. It’s now covered in stains, mostly pizza sauce (and some blood, not that the stains look much different), but is still just as soft as it was when he bought it.

“Dick,” Bruce says quietly. Bruce, because the man surprisingly isn’t wearing his Batman suit. Dick resists the urge to comment on it.

“Bruce,” Dick responds, because he likes being difficult.

“Sit down,” Bruce says. Dick bristles. He knows that’s just how Bruce talks a lot of the time, short and to the point, but this is Dick’s apartment and he’s certainly not going to let Bruce stand over him while he yells.

“You sit down,” Dick says tiredly. Surprisingly, Bruce…does. He takes a seat at the table, facing the wall, hands clasped together. Dick cautiously walks around the table and sits across from him. He can see all the exits in the room, but Bruce is between him and them. Was that purposeful? Everything is purposeful, with Bruce, but Dick should probably give him the benefit of the doubt. Bruce is paranoid as hell and would prefer to be sitting where Dick is, with a clear view of everything. Dick in-between him and the exit wouldn’t even be a consideration for Bruce. It shouldn’t be a consideration for Dick, not in his own fucking apartment, where he should be able to kick Bruce out if he feels trapped with him. But if Bruce wants to talk, he’ll talk, and now Dick can’t storm out without getting his path blocked.

For a moment, Dick considers voicing his thought process out loud. He’s well aware of how crazy it sounds, thinking about exits and danger and seating preferences like this. And he kind of wants to shove that in Bruce’s face, like, look, look what I’m thinking about, is that normal, Bruce?

But he doesn’t say a word, just watches Bruce until his mentor is ready to speak. Dick’s paranoia is more of a reflection on himself than a judgement on Bruce.

“Are we okay?” Bruce asks.

What a stupid question. An hour ago, they were wrapped up in a vicious screaming match. “What do you think, B?” Dick deflects.

“I want us to be okay,” Bruce tells him earnestly. “I…you brought up a lot, when we talked.” Talked. That’s one word for it. More like screamed at the top of their lungs. “I didn’t know all that was still weighing on you. Some of what you said, it’s been years.” That sounds like an accusation. “I’m concerned.”

“It’s not like we ever talk about things after the fact,” Dick says. “What, do you think I’m going to just get over things? Well, that’s not how it works, B—” He cuts himself off before he says more. If he continues speaking, he’ll get patronizing.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Dick snorts. Does he want to talk about it? Of course he does, but every time he brings up past disputes, it just makes the present ones worse. “You know,” Dick says, “I think we could’ve been fine if you just apologized. But you never did.” Thrown in there is the assumption that Bruce owes him an apology. It’s so out of nowhere that Dick can feel tiny electric spikes prickling across his sweaty palms. Bruce won’t take this lying down.

“I’m.” Bruce looks down at his hands. Up. Meets Dick’s eyes so intensely that it’s painful, and then says three words. “I’m sorry, Dick.”

And. And. And—

And something inside him sinks and something inside him floats and he feels like he’s been crushed even as he’s cleaved in two. This is all Dick has ever wanted to hear. The fact that Bruce is saying it is miraculous. Dick never would have expected this. He expected another argument at worst, and at best a simple handoff of a case with the implicit message that he’s still allowed in Gotham. Not an apology. So, it’s amazing, it really is. But it’s not enough.

Too little, too late, Dick wants to say, but that’s not really fair, is it? And he wants to say it, but he doesn’t want to mean it. Just say it because he could mean it, and then watch Bruce’s face fall, and then reconcile. That’s cruel of him. He shouldn’t be trying to cause pain. He should be trying to fix this. This is the best opportunity he’s gotten to fix things in years, maybe since Jason’s death. He does want to fix this, right?

“You have to say it’s not my fault.” The words slip out before Dick can even realize he’s about to say them. Immediately, he winces at how childish he sounds. He’s adding on requirements, moving the goalposts. And yet, he’s spent years trying to apportion the blame for their every fight, and this could settle that once and for all. Dick needs this.

