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mikodaiyo · 2 years ago

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[skfw] The Inn Encounter

Summary: Sesshomaru is looking for Kagome.

Day 1: Courting

Word prompt: Love Letter

Scenario Prompt: Character A has been acting strange so character B confronts them.

Sesskag Fluff Week Prompts ♥️

“Kagome isn’t here.”

Sango smiled apologetically to Sesshomaru while Rin abandoned training to hug her hogosha.

That morning, with the children all stuffed into her hut for their warm ups again, Sango had decided it had been raining for long enough and ushered them out onto the dewy lawn.

From above, Shippou worked out his magic by providing them the coverage of a large canopy, though it looked like a large towel struggling to stay stretched out in the breeze. Sango had relieved him of his duty several times just for him to refuse, saying a village hero such as he could at least do this much.

Sesshomaru noticed the sweat that beaded down the child’s form as soon as it ran down his sleeves, interrupting his reunion. Sighing, he released his moko into the air and it swirled and swirled, startling the large towel with a bushy fox tail as it became a large cloud all its own, shading them all from the rain.

“Enough, Shippou.” He said, and it was.

Shippou released himself and fell to the earth unsteadily, his little paws holding him up still.

“Well done, Shippou!” Rin applauded him, walking over and patting his panting back. He looked at her and then at Sesshomaru, grinning shyly when even he nodded.

“Rin. Jaken is making your favorite dish.”

“Break-time!” Rin translated. She grabbed Shippo's hand but froze mid stride, now looking to her Master Sango.

Sango nodded, “You heard Lord Sesshomaru. Jaken is making everyone’s favorite dishes!” She smiled at her children standing at attention behind her, “You better hurry.”

The relief of children’s laughter filled the wet air, the sound of Slayer uniforms slapped the earth and Mokomoko followed the children to keep them dry. The rain fell on the adults again but they didn’t mind it. The rain was a refreshing blessing as well as natural conversation cover.

Rain, Rain, Go Away

Come again another day

Inside the Inn we will decay

And though the keeper will let us stay

It's been – and we want to play

Rain, Rain, Go Away

It was just something to pass the time, Kagome insisted to them. A phonetic rhyme that would help them keep track of time, if nothing else. But to the children it was a blessed chant from Priestess Kagome, a chant that if they sang loud enough it would make the rain go away. They sang it so much recently that Sango didn’t even notice the number of rainy days, she just knew the children were blessedly occupied with a suitable answer instead of asking her to teach them how to beat it up.

Sango stretched her arms and they both heard her bones popping graciously, “You hurry too. What if you catch a cold?” She walked toward the entrance of her home and kept the door open by invitation.

“This one does not get colds.” Sesshomaru followed after her calmly.

“You never know. Stranger things have happened.”

“Such as?”

“You, looking for Kagome.”

“This One is always looking for Kagome.”

“You’ve become such a romantic, Lord Sesshomaru! That nearly made my old heart skip a beat.”

“Old?” Sesshomaru raised his brow. He rested his swords against her door frame and took a seat at her low table, “even demons in my court would question your slow aging.”

“My Lord,” Sango guffawed, moving to another room with a screen dividing the view, “You are making me blush. May I remind you I am a married woman.”

After removing the armored guards of her uniform, she worked on the wet leather itself. Sesshomaru closed his eyes and listened to the rain, listened to all the patterns in the mud, the grass, the farmers footsteps. He sifted through the noises, searching for a particular Priestess’ heavy footfalls.

Reemerging refreshed, Sango set fire to her hearth and began preparing her favorite tea set, an adorable white and purple accented gift from The Lord of the West with his red, hexagonal crest glazed into plates and the handles built like gold clouds were whipped against the porcelain cups. The set had instantly become the main reason Sango entertained guests.

“Speaking of being the only married woman-”

“You did not speak of that.”

“Did you know I am the only married woman in the whole village?” Sango fixed, “Speaking of which-”

“This one is looking for Kagome.” Sesshomaru emphasized, as if to say it wasn’t his fault that she was the only one. Sango placed the tea set down and then sat herself with a mortar and pestle, grinding sweet smells into the air.

“She’s been so busy lately.” Sango sighed, “Everyone has been; Demon sightings are picking up in neighboring villages, Kaedae can only be in one place at a time, Kagome goes everywhere else. Miroku wrote that he and Inuyasha have been making more progress rebuilding east.” Sango stretched then, as though talking about everything worked out the knots, “More children want to be taught to be Slayers so I get to see Kohaku only briefly while he and Kirara drop off more to me and take the ones I’ve trained to study further in the mountains.”

The kettle whistled and Sesshomaru got up, to which Sango sighed in appreciation.

She lightly brushed her mixture into their cups and Sesshomaru poured in the hot water. Hers first and then his own.

“You are all busy.” Sango breathed in the steam, her eyes closed but one peeking open. “ Yet, I seem to always find you.”

She worked with children all day. She had three of her own.

So, Sango could tell when a little pout was forming and it was such a shame Kagome was missing it.

“Well, I mean, it’s not like Kagome to not want to be found, is it?” Sango mused. Sesshomaru, who had been lifting his own cup, paused. He hadn’t considered that.

Just because he could not locate her, didn’t mean she didn’t want to be located.

In fact, when did she ever stay away from Sesshomaru? Kagome didn’t even hide from him when she had good reason to.

“When was the last time you spoke?”

“Hmm… what the…” Sango squinted, staring hard into the empty space above to try and form the image of the last time she had seen Kagome. “Actually, It’s been weeks… has it been weeks?”

Sesshomaru knew she wasn’t asking him and the irritability of the unknown began to tense his form. So no one had answers, for this long?

“This one last saw her before the rain fell.” He supplied.

“Rain, rain go away…” Sango mumbled, her hand coming to rest on her chin in deep thought. If she concentrated, she could hear the children singing just that morning. Sesshomaru didn’t dare break her concentration.

“Come again another day, inside the inn I’d rather not stay, and the keeper would let me stay, but it's been… it's been 12 days and we want to play…”

They shared a look.

According to the children who sang songs and chants that Kagome taught them when they were bored, it had been raining for two weeks.

For the past week, Kagome had been staying at an Inn. It wasn’t the largest or most lavish like Miroku preferred, nor as sparse as Inuyasha preferred. There were five rooms, an outdoor pool and an old Innkeeper who liked chatting in the mornings while they drank their tea and didn’t charge Kagome on account of her status. Graciously, Kagome offered to clean the rooms for the Innkeeper and bless it regularly, just in case her presence brought misfortune.

There was plenty of room for her goal; According to the Village Leader, women had been disappearing. Kagome had asked the Leader to keep him informed, but upon receiving no reply, Kagome let her gut instinct kick in. She only told Kaedae she’d be gone and hopped on the last cart of that night, napping amongst the hay and waking to an Ox licking her cheek, she and the farmer arriving at the inn.

Kagome huffed, the cool night air materializing puffs that lifted her bangs. While she was stuck, waiting, how many girls were being taken in by that orange, malicious energy that filled the sky? The one she noticed sipping tea with the Innkeeper while they chatted? The dawn that pooled across the sky like blood and tricked regular people into thinking it was a normal sunset?

They sat there in the evening, after Kagome finished cleaning the floors and the Innkeeper made sure the snack portion was doubled. They sat and Kagome smiled and traded pleasantries and hid her unease behind her teacup when the Innkeeper remarked they’d never seen such a beautiful sunset. Kagome lost sleep these past few nights just watching the Innkeeper, making sure it wasn’t the beginnings of hypnotism. But so far no change. Just she and the Innkeeper and the orange blood hiding a perfectly good sunset.

Again, she wished she had time to learn how to work with shinigami. Or time to train a messenger bird. What kind of Priestess didn’t travel with a companion? Even her bike would have sufficed.

Had she known it would take so long for another lead but she didn’t know because she always worked in groups, and in a good group like hers, everyone did their fair share. It never seemed like there was a moment's rest because someone or someone else was always gathering information.

But now, Kagome was all alone and there was all at once too much to do and nothing to do. Too much information to work with and none at all. The perfect time to take Intel but, Intel on what?

“Perfect time to invent e-mail.” She muttered into her cup.

“You’ve been grumbling since your arrival yesterday, dear.” said the Innkeeper. “Have I become such a poor companion?”

“Yesterday...? Oh! No! Not at all.” The truth sounded so unconvincing. Kagome cleared her throat, “It’s my fault really. I’m not working hard enough.”

So lax in fact that what felt like a week to her had only been a full day at the Inn.

“You’ve done nothing but work since you’ve been here, dear. This tea is the only way I’ve gotten you to take a breather.” The Innkeeper tapped their brass kettle and laughed, “You’ve left me no choice but to break out the good stuff in fact!”

The Innkeeper closed one eye and leaned into Kagome, peering into her personal space, “Are you sure you’re not a swindler? How old are these robes?”

Kagome jumped, her body moving almost against her will away from the Innkeeper’s hands and eyes and questions. Setting the tea aside, Kagome tucked her knees, turned to her host and bent at the waist.

“I’m sorry!”

Her youthful energy nearly knocked the Innkeeper backwards, “I promise I’m not swindling you and if you have been swindled before, specifically by a Monk wearing purple robes, I’m sorry for that as well!”

The Innkeeper blinked, “Ah-well, thank you. I haven’t been swindled by a purple robed Monk yet, Priestess, but I’ll be on the lookout from now on. Thank you.”

Kagome was so happy her face was shielded from view. Her embarrassment should only been seen by the nicely polished floorboards after all. Why did she react so strongly?

“Do you perhaps have any parchment and ink?”

The Innkeeper smiled, wide and perfect, “Ah, so that’s it. You’re missin’ your lover!”

Kagome sat ramrod straight with a blush that could match the sky and the Innkeeper guffawed, rising slowly and steadily and a little shakily from their seating cushion. Kagome could hear them behind her saying things about youth and young love. Kagome swore right then to take her shinigami training much more seriously.

Night fell and Kagome was left alone with her bone white incense burner, parchment, ink, a slop of orange stars in the night sky and a freshly brewed pot of tea.

Would Sesshomaru know anything about this? He had become her encyclopedia on demonic tactics, trickery and horrors that befell sleepy villages that women disappeared from. Or would he be just as blind because he didn’t even know she was here? Was he waiting for her at home or had he come and gone to tend to more important matters?

She could write Sango, Sango slayed thousands of demons and had even begun record keeping but could Sango afford to leave? When Kagome left, it had just been them and Kaedae. Five days changed many things but not the distance it would take the boys to get back home to take up guard duty.

She wished Inuyasha were here.

She could send it to Jaken…

“Maybe I should ask Rin.” Kagome mused, figuring if she was going to think ridiculous things she may as well say ridiculous things. Then, only smart things would be left.

She put pen to paper and decided whichever name she wrote down would be the person she asked.

Dear Sesshomaru,

She blushed again. She never called him dear. Focus

I don’t know why I’m writing. It’s only been three nights but I miss you a lot so, maybe that’s it? Do I miss you?

Sighing, Kagome crossed that out and tried again.

Dearest Sesshomaru,

I miss you.

Sleep isn’t as restful and tea isn’t as sweet and, have you ever seen an orange sky? Not like the afternoon, we’ve had some of our best afternoons up there. Not like persimmons either. It's a strange, runny, bloody orange. I figured I’d ask you, being the blood expert. Let me know if I should’ve written Myoga instead.

I’m not very good at writing letters. I need your help.

Kagome held the parchment up to her red face, pursed her lips and inhaled. Then she placed the page face down, turned her face upwards and exhaled.

She hoped her words reached him.

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

When Kagome woke up the next morning, it was groggily facing the window. She had only come to this inn yesterday, but she was so tired. No matter, the Innkeeper said she could have free lodgings if she helped prepare the rooms and Kagome was eager to get to work.

She cleaned all four rooms quietly to not disturb the Innkeeper, she blessed the grounds and then, a bath sounded nice.

When Kagome woke up the next morning, it was groggily facing the window. She had only come to this inn yesterday, but she was so tired.

No matter. The Innkeeper said she could have free lodgings if she helped prepare the rooms and Kagome was eager to get to work.

She cleaned all three rooms quietly to not disturb the Innkeeper, she blessed the grounds and then, a bath sounded nice.

When Kagome woke up the next morning, it was groggily facing the window. She had only come to this inn yesterday, but she was so tired.

No matter.

The Innkeeper said she could have free lodgings if she helped prepare the rooms and Kagome was eager to get to work.

She cleaned three rooms quietly to not disturb the Innkeeper, she blessed the grounds and then…

She cleaned her room and the guest room quietly to not disturb the Innkeeper, she blessed the grounds and then…

Huh?

Kagome stopped cleaning the floorboards.

Why was she still at the Inn? The village was still up ahead.

Far off in the distance where she could see it touching the blood orange sky she definitely saw a village.

She definitely saw it.

If she just turned around and looked it would be there still and she could put one foot in front of the other without bidding a proper farewell to the Innkeeper and continue on her mission.

But, her head wouldn’t move.

Her body wouldn’t move.

“Thank Heavens,” said the Innkeeper from far away, from above, from below, “You know girlie, you used up all my water.”

“Lord Sesshomaru!” Rin’s voice rang out and Sesshomaru heeded her immediately with Sango in tow, Hiraikotsu firmly in her grasp.

“Mama! The rain is clearing up!” Sango children crowded around her hips gleeful and fed and Sango leaned down to them.

“And how long was it raining?”

“14 days!” Her eldest daughter piped up, her siblings agreeing.

“What is it, Rin?” He watched the girl and Jaken attempt to gather all of the fur into their arms to avoid getting dirty as they made their way to him but the mud hardly mattered. Why was Mokomoko leaning at all?

“A message appeared, My Lord!” Jaken squealed from behind, his stubby form holding up the latter pelt while Rin stood on tip-toe to reveal its underside. Sesshomaru’s frown deepened and he reached for the soggy thing and it dried immediately before affixing itself around his shoulders. It was heavy with holy magic and would remain sluggish until the holy magic was removed and Sesshomaru only knew of one Priestess who could place such intent upon him at such close proximity.

It was even in her handwriting. And as the weather cleared, her scent came at him with a force it hadn’t had in fourteen days. His hand gripped the pelt tighter when Sango came over to survey the message.

“Dearest Sesshomaru, I miss you?” She read aloud.

With his free hand Sesshomaru waved his palm over the words and captured the false letters in his hand then placed his palm up. The letters evaporated like steam and he caught whiffs of tea and polished floors and blood not her own.

Sango could say she’d never seen steam with feelings until her eyes caught those last glimpses of Sesshomaru’s stoic face crack in anger before clouds of billowing smoke swallowed him up until he vanished.

…Was that snow?

“What trickery is this, witch?”

Kagome squinted.

No, not snow, though the consistency was similar. Small, white petals fell from a large, white cloud that descended from above the grounds, creating a flurry that threw the Innkeeper off kilter as it clumped into their ears and nose and sucked into the Innkeeper’s indignant maw.

A larger shadow fell over Kagome and she felt instantly relieved.

Sesshomaru made time for the brief caress of her cheek and Kagome swooned a tad before Sesshomaru caught one of the falling petals on his fingers and pressed it to Kagome’s lips.

“Sesshomaru,” Tension easing from body, Kagome nuzzled her cheek into his palm, “I did miss you.”

He brought their faces closer, “You were expecting Myoga.” He accused her.

“Obviously.” She giggled, “But you’ll do.”

While Kagome waited for the feeling to return to her legs, Sesshomaru surveyed the area for irregularities.

… There. The strange, orange liquid attempting to bubble itself back into a brass teapot sitting on the veranda. That was irregular.

Sesshomaru shot out his hand and produced his poison whip, snapping it across the liquid surface and causing it to bubble. The Innkeeper retook a human form from the reaction, their yowl agonizing and arms blistering.

“Guess that means my letter worked?”

”Well enough.” He lifted the side of mokomoko that her words ink-stained into the underside.

“I can get that out.”

Sesshomaru rolled his eyes. The Innkeeper was struggling so he tightened his grip.

“I just need to get–”

He turned and shook his hair to the side, revealing her weapons attached at his hip. Even with his back turned, Sesshomaru could feel Kagome’s grateful expression while she removed the bow and quiver.

He harshly flicked his wrist and sent the demon skyward to screech and snarl into the blood orange sky. Above all else, Sesshomaru could not stand much more of the noise that was drowning out their conversation. At least this way he could admire the way Kagome adjusted her aim.

“This One had already been looking for you.”

Kagome could barely concentrate on charging her arrow when he was being such a sweet-talker, “Thank you for finding me, my Lord.”

Her arrow struck the teapot and Sesshomaru’s acid did quick work of the false form.

As the demon puddled to the ground, Kagome placed her sleeve over her mouth as she approached. She waved two fingers in a uniform pattern across the puddle and it purified. Then she raised her fingers and chanted, and the sky began to resemble the sky, the sun was setting, the horizon was empty and her mission was complete.

Sesshomaru stepped next to her when it was done and offered her his hand to take. She obliged, then laced their fingers together.

“What of the Inn?”

“I’ve been purifying it for the last few days. The spirits left easily enough because they didn’t want to be there in the first place. They wanted to keep walking toward the horizon.”