There’s a long pause, and Dick thinks that maybe this is where Bruce draws the line. But then—“It wasn’t your fault that I…hurt you,” Bruce agrees.

“Get out,” Bruce had ordered.

“I’m not going until you get your head out of your ass.”

“Get out, now, before I get you out!”

And Dick, well, he could never do anything but pick at a scab until it bleeds. “Yeah, how’s that work? Going to hit me, Bruce? Wouldn’t be the first time!”

Wouldn’t be the first time Dick has brought that up in an argument, either. But it’s the first time Bruce hadn’t just shot right past it. Tonight is the first time Bruce is actually acknowledging it.

Dick closes his eyes. He should be watching Bruce, soaking in every second of this. After all, he’s only going to get this apology once. But Dick can’t bear to look at him.

“Do you even understand what you’re apologizing for?” Dick pushes. “Is this about me, about us, or is it you just being upset about your lack of self-discipline?” He doesn’t mean to, he swears. He never means to start a fight, to turn what should be a conversation into an argument, but he always does it anyway. It’s a twisted talent for incitation and escalation, his dramatic stage presence turned toward making his life hell. But no—he’s the one speaking. He can’t pin his constant confrontational attitude on something nebulous like “stage presence.” He has to take responsibility. Dick knows exactly what he’s doing, and he can’t—no, he doesn’tstop.

“I haven’t been fair to you,” Bruce says quietly. “You’ve made a valid point that I’ve ignored your boundaries. And when you confronted me after—after Jason’s death, I…shouldn’t have hurt you.”

A valid point. Like Bruce is the final arbiter of that, judge and jury and his executioner’s axe is hanging right over Dick’s neck. It grates on him and his hands twitch, begging to curl into fists. Instead, he smooths them out palm-down on the table and presses lightly, enough to soothe himself without becoming threatening. Bruce doesn’t mean anything by the phrasing, it’s basically like lawyer language, carefully worded so as not to offend. Like Dick is a bomb that can be set off at any moment. The pressure of his hands on the table is the only thing holding his anger in. A valid point. Boundaries. Hurt you. Dick snorts. “Call it what it is, B. You hit me.”

Bruce, to his credit, doesn’t deny it. “Yes.”

How dare he be so calm? Dick is fighting everything in him not to yell right now, not to scream and fight and shout. And maybe that’s a sign that he’s everything that’s wrong in their not-quite-father-son relationship, because Bruce is sitting there calmly and apologizing even as Dick gives him a hard time about everything. “You hit me more than that. You didn’t mention those. Just right after Jason.”

“Once more,” Bruce says. “I’ve hit you twice and I—I apologized for the second time.”

The second time—though Dick isn’t even entirely sure it’s the second time, too many alternate timelines and ambiguous mental influence situations warping everything, making it impossible to keep count (and there’s a subtle sort of horror there, that he has to keep count)—the second time, Dick hit first. Bruce was being an asshole, abandoning his civilian identity and the entire family along with it, but Dick hit him first, and he hasn’t exactly apologized for it either. “I don’t care about that one. I attacked you. You defended yourself. It’s fine. You didn’t even need to apologize. But when you—when you thought Gordon was dead…I tried to stop you from going too far, and you hit me. I was just trying to help.”

“I’m sorry if you feel hurt by that, but—”

“I do,” Dick interrupts. How is Bruce supposed to apologize if Dick keeps interrupting? “I do feel hurt, because I was hurt, because you hit me. It’s not if.”

Bruce exhales. “I’m sorry that you feel hurt by that incident, but I threw you off me, Dick. I didn’t hit you.”

The funny thing is, Dick thinks, as the static fills his ears, I don’t think he’s lying. Bruce has never been one for lies. He’ll say he doesn’t care about emotions or something, but it’s about the words, not getting people to believe them. He’s as transparent as glass on that. And he’ll trick villains, but he doesn’t…he doesn’t lie about stuff like this. Dick’s good at reading people—he has to be. So, as he looks at Bruce’s face, he can confidently say that Bruce isn’t lying.

But Dick isn’t lying either, because he remembers it.

Dick should drop this. He has an apology, he has Bruce saying it wasn’t Dick’s fault, he has Bruce admitting it, mostly. Dick got what he wanted, or close enough, and he should just end the conversation here.

But Dick can’t seem to stop pushing. “You definitely hit me, B!”

“Are we really going to do this?” Bruce asks.

Dick stands up, his chair loudly scraping against the floor. He’s escalating again. He knows that, but it—it isn’t enough to make him stop. His heart clenches. It feels like the blood in it has turned to oil, slick and sickening. Everything feels so wrong. “Yes, we’re going to do this! I’m not lying, I’m—”

“I’m not accusing you of lying.” Bruce is still so fucking calm.

Dick hates when he’s like this, because sometimes Bruce is a raging storm and then sometimes it’s like he’s the most reasonable person in the universe. Dick never knows which version of his father he’s going to get. And when he gets one of them, he never knows if he’s just imagining the other.

“I’m saying that it was a complicated situation, and—”

“No!” Dick is breathing heavily and his voice is far too loud. Because he can’t listen, he doesn’t want to listen, he can’t listen, if he listens then he’ll start to believe it and he knows he’s right. But avoiding evidence is a sign of fearing the truth, and that’s not something a detective should ever do. Is Dick wrong? Mistaken? Accidentally trying to trick Bruce into believing something that isn’t true?

No. Deep breaths. Form an argument. Context clues. Dick can prove it, to himself and to Bruce.

“I had blood on my face, because you hit me. And I’m certain I did because I remember smelling it, tasting it. And Babs asked me what happened and I remember thinking, I don’t want to lie to her, and then doing it anyway. Where do you think that came from? My face just decided to injure itself after you politely pushed me off?”

“You’re arguing against a strawman—of course your face didn’t just injure itself. But I know I didn’t hit you.” It’s clear Dick’s sarcasm has gotten a rise out of Bruce, because Dick can hear the tension simmering in Bruce’s voice, watch his shoulders move from his normal awkward stiffness into something ready for offense. “Hitting someone in the face isn’t an effective way to stop them from pulling you away. I wouldn’t have hit you, it would be illogical.”

“Bruce, you weren’t thinking reasonably. I know what happened!”

“And I know what happened too. I’m telling you the truth, Dick. Please believe me on this.”

“But I’m telling you the truth! And you’re telling me—what, my memories are wrong? Come on, Bruce.”

“I am Batman.” Yeah, I fucking know that, no way do you think my memory sucks that much, Dick thinks, but he doesn’t say it. Sarcasm makes Bruce bristle, and Dick really needs to stop pushing things. Not that he’s. You know. Actually stopping. “I’ve trained for years to perfectly remember combat situations.” But not when he’s emotionally compromised. Not when he doesn’t want to remember. “I’m sorry I threw you off of me, but I won’t apologize for something that you’re misremembering. And I won’t let you force me to doubt my own memories.”

Dick lets out a hollow laugh, more for show than anything else. They’re dancing around the word, Dick knows, refusing to call it what it is. And suddenly, Dick can’t stand that. “You’re seriously accusing me of gaslighting you?”

“And what, you think it’s the other way around? I’ve made mistakes, Dick, but that is not something that I do.”

Dick throws his hands into the air. “I don’t know what to think!” He needs to calm down. This was supposed to be Bruce apologizing, and he’s ruining it. “I don’t know what to think,” he repeats more quietly, forcing himself to sit down. It sets him on edge. Batman—Bruce—is still blocking the exits. But he sits. “Okay,” Dick says. He breathes and imagines all the anger leaving his lungs. “I remember what I remember and…you remember what you remember. And neither of us are going to change our minds. So it…it is what it is.” He pivots. “But what about the tooth?”