Sesshomaru looked to the horizon, but all he saw was the sunset, “Was there something there?”

“Something for anyone who's looking.” Kagome answered in her strange way. Sesshomaru was certain she didn’t even notice when she spoke nonsensically.

“Hungry?” Kagome questioned perkily, “Only the tea was cursed. The snacks weren’t bad. And we have the whole place to ourselves.”

Kagome led Sesshomaru back to the Inn.

“Pardon the intrusi–Ah!” She stumbled backwards, caught by Sesshomaru’s big frame. When had he removed his armor?

“This One had been looking for you prior to your ‘invitation’.” His hand tightened in hers and Kagome gulped. Something was rubbing salaciously between the pleats of her hakama.

“O-oh? Well, you found me. Did I thank you for that yet?”

“You are about to.” Sesshomaru bent over her and her body followed slightly until they were both on their knees at the door.

Kagome could always see things behind her but it was a different thrill entirely to somehow feel the grin slipping over Sesshomaru’s lips.

“Pardon the intrusion.” He whispered.

#sesskag #sesskag fluff week #SKFW23 #sesskag fanfiction #ok I haven't written anything since maybe 2016? idk its been a long time and I didn't know what to edit out and what to keep ugh #hopefully there is enough fluff? I feel like there's not enough fluff lol I got to excited about writing I forgot to make it more fluff #demiko #fic tag: demiko #I didn't know where to fit the dialogue prompt so I just didn't lol if I did this would've been a gratuitously fluffy fiction #I hope you enjoy!#I want to do more art + fiction I find this really satisfying ugh I love some illustration with a story #the original idea for this was going to be Sesshomaru just missing Kagome a lot like literally he keeps trying to go on dates #but she's too busy and they keep narrowly missing her and it was going to have hurt puppy sesshomaru lol #but I ended up exploring Kagome's trip more dangit. More Sess emotion to come then!#yoart

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maysileeewrites · 29 days ago

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🫧 ALCHEMY 🫧

Fiyero Tigelaar x f!reader; 18+ MDNI!

Synopsis: Fiyero‘s idea of helping you study for your upcoming exams is much more distracting than you thought …

c.w.: smut! (vaginal fingering, fem receiving oral, hints at praise kink); established relationship; Fiyero being a flirty tease; gratuitous use of Darling & love; fluff & bantering; Fiyero setting unrealistic boyfriend standards

w.c. 3.8k oops?? || masterlist

AN: this is for everyone craving some very much needed Fiyero smut!! I also couldn’t resist giving Fiyero reading glasses in this, if you’ve seen the clip of Jonathan Bailey practicing the Dancing Through Life choreo with his glasses on, you’ll know what I’m talking about 🤭

You’d been pouring over your textbooks for so long, your vision was starting to blur. Your concentration was starting to ebb away as well, seeing as you’d had to read through the paragraph concerning the use of moonflowers in several antidotes through four times, before you’d actually worked through the information conveyed in the paragraph.

Now, you sighed, reaching for your textbook and pen, because you needed to take more notes. Your hand was aching from how much you’d already written today. But it was no good, exams were starting next week and you really needed to ace your alchemy exam.

However, just as you were about to uncap your pen, a hand grasped yours, stopping you mid-motion.

„Darling, you should really take a break-„

Fiyero hadn’t even finished his sentence, when you were already shaking your hand, interrupting him. „I can‘t!“ Your voice quivered and seemed to border on the edge of hysterical, but you hardly noticed. „I can’t Fiyero, exams start on Monday and I need to-„

„What you need to do“, Fiyero said, stepping closer to you, until he was right behind your desk chair and able to rest his head in the crook of your neck, „is to take a break.“

You could feel his warm breath on your skin, could feel the bridge of his reading glasses dig into the soft skin of your neck and had to suppress a shiver.

Fiyero with his reading glasses was something else, truly. He was already extremely good-looking to begin with, but something about his reading glasses seemed to add to his natural good looks, almost like they were giving him an edge.

Or maybe you’d just been studying too much, causing your brain to turn to mush, you tried to reason with yourself.

Whatever it was - Fiyero had quickly found out the effect he had on you when he was wearing his reading glasses and was now using it shamelessly to his advantage. Not that he really needed that - his incredibly good looks and natural charms were enough to sweep you off your feet.

„I’m just worried about you, love“, Fiyero now said, drawing you out of your thoughts. His arms had snaked around your stomach and now you were trapped in his embrace, not that you really minded.

„You’ve been studying so much lately, I hardly ever get to see you.“

Though you couldn’t see the look on his face, you were pretty sure that he was pouting. That thought caused you to smile softly and, laying aside your pen, you reached for Fiyero’s hands, interlacing his fingers with yours.

„You do see me all the time, though“, you pointed out, squeezing his hands. „At classes and during meal times, in the library or when we’re studying here-“

Fiyero groaned. „Yes, but that’s just not the same. I want to spend some time with my girlfriend, love. And not just sitting next to each other, studying quietly-“

„Well, studying quietly is the usual thing to do“, you interrupted him.

He chuckled, his warm breath tickling your skin. You found yourself leaning back into him, enjoying his closeness. Now that you thought about it, he was right - though you saw each other all the time, you struggled to remember the last time you’d been together without the threat of upcoming exams looming over you.

„I know how important these exams are for you-“

„They’re important for you as well“, you pointed out, which Fiyero pointedly ignored, ploughing on.

„But you need to take a break every now and then. Not just for indulging me, but for your own sake, darling. Elphie and Glinda are worried about you as well.“

You sighed, knowing that there was no point in arguing with him. Not just because Fiyero could be incredibly stubborn once he’d made up his mind about something, but also because, deep down, you knew that he was right. Lately, you’d been studying so much, it almost felt as if an ever-present headache, paired with blurry vision, and aching, cramping hands were your constant companions.

„You’re right … it’s just, these exams are so important, I can’t - I can’t fail them, you know?“

Fiyero sighed quietly, breaking the embrace, and stepping around your chair, kneeling down right in front of you and taking your hands in his. „I know, love. And though I know that you don’t like hearing me say it, but I’ve absolutely no doubt that you’re going to ace your exams.“

You rolled your eyes, smiling. By now, you knew Fiyero well enough to know that he wasn’t just humoring you with his words - he really did believe in you without a doubt.

However complicated Fiyero’s own relationship with education was - though knowing him as you did, and knowing the unattainable expectations his parents had always set for him, you could completely comprehend his disdain -, he knew how important a good diploma was for you. Really, you couldn’t have asked for a better, more understanding and supportive boyfriend, you thought, grinning down at him.

Fiyero caught your gaze, returning your smile, as he squeezed your hands. Though his smile was soft and loving, there was a hint of something else in his eyes, something darker, hungrier-

„How about I’ll help you study, love? And then, later we can take a break …“

„You really don’t have to-“

„I’ll ask you questions that might come up in your alchemy exam, and for every right answer, you’ll get a reward-“

„But - how?“, you interrupted him, your mouth suddenly feeling quite dry. Something about the intensity in his gaze made your heart flutter, and something in his knowing, confident smirk told you that he knew exactly what he was doing to you when he was talking about rewards. „Fiyero, how would you know the questions that might come up in my alchemy exam, you’re not even taking the class-“

„Your flashcards are really quite informative, you know?“, he said, smirk widening, when he saw your cheeks flushing.

„You - you - my flashcards - you memorized them?“, you stuttered, breathless and at a complete loss for words.

Fiyero just nodded, looking quite pleased with himself. „Darling, I know how important these exams are for you.“

You shook your head, completely baffled. The fact that he’d actually taken the time to read through your alchemy flashcards, memorizing them, when he wasn’t even taking the subject himself, just to help you study, left you feeling dizzy and overwhelmed.

Sweet Oz, he really was the best.

„Fiyero, I - you-“

„I’m incredible, I know, thank you, darling“, he said, smirking. Not giving you the chance to tell him how much you loved him - or to say anything else, for the matter -, he squeezed your hands once more, before running his hands through his hair, leaning back.

„Now, I’m sure you’ll remember the mass of red clover you need to use in an antidote for poisons bending the free will-“

He’d barely finished asking the question when you were already rattling off the answer, able to visualize the flashcard, covered in your neat, cramped handwriting, in your head.

Fiyero nodded, grinning. „Quite right, which means that the correct ratio for red clover and amaranth is?“

For a moment, you could only stare at him in surprise. Had he actually taken the time to memorize the entire content of your flashcards, including all the extra footnotes and notes in the margins, you’d scribbled in a particularly small, cramped font, when you’d been using the cards for revision a few days ago?

Fiyero’s knowing, self-satisfied smirk answered your question, and you could only shake your head at him in awe.

„You’re the best“, you said in a weak, awe-struck voice.

Fiyero just smirked. „I know, but that still doesn’t answer my question, love.“

He leaned in closer towards you again, reaching for your hands, which were still resting on your thighs. This time, he didn’t thread your fingers together, instead he started to gently rub your skin in soothing circles.

You let out a quiet, satisfied sigh - up until now you’d tried to ignore how stiff and aching your hands had been feeling lately, but Fiyero seemed to know exactly what he needed to do in order to gently soothe the pain in your stiff, aching joints.

„So?“, Fiyero asked, his chocolate brown eyes meeting yours.

The intensity in his eyes caught you off guard - though, at first glance, his gaze seemed soft and full of concern for you, but there seemed to be something darker and hungrier beneath the concern - and that, paired with how incredibly good he looked with his reading glasses, caused your cheeks to flush.

„I - what?“, you asked him, having completely forgotten about alchemy and the proper ratio for red clover and amaranth in antidotes for the moment.

Fiyero chuckled. „Already speechless …“

You rolled your eyes at his comment, casting about for a snappy remark, but just then, Fiyero gently squeezed both your hands once more, before both his hands settled on the insides of your thighs, dangerously close to the hem of the skirt of your Shiz uniform.

„The proper ratio for red clover and amaranth in antidotes for poisons that aim at bending the free will, I’m sure you remember that, love?“

His tone was entirely light and innocent, but the dark, hungry gleam in his eyes and his satisfied smirk told you that he knew exactly what he was doing to you, when his hands started to slide higher, and higher, underneath your skirt, until you felt his fingertips brushing against the soft, sensitive skin of the inside of your thigh.

Your breath hitched, you couldn’t help it.

Fiyero leaned even closer towards you then, his eyes finding yours again.

„The proper ratio, darling?“, he asked you again, just when his fingertips started to explore the skin of your thighs with teasing, soft touches.

„I - I“, you stuttered, trying your hardest the recall the notes you’d taken concerning the particular question, but to no avail. Your mind was focused entirely on just one thing: Fiyero.

The way he was looking up at you, now not even trying to conceal the hunger in his eyes, was making you feel dizzy, and his fingertips, wandering ever higher, now dangerously close to the seam of your underwear, kept you on edge, and you felt your heart start to beat faster.

Fiyero chuckled, just as his fingertips brushed innocently over your clothed mound.

You squirmed, your breath hitching, and your hands gripped at the arms of your desk chair, your grip so tight that your knuckles whitened.

„If you want, I could help you out, love“, he said, his dark eyes finding yours again. Normally, you’d have rolled your eyes at his blatant innuendo, but as it was, all you found yourself able to do was trying to lean into his touch, wanting - no, needing - to feel the delicious friction of his fingertips against your core again.

Fiyero held your gaze, all while his fingertips brushed over your clothed core again. You sighed, closing your eyes in relief, though the relief was only short-lived.

Heat was starting to build in your stomach, and again, you found yourself leaning into Fiyero’s touch, your hands leaving the desk chair, and reaching for Fiyero, settling on his shoulders.

„The proper ratio, love“, Fiyero said, his fingers now drawing teasing circles over the fabric of your underwear, „is very important to remember, because due to red clover’s strong effect on the mind, it could quickly act as neutralizing, instead of amplifying when used in too high dosages.“

Your eyes widened. Now that Fiyero explained it, you were able to recall the information yourself, even able to conjure up the image of the flashcard containing that particular information in your mind. What really had you staring at your boyfriend in awestruck fascination though, was the fact that he was able to recall such information at all, given his current circumstances.

If the roles had been reversed, you wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on anything but him, you thought, as your eyes found Fiyero’s again.

He smirked at you, watching as your cheeks flushed, as he increased the pressure of his fingertips on your core.

„Fiyero“, you said breathlessly, breath hitching when, suddenly, his hands settled on your waist with a strong grip, and he drew you in even closer towards him. When his grip on you relaxed, your legs fell open almost instinctually, effectively trapping Fiyero between your thighs.

He didn’t seem to mind in the slightest however, the dark glint in his eyes intensifying.

„Not quite the answer I was looking for“, he said, his tone casual, almost matter of-factly, which was in stark contrast to his knowing, satisfied smirk and his wandering fingertips, which brushed against your underwear again, until he finally, finally took mercy on you and slipped his fingers beneath the fabric.

„But I suppose it’ll do just as well“, he muttered, his eyes finding yours, as his fingers brushed over your core again, this time without the irksome barrier of your underwear in the way.

You whined, trying to lean into his touch, but Fiyero didn’t increase the pressure of his touch, continuing to draw teasing circles over your core.

„Fiyero“, you said, breath hitching, „please, I - I … I - just - please …“

It was torture, what he was doing to you, you thought. Complete torture. Kneeling between your thighs, his hair tousled just the way you liked it, looking up at you with a dark, hungry expression in his eyes behind his glasses, and yet he still wouldn’t touch you - not really, not in the way you really needed him to.

„Please, just - just touch me, please, I-“, the rest of your words was lost to the breathless, loud whine you let out, when suddenly, without warning, the pressure of his touch on your core increased, and he started rubbing your sensitive bundle of nerves in earnest, while he used his other hand to impatiently tug your underwear down your legs.

„The proper ratio is always double the amount of amaranth, due to red clover’s strong effectiveness“, Fiyero said, his own voice now sounding breathless. Having managed to successfully wrangle your underwear down your legs, his left hand settled on the inside of your thigh again.

Continuing to rub your bundle of nerves with his right hand, his left hand moved up your thigh, his fingertips edging ever closer towards your core, until he stopped his movements just when his fingertips had grazed against your core.

„Though I suppose you’ve answered the first part of my question, which means that you’re due a reward.“

When he finally pushed two fingers into you, you could have cried out in relief. Your grip on his shoulder blades tightened, but Fiyero didn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

The thought that you should probably feel embarrassed by how you’d already turned to putty in his hands, how wet you already were, briefly crossed your mind, but then Fiyero started to pump his fingers in and out of you in a torturously slow rhythm, and every other thought but how incredibly good he made you feel, seemed to fade from your mind.

„But maybe you do remember what the best time for picking red clover is? It was in another footnote on the flashcard, love“, Fiyero said, his own voice sounding increasingly breathless and strained as his eyes found yours again.

How he could recall any of the contents of your flashcards at all when he currently had two fingers buried deep inside of you, curling them just the way he knew drove you wild, repeatedly hitting your sweet spot, was entirely beyond you.

As it was, you barely managed to wheeze out „Mid-Midnight“, before moaning embarrassingly loud, when Fiyero added a third finger, stretching you open even wider.

„Good girl“, Fiyero groaned, his hand leaving your clit for a moment as he hitched your right leg up over his shoulder. The fingers of his other hand were still buried deep inside you and you felt yourself squeezing around him, your breath hitching, the new angle almost making you see stars in front of your eyes.

The aching heat in your belly was building and building with every stroke of Fiyero’s fingers and soon you found yourself moving your hips in time with his hands, meeting his thrusts and seeking out more and more and more of the delicious friction.

But then, just when you were chasing after your peak, feeling the aching, delicious heat in you building and building, Fiyero abruptly stopped his movements.

At this, you actually did let out a cry of frustration, not caring about anything but your denied peak and the fact that Fiyero’s fingers were still buried deep inside of you, yet he was refusing to move them, denying you what you so desperately wanted - no, needed.

„Fiyero, please-“

„One last question, darling“, he said, his voice sounding rough and strained, and his hand left your clit again and you watched him with wide eyes and flushed cheeks as he carelessly took of his glasses, tossing them to the side.

„From here on out, will you listen to me, Elphie and Glinda when we’re concerned about you?“

The question caught you off guard, and you found yourself leaning forwards, wanting to be closer to Fiyero, but the sudden movement only caused his fingers to slide deeper into you.

„I - what?“, you moaned, biting down hard on your lip.

Fiyero’s dark eyes found yours again, his gaze serious. „You’ll listen to me when I’ll tell you to take a break? Exams are important, but so is your health, darling.“

As if to punctuate his point, he curled his fingers again, hitting your sweet spot perfectly.

„Yes, Sweet Oz, yes“, you whined desperately, your hips rocking forward again, „yes, I - anything you want, Fiyero, just please-“

„Good girl.“

And without further warning, Fiyero lowered his head between your thighs, and you felt his lips right were you so desperately needed them. And instead of continuing to tease you and work you into a desperate, frenzy mess like he usually would with featherlight kisses against your core, he immediately licked a flat stripe over your slit with his tongue.

„Fiyero!“

You nearly came undone right then and there. His tongue immediately delved into your folds, replacing his fingers, giving you exactly what you needed.

Your fingers found their way into Fiyero’s hair, tugging at his strands maybe a little too harshly, but if the low, satisfied groan that escaped him was any indication, he seemed to enjoy it, like he usually did.

Fiyero pressed his thumb to your clit again, applying just the right amount of pressure, as his tongue continued to slide in and out of you, perfectly hitting your sweet spot repeatedly.

Soon, you were a quivering, panting mess, desperately arching your back and bucking your hips up to meet the sure, confident strokes of Fiyero’s tongue. You found yourself clenching around him again, as the pleasurable heat in your core kept building, nearly at its breaking point.

A whiny, desperate moan escaped you, and you found your grip on Fiyero’s hair tightening even more.

„Fiyero, I - I - fuck!“, you panted, unable to string together a coherent sentence anymore.

Fiyero seemed to understand what you were trying to tell him, though, for he replaced his tongue with his fingers again, setting a brutal, unforgiving pace, as he swirled his tongue over your now swollen, incredibly sensitive bundle of nerves.

„I - Fiyero“, you panted.

You were so close, so incredibly close-

„Don’t hold back“, Fiyero now groaned, the hand that had been previously settled on your hip reaching up, and you immediately reached for it, „come for me, good girl.“

That did the trick.

The coil in your belly snapped, and overwhelming waves of pleasure crested over you.

You came, with a loud cry of Fiyero’s name on your lips, and squeezing his hand so tightly, your fingernails digging into his skin that you were sure they were going to leave crescent shaped marks on his skin.

Fiyero took everything you gave him, guiding you through your high, as he squeezed your hand back, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over your skin, greedily lapping up all your juices.

For a few, incredible moments there was nothing but Fiyero and the waves of pleasure claiming you.

Then, slowly, you started coming back down from your high. Fiyero was still kneeling between your legs, his tongue greedily lapping up the last of your juices and you squirmed from the overstimulation. Fiyero didn’t let you pull away from him, though.

Only after lapping up the last drop, and, looking at you with a knowing, challenging expression in his eyes as he pressed his lips right against your swollen, sensitive nub - which had you squirming, moaning unintelligible nothings, your grip on his hair tightening once more - did he pull away, gently sliding your leg back down from his shoulder, before gently scooping you up in his arms.

You felt like putty in his hands, nothing more than a tangle of limbs.

You were still breathing heavily as he sat down in your desk chair, gently positioning you in his lap. Fiyero tucked your head against his chest, softly stroking your hair as he whispered sweet nothings into your ear, while you continued to come back down from your high.

After a few moments, you found the strength to reach for Fiyero’s hand, threading your fingers together.

His eyes found yours again, and the love for you you saw in them, nearly took your breath away again.

„Sweet Oz, that was incredible, you’re - fuck, I love you so much, Fiyero“, you said, reaching up and pressing your lips to his.

Fiyero let out a soft noise at your words, kissing you back softly. The kiss was slow and sweet, and though you could feel how aroused he still was, you wanted to bask in this slower moment with him for a bit longer.

When Fiyero broke the kiss, he leaned his forehead against yours, cupping your cheek with his free hand. „By Oz, you’re incredible, darling. I love you so much.“

You smiled, pressing another soft kiss against his lips.

When Fiyero pulled back again, his eyes were still soft and full of love, but his lips slowly formed into a smirk. „Though, what was that bit about studying quietly being the usual thing to do?“

You rolled your eyes. „You’re unbelievable, you know that?“

He just smirked. „Maybe so, but you love it.“

Seeing as there was no point in his arguing this particular sentiment, you just pressed your lips to his again, though this time not nearly as softly and sweetly as before. Fiyero groaned, deepening the kiss.

You reached up, winding your arms around his neck.

You had a feeling that you were not going to leave your room for quite some time. Not that you minded, not even in the slightest.

Studying could wait a bit longer.

tagging: @foxherder @a-quick-request @deepkittymoon @hazbingirliexoxo @inejsknifes @miadollaasignn @delespresso @losttombgirlie @potato-painter

so sorry for the long wait!! the holidays stress was real this year around

#fiyero x reader #fiyero tigelaar x reader #fiyero x you #fiyero smut #fiyero tigelaar smut #fiyero x y/n #fiyero tigelaar x you #fiyero wicked #prince fiyero #fiyero tigelaar x y/n #fiyero imagine #wicked x reader #wicked fiyero #wicked movie #wicked 2024 #wicked imagine

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gilverrwrites · 6 months ago

Text

Summer Loving

Ft. Bruce, Dick, Jason, Roy, & Tim.

AN: Have a lot of lengthy and/or smutty wips on the go atm and I can feel them bogging me down a bit, so I decided to take a break and work on some short summer themed slice of life/domestic fluff to cleanse my palate. I feel I must apologise for my gratuitous and obvious Roy Harper thirst but I wont, enjoy!

CWs: Some are more suggestive than others, reader discretion advised. Minor swearing and minors swearing, mentions of alcohol. GN! Reader

Bruce: Tan Lines

It’s moments like these where you wish Bruce didn’t have to spend his nights on the endless pursuit of justice. You knew what you’d signed up for, but you’d missed him all day and god, the feel of his strong fingers massaging after sun into your skin was euphoric. Would you be such a bad guy for trying to convince him to stay home?

“I like this.” His hum pulls you from your train of thought, and you look down to see his fingers trailing against the tan line your shorts had caused. He spares you a quick suggestive glance, the look a wolf might give a rabbit it’s particularly fond of before dipping down to replace his hands with his mouth.

“Ohhh, stay home tonight Brucie?” The look he gives you this time maintains its warmth but there’s an air of warning to it. Despite his simmering combativeness, you add a charming “Please?”

To that he lifts his head, just far enough to deny you of his lips, but close enough that his low voice still seems to reverberate through your body as he speaks. “Crime doesn’t take the night off, neither can I.”

“I know.” You sigh, admitting defeat before the battle has even begun, and he rewards you by assuming his barrage of kisses to your lower body.

“Just don’t go out too early.” You advise, trailing the tip of your finger from ear to ear, estimating the line where his Batman cowl ends. “Don’t want to get any tan lines of your own.”

“Trust me.” There’s humour in his tone now as he works his way upwards, ghosting his 5 o'clock shadow along the skin of your stomach as he prowls closer. “The evening is young, and I have plans for you yet.”

Dick: A/C

The A/C is broken. Again. To combat the heat the whole household has resorted to wearing nothing but their underwear, except of course for Haley who is always naked. Lucky dog.

Additionally, all the windows are open in an attempt to let the cool night air circulate the humid apartment but all it’s really doing is letting in the ambient sound of Blüdhavens boisterous nightlife and countless flies.

“Want one?” Dick asks from the kitchen spaces as he digs into his second ice pop since dinner, you joke about envying his metabolism despite knowing damn well that’s not the real reason for his physique. Although between the food and the heat-induced skipped workout, he’s bloating, just a little bit; the tiniest, most delicious bit of plumpness and you can’t take your eyes off of it. “Are you checking me out?”

“Always.” You reply with a brazen smile, continuing your laser-focused stare even as he begins approaching your spot on the couch.

“How about you stop looking and start touching, huh baby?”

“No.” You finally cease your objectification of his stomach to look him in the eyes. The intended sternness in your tone is stifled by the way his icy confection has turned his lips blue. “I already told you, no sex in this heat until the air con is fixed.”

Despite your posturing, you don’t fight his closing proximity, nor do you stop him from dragging his cool-raspberry-stained tongue along the length of your throat, it’s still cold from the half-eaten lolly and the sensation sends a welcome chill through your body. As inefficient as it may be, you much prefer this method of cooling down to an A/C.

Jason: Sunrise

The metal grate of your fire escape is surprisingly cool against your bare feet. It’s early, pre-sunrise early but the air is still thick, a combination of the arid summer heat and steam of the cities underground. Despite the unpleasant temperature, you settle onto the grill, with nothing but a pillow for comfort and two ice-cold glasses of lemonade.

When 15 minutes pass, and you start to notice a growing tinge of orangeness in the sky, you start to worry you’re being stood up, or worse; something awful has happened. Something that would prevent him from coming home, but then you hear it; The heavy steps of Jason’s steel-toed boots approaching from your apartment’s rooftop.

You glance up just in time to see him dropping down. A loud clang rings out as he hits the floor, causing the whole structure to vibrate and you wonder if he does that every night, surely not, there’s no way you could sleep through it or that your neighbours wouldn’t complain.

“Aren’t you sweating balls?” You ask, taking in his gear as he sits down beside you. The boots, the cargo pants, turtleneck, jacket, gloves, and the full-face mask.

“Nah.” His voice is muffled by the headpiece until he takes it off, shaking his head to support his answer. “It’s weird but I’ve kinda run cold ever since I died, you know?”

Obviously you don’t know, in fact having felt his searing, naked skin pressed to yours on multiple occasions, you highly doubt him, but you nod regardless and hand him his drink. Unlike a man on the chilly side, he chugs half of the icy drink in one go and you wonder if he’ll ever stop jumping from buildings and telling white lies to impress you.

“Want some help warming up?” Before he can respond you lean up, brushing your nose against his and watching as his lids flutter closed in anticipation, his breath is cool on your lips and when you finally press into them you can taste nothing but the tartness of the lemonade. Regardless, it’s heavenly; soft and tender. Every kiss with Jason makes your heart flutter in the same way it had the first time.

When he pulls away you chase after him, eyes only opening to meet his heterochromatic irises when your pursuit for more becomes an abundant failure.

He’s grinning as he tells you; “We’re missing the sunrise.”

“I don’t care.” You answer, trying again, and this time succeeding in drawing him in for another kiss.

Roy: Paddling Pool

If ever anybody asked you to describe a moment of pure domestic bliss, this moment would be a strong contender. Your lower body is submerged in a paddling pool as you bask in the sun, enjoying the occasional splash of water caused by Lian’s uncoordinated but enthusiastic dancing beside you. She too is basking, but hers is under an endless stream of hose water being directed by her father; Roy, who is watching the two of you from a sun lounger, hosepipe in one hand and a non-alcoholic beer in the other.

He's quite the vision, no shoes, no shirt, just tastefully tacky swim trunks and his iconically worn-out grey baseball cap that may be protecting his head, but is doing little to tame his mop of fiery hair. From this angle, you’ve got a great shot of some of his lesser-seen tattoos, but every time you look over at him you find yourself far more smitten with the countless freckles that adorn his chest and shoulders, made darker and more noticeable by the recent heatwave.

“How’s the Heineken?” You ask, genuinely curious how he’s enjoying his first taste of alcohol-free booze.

“Crap.” He replies, lips briefly curving into a self-amused smirk before dropping to woefully panicked as you both turn to look at Lian. Luckily, she doesn’t seem to have been listening in, content in her own toddler babblings. Relieved, he turns his attention back to you and corrects himself. “Um, not good babe.”

“That sucks. I’m sorry.” You offer your condolences, but he seems completely unbothered.

Instead, he turns the glass bottle around in his hands a few times before chucking it over his shoulder. It sails through the air before seamlessly landing in the open bin by your backdoor. Your concern about it leaking into the rest of the recycling is seconded by how impressed you are. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times his trick-shot hit, you’re always at least a little bit captivated by his impeccable aim.

“It’s cool, hon.” He shrugs and leans back into the lounger. His eyes flicker back and forth between you and his child, a slow, contented smile spreading across his face. “Got everything I need right here.”

Bonus:

Hours later, you’re sorting through the soggy contents of the recycling as Roy scoops Lian up in his arms and takes her sleepy frame inside. The sun is still high and bright, but it’s past her bedtime, and it’s been a long, exciting day for her. He dries her with the softest towel he can find, careful to pat down every pruned finger and toe before putting her to bed.

“How was your day, sweetie?” He asks, strong fingers petting her soft hair to help soothe her to sleep.

“Crap!”

Tim: Ice Cream

Tim is still sleeping off a rough, muggy night of crime fighting as you circumnavigate the boat's sad excuse for a kitchen. The bags under his eyes had been growing darker each day under the stress of hunting down a mysterious new bank robber. You’d hoped to lift his spirits by surprising him with a tub of homemade ice cream, but so far all you’d managed to make is a mess.

After having a falling out with the thrifted ice cream maker you’d stuffed in the back of a cupboard months ago, you settled for hand mixing. By the time you put the concoction in the freezer to set, your wrists are aching, and Tim has begun to stir. You’re just finishing up the dishes you’d created when he finally emerges from the bedroom in shorts, flip-flops, and a not-so-summer-appropriate hoodie.

Before you can offer a ‘good morning, Timmybear’ his arms are around your waist, pulling you close from behind and settling the weight of his sleepy head on your shoulder.

“What’s this?” He asks and then he’s licking what you can only assume is a stray splash of the mixture from your cheek with the bravery only a man raised by Batman could possess. It could have been literally anything. “Banana?”

“Chunky monkey actually.” Goddamn. Surprise ruined in less than a minute. Oh well, at least you can give him something to look forward to. “Don’t worry, I didn’t get ice cream without you, I made it for you.”

“I figured.” He hums, sounding so very drowsy despite the ease with which he manoeuvres your body against the kitchen counter so he can keep you close while brewing his morning tea, occasionally planting soft kisses to the side of your neck as his hands move absentmindedly. “You’re the best, you know that? Can’t wait to try it.”

“You figured? How did you figure?” You skip right past the justified praise; he’d been practically comatose since 4 AM, how could he have figured?

“It’s on the ceiling.” He’s right, you look up to see a cream-soaked walnut lodged above you and let out a dramatic sigh as you fall deeper into Tim's arms.

Taglist: @wandalfnation

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daycourtofficial · 1 year ago

Text

The Shadows Want You to be Happy

Summary: Azriel’s shadows overhear a conversation where you doubt Azriel’s true intentions, and they urge him to rectify the situation.

Author’s note: this is just pure fluff baby! Pure unadulterated fluff. Go to the dentist! Also I didn’t proofread this, so enjoy at your own caution!

His shadows didn’t mean to spy on you, they promise. They just liked keeping an eye on you at all times.

Azriel had no idea why his shadows seemed to adore you so much - well, he could understand it, because he adored you just as much as his shadows did. But he can’t figure out why - they don’t like being around Elain, but most of the others the shadows just watch.

Not you, though. Whenever you two are in the same room his shadows roam over you, greeting an old friend. If he’s been away for a days on a mission, they spend several minutes swirling around you, seemingly doting on you, like they’re asking “are you okay? Did you eat while we were gone? Did you sleep?”

A few shadows have taken it upon themselves to stay stationed with you at all times. He thinks they have a schedule, out of jealousy and need to share their time with you, but they don’t really tell him too much about what they see. The most they’ll tell him is if you haven’t eaten in a while or that time they told him about you having a cold and not wanting anyone to find out. He spent three days in your apartment with you, feeding you soup and taking care of you.

His shadows absolutely do not tell him the things you say or how you’re feeling, or so he thought. Both of the shadows that were asking as your bodyguards came to him, like little kids with a story to tell.

You were laying on the couch in the library with Feyre, engrossed in your independent books. The two of you do this weekly, enjoying each other’s presence without much social obligation. Sometimes the two of you will talk, but it’s often followed by long, comfortable silences. Just when you thought the silence was going to stay for a while, Feyre spoke up.

“so, sweetie, how are things with you and Azriel?” She asks, closing her book to turn to you.

Your cheeks heat immediately. “Um,” you say, closing your book to turn to her, knowing that she won’t relent until she gets what she wants out of this conversation.

You had kept your feelings for him mostly to yourself, except one drunken night a few weeks ago you had told Feyre about how pretty he was. You thought she might have forgotten about it, but this conversation is telling you she wants more. Thank the mother it wasn’t Rhys or Cas you had told that to - they would have mocked your word choice of “devastatingly pretty” for years.

“Well, we have plans to go out tonight,” you reply, very nervous about opening up to Feyre. She looked at you, her face asking for you to continue. “We’re trying all of the bakeries in Velaris to see who has the best pastries and hot chocolate, so once a week we try a new one and gorge ourselves on baked goods and chocolate.”

Feyre smiled at how absolutely adorable that was. “Are these… dates?” she asks, smiling at how absolutely oblivious the two of you were.

“We call them dates,” you reply.

“Do you two do anything physical? You don’t have to be gratuitous with details, I’m not Mor.” Feyre says, shuddering thinking of Mor grilling you for details on if the two of you have had sex yet.

“Um well the bakeries are usually cozy so we usually are tucked away in a corner, pressed up together. In one of them we had to wait for a table, so he just wrapped his wings around me while we waited.” You told her, grinning at the memory of his body heat.

“Do you two ever kiss?”

You sink a little further into the couch, your cheeks blazing with heat now, your hands covering your face as you say, “yes”.

“Has there been more than kissing?”

Feyre watches the head hiding behind youe hands nod ever so slightly and squeals. She actually squeals.

The people of Velaris love to gossip with her, and when she heard rumors of two of her friends being spotted around town looking very coupley, she decided to investigate. It also doesn’t help that the Inner Circle has a betting pool on when you ans Azriel will get together. Her bet was this week, so she’s doing what she can to win. And because she wants the two of you to be happy. And because Cassian bet that you two would be together next week, and she can’t lose to him, his gloating is atrocious.