“The tooth?” Bruce asks, and he’s back to being so fucking calm that Dick wants to sock him in the jaw and, well. If he feels like that, maybe he should have some empathy for what Bruce has to deal with when Dick’s being difficult. And, as this conversation is showing, Dick sure puts in an effort to be difficult. But, difficult or not, he’s still going to say his piece.

“You punched me hard enough that I lost a tooth, Bruce, what do you think I’m talking about?”

“I had to prove—”

“There’s such a thing as an X-ray.”

“I couldn’t risk—”

“No.”

“I didn’t have time—”

“No.”

“You wouldn’t have—”

“No.”

Dick can feel his heart beating too fast, can feel the rush it gives him to listen to Bruce try to defend himself and cut him off at every turn. But that’s not good. That’s not right, Dick shouldn’t be enjoying this, shouldn’t be playing like this is some sort of game, shouldn’t—

“Three times,” Bruce agrees quietly. “Three times. Dick, I—”

“And Spyral?” Dick asks. “What about in the cave, Bruce? Because what you did then…”

“We sparred,” Bruce says, but his face is closed-off.

“Some spar.”

“You wrapped your hands.”

Dick hadn’t remembered that part. But thinking back…Bruce was right. He did wrap his hands. Why had he done that? Why had he given up the one thing that would defend him now, show Bruce that this was wrong? By wrapping his hands, he had made it a spar. He had agreed to participate. It’s not fair to Bruce to pretend otherwise. But… “I asked to stop fighting.” But that’s wrong, isn’t it? He said no, he asked Bruce what was going on, he made it clear he wanted to stop, but he didn’t say that exactly. He wrapped his hands and he fought back. Fuck, he just lied, didn’t he? Dick just lied, but he didn’t mean to.

“You asked not to go to Spyral. You never tapped out.”

And yet… “I didn’t hit back until you sent me flying off a platform into Jason’s memorial. That’s not a spar, Bruce. I wasn’t fighting. You were, but I wasn’t. It wasn’t fair.”

“Dick.”

Dick feels himself falter. Like a marionette with his strings cut, his head tips down to hang loosely over the table. Slowly, he brings a hand to cover his face. It’s humiliating, it’s weakness, but he just. He just needs a moment. “I didn’t want to fight you, Bruce,” he says eventually.

“You could have said that.”

“Would you have listened? You sure didn’t listen the other times I’ve tried to talk to you. I wrapped my hands, I’ll admit it, I’m not being unreasonable Bruce, but I agreed to a spar, not a beating. I wanted to tap out. But.” Dick’s losing the thread. He was saying something really important, but he can’t remember where he was going. “I wanted to tap out,” he repeats. “I wanted to tap out, but I didn’t think I could. And you just kept hitting.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Dick.”

“I want…” It’s not about what Bruce is saying. He apologized. He said it wasn’t Dick’s fault. But Dick kept pushing for more and more and more. Because it wasn’t enough. Because it was just words. “I want you to be sorry.”

Fuck, Dick sounds like the Red Hood right now. Except, Jason’s grievances are legitimate and Dick’s…well, it’s not that his aren’t, he really hopes he’s in the right here, but his are certainly less important.

“I want you to hit me again,” he admits. It comes out of nowhere, but it’s not a lie. Because if Bruce just…just hit him. Now. After Spyral. Not under mind control. No Court of Owls, or dead sons, or dead friends, or justification. If Bruce just hit him, Dick would be right. He would know. And he tries to be a good person, a good leader, a good son, but he can’t get rid of that insufferable need to be right. Then again, Dick’s been scorning every single one of Bruce’s attempts to make things right this conversation. He’s been provoking Bruce at every turn, like it’s some sort of game. If Bruce hit him now, it probably wouldn’t change anything. Dick would be upset, but he’d know that he was also being an asshole and, when it came down to it, it was mostly his fault.

Bruce agreed it wasn’t, something in him says. But Bruce didn’t mean that.