“So, you two are together?” She asks, practically bouncing in her seat.

“I’m not sure,” you say, “honestly I’m a little worried that this means more to me than it does to him.” You look down at your hands, “I don’t really do casual dating, and I’m a little worried that this is just a fling to him. It’s really incredible and hot and sweet and all but.” You look around to see if anyone is listening before you whisper, “honestly, it would break my heart if this was just casual for him.”

Feyre was shocked at how sad you looked at the idea of being something casual to Az. She knew the two of you were head over heels for each other, they all knew that, but you looked devastated.

“Sweetie,” she says, trying her best to console you, “there is no way that that male views you or anything to do with you as ‘casual’.“

“Are you sure?” You ask, hesitation lacing your every word.

“Absolutely. He lights up whenever you’re around and I’ve never seen him miss a function you’re at.”

You thank your friend for the reassurances and settle back into your respective books. You knew that Azriel’s shadows often followed you around, even without him being anywhere nearby. He once told you that they find you adorable. However, you didn’t realize that the two who were stationed with you left very quickly after your discussion with Feyre.

The shadows relayed the whole story to him, in part because they, like the inner circle, want the two of you together. But also because they understand that you were upset and Azriel could fix it.

Azriel was more shocked at the insistence from them to make you less upset - usually they are just uninvolved observers, simply passing along information to him, allowing him to draw his own conclusions. The way those shadows spoke to him you’d think that they were in charge of him.

He met you outside of your apartment later that night, dressed in an all black casual outfit. “Ready?” He asks, extending his arm out for you to take. You lock the door behind him, straightening your coat before taking his arm.

The two of you start these dates off by walking through Velaris. Winter has just begun and there’s a light falling of snow covering the two of you.

“What’d you get up to today? I haven’t seen you since breakfast,” he asks you, not-so-subtly reminding you that you were, in fact, his breakfast, before he left your apartment this morning.

“I spent most of the day in the library with Feyre, reading a few books, doing some research. I had to get out of there, the words were all starting to blend together,” you reply, nuzzling into his arm to retain some of his heat, despite his jacket covering his arms.

“Mm, well then I guess you could consider me you’re handsome knight, off to whisk you away for an evening of delicacies in your time of need,” he retorts.

You chuckle and begin to speak, not stopping yourself before blurting, “why are you only like this with me? Don’t get me wrong, I love this side of you, but you only show it to me. Why’s that?”

Azriel stops your walk to stand in front of you, “ignoring your recent declaration of love,” you huff, “I just.. feel different around you.”

The look he’s giving you makes your knees go weak. He’s looking into your eyes with deep, raw honesty, like he wants you to see inside his soul.

“I love my family, despite their best efforts to annoy me into murdering them,” he says. You giggle. “But you’re.. different. The way I feel about you is different. I thought I loved Mor, but I didn’t. I loved the idea of saving her, of being her knight.” He sighs, unbelieving that he’s spilling all of this to you out in public. Luckily the other pedestrians just ignore the two of you, out of kindness or fear of him, he’s not sure. He pulls you into a quiet little alley, in the hopes to retain some privacy.

“It was stupid, but I thought I could save the girl and we’d live happily ever after. Then I met you. When I was a kid, I always wanted someone to come rescue me, and I thought that that was how you fall in love. But it’s not. I didn’t need to save you to love you. After this big revelation about myself, I took some time to really think about what I want. It’s why a few weeks back everyone thought I went to check on the war camps. Well, I did check on them, but I spent most of the time thinking. And I want you, no rescuing required. Though if you’d have me, I’d rescue you from anything. A bad day, my annoying family, the flu, anything. I’m not sure how clear my intentions have been, I figured showing you off around Velaris was enough, but I guess not.”

He paused, a mixture of nerves and intense determination radiating off of him.

“I haven’t thought about another person since I met you. I haven’t even considered looking at anyone else. Rhys has started calling me a puppy, because I follow you around everywhere, and I don’t care. I’ve never been so public with anyone, not giving a damn who sees or what they think, because I want them to know that you’re with me. I want everything you’ll give me.”

You’re stunned. It’s so quiet, you can hear the snow falling. It’s as if the world has gone silent to hear what you’ll say.

“Anything I’ll give you?” You say, a smirk crossing your face, wanting to draw out his confession a bit more.

“Anything.”

“Even if I snore?” You ask.

He laughs, “you don’t snore. You’re actually quite adorable when you’re asleep, hate to break it to you.”

“Hmm,” you say, stroking your finger on your chin, looking quizzical. “Guess you’ll just have to get used to my adorable sleeping, because if you’re accepting it, I’m giving you everything.”

He leans down, capturing your laugh with his lips, his shadows dancing around the two of you in excitement.

He pulls away after several minutes, laughing at the groan coming from your lips, “did you know that the idiots have a bet about us?”

He begins again after seeing your confused face, “If we’re together this week, Feyre wins the betting pool. Next week is Cassian.”

“Oh!” You exclaim, “that’s why she wanted us to be together so badly! Hm, maybe we should let Feyre win, because Cassian would be-

“Unbearable.” You both say in unison.

“When should we tell them? And how?” You ask.

“Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow we can just have sex on the dining room table, that’ll send the message loud and clear.” He says, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

You swat his arm, “no, we’re better than Cassian and Nesta. Maybe we should have a banner made. It’ll say “we had sex!” And point down to us.”

He chuckles, grabbing your arm again and steering you towards the bakery, as the two of you contemplate how to tell your family the news that will make them all so incredibly happy.

#azriel #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel fanfic #azriel fluff #acotar fanfiction

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tieronecrush · 11 months ago

Text

BNBG (brand new baby girl)

frankie morales x curvy OF/cam girl f!reader

summary: frankie has been needing distractions from a hurdle in his sobriety, so he ventures to his frequented subscription service platform to take his mind off things. he sees the title of your page, intrigued immediately, and dives deep into your content. catching your attention on a livestream with his confident commands, frankie becomes infatuated with you and an avid viewer before he decides to DM you one day...and then ends up with a brand new baby girl.

wc: 11k

rating: E (very)

warnings: daddy kink!! **cover does not depict anything about the reader, simply vibes of softness**, vague descriptions of reader's body (plush, thick, curves, soft, etc. no definite descriptors used otherwise. picture her as you want but she is mid to plus size in my head 🫶), no age specified (only that reader started out of college, no specifications of when she went to school), discussions of addiction & drug use, childless frankie au, sex work, sex livestream, consumption of porn, unestablished relationship, online relationship, pet names (conejita, baby, babygirl, pequeña, bunny, etc.), gratuitous descriptions of frankie's dick, SMUT, male masturbation, female masterbation, sex toys, both frankie & reader have thoughts about the other (unprotected piv, fingering, oral, etc.), major dirty talk, d/s dynamics, some fluff sprinkled in <3, this might be lowkey problematic that frankie uses porn to cope (esp reader's porn) buuuuut hopefully it's hot

a/n: cover design & dividers by me 💋 this is an unhinged daydream of mine, hope y'all enjoy! huge thank you to my besties @kiwisbell and @northernbluess for beta-reading 💓

The time on Frankie’s phone screen turns over to well past midnight. Bedroom pitched black save for the blue light illuminating his face as he scrolls on Instagram, unable to fall asleep from thoughts stirring. He wants to scratch the itch — to pick at the scab that’s been growing in his brain for over a year. Temptation runs hot in his veins. A craving, deep in his gut. A strong inhale or the rub of his fingertip against his gums. It would be fast. And it would only last less than half an hour — he could manage it one more time, he was sober enough for that, wasn’t he? He indulges himself in other aspects now: drinking, food, lax with his once regimented workout routine.

Frankie can hear the voice of his sponsor, the one he listens to speak at his weekly meetings in the musty church hall. Sure, his sponsor’s got valuable advice for him, having been sober for decades now, but he can’t relate to Frankie. Not really. He doesn’t know the level of temptation he’s consistently faced with, doesn’t know the fucked up shit he’s seen that got him into the substance in the first place.

His sponsor tells him to get into meditation. That it helps him turn his brain off when he has a craving, redirecting the energy into himself and crushing the aching want for it. Or some spiritual bullshit that Frankie doesn’t understand.

And besides, he’s found his own means of meditation.

Exiting the social media app, he opens his browser and types in the website. The light of the phone illuminates his face enough for his saved login to work, bringing him into his plane of piety. Where he escapes at least three times a week, late nights like now and the occasional mid-afternoon or morning on his desperate days off. When the urge is too strong. When he’s formulating a plan of how to get his hands on a tiny baggie, he loses himself — distracts his brain here.

Scrolling through his usual subscriptions, nothing seems to be hitting the spot. One hand grips his phone, thumb gliding along the screen, while the other cups his hard-on through his boxers, palming himself as he searches for something to get off to.

That’s when he sees it — the perfect combination of words that draws him in by the title. Clicking the page, he’s quick to pledge his monthly amount, eager to get access to all that lies beyond the paywall. And what he’s greeted with, pulls a sigh from his lips in the quiet room, his large hand squeezing his cock through the thin fabric elasticated around his waist.

“Fuck…” he mumbles to himself when he sees that there’s a live stream happening. A cosmic intervention for him, he thinks, a sign that he’s meant to satiate his vices with this.

With you.

The screen changes to a vertical view of you in front of the camera, iPhone seemingly propped up against something while you sit on your mattress. It’s so…delicate and soft. Those are the words he can think of to describe the backdrop that he takes in quickly. Billowing white comforter on your bed, pillows surrounding you. The first thought he has is that it looks like a bed he could easily sleep in — much more inviting than his. There are touches of blush pink, sky blue, and more. A complete rainbow of desaturated colors.

It all compliments you. Centered in the frame, the next sound you make drags his eyes back to your form as you move around. Another squeeze to his cock draws a longer sigh from his lips as he combs across the view of your body, scantily clad in a thong and a bra covered in cherries. The cups of the bra push up the weight of your breasts, spilling over the edge. His tongue runs across his lips to wet them, a new craving ravaging his mouth as he wonders what you would taste like with the skin of your tits dampened by his saliva.

The rest of your body is as softly lined and curving as your chest, waist swooping into your hips as you sit on your knees in front of the camera. Thick thighs spread with the press of your calves into the back of them, the inside of them meeting at the apex and providing cover for what he so badly wants to be shown. There’s a line of your stomach above the waist of your panties, supple skin glistening. Delicious, is all he can think to himself. You look so fucking delicious that it floods his mouth with saliva, enough that he feels the overwhelming need to push his boxers down, freeing his hard cock to rest against his stomach until he’s spitting into his palm and starting a slow, languid pace.

The grain of his palm drags against the length of his cock as he keeps a steady flick of his wrist. Not too fast, but not achingly slow. Enough to start stoking the burning coals in the pit of his stomach as he watches you on the small rectangular screen. Puffs of hot air leave his mouth, his jaw hanging open while he watches you shift to reach for something out of frame, the first look at your ass gifted to him. Rounded swell of curves with the fabric of your thong dipping between them. The slight jiggle of your cheeks makes Frankie moan quietly, taking the briefest moment to picture that same ripple in your skin from him fucking you from behind.

“Shit…” he grumbles under his breath, minorly increasing the pressure of his grip to squeeze his cock as his hand moves, desperate to mimic the feeling of someone — apparently you, despite not knowing anything close to your name.

Skin on skin catches on the base of his dick and he exhales sharply with his teeth bared, opening his palm to spit once again. It’s not enough, but he continues the slide of his wrist as he sets his phone down on the mattress briefly, reaching over to his nightstand, pausing once again to dispense a pump of lotion into the palm of his right hand. Wrapping the moistened hand around his cock again, he starts a faster pace before slowing down to drag out his pleasure longer.

Returning into the frame fully, he sees your face for the first time and coughs as his open-mouthed inhale seizes in his throat. His fingers circle the base of his cock, squeezing hard as he takes in your face. Perfectly primped with a layer of makeup, but he can tell you’ve got the kind of beauty that wouldn’t ever need changing or enhancing — effortless. Velvety skin, as silky as the rest of your body but with an added glow. Bright eyes that are shining with mischief and want, and a smirk that’s as playful; he finds himself shutting his eyes again, for a few lazy strokes as he pictures that face, and your plush, pliable body, on your knees in front of him. Eagerly awaiting his cock to fill your mouth.

Fuck, you’re really doing a number on him tonight. He needed this. His desperation for a high of any kind coats his open mouth with each labored breath.

Focused back on his phone, you show off the treasure that you dug for off-camera. A lilac vibrator, one that fits the length of your hand, with a swell of size rounded off at the tip and tapered in at the end. Leaning closer to your camera, Frankie groans when your tits bounce, spilling out of your bra with a tiny nip slip that he catches immediately. And it only makes him want to see more.

“Mm, c’mon, pretty girl, show me something here. M’fuckin’ dying…Necesito la distracción (I need the distraction),” Frankie speaks toward the screen, feeling pathetic as he barters with you in the one-way system.

As if you heard his pleas, you adjust your position, laying back on the mountain of pillows to prop yourself up and letting one leg fall open. Even in the lowered lighting of the room you’re in, presumably your bedroom, he can make out the wet patch covering your folds. He finds himself wondering if the act of getting off in front of a camera, in front of people watching live, is what gets you wet. Or if you have a fluffer like he’s heard they do in porn.

He’d wanna be your fluffer.

Or maybe he’d want to be the one to fuck you in the porno. At least both of you’d get to finish then.

“Think I need someone who knows better than me to tell me what they wanna see.” Your voice is saccharine, the slight fry in your voice jolts his hips into his hand, mumbles of curses slipping from his lips. “Anybody have any suggestions for me, chat?”

A low hum starts when you press the button of the vibrator in your hand, spreading your knees further to open your core to the view of the camera completely. Your opposite hand to the toy hooks into the crotch of your thong, pulling the small bit of fabric, practically a string with the amount it’s covering.

Frankie’s mouth waters as the speed of his hand picks up, the grip of his fingers not nearly as satisfying as the clench of a pussy, but he’ll make do. He has been for a year; you know what they say, no relationships for the first year sober. That, and he couldn’t find anyone that could take his mind off of coke long enough for him to get it up. So eventually he just let it be.

Now, though, he’s painfully hard. The quick movements of his hand send a shock of pleasure up to his brain, veins contracting with the extra effort to keep the blood supply to his cock. Thumb brushes over his tip, mixing in his precum with the other lubrication, a hiss from behind his teeth shot out from the stimulation. His gaze is glued onto his rectangular screen, huffing out deep breaths while you press the vibrator against your clit. There’s a quiver in your thighs that he notices, as if this is your first touch after teasing yourself, or someone else teasing you. Sensitive already.

Biting your lip, your eyes scan the screen as you read aloud, “FiveFingersAtFreddys said ‘Take your bra off please.’ Well, actually he said ‘Take your tits out’ but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, dude, and say that you actually do have good manners.”

He laughs, and it’s a first for him. Laughing at someone’s jokes as he jerks off, alone.

You comply with the request, taking the vibrator away from your clit to reach around and unclasp your bra. Tossing the material aside, you lean back into the pillows again and the next sight nearly makes Frankie come right then and there until he takes his hand away completely. Laid out, legs open and fingers pulling your panties aside, vibrator pushing into your clit and driving a high-pitched moan from your lips. All while you're bare from the waist up, cushioned torso melting into your heavy tits, pert nipples bringing them to a point. The form of a Greek classics statue, one with fleshy outlines carved impeccably from marble.

“La obra maestra (A masterpiece)…” Frankie whispers to himself, the squelch of his lotioned hand working his hard length bringing him back into his body, a moan slipping from his mouth.

“I think I need someone else to tell me how I should play with myself. M’so wet, jus’ wanna touch myself but I don’t know where to start. All seems like—like it’s going to feel so good,” you stutter out when your hips buck against the vibrator, a whimper echoing from your chest as you turn your attention to the chat again, awaiting intriguing instructions.

Maybe it’s sexual frustration, maybe it’s pathetic. Maybe it’s the intense fucking craving to replace his need for coke high with a need for an orgasm, but for whatever reason chosen, Frankie finds himself clicking on the comment box with his thumb, typing wildly with one finger. He takes a second to read it for spelling errors before he presses send. Too lost in it all now to care.

Your eyes perk up, smirk growing on your face when you read the influx of chat replies. One must have caught your eye because the vibrator is being left to the side again. Fingers hook into the waist of your panties, slowly pulling them off as you read aloud the comment that caught your attention.

“There’s a new name I see here…Maybe we should do what you want, Mr. FlyingFish. Consider it a welcome gift from me to you.” His heart is pounding in his chest, hand gripping tighter and twisting around his dick as he fucks his fist, mumbles of curses spilling out as he listens to you repeat what he desperately typed not a minute prior. It sounds dirtier coming from you, despite his best efforts at politeness, “You said ‘Please show off how many of your little fingers fit into your pretty pussy. Think a pretty girl like you deserves to fuck her fingers…’ Alright, FlyingFish, you’ve got me blushin’ from that request and that is difficult to do, sir. Thank you for calling me a pretty girl. I promise I’m smart, too. I’ll be sure to count ‘em for you.”

One finger slips into your dripping entrance easily, the other hand reaching for the vibrator and replacing it at your clit while your finger starts to fuck shallowly, “One finger…”

Whines of frustration crack over his small speakers before a bigger moan falls from your lips, a second finger slid into you alongside the first, “Oh, fuck…That’s two. Mm, how am I doin’? FlyingFish, d’you think I can get another?”

Frankie’s wrist flicks rapidly now, the direct address to him driving him mad as the sounds of his arm slapping against his stomach and thigh clap in his room and cut into the sounds your pussy is making as you get yourself off. He types as quickly as he can, strings of curses flowing from his mouth as the heat of his desire burns red hot inside of him. He’s so fucking close but he wants to watch you fall apart at the same time. Wants to be the reason you come.

“Oh, shit—you’ve got a mouth, FlyingFish. ‘I’d hope you can take another, otherwise, you couldn’t take my cock.’ Is that a promise, Fish? You saying you got a big dick for me to take?”

You whimper and he’s edging himself, squeezing hard to stay together when you inadvertently use his call sign. The closest thing you have to his name, and all he can think about is you screaming it while he’s fucking you. He wants to tell you it’s a promise only if you follow through, indulging in the fantasy of actually getting to touch you only for a moment. But instead, his attention is completely drawn to a third finger stretching your cunt in full view of the camera, your wanton moans popping in his speakers and driving his forearm to burn with the strain of muscle as he attempts to fist his cock even harder.

“Fuckfuckfuck…Come for me, baby, please fucking come on those fingers,” he begs no one but himself, a blinding white heat licking the entire inside of his body as he balances on the edge. Waiting for you to fall first.

“Oh my god, fuck…” The last word is drawn out, pitching up at the end as your fingers fuck faster, squelching sounds of your wetness flooding his mouth as his brain pleads for a taste of your cunt. “I don’t think—I don’t think I can get a fourth. M’gonna fucking come—ah! Oh, fuck me, Fish…”

You barely whisper his name, or at least what is his name to you, but it’s singlehandedly what punches out his guttural moan, ropes of warm, sticking spend coating his hand as he keeps moving and spilling onto his stomach. It’s prolonged, the tension in his calves relaxing after he spills the most come he has in a while.

Airy, light, a rush of blood back to his head has his whole body tingling with a high. Satiating his cravings from earlier, dissolving the want, the need, for anything of the sort. Instead, it’s replaced with thoughts of you — the image of you laying fucked out on his phone, adding his own touch of imagination when he closes his eyes to see you as you are but covered with his come the same way he is. Normally, this is when the smallest bit of shame crawls up his spine and sits at the nape of his neck, but instead, he melts into warmth. Faced with your smile as you sit up and lean over toward the camera again, laughing to yourself as you end the live.

“Um, if you’re still here, thanks for that FlyingFish. Felt fucking good…And to everyone else, I’ll stream again on Monday night, same time as always. Night, everyone. Have a good weekend.” All he hears before the sound cuts out is your excited giggles, the brightness of your post-orgasm joy stretching a smile across your face. He’s faced with a black screen, staring back at himself in the reflection with the shit-eating, smug grin he has on his face.

Now he’s got plans for Monday night.

Frankie hasn’t been able to get you out of his head. He’s hooked. Images of your sloping curves flash behind his eyes on the days when you’re not available to watch, his hips fucking his fist in bed, the shower, even on his couch with the blinds all open because he was that needy. Thoughts of you replaced his thoughts of the white powder, chasing after the different high he’s gifted by your voice, your body — all through a screen.

He’s caught himself rasping affections as he pictures you, hissed compliments as he comes and imagining what he’d say if you were in front of him. Letting him use your mouth or your cunt. He’s even gotten into a habit of imagining his head between your legs; the hardest he came is the one time he pictured you sitting on his face and all of the pretty sounds you’d make for him. Fuck, cariño, that’s so good. Mm, bonita, you’re such a good girl. Love doin’ what you’re told, don’t you, baby?

The fact that he doesn’t even know your name but is this infatuated isn’t lost on him. He knows he has an addictive personality, but this feels different. Like he was meant to find you for some reason. His sponsor would tell him it’s a call from the universe that this is all part of his ‘journey to sobriety’, but really, he just thinks that you’re fucking hot. And the tiniest part of him thinks you might like him watching too, even though you have no idea who he is.

Each time he watches you live, his thumb taps across the keyboard, responding to your requests and even adding in some encouragement. Virtually having conversations with you, he quickly became a frequent flyer (your joke, not his). You listen to him. Like the sweet girl that you are. Taking his suggestions — his demands when you beg — and showing off for him, a whimpering mess when he’s done with you.

At times, it feels like he’s the only one watching, or at least the only one that matters to you. With the amount of times his username falls from your lips, it’s easy to fall into a bubble of you and him. You’ve picked up the habit of referring to him as ‘Fish’ and it’s driven him mad, the closest thing to his name that he’ll hear you say. You give him material to think back about for days after. I love a man that knows what he wants, Fish. You can boss me around, Fishie. I always know what you tell me to do is gonna feel so fucking good.

All of this over the last few weeks has built up his courage, which is why he finds himself sitting on his couch with your profile open, the sun barely set outside. A random baseball game plays on his TV, but his focus is completely on his phone, writing and deleting a DM to you about ten times.

It has to be right. Friendly, but not stalker-ish. Flirty, but not creepy. Commanding enough to get your attention among what he imagines are countless messages in your inbox.

After another good ten minutes drafting a message, his thumb hovers over the ‘Send’ button for a few seconds. Squeezing his eyes closed, he lowers his finger and hits the button, anxiety washing over him as he opens his eyes to stare at the blue bubble.

No going back now.

Standing at the stove, water boils over the side of the pot while you pour in the uncooked pasta noodles. A few drops hit your skin, mumbles of curses leaving your lips, “Fucking shit!”

You stir the pasta before reaching for the nearest kitchen towel to wipe the once-scalding water off of your hand. A deep sigh exhales, relaxing your shoulders as the ding of a notification draws your attention to your phone lying on the marble countertop next to you.

What you find on your lock screen sends a shock of excitement down your spine, the warmth of anticipation radiating around your body to tingle your fingers and toes.

[Direct Message:] FlyingFish

Quick to swipe up, the device unlocks with a scan of your face and opens a new notification when you click on it with your thumb. Subconsciously, your opposite thumb has ended up between your teeth, biting down on the skin as you hold back an eager grin while you wait for his message to load.

You’ve never had this reaction to a message before, actually, it was usually the opposite. Rolling your eyes, ignoring the men until the last moment. Only responding to keep them enticed and subscribed — all of which keeps more money in your pocket. That’s really why you started this whole thing anyway.

FlyingFish:

Hey

A puff of air exhales through your nose, a chuckle cutting the otherwise silent kitchen. Shaking your head to yourself, you can’t help but smile at your screen. Heartbeat fluttering, you internally kick yourself for having such a reaction to such a simple message. Not even knowing who this person is, you find yourself typing back a response.

Hey there Fish

Guess I never actually asked if I could call you that

You turn back to your task at hand, continuing to cook your dinner and attempting to put out of your mind all of your assumptions about this person messaging you. You’d guess it’s a guy, an educated inference based on the demographics of your audience, but everything else is a complete mystery. The one time he insinuated he had a big dick stuck in your mind, and based on his behavior, you’d like to assume he isn’t lying. An image of a man sticks out to you each time you whimper his nickname, on camera and that handful of times off camera and alone: tall, solid, and strong. Brunette, only because that’s your type. Rough hands and commanding touches. Someone to bend your stubborn will into submission. He’s confident, at least through the chat, and he seems to know what he’s talking about. Each time you see his username pop up, you can feel yourself start to get wetter. Since you started this whole gig, there hasn’t been anyone quite like him. It’s always people asking for more for them — Show us your tits. Say my name. Turn around so we can see your ass.

But with him, it’s the opposite. He asks for more for you, which you guess is what he gets off to, not that you mind. Bet one more finger would feel even better for you, baby. Curl your fingers, cariño. You reaching that special spot? Gotta get deeper for me, baby. Rub slower, drag it out. Promise it’ll be even sweeter at the end.

Always polite but stern in his demands. Never too much, mostly not enough for your taste. He’s built up an appetite in you that you haven’t had before, a desire to please and to be good for him. All of it doesn’t feel like performing when he’s telling you what to do, it feels like he’s there, deep rasp in your ears as you picture thick fingers in place of yours and tight grips on your plush curves. Fingerprint-shaped bruises left behind and sore muscles in your thighs from holding yourself up as he asks you to come for him over and over and over.

A vibration against the hard surface of the countertop refocuses your gaze from a thousand yards away. Turning to grab your cell, you rub your thighs together in hopes of relenting the ache between them from your daydreams. Wet panties get caught in your folds, discomfort only momentary before you lean over the counter and open your legs, reading the mystery man’s response.

You can call me anything you want bonita

But I will tell you that Fish is pretty close to my name

Fish is close to your name?

What is it? Bass? Salmon? Trout?

Funny

Fish is short for Catfish which was my call sign with my Special Ops team

Ahhh a military man. You know I like a man in uniform

Oh really? :)

Don’t wear it anymore but does it still count if I was once a man in uniform?

Hmm

:( please?

I wanna be liked by you

Showing your cards there Fishie

Not trying to play it cool?

Once you get to know me baby you’ll come to find out that me and cool don’t really go together.

I doubt that’s true

So Catfish is your call sign? Who came up with that?

My buddies on my team

Said I couldn’t grow a beard for shit and that it looked like I had whiskers

So Catfish

Well I don’t wanna call you Fish if it’s mean like that :(

What’s your real name? If you wanna tell me

Are you gonna sell my identity and let someone tank my credit score?

Never

It wouldn’t benefit me much if your card gets declined every month

I appreciate the honesty baby haha

My name’s Frankie

I like your name Frankie :)

It’s nearly an hour of messaging back and forth, flirting intermingled with genuine curiosity about the other’s life, history and background. Frankie learns that you were struggling to find a job straight out of university and needed to make rent, so you figured it couldn’t hurt to try out selling content. You detailed briefly the time that you grew your following, telling him about your Instagram too, which he follows in that instant. The notification makes you laugh and you follow him back despite the profile being completely empty of any information besides his name. Not even a profile picture. He learns that you don’t speak much to your parents anymore, that your siblings live across the country so you don’t get to see them much.

He tells you about his family — no siblings, parents that live in another part of the state and refuse to visit him in the city — and his chosen family, the Special Ops guys. Laughter hiccups from your chest when he recalls a few of the better stories from them, telling you about each other them as if he was preparing you to actually meet them. He has that thought, briefly, about all of you out for drinks. How they would probably like you as much as he does; your charm and sincerity would hook them all just as it has for him. Frankie tells you all about his current hobby, fixing up an old, cherry red 1978 Jeep Cherokee. How the only other time he spends online is searching for car parts, watching Youtube as he works on the vehicle in his garage.

You make a cheeky comment that he must be good with his hands before sending another message immediately:

Would you wanna actually talk? Like on Facetime maybe

Frankie stares at the message, blinking slowly as if it will disappear. You’re asking to talk to him? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? I mean, if he knew that was an option he would have asked himself…

He wouldn’t and he knows he wouldn’t based on the way his stomach has dropped to his feet, his hands have gone clammy and his throat tightened. Swallowing hard, he whispers a small pep talk to himself to work up the nerve to say yes. He wants to see you, he always wants to see more of you, but the fact that you’d see him as well…he can’t cope.

Heat trickles across the back of his neck and up his cheeks, thumbs hovering over the keyboard as his brain completely wipes any thought to respond. Dropping his phone into his lap, both of his hands reach up, one grabbing the brim of his cap and lifting it from his head while the other runs through his hair to push it back away from his face. In the corner of his eye, he catches his left knee bouncing. Lips press together in a thin line, rolling the flesh between his teeth before he picks up his phone again and sends a message back to you with just his phone number.

Not even a minute later, his screen lights up with a list of digits strung together in an unfamiliar order. As if it were possible, he felt his stomach drop lower than his feet, deep into the ground below and burrowing away along with his confidence.

Shit, this was a stupid idea. He’s going to make a fool of himself and you’ll lose interest and he’ll have to think about you every day for the rest of his life and wonder what you’re doing, how you’re doing, even what your name is—

Fuck, he’s gonna miss the call.

Frankie decides that it is much more embarrassing to miss the call he just sent his phone number for than to potentially come off as uncool, so his finger swipes to the right to answer. Quickly, he turns off his camera before you notice, opting for the level of anonymity to remain.

“Hi, Frankie…” Your candied voice drips with sweetness around his name. He’s been imagining you saying it, trying to get it right in his mind over the past few weeks, but hearing it now he relishes in the fact that none of them were right. None of them sounded like spun sugar, like it did just now.

You fill the frame from your shoulders up, the same bright smile on your face that he’s seen at the end of each live, after he’s had his fun with you, but looking completely different out of that context. It’s a bit shy, demure in the way you're resting in your bed against your pillows, t-shirt on and fresh-faced. You look beautiful. And it makes him feel a bit silly that you can’t see his reaction.

“Hey, bonita. M’sorry I don’t have my camera on, jus’ nervous. Didn’t want you to hang up right away gettin’ a look at this mug,” he says with self-deprecating laughter at the end, watching as your brows knit together with a pout on your lips.

“You don’t have to apologize, Frankie. M’happy to do whatever you’re comfortable with. Besides, if your voice gives me any indication of your looks, you’d probably be making me way more nervous.” Teeth bite into your bottom lip as you hold in a grin, a hand coming into view to nudge at your nose. He’s seen you do it a few times on live, whenever you’re waiting in anticipation. For him, he’d like to think.

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?” he teases, the smirk playing at his face evident in his flirty tone.

“You jus’ sound…nice.”

“Nice? That’s all? Why would that make you nervous, baby?”

A sigh slips from your lips, rolling your head back as he hears the smallest whine from you. His cock jumps in his sweats, already half hard from the flirty back and forth in your messages.

“God, you’re going to be a problem with all those pet names,” you say exasperated. Frankie laughs at his screen, feeling like an idiot sitting here alone and smiling like a fool. You’re cute when you’re mad.

“You can tell me your name and I can use that instead?” he propositions, licking his lips as he awaits the piece of information he’s been chomping at the bit to have.

“No! I mean, I’ll tell you my name, but…I like the nicknames. Keep them. Please.” Your words scramble out and it makes him grin wider, witnessing you as nervous as he’s feeling. When you give him your name, he repeats it a few times, rolling it around in his mouth, tasting the syllables on his tongue. Delicate, floral, sweet but a slight tang. Smooth as it rolls across his vocal cords, soothing the rising heat he’s feeling with a refreshing chill. Like peaches and cream.

The two of you chat back and forth for a while, pride swelling in his chest when you laugh at his stupid jokes or give him a compliment, despite being none-the-wiser to his looks. He’s quick to make you blush with his comments, telling you how beautiful he thinks you are. And Frankie’s thanking himself for keeping his camera off, because at times during the call, his eyes drift to your chest, blatantly staring at your perked up nipples through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. It grows his hard on, the softness of your breasts bouncing around as you restlessly squirm during the call enticing him to picture getting his mouth on them. He’d guess you’d taste the same as your name.

The next time you move, he watches your chest again before a sight in the background catches his eye, drawing a chuckle from his mouth. A stuffed bunny lays next to you in your bed, messy with age and love. A soft pink color with a red ribbon tied around its neck, he finds the need to ask about it prodding in his mind.

“Is that who films everything for you?” he jokes, watching your face twist with confusion before looking to your side and bursting out in a laugh. Returning your eyes to the camera, you shake your head timidly.

“No, unfortunately he’s pretty limited to cuddling.”

“He? Didn’t know you had a man in your life, baby. Feels like we shouldn’t be talking like this in front of him.” The sound of your laughter quickens his pulse, the melody trilling in his ears with comfort.

“Well, I guess if you could offer me more than cuddling, he could be demoted.”

“I think I can offer more, Conejita.” Frankie watches as something akin to excitement, but burning brighter, flashes in your eyes. You sit up more, one eyebrow raising in challenge.

“What could you offer me, Frankie?” It’s a loaded question. He could be polite, steer the conversation away from where he so desperately wants it to go, to be a gentleman. It would be easy to make a joke, to get you both to move on.

But he always wants to see where this could go. You’re the one who wanted to talk on the phone in the first place. And he would never suggest anything to make you uncomfortable, and he thinks that you know that. It’s like what the two of you do in your lives — a conversation, a back and forth that may end up benefitting both of you.

“Depends on what you’re lookin’ for, Conejita. I’m a man of many talents.” The words are slick on his tongue, silvery with enticement.

“Hm…” you ponder out loud, tapping your index finger against your bottom lip before turning back to the camera, “Can you cook?”

“Decently. Can’t claim I’m a chef, but I feed myself. And m’pretty good at a grill and makin’ some of my mamá’s recipes. Insisted on teaching them to me so they didn’t end with her.”

Grinning warmly, he feels his heartbeat kick up against his chest, thumping hard at the sight of you giving him that look. “That’s so sweet that she taught you. You can teach me, then someone else in the world will know her recipes too.”