“Dick…” Bruce says quietly. He sounds. He sounds devastated. And all Dick can think is good, and yeah, Dick’s definitely being an asshole right now. What kind of kid—not that Dick is a kid, but he sure feels like one right now—what kind of kid wants his father to hit him? What kind of kid says that out loud?

“I want to forgive you,” Dick says, “but I can’t forgive you if I can’t figure out if there’s something to forgive.”

The two of them are quiet for a long time. Dick doesn’t have anything else to say. He didn’t start this. He’s not the one who broke into his apartment and forced a conversation. And Bruce…

Dick watches his father sit still as a statue, clearly searching for words he doesn’t have.

Eventually, Bruce swallows visibly. “There is,” he says quietly. “I never meant for things to end up like this.”

Like what? Dick sitting across from him in an apartment a city away? All things considered, this is a pretty alright way for it to have gone. Dick could be away with the Titans permanently. They could be completely estranged. Dick could be dead.

“I should have adopted you earlier,” Bruce says, out of nowhere. “I shouldn’t have told you that you weren’t welcome in the Manor. I should never have hit you. I—”

“Stop,” Dick hisses. It’s too much. It doesn’t feel real even. It feels like someone’s skinning him alive and he’s just out of it enough to realize that this has to be a dream, but it isn’t and— “Just stop. I get it, okay? You’re sorry. Fine.” He leans over, resting his forehead in his hand and propping his elbow up on the table. It doesn’t make his growing headache any better. “I know I’m still allowed in Gotham. We’re fine. Alright?” Dick should be savoring this, but he just wants it to be over. “Now go and focus your efforts on the kids who actually need them. Tim still isn’t convinced he’s part of the family. Jason thinks you wish he never came back. Damian has some of his drawings in an art show, you should—”

“I know,” Bruce interrupts.

“Huh?”

“I know about the art show,” Bruce says awkwardly. “It’s in my calendar. I plan to go.”

Dick feels the wind leave his sails. “Yeah, good. That’s good.” He looks up at Bruce. “Did you want anything else, or did you just feel the need to invade my home so you could offload your feelings and stop feeling guilty?” That was unfair. Really unfair. Dick had just said they were good, he didn’t mean to say that, and Bruce clearly is trying. More than he’s ever tried before. More than he needs to. Dick should be grateful.

Bruce freezes, like he never even thought breaking into Dick’s apartment after an argument could be a bad idea. “I…shouldn’t have come here,” he says eventually. “I really was trying to. To be better. I was trying to be calm. I think I did a good job of that. But I shouldn’t have come here.”

Yeah, Bruce did do a good job. Dick was provoking him at every turn, and Bruce didn’t shout once. Dick wishes Bruce shouted. When Bruce is reasonable, Dick feels like he’s crazy, but…that’s a Dick problem, not a Bruce problem. If people being reasonable make him feel crazy, then Dick has something wrong with him.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Bruce says suddenly, breaking Dick out of his thoughts.

There’s a lot Bruce shouldn’t have said. There’s even more that Dick shouldn’t have said. “What?”

“That I did a good job of being calm. I don’t know why I said that.” Dick doesn’t know why he said half the things he said in this conversation either. He feels like a yoyo, de-escalating only to escalate again. He can’t make up his mind. “It’s difficult not to fall into the same patterns. Not that that’s an excuse.”

“I understand,” Dick says. He does. It’s a familiar rhythm, arguing with Bruce. Fights and betrayal and rage and storming out, accompanied by the occasional physical altercation. It’s almost comforting, even as it tears him apart. And it’s very, very difficult to avoid. “And you weren’t wrong.”

“I was.” The frustration is evident in Bruce’s voice. “I did the bare minimum.”

Dick shrugs.

“What do you want from me?”

Dick shrugs again. He wants to pause this moment in time and save it away and then come back to it later, when he has an actual answer that will leave him satisfied but won’t start another fight. But he doesn’t have that. Right now, he wants to go to sleep. Maybe have some hot cocoa first.