Christ, you’re so fucking adorable. He doesn’t know what he wants more in the moment: to keep talking and simply listen to your voice, or to flirt his way into something more.

“She might be a better teacher than me, baby. Would probably be over the moon if you asked to learn since she had to force me a bit,” he laughs along with your quiet giggle, taking a deep breath when you bite down on your bottom lip.

“Are you a good teacher of other things?”

“I’d like to think so. Haven’t I taught you new things already, Conejita?”

There goes his heartbeat when you look away from the camera, smirk lifting your cheekbones as your demeanor goes shy, shrugging your shoulders as you lay back again, shifting to get comfortable.

“You have…And now I’ve learned how sexy your voice is, too. I’ll be picturing everything you type now to be said in your voice.”

Frankie breathes out a chuckle, a heat burning the nap of his neck, trickling down his back. He feels the effects of his blood rushing below his belt, ever-so-slightly lightheaded as he quietly palms his bulge in his sweatpants.

“My voice is sexy?”

“Um, duh. Are you kidding me? You sound all…rugged and raspy and deep. Like you could manhandle me easily,” you admit your thoughts easily, and he sighs quietly at the thought of having you in front of him to throw around his bed and mold you into the positions he dreams of getting you into.

“No tienes ni idea de lo que haría contigo (You've got no idea what I would do with you)...” he mumbles under his breath, hearing a soft whimper from you. One of your arms is slung across your front, pressing your breast into the other and he can take a guess as to what your hand is up to. “You want some help, baby? I bet you’re jus’ feeling so needy, aren’t you? Listening to my voice got you that worked up?”

“Mhmm…I need it, Frankie…” Your voice has the edge of a whine and he exhales slowly as he hears you beg for him. Not his call sign or a username. His name. Him. There’s no one else who’s making you feel this way, no one else striving for attention.

He pushes his pants down, pulling his hard cock out to start slowly stroking. You’ve left him aching, dripping precum that his fingers smear around his length to lubricate as he moves up and down in a teasing pace.

“Use your manners, Conejita. What d’you say?”

“Please. Please, Frankie. I wanna hear your voice, I want you to tell me what to do.” He hisses from behind his teeth as he squeezes his cock at the base, leaning his head back against his headboard before his focus zeroes in on you on his screen, asking for his guidance, his control to get you off. No one else privy to the sights he’s seeing.

“Good girl. Such a good girl for me, baby. Why don’t you take off your shirt for me? Let me see you, bonita.” Wetting his lips with his tongue when you move to prop your phone up on your mattress, an expert at framing yourself perfectly. The thin, worn fabric of your sleep shirt slips over your head, leaving you on full display for him — already pantyless. Whether you started the call with any on is a mystery to him, but now, he settles back to tell you exactly what he wants from you…what he knows will feel good for his conejita.

“Okay, bunny, lean back for me…That’s it, get comfortable. Good girl.” Looking into your camera to your side, a nervous smile plays at your lips, shyness overcoming you as you wait with bated breath for Frankie, who’s still a mystery to you, to instruct you. It’s driving him mad, how trusting you are of him without ever seeing his face. Such a sweet girl. His sweet girl.

“Show me how you like to play when no one’s watching.”

When his phone dings one evening a few weeks later, Frankie pulls himself out from under the hood of his project car. A familiar fizz bubbles over his body, a Pavlovian response that’s been built over the last few weeks he’s been talking to you. There have been text chains, full of flirty sincerity, and more phone calls, all with his camera off but not all ending like that first one. There have been times when the two of you have had long conversations, full of laughter and learning about the other. A few calls have ended with you falling asleep, stuffed bunny tucked under your chin and pillowy lips parted slightly with deep, even breaths.

Admittedly, he’s grown attached. Maybe a bit much for…whatever this relationship or friendship is, but he can’t help the teenage giddiness he’s felt with every text chime, ringtone, or dial that he’s found you on the other end of.

He’s got a crush.

So immediately at the peal of his cell, he’s reaching for the rag on his workbench, wiping his hands clean of grease before reading over your message.

Conejita:

Hiii 😚

Are you busy?

Grinning like a fool at the gray bubble, Frankie begins to type out a response before abandoning the message and clicking the phone button at the top of your name instead. Pressing the speaker to his ear, he runs a thumb across his bottom lip while he listens to the trill of the dial tone. Steps pace him across the garage, counting them in his head as he waits for an answer.

“Hey, stranger.” The line clicks on and your voice immediately draws a smile across Frankie’s face, hearing one of yours in your upbeat tone.

“Hey, Conejita. What’s up with you?” Even your presence over the phone calms his nerves, sparking kindling low in his gut that spreads down to his toes and up to the back of his neck. Frankie tucks his phone between his ear and shoulder as he wanders back over to the carhood, shutting it carefully. He retreats inside, washing his hands as he listens to you recount your day.

“...So then I got pissed off and left ‘cause she was being so unreasonable. And then I wanted to talk to you ‘cause, I dunno.” The intensity in your cadence slows down toward the tailend of your story of an argument with a friend of yours; Frankie chuckles, biting his tongue while you sigh deeply and he dries his hands off on a kitchen towel.

“You don’t know why you wanted to talk to me? Don’t get all shy on me now, cariño,” he teases you, receiving a frustrated huff on the other end. “Well, for what it’s worth, I agree with you. She sounds like she has a stick up her ass. And m’glad you wanted to call me, Conejita.”

“D’you wanna switch to Facetime?”

“‘Course, I do. Always wanna see your face, jus’ one sec…” Frankie climbs his stairs two at a time, reaching the landing as his screen lights up with the Facetime request from you. He answers it, camera off, while he changes out of dirty clothes and listens to you chatting about plans for the weekend. He mentions going out with the guys tomorrow night, and you make a jest that gets him laughing, both of you bantering back and forth before he settles back on his bed.

“Y’know, I am content to chat with you like this, Frankie. But I keep wondering what you look like…” In the small rectangle of his screen, you lean forward to fill more of it, cleavage exposed in your bralette. He’s been waiting for this to be brought up again, and feeling so much more comfortable with you, he can’t admit he hasn’t thought about it. But with that stronger connection comes the anxieties. What if he isn’t what you pictured? What if he isn’t your type? What if you don’t like him anymore?

Frankie thinks he’s decent looking enough — he hasn’t had much trouble pulling girls since he was a teenager, but not being the most commanding or charismatic in the room, he has had his bouts of struggle in the relationship department.

“Please, Frankie. S’not fair I get to hear your sexy voice and not know what you look like. Pretty please, I’ll give you something special if you do,” you bargain with a pout on your face, bottom lip protruding and puffy. He wants to kiss it away, bite down on the glossy flesh, work away your frowning moue with his own mouth. Wonderings of what you taste like.

Coming back into himself, he wears a proud, intrigued smirk that you’re blind to except for the way his words curl around his slick, silvery tongue, “Oh, is that right, bunny? What if I wanna know what the something special is to decide?”

“Not how it works, silly. Either you want something special or you don’t.” A stern shake of the head, sitting up straight as you raise an eyebrow at him.

He sits with it for a moment, thoughts warring on the inside. In the end, his realistic side barters that either way could end badly: he doesn’t turn the camera on and you get frustrated, ending it, or he does turn the camera on and you don’t like the look of him, ending it. A phantom whisper of your voice, bubbly and bright, reminds him that it could make everything even better, and that ultimately is what convinces him.

“Alright, alright. You make a convincing argument, Conejita.”

A beaming smile stretches across your face as you draw a leg up to your chest, resting your head on your kneecap while you hold back your excitement and anticipation. Frankie takes in the sight of you, astir on tenterhooks.

“Here goes nothing,” he mumbles to himself before his thumb is pressing the camera button, illuminating himself on your screen. He sees himself in the smaller rectangle in the corner, grimacing before he laughs softly and grins, awaiting your reaction with waves of solicitude raging inside.

You see him, your Frankie. Filling your phone screen. Finally.

A nearly inaudible gasp leaves your lips, blocked from the mic by your knee. Studying his face, you witness the lines next to his eyes deepening as he laughs, his shy smile growing on his face. Big brown eyes strike your chest, their sincere softness making you want to fall into their warmth and stay there forever. Like the comforting heat of a mug of coffee on a chilly morning. You note that your visualizations were correct, mostly. Brown hair, curling out from under the cap branded with Standard Oil that sits on his head. Wide set shoulders that extend out of frame, a build to him that screams he most definitely can manhandle you around in bed. His call sign makes a bit more sense to you, seeing patches in his short beard, admiring the one on his left cheek that is shaped like a heart. Simply endearing. The image of him in front of you sends a shock to your core, wet spot in your panties growing as you begin to imagine what the rest of him looks like.

Hot is all you can think. Frankie is fucking hot.

His voice cuts through your trails of admiration, joking around to break the silent tension, “So are you gonna ask me to keep my camera off now?”

As you swallow to recover some of your composure, shaking your head back and forth quickly before a genuinely eager smile paints your expression. Leaning closer to see more of his details, freckles across his neck and where his shirt exposes a sliver of his chest, the peak of his cupid’s bow shaded by his mustache, long eyelashes that reach toward his eyebrows. You drop your knee from in front of you, leaning an elbow on the surface of your desk and resting your shin in your palm.

“Frankie, respectfully, what the fuck? You’re so hot.”

A boisterous laugh rolls from his chest, the same shy smile returning with a blush across his cheeks, “Conejita, you’re the hot one between us.”

“No, no, I’m being serious. You’re like — Damn. Your smile. And you have pretty eyes, Frankie. And you’re just like…really fucking hot. I can’t even think of another word. You should be the one doing what I’m doing.”

“Oh, c’mon, you’re only seeing my face, baby.”

“Yeah, and? It’s a pretty face…Wanna sit on it.” Your giggle cuts through his speakers, and Frankie groans at the comment. Saliva coats your mouth as you watch the muscles in his neck tense, licking your chops like a prowling lion. If only he was in front of you right now…

“Diablita…eres una problema. (Little devil…you’re a problem.) Do I get my special something now?”

Another giggle and a mischievous smirk make Frankie’s brows stitch together in frustration, your shoulders shrugging as you toy with the strap of your bra, hooked under your index finger, “Actually, I think I wanna move the goalpost. Will you show me what I’m missin’, Frankie? I wanna see more.”

Desire burns bright and wild inside of you, ache building between your legs as your arousal drips from your panties and onto your thighs. You’d been picturing him — all of him — for weeks. Ever since that first message. But now, seeing him on your phone screen, your imagination is running wild with newfound information and attempting to fill in the blanks. He has to be big, thickness would be just right. He’s the quiet type, unassuming in his own looks, which means he has to have a virtually perfect dick. It's the rules of the universe. Undecided if he’s cut or not, but regardless, picturing your manicured fingers wrapped around it and tongue licking at his tip. Watching him come undone from you. Stomach tensing, those long fingers that you sneak a peek of when he adjusts his hat wrapped up in your hair. Rasping moans. What would he taste like?

Frankie shakes his head, a quick tsking drawing your attention back to the moment as he looks on with a teasing expression, “Conejita, I don’t think it works like that.”

“Okay, then no special something for you. Your choice, Francisco.”

He watches as you move the strap back up your shoulder, the soft snap of the elastic against your skin. Huffing out a frustrated breath, he mumbles, “No serías tan valiente si estuvieras aquí conmigo, mocosa. (You wouldn’t be so brave if you were here with me, brat.)”

Uncaring in whatever annoyances he was airing with you, you watch him sit up further in the frame, knocking off his cap and reaching for the hem of his shirt. Despite his words, he lifts his shirt over his head, looking back at the camera, bare shoulders and chest on display, “This is what you get for now, bunny.”

Satisfaction glows from your smile, biting hard into your bottom lip while Frankie watches your eyes search everywhere on your screen besides his own. A stern clearing of his throat breaks your trance, a commanding expression on Frankie’s face.

“You promised me something, Conejita.”

A deep pout replaces your grin, huffing in defiance as you slip your bra straps from your shoulders, “Can’t you please take the rest off? Show me what I wanna see, Frankie. Please.”

“Nah uh. Quit demanding, baby. Y’know that’s my job. Now tell me, what are you gonna do for me to get what you want?” His unwavering voice surprises you, despite hearing it for weeks. With the added heat factor of his looks, you crumble a bit quicker, clenching your thighs as you sigh and nod obediently.

“I’ll do anything, Frankie. Jus’ tell me what to do, I wanna make you happy.”

He grins on the screen, sincere softness peeking out, “Oh, baby, y’know it’s easy to make me happy. Jus’ gotta be a good little bunny, yeah?” He hums, licking his lips as he ponders what he wants from you tonight, a night he wants to fill with another milestone for the two of you. He’s only seen you use a small vibrator or your fingers on the phone with you, but he knows what else you have. He’s watched the video of you using it on your profile only about ten times.

“Get your pretty pink toy for me, Conejita. Y’know the one. And then get on the floor and you’re going to show me exactly how you use it.”

There’s rustling as you follow his instructions, stripping bare and suctioning the toy to your hardwood floors, propping the phone up for him to see it all. The hot pink dildo bobbles from you moving around it, glistening with lube that you applied — even though with one glance at your cunt, both you and Frankie know you wouldn’t need it. Straddling over the silicone, you slowly tease your entrance with it, whining before you make one more attempt to Frankie watching you with a smugness in his smirk.

“Please, Frankie, can’t you please show me your cock? I wanna picture it while I fuck myself. Wanna know if it’s how I imagined…Dream about it a lot.” He can read right through your tactics, but his dick can’t. It strains against his zippered jeans, throbbing under the fabric for some sort of relief. He squeezes his palm over it once, exhaling as he shakes his head, strong in his convictions.

“Be a good girl, and I’ll show you what you wanna see.” No more room for negotiations.

“Yes’sir.”

Frankie’s mouth hangs ajar while his focus trains on the apex of your thighs. Watching you slowly sink down, the bright pink rubbery toy disappears inside of you. Whimpers slip from your lips as you brace your hands on your thighs, fingers digging into the plush skin. Need burns brightly in his chest and below his belt, clenching his jaw while he imagines biting the meaty part of you, leaving teeth marks in his wake before settling his mouth at your entrance.

Your hips set a quick pace, desperate for the high you’ve been dripping for since getting on the phone with Frankie. A low growl followed with a disapproving tut clicks over the speakers of your phone.

“Slow down, baby girl. Not a race…” Frankie corrects, and the only response you have is a frantic nod, turning your movements to a drag. The toy fills you up, stretches you the most that you have ever been. Pain heats your feelings of pleasure, intensifying it all in the lightness of your limbs and head. The ridges of the faux veins of the fake cock impress into your walls, the tip of it notching at the spot inside of you that Frankie taught you to reach. It only skates by it, whines accompanying your frustrations.

Frankie, on the other end, listens to the squelch of your pussy around the silicone. The sound drives him to fully cup his erection through his pants, palming himself with heady breaths as your own moans for him drive the iron hot brand of need deeper into his skin. He can see your need for a change, your need to be given permission to chase that feeling that’s within reach.

“Lean back, little bunny. Sit back on your hands and use your hips…Show me more of that pretty pussy,” he instructs, cool and confident while his hips buck up into his hand. Being his perfect girl, you do as he says and change positions, gasping when you sink down onto the toy. Your cunt clenches around it, a satisfied smirk painting Frankie’s face. He knows he’s gotten you to hit that special spot. With the grip your entrance has around the base of the dildo, he wonders if you’ll pop it off of the floor on your next thrust.

“Oh, fuck…Frankie, wish you were here. Tell me—tell me what you’d do to me if you were here,” you beg, your hips still dragging at the new angle.

A groan escapes Frankie at your request, biting down hard on his lip and taking his hand away from his lap to deny himself the temptation.

“You love hearing me say all the dirty things to you, huh Conejita?” Without waiting for an answer, he continues, “If I were there with you, I’d would be—shit—I’d be devouring you right now. Fucking you with my tongue and my fingers, making you squeeze me and getting your come all over my face. Gotta get you ready for me, bunny. After, I’d flip you over. Get your pretty ass up for me, and I’d fuck you senseless. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Turn it all off up there and just let me take care of you…”

Nodding, your hips start to move faster as Frankie speaks to you. He doesn’t have the heart to tease you anymore, letting you start to take what you want for a bit. Your moans pitch up, tits bouncing with your nipples pebbled and the rest of your soft curves twisting as you rock back and forth on the toy.

“Yes, please. I want that,” you mewl, heavy breaths erratic.

“That’s right. My baby deserves it all,” he says with a sigh, his large palm squeezing his hard cock again, slowly unzipping his jeans and slipping his hand into his boxers to grip himself at the base. “I’d fuck you until that pretty little brain of yours was filled up only with thoughts of how good I make you feel. How good you are for me, pretty girl…Look at you go, bouncing on that toy. Rub your clit, Conejita. Slow, at least for right now.”

You follow his orders, supporting yourself on one arm. Slow circles against your clit have you shuddering with pleasure, a twitch of your tummy as you moan. Your eyes flutter shut, face twisting with overwhelming need. Frankie drinks in the sight, indulging himself in a few long strokes of his cock before he hears it.

“Daddy…” you breathe, near a whisper, but it’s audible to him. Lost in yourself, you don’t even notice you’ve let it slip until it comes again, “Oh my god, Daddy.”

The surprise of it shocks your eyes open, stuttering your hips as you narrow in on your screen. Frankie’s eyes grow dark, licking his lips as he holds in a loud moan. His fingers grip the base of his aching cock, holding off at the edge. So close to coming when he heard that word drip from your mouth like melted sugar.

He can tell you’re attempting to gauge his reaction, nervous settling in as you attempt to move on from it and continue fucking yourself closer to finishing. Frankie’s eager to take it in stride, clearing his throat before he gives it right back to you, opening that door that he knows won’t be shut any time soon. At least not by him.

“Yeah, that’s right, baby. Let Daddy tell you what you need, yeah?” He chuckles darkly, satisfaction thumping in his veins while you nod and whimper yes yes yes back to him, “Y’know, if you like that lil’ toy, baby, Daddy’s cock will feel even better. S’bigger than that fucking thing.”

“Oh, fuck, I need to—I need you, Daddy, please!”

“I know, Conejita, I know. Poor little thing jus’ needs Daddy to be filling her up, huh? You wanna know what my cock feels like inside of you, don’t you, pequeña?” He hisses with a buck of his hips into his fist, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief second.

“Yes, yes, please, Daddy! Please,” you choke on a breath and Frankie can see you twitch at your inner thighs from the full-on view of your pussy, your tell-tale sign that you’re about to come.

“Y’know the rules, Conejita. Better ask before you come.”

“Please, please may I come?” you moan, rubbing faster circles against your clit and grinding down on your toy.

“Oh, bunny, you can ask nicer than that. May I come…?” he leads, smirking devilishly when you nearly squeal from the way he’s holding you out on the edge. Teetering on the verge of that high that he knows well, he can see your legs faltering with a cramp.

“Please may I come, Daddy?” Your eyes open, heavy-lidded and lips parted with shallow breathing. Frankie gets lost in the sight, wrecked from his direction, his words, a sheen of sweat over your skin and the arousal coating your thighs. A fucking dream.

“Mm, come for Daddy, baby girl—” he’s interrupt as you erupt in a high-pitched moan, mouth wide open as you string together mumblings Oh fuck, Daddy, feels so good. Need you so bad…

“Good girl.”

Frankie hums contently, chuckling as a dopey grin finds your face, blinking through the orgasmic haze. Laying back, you slip the toy out of your pussy, leaving it to wobble in place and spreading your legs around it. One arm comes to rest against your forehead, breasts rising and falling with deep, recovering breaths. He’s blocked of the view that would make this moment even sweeter, licking his lips before he speaks up.

“Lemme see that fucked cunt of yours, bunny. Let Daddy see what belongs to him.” You sit up again, popping the toy off of the floor and laying it to the side to be cleaned later. Frankie hums as you part your legs more, the glittering of your come dripping on your thighs and across your swollen pussy. “Eres un buen oyente, pequeña. (You’re a good listener, little one.)”

“What’s that mean?” you ask, a long exhale punctuating the question.

“You’re a good listener, little one.” Frankie grins when you grow shy, inching your legs together before he tsks again, one hand coming into frame to motion for your lower limbs to part again.

“Y’know, it would look even prettier with my come dripping out of ya, baby.”

“Please.”

“What, Conejita?”

“Don’t tease me anymore…Can’t take it, Daddy.” You lips push out in a pout, subtle but he can catch the change in expression.

“Nah uh, no pouting, bunny. Who said that I was teasing? I’m going to make it happen.”

Sweetness slips from your lips in a giggle, leaning over to pick up your phone and hold him closer to your face.

“So, if I was a good girl, doesn’t that mean I get to see what I asked for before?” Wiggling in eagerness, Frankie feigns ignorance, scratching at his beard as he shrugs, acting as if he didn’t nearly come in his pants multiple times in the last few minutes.

“I dunno, Conejita. What did you ask me for? Gonna have to remind me.”

“Your cock. I wanna see it.” Your pout sneaks back, biting your lip. “May I please see your cock, Daddy?”

“I think I could do that for you, baby. Asking so nicely. Such a good girl for Daddy, yeah?”

“Always.” A giggle bubbles up from your tummy, biting down on your lip as Frankie takes you in, shaking his head in subtle disbelief. How the hell did clicking for one subscription get him here, having Facetime sex with you?

He obliges your original requests, moving to prop his phone up in front of him, stripping down his jeans first. The sight of his bulge waters your mouth, pupils widening in want at the outline of his cock. No tricks of the light, no chance of manipulation like some men in your DMs do. All natural.

And Frankie wasn’t lying. He’s big.

The reveal comes when he tugs his boxers down to his ankles, settling in front of the camera again. His heavy length rests against his lower stomach, precum dripping into his dark happy trail. Your eyes drag over the veins ribbing him, leading down to show off that he’s tastefully groomed. Swallowing saliva, you lick your lips as his large hand wraps around, slow strokes that gently shift the foreskin away from his tip. The end of his cock glistens with pebbles of precum, red and aching. Frankie hisses at the contact, the veins in his neck straining against his skin while he starts to fuck his fist.

“You look so pretty, Daddy,” you compliment sweetly, grinning at him as he laughs quietly back at you.

“Such a sweet little bunny. You think you can take me in your tight little cunt?” A long exhales concaves his chest, quiet moans as his hand picks up pace.

You return his regular favor of talking him through it, detailing how good of a girl you’d be for him, telling him all that he would be allowed to do to you. The sounds Frankie makes has you dripping again, getting his permission to fuck your fingers, both of you driving each other to a peak, your second one taking the breath from your lungs as Frankie comes at the same time. Whimpers escape your mouth as you envy his hand and stomach being covered in his release, biting your tongue and crowding the screen as he shows off how much you made him come.

“Wish I was there to clean you up, Daddy.”

“Right back at you, Conejita.”

A few days later, Frankie calls you after one of your livestreams, grinning like a schoolboy when you answer in only your underwear. You laugh as you set your phone down on the surface of your dressing, his childish smirk turning to a pout as he stares at your white painted ceiling. Calling out to him, you ask for one second while you tug a sweatshirt over your head, shuffling around before grabbing the device and relaxing back on your bed, bunny in your lap.

“Hi, baby,” Frankie coos, one side of his mouth lifting in a smile as he drinks in your cozy, drowsy demeanor. Cuddling with the toy against your chest, you grin back at him, curling up onto your side like a cat.

“Hi, Frankie,” you mumble back, exhaustion heavy in your eyes.

“You sleepy, little bunny?” A slow nod answers his question. “Alright, I won’t keep you up for long then. Just had a question for you.”

The vague proposition piques your interest, your eyes shooting open and the camera being brought closer to your face, “What’s your question?”

Frankie works his lips between his teeth, nerves crackling over his entire body. Realistically, he knows you’ll say yes, but there’s still that chance for rejection in the moment. His left leg bounces against his couch, hand running over his face as he takes a deep breath in, “I was wondering if you’d wanna come visit me here in Florida? If you don’t have time—”

“I would love to come visit, Frankie,” you agree immediately, a sincere smile growing on your face. Frankie mirrors your excitement with a goofy grin, the creases next to his eyes deepening and his dimple cratoring his cheek. “I’ll even book my flight right now, that’s how eager I am.”

Shaking his head furiously, he clicks his tongue in a tut, scolding you playfully, “Hey, hey. No, none of that. I’m not letting my baby pay, I’m the one who asked you to come.”

“But—”

“Nope, no buts. Except yours getting onto a plane and coming to see me,” Frankie laughs at his own joke, earning a playful eye roll as you hold back your own chuckle. “Oh, c’mon, that was funny, Conejita. I can tell you want to laugh.”

The two of you go back and forth while he books your flight on his laptop, showing off the confirmation number once it’s all gone through. Both of you wear shit-eating grins on your faces, sitting in disbelief.

Frankie can’t help the rush of anxiety, unable to tell if it’s solely from his excitement. All he can think about is having you in front of him, in the flesh, in person. No screens between the two of you, no broken signals or shitty wifi interruptions. Hearing your voice without the strain of speakers, getting to touch you, taste you, hear you, feel you all over him. There’s the flash of a vision of you laid out underneath him, making your little sounds that drive him crazy and digging your nails into his back…

“Gonna let Daddy spoil you while you’re down here, baby girl?” Frankie smirks as you stretch sleepily, biting down on your lip.

“You’re flying me out, isn’t that spoiling me enough? Shouldn’t it be my turn to spoil you then?”

“Think you know the answer to that, baby. Having you in front of me is spoiling me enough, I jus’ wanna take care of you.”

The simple statement brings a smile to your face, shyly tucking your face into your pillow. The rest of the call relaxes you back to near sleep, listening as Frankie tells you all about what he’ll take you to do. Your drowsiness catches up with you, drifting off on the phone. Frankie chuckles quietly to himself, sitting with you for a moment silently before he goes to hang up.

“Night, Conejita. Can’t wait to see you.”

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anika-ann · 4 months ago

Text

Caught (S.R.)

Type: one-shot, fluff, they were roommates and idiots trope

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word Count: 8,2k

Summary: You hadn’t exactly planned to get caught in the rain. Then again, people rarely do. But you did.

You hadn’t plan to get caught in the soft spiderweb of feelings for Steve Rogers when your friend had set you up as roommates. Then again, people rarely do. But you did. It was impossible not to.

Arriving at your shared apartment soaking wet sees Steve springing into action to warm you up… and send you falling deeper in love with him with every passing second. But hey – what else was new, right?

Warnings: tooth-rottng FLUFF, idiots-in-love trope, they were ROOMMATES trope, brief mention of PTSD and its symptoms, one gratuitous 'fuck' and French

A/N: cross-written for the Winds of Autumn challenge hosted by @the-slumberparty and for @elixirfromthestars ' writing challenge. Thank you ALL for hosting and breathing live into the community 💕 for WoA I chose 'caught in the cold rain' for the WChallenge I chose “ Why don’t you tell me what I can do to make your day better?”

A/N 2: DIVIDER by @steviebbboi ;enjoy y'all 🥰

This was all your fault; it really was.

There was no one else to blame for your current state.

Soaking wet, hair and clothes dripping alike, shaking so hard you nearly dropped your keys when trying to fit it into the keyhole.

A few minutes was all it took.

And yes; it was all on you.

You had practically been praying for a sweater weather. You had been so fed up with the unbearable summer heat still gripping the reigns even mid-September that you prayed and begged and swore you might be able to kill a man for a single breath of autumn.

So clearly, you had called this upon yourself.

In all fairness, you had wished for Indian summer; the normal late September weather. The light sweater weather. You certainly hadn’t been hoping to be thrown into the weather of seasonal depression, the temperature drop equalling a time machine bringing the end of November to the air and people’s hearts alike. Unforgiving icy wind, endless downpours, poking umbrellas all around, ever-present grumbling as one’s coat brushed against another, the dampness and cold seeping into yours and everyone else’s bones.

Nothing nice and prayers-worthy about that.

The thing was, this had been a daily reality for about a week now – and so one would think you were well-equipped to deal with the weather at least.

Except like the fool you were, you left your waterproof jacket at home, because you had believed today’s weather forecast, confident that the desired sweet and slightly crispy autumn was coming at last.

You and the meteorologists had been wrong.

But that wasn’t the worst part, no – the worst part would be your giddy optimism in the face a sudden NY underground failure.

Taking the ride home from work, you had nearly slammed into people surrounding you in the train at the sudden slam of breaks. A system failure, apparently. Caused by the damage to the network due to previous intense rains. A mishap stopping the trains in their stations, forcing people out.

And like the optimistic half-wit, trying to find a bright side and making the most of a miserable situation, you had thought, hey, it’s only a few blocks from here! No rain on the horizon for a change. What an opportunity to soak in the lovely autumn weather! The buses and taxis will be packed, and walking is good for health anyway.

And sure it was. And you ended up soaking indeed.

The brutal downpour and icy wind caught you in about ten minutes after you had taken off to your brisk walk.

You seriously doubted there was any benefit to your health at all, safe for maybe points to your mental resilience and an excuse to stay in bed with a book and a cup of hot chocolate next week, because you were about to catch a grade-A case of cold.

By the time you got to your apartment door, you were ready to flop on the floor the moment you’d stumble inside, uncaring for the wet smack you’d make against the hardwood or the carpet should you make it further into the apartment.

Except you knew the floor would be unforgivingly hard either way, and cold and you first had to get out of your dripping shoes and then the drenched clothes sticking to your body like a second skin and it would take you forever to strip with how shaky and numb your fingers had turned, the only sensation being cold and stiffness bordering on pain and for god’s sake could you at least stick the damn key into the goddamn keyhole-

You finally opened the door with a gratuitous ‘fuck’ on your lips, practically throwing the door open.

And were met with a surprised sleepy supersoldier blinking at your owlishly, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, his white sleepshirt crumbled, the perfect case of bed hair and confused expression completing the most telling startled-from-his-sleep-but-not-Avenger-level-alarmed look.

Even in your state you had to admit he was adorable in a way men built like mountains shouldn’t.

You stared at each other mutely for several seconds, as if both surprised by each other’s presence – or at least state – processing.

You, drenched from rain and puddles, cold-dried by the wind, shivering all over and barely keeping your teeth from clattering as to hold onto the last shreds of your dignity and sanity.

Steve, still slightly disoriented, having just been woken up. Woken up by you, most likely, you thought regretfully, cursing your life-choices again. He was a light sleeper – a mere jiggle of keys would have interrupted his slumber, let alone your endless fumbling around the lock.

You spoke at the same time.

“I’m sorry for wak-” “What happened to you?”

Your voice trailed off, a chuckle of irony echoing in the back of your head.

What happened to you?

That was a question a lot more loaded that it might seem.

What had happened to lead you to this place, facing a sleepy Greek-godlike figure with a concerned look on his face?

A whole lot of coincidences; a whole lot of fate, maybe.

Sam Wilson, a friend from childhood, with whom you had only reconnected a few years ago.

You, having been looking for an apartment ever since your landlord had announced he planned to sell the building to a huge corporation which would, from then on, only rent the apartments to its employees.

Sam again, looking to move in with his girlfriend, claiming he was leaving a roommate behind, who would appreciate a kind, trustworthy and reliable replacement.

Your ‘Gee, thanks’.

‘Wait, no, he didn’t word it exactly like that,’ Sam had assured you. ‘I promise, he’s a real stand-up guy. Sure, a guy, but a respectful one and a neat one, with a sprinkle of a neat freak on top. He’s a great roommate and one of my best friends – I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t believe it could work.’

That was what your friend had said. And you believed him.

One thing led to another.

What Sam had conveniently failed to mention was that his real stand-up guy was a hulking drop-dead gorgeous supersoldier with the sweetest soul on the damn planet. Or maybe in the universe – what did you know? The universe had got a lot bigger ever since you found out it was perfectly possible for aliens to rain down from the sky through some kind of a hole in spacetime.

What Sam had conveniently failed to mention was that your future roommate was one of the heroes from the superhero band that had stopped these very aliens from taking over planet Earth.

After processing – even though you weren’t sure you’d ever finish processing – that you would share an apartment with Captain America, you accepted.

After all, you certainly weren’t one to look a gifted horse in the mouth; experience told you that could have done a lot worse than landing a person vetted by Sam Wilson and by a potentially world-ending event for a roommate.

In fact, you soon learned you couldn’t have done any better.

Steve was all the things Sam had promised.

And besides being the perfect person to share an apartment with, besides being the paragon of justice itself with a sprinkle of neat freak on top, he was also shockingly human.

Steve was a guy who had a routine until he didn’t, his schedule a little funny. He split housework with you in a way that left both of you content even as you felt he was doing a little bit more than his part whenever he could. He enjoyed cooking and baking and drawing and generally working with his hands, fixing any household issues before they could develop into a problem. Sometimes, nights found him in the living room with a book in his hand and quiet movie for a background when he couldn’t sleep. Sometimes, he left dirty dishes in the sink and a toothbrush on the basin instead of putting it into the holder and sometimes he forgot to put the toilet seat down. He was painfully respectful of your privacy and of your sleep alike whenever he was coming back at strange times, almost absurdly so for a man who seemed to barely fit in a doorway.

He had a sharp mind and a subtle but deadly sense of humour on a good day and a quiet demeanour on a bad day, usually after a sleepless or nightmare-filled nights, which were always followed by him walking around the apartment with his sweats tucked into his socks because the draught and the cold on his ankles clearly bothered him. The list could go on and on and it was rather embarrassing for you, the idea for just how long you could keep listing things you observed about Steve and his habits and him; but the point was that he was a guy who was absurdly ordinary guy and extraordinary in about everything at once.

He had introduced as Steve the very day you had met, clearly not standing for any of your Captain, Sir, Captain Rogers nonsense.

He became Steve to you soon after.

He turned dear to you just as fast.

You weren’t sure when it happened; when your relationship shifted from sharing an apartment to sharing a life. It happened gradually, through dinners and breakfasts and films watched together; through nights he found you on the couch, barely awake or already sleeping after having been waiting for him even as he had told you not to; through late-night talks, about both things you were passionate about and things you wished you could forget.

You weren’t sure when this man, larger than life in both frame and heart, became your close friend.

You weren’t sure when the small butterflies that appeared in your stomach every time he smiled turned so all-consuming, spreading their wings through your whole body, circling around your heart.

It must have happened somewhere between his first smile and the sparkle in his warm blue eyes, between the tear-streaked cheeks when you found his shaking breathless body curled on the floor, between a hug and holding your hand when he drove you back from your wisdom teeth removal surgery because no one else was available, between every single minute you had the fortune to spend in his company and those you couldn’t, longing for him instead.

Somewhere in between, you must have fallen in love, the urgent feeling in your chest slowly turning unbearable and heavy. It burned, to stifle it inside, the one secret you wouldn’t share for the fear of breaking something as precious to you as your peaceful life with Steve the friend.

You weren’t sure when exactly it happened, but it got you there.

It got you here; into this very moment, just like many others, facing him and rendered speechless for a breath or two, because god, was he handsome and lovely and sweetly worried and an image of domesticity at once and you were hit with a sharp tug of a feeling whispering of coming home.

What happened to you, Steve had asked, his gaze turning more concerned by the second as you remained silent safe for the rustle of your soaked jacket you had started to strip at some point and the one clatter of your teeth you failed to stifle.

What did happen again?

“Got caught in a rain,” you rasped, stating the painfully obvious. “Underground broke down. Thought I’d walk…”

Steve frowned, sleepiness wiped off his face to give way to compassion and sternness at once, a sigh leaving his lips as he slowly neared you.

“Seemed like a smart idea at the time…” you continued when he didn’t say a word, just gently – always so gently dammit – pushed at the door to get it closed at last, his arms quietly coming around you, engulfing you in his embrace. Your heart startled at the gesture. “Steve, no, I’ll get you all we---wow okay, this is nice, you’re really warm-“

He chuckled sweetly above your head as you babbled, protests dying on your lips with a sound resembling a whine and moan as his warmth enveloped you, so relieving and inviting, prompting you to melt against his firm and yet painfully soft body.

His voice carried an admonishing note as you trembled against him, his warmth and pleasant scent of comfort seeping into your body while the cold and smell of rain soaked him in return. You did not care for the scolding; it was a kind one. And Steve still was still holding you – that was the important part.

And the most painful one.

"You could have called,” he said, like a sweet, even if already lost bargain. “I’d come get you.”

You pressed closer to him, clearly having a glutton for punishment.

Those few innocent words burned through you like the most tender wildfire. An inflection and tone that couldn’t have been good for your heart and yet you revelled in them; a statement that felt like an oath:

I‘d come get you.

I’d always come get you.

I’d do anything for you.

Something so close to love, in your reach and yet untouchable, because he didn’t mean it – he couldn’t mean it, because Steve Rogers had a large heart, but surely would have told you if you had occupied space in it that way.

And yet he held your own heart in his palms and he didn’t even know. Was it wrong you let the gentle words wash over you and let them warm you just as much as Steve’s arms, even if they meant something different than you’d wish?

You gulped, a shiver that had nothing to do with cold running down your spine.

“You only got in like three hours earlier,” you reasoned, forcing yourself to focus on the practical matters as not to slip into whispering a true confession; and perhaps doing so anyway along the way. It was true, however; as per habit and your request, Steve had texted you he was home safe and sound barely few hours ago. Knowing that led you to immediately weed out the mere idea of calling him to pick you up as it appeared in your mind the moment the downpour started. You were aware, however bittersweet the knowledge was, that he would come – that was why you hadn’t called. For his benefit. “You needed to sleep.”

Steve sighed again. And you needed to be picked up, you heard in the weary and yet somehow fond sound.

He didn’t argue, however; his hold grew tighter, appreciative, his broad hand, oh so warm, running up and down your back, pressing a little stronger than he normally would in a hug; allowing the heat of his body sink deeper, into your very bones, sending you sinking deeper into the warmth blooming in your chest as well.

Pressed against his front, you couldn’t but breathe in, allowing everything that was Steve overwhelm over your senses. The woodsy notes and musk of his cologne, the soft material of his sleepshirt burning almost too hot as it clung to his body, the smooth movements of his rough hands, his warm breath brushing your scalp, the image of his minute smile behind your closed eyelids, his voice humming in his ribcage and filling your ears like honey.

“Why don’t you tell me what I can do to make your day better?”

His question was so genuine – and a little wavery in a way that made your belly tingle in response. Tell me what I can do and I will do it. Just say the word, it seemed to whisper in your head, your heart protesting and fluttering in your chest.

You already are, you almost replied as the shudders subdued slowly despite both of you now soaking. You’re back home. You’re safe. You’re with me. And you’re warm. And big. And strong. And you smell good. And you’re holding me oh so tight and gentle and it feels so profoundly nice and you really are warm and maybe this new shiver running down my back isn’t just that I’m cold, maybe it’s that naïve hope of which I should have let go of so long ago-

He noticed the fresh wave of tremble of whose origin you yourself weren’t entirely sure of – your weather escapades or the escapades of your poor heart – and the caress up and down your back grew faster, more of a rubbing to create warmth than a soothing gesture.

“Okay, doll, you’re getting into the bathtub right away. What can I do in the meantime?”

In spite of his words, a benevolent order one might say, he didn’t let go.

Despite his question sounding urgent, you took your time responding; because it took a huge portion of your willpower not to tell him to just keep holding you.

“…hot chocolate?” you suggested meekly, a shy but slightly mischievous smile tugging at your lips when Steve released you at last, those big warm paws of his settling on your shoulders for a moment. “And you should probably change.”

He glanced at his wet clothes self-deprecatingly, as if it was his fault – and in a way, you supposed it was. But you weren’t complaining. The wet fabric clung to his body in the most delicious way, no matter the scepticism he observed it with.

When his gaze met yours again, his smile was the sun itself; but you still missed the heat of his body against your skin.

“You got it, doll. Come on.”

Much to your regret and salvation, he released you completely. You still graced him with a grateful and once again shaky smile which you could and should blame on the loss of his body heat.

“Thanks, Steve. You’re the best.”

And he was.

And if that wasn’t becoming a bigger problem by the minute.

With some of Steve’s warmth lingering – mainly the one his actions and demeanour awoke deep within your body – you managed to get rid of your clothes with enough ease and patience to have the bathtub fill with steaming hot water before climbing in. Sinking into the water then felt about as pleasant as sinking into Steve’s embrace had been – except this time, it was the rest of your body which appreciated the heat, warming you from the outside, tension leaving your muscles, your brain relaxing and slipping into a mindless haze, an absent smile forming on your lips.

You soaked in the tub for long enough to almost fall asleep and slide under the water; the only thing convincing you to fight the slumber off – perhaps besides, well, drowning – was the premise of a delicious cup of hot chocolate made with utmost care and Steve’s company, all the more appreciated since you knew he’d stay for at least five minutes even as he was no doubt falling asleep on his feet himself.

Not wanting to keep him waiting any longer, your climbed from the tub, rushed through your routine and emerged from the bathroom with steam following you, no doubt making for an image of cosiness with your blissfully dry comfortable clothes, complete with fuzzy socks.

Steve must have agreed with your assessment, because he greeted you with a grin.

He had left the two mugs of top tier hot chocolate with actual melted pieces of the treat and whipped cream on top on the kitchen counter, having brought two blankets for the couch, now fumbling with the tv remote. A quick glance around the apartment told you that while you were nearly nodding off in the bathroom, he had made a quick work of cleaning the mess you had left behind; electric shoe dryers already placed in your boots, your drenched jacket near the heating with plastic film spread on the floor as not to do any damage.

You could kiss the lop-sided smile he gave you when you thanked him, your heart hammering in your chest with excitement and longing when he nodded towards the couch. To an outsider, the scene could easily appear as a quiet night in of a couple; a thoughtful beautiful man setting everything up for a date night full of seeking joy in simple domesticity and quiet intimacy.

One day, Steve Rogers was about to make someone incredibly happy.

The idea strung a sharp but brief note of jealousy in your chest, a lump growing in your throat as the rational part of you mocked you that the person wasn’t you. You would have known by now if you were; even though spending time with him did make you all kinds of happy.

You forced a smile through the light sting of tears, trying to stop your mind from racing and spiralling about the thought of having to move out to make space for the vaguely gorgeous and brilliant woman; or maybe sooner, just to put your heart at ease, because with every beat of it you felt yourself falling deeper into the trap of loving this man. It was beginning to hurt; and still, you approached him, smiling.

“Looking cosy. Feeling better?”

You nodded, unable to resist and placing your hand over Steve’s arm, his soft blues finding your gaze.

“Thank you, Steve. Really.”

The lopsided smile returned, his fingers brushing your shoulder. God, he was so close and all you’d have to do was to stand on your tiptoes. You’d kiss his cheek, a purely innocent display of gratitude of course, just to feel his smooth skin against your lips once-

You needed to get a grip. The brief hypothermia you had suffered was messing with your brain and was lowering your inhibitions and that was not good.

“Anytime,” he assured you, nodding towards the screen. “We don’t have to, but I was wondering if you maybe wanted to watch a movie? I feel like we could both use that. But if you’d rather be alone-“

You shook your head quickly, your smile coming easier now because of the absurdity and thoughtfulness of his question at once. To be alone when he was there? No thank you. Who cared that the rational part of your brain huffed again, telling you that maybe that would be a better idea unless you wanted to torture yourself with false hopes.

Saying no was not an option.

You really must have had a glutton for punishment; but in some ways, you learned Steve suffered from the same condition. So maybe that was just his persona rubbing on off you… And thank you, brain, for the worst possible choice of words.

You cleared your throat.

“A movie sounds great,” you said, the mental image of you throwing its hands in the air, grumbling something about your poor old heart. Steve was still very softly holding onto your shoulder though, facing you, mere foot apart; who expected you to think rationally in these conditions? “Fair warning though, I almost fell asleep in the tub. Might fall asleep half-way through this.”

Steve grinned, stepping back to get the mugs and beckoning towards the couch again as to tell you to get settled. You obeyed without protest; you knew him well enough to be aware there was no point in trying to get your mug yourself.

He was the nurturing kind of friend.

“Does that mean I get to choose the movie so you can blame your social and cultural ignorance on my choices?” he teased.

He was also the loveable little shit kind of friend.

“Rude… and I would never,” you protested, accepting the offering of the hot chocolate, now indeed all cosy, tucked in a blanket, sitting comfortably and wrapping your hands around the mug to warm your palms further. “…but deal.”

Steve’s laugh was perhaps warmer than the mug and sweeter than its content, but you stomped at the thought as soon as it popped up in your head. You had no time nor capacity for nonsense. You had a nice evening ahead.

Better not to ruin it.

You weren’t sure what you’d expected, but this was not it.

You had warned Steve about the possibility of you nodding off; after all, beyond having exhausted your body with the less-than-pleasant walk, nearly falling asleep in a bathtub and getting all comfortable on the couch, you had expected the large amount of sugar you’d consume to take its toll eventually and push you over the edge, the infamous sugar crash being the last straw.

You had expected to be out as a light in a matter of minutes, to be honest.

You had not expected the effect of all the warmth and sugars to evaporate much faster than that.

You were maybe twenty minutes into the movie and the anticipated sleep barely scratched the door of your consciousness; instead, the first reluctant shivers arrived. Blatantly ignoring Steve’s subtle side-eye and entirely obvious worry, you sank deeper into the couch, pulling the second blanket over yourself, tucking it all the way up to your chin, curling into yourself to preserve the warmth.

Thirty minutes in, you were shaking so hard Steve paused the movie, a crease forming between his eyebrows as he turned his upper body to you, right hand reaching out before pausing a few inches from your forehead.

“Can I?”

You hummed noncommittally, wondering yourself if maybe your grade-A case of cold was arriving sooner than expected and a fever already hit.

You were feeling just fine though; it was just the damn shivers which you couldn’t seem to stop.

Steve’s hand gently settled against your forehead, his frown deepening almost as if he could feel your heart speed up at the contact and didn’t approve. Which you knew was nonsense, because his whole mind was probably already consumed by the mission of assessing whether his inner Nurse Rogers should come out, but it worked well for cooling off your train of thought.

“It doesn’t feel like you have a fever, but we should probably check,” he hummed thoughtfully, shifting, prepared to rise his feet in search of the thermometer.

Your hand shot up from its safe warm haven, missing the target of his forearm but sending clear enough message to stop him.

He settled back down with a sigh, his hand sliding from your forehead over your cheek to the side of your neck, a delightful source of warmth spreading through your whole body and your suddenly deadly heartrate; a flicker of an image in which he’d place his hand exactly there and leaned forward, his lips brushing yours, nudged insistently at your brain.

You battled it with violent effort, refusing to even consider the soft look in Steve’s eyes was anything but concern for a good friend.

Because that was all it was: concern. What if you turned into an icicle, right? He had seen weirder things than that and he had spent whole seventy years frozen. He was naturally very worried about you having to endure the same.

“I’m fine,” you assured him with a smile that was shaky due to everything but cold. “Just my thermoregulation going haywire after all the excitement today--- Jesus how are you always so warm…”

Steve ignored your question, his hand still firmly set on your neck, the most delicious source of heat, his eyes roaming your embarrassingly shaking form.

“I’ve had a lot of practice with cold,” he said absently.

You could practically hear the wheels in his head turning, even as you were quite busy keeping your teeth from clattering. His eyes were so startingly blue, with the lightest speckle of green standing out for some reason, mesmerizing and warm as if to wreck the theory of these two colours normally belonging to the cold scale and you heart was positively about to beat your way out of your chest, because it appeared as if he was leaning forward a bit and maybe you were entering some kind of delirium, so it really was the time to move.

Move to kiss him, maybe, you bet his lips were warm too and yours were cold-

Okay, that was it.

“Okay, I think I’m gonna go for another soak-“

“Come here,” he muttered at the same time, effectively rendering you speechless when he released you only to scoot back a bit, his fingers beckoning lightly to himself, expression entirely serious.

What.

“I do run pretty hot and frankly I’d rather have you under supervision,” he said matter-of-factly, slipping into the Captain mode – managing to shoot your naïve hopes sky-high and shooting them dead in one sentence.

He was mission-oriented; that was all. He was worried, because frankly, your body was acting out and he was a good friend.

A good friend. A captain, responsible for his own.

There was nothing romantic about sharing body heat; he had probably done it dozen times on a mission.

He was simply concerned. And you should be and were grateful for that and for the practical and grounded approach to the matter at hand; you certainly preferred it to him rushing you to the doctor, because you were still pretty certain it was nothing to be worried about, nothing a good night’s sleep with loads of blankets on top of you wouldn’t fix.

So why the pang in your heart?

Why the regret and disappointment at him simply doing it to assure you’d feel better?

Because you were an idiot and you should have been so much more radical about forbidding yourself from catching feelings while living with Steve. But how could anyone blame you? He was just stupidly attractive and profoundly good and adorably ordinary in his extraordinariness, and you just wanted one touch, one taste, one moment of basking in his light and warmth and actual love.

Was that really so wrong of you?

You swallowed, voice set perhaps a little harsher than needed, the idea of him holding you out of pity making you a little sick to your stomach.

“Steve, you really don’t have to-“

“I want to,” he argued, voice so much softer in contrast to yours, and your body, that traitorous body acted, nearing to his despite your achy heart and hurting brain screaming at you to get to your feet instead, get to the bathroom or your room and lock the door and your heart and throw away the key to keep it safe.

“Steve-“

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he saw you wavering despite your verbal protest.

“Plus, I’m just doing my civic duty of protecting the innocent. You shake any harder, you’ll cause an earthquake.”

Deadpanning, you managed to stop your progress; in turn, your heart fluttered at the sparkle of mischief in Steve’s eye, that stupid muscle in your chest humming with fondness.

Godddamn him.

He knew exactly how to disarm you completely, to have you do his bidding, and he must have known of this power of his, blatantly abusing it for your wellbeing.

What a criminal behaviour.

With a sigh, you lifted your blanket a bit, scooting over to his open arms, carefully laying to his side as his arm slid under the blanket around your shoulders and pulled you closer; his warmth enveloped you in an instant, his hand rubbing gently at your arm, while his other busied itself with tucking the blanket around you to create a safe cocoon.

You felt yourself relax despite your better judgement, cheek laying on his chest, a steady thump-thump of his heart bargaining with yours:

How could you be short with him? Mad at him? He was just being the nicest person in the world, taking care of his friend, radiating warmth and smelling of comfort, selfless and without seeking anything but a simple thank you in return, if even that. And the charming bastard he was, he even tried to make you laugh.

It wasn’t his fault you had gone and fallen in love with him; it wasn’t fair to hold it against him that he was the best person you knew and your feelings were hurt just because he couldn’t think the same about you. Your mind understood that; it was your heart that was foolish.

You chased the thoughts away, only an echo of the ugly empty feeling remaining, giving way to a much more tender and insistent emotion; but mostly to sensation of your shivers subduing, almost as if they had been the trembles of an addict seeking their fix – Steve’s touch – rather than those of someone with messed up thermoregulation.

Maybe they were. But that wasn’t for Steve to worry about.

“Har har… how about your civil duty of being a sassybag…” you muttered in appreciation