He has a feeling that he’ll be lying awake for a while tonight, even without caffeine.

“We’re fine, Bruce. This is the most…you’ve apologized, okay? Maybe not for everything I wish you would, but you apologized. Just...go back to Gotham and I’ll come over next weekend or something.”

“What do you want me to apologize for?”

Dick shakes his head. “Bruce, you’re not even going to remember half the things I care about. They were big to me, but not to you. I mean, do you even remember our fight after you made Jason Robin?”

“Not very well,” Bruce admits. “I know you were…upset.”

“You broke a display case,” Dick says. It sounds ridiculous when he says it. Sure, breaking things is one the checklist questions he’d ask a civilian—why the fuck is he thinking about the checklist?—but in the grand scheme of things… “It’s not that big of a deal. But I was really freaked out. See? It’s mostly little things.”

Bruce, in an uncharacteristic break from stoicism, rests both elbows on the table and puts his head in his hands. A few moments later, he raises his head again and looks Dick in the eye. “I shouldn’t have done that. And. And I find it difficult to believe I hit you when I you tried to stop me from going after Gordon’s killer, but…I have done similar things enough times that…I probably should not find it so difficult. So, I’m.” He swallows. “I’m sorry, Dick.”

“Just stop,” Dick says. Something’s crawling underneath his skin. This isn’t right, it isn’t real, it’s all just so wrong. Bruce is telling him exactly what he asks to hear, and it’s so ridiculous that he’d be more inclined to believe he’s currently in a simulation controlled by a fifth grader than actually listening to Bruce speak. Wait. There’s an idea. “38D90234FJK16.”

Bruce’s eyes widen. “9021V4Q3.”

Well, he got the identification code correct.

“I should go,” Bruce says, and this time, he stands up.

“That’s not suspicious at all.”

Slowly, Bruce sits down again. “I. You think I’m an imposter?”

“No.” He got the identification response code correct. And despite the weird turn Bruce has taken, he still gets the base mannerisms, the speech, the Bruce-ness correct in a way that Dick has never seen an imposer manage. It’s pretty embarrassing that Dick had to check, but he thought that Mr. ‘It’s not paranoia if they’re actually out to get you’ would appreciate the diligence. “I just figured…”

“You figured I don’t sound like myself.”

Dick doesn’t deny it.

“I shouldn’t have come here. I said that, and then I kept talking, didn’t I?” Bruce sighs. “Do you want me to leave, Dick?”

Dick doesn’t particularly want to stand up from the table. He didn’t want Bruce here, but right now, well, he is here. They’re not fighting. It’s okay. This is okay. “I don’t know.”

“I…” Bruce exhales. “I won’t hit you again. That’s a promise. If I break it, I want you to deal with me.”

Dick sighs. “We fight plenty, Bruce. I don’t—I’ve hit first, before. That’s not a promise you want to make.”

“I promise,” Bruce repeats. “If you want to talk, in the future, you can come to Gotham. Or call me. But I should leave.”

“Okay.”

Bruce stands up again.

“Wait,” Dick says suddenly.

He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. I forgive you? But Dick doesn’t, not really. He wants to, but he’s still so angry. Maybe irrationally so. Definitely irrationally so. I want you to stay? Dick doesn’t want the conversation to be over, but he’s too tired for it, and Bruce probably has things to do in Gotham. I don’t forgive you? Dick wants to see what happens. Wants to watch the illusion break the second Bruce can’t get his reconciliation. He needs to say it. Needs to prove that this is all fake. He steels himself for the anger, for the mask to break, for the hurricane to start again and drag him into its winds.

“I don’t forgive you,” Dick whispers.

“You shouldn’t.”

Bruce turns around and leaves. Dick sits alone at the kitchen table for a long, long time.

#fanfiction #dick grayson #bruce wayne #batman #tw: abuse #dc comics #dcu #dc #batfamily #batfam #dc fanfiction #batman fanfiction #dick grayson fanfiction #bad parent bruce wayne

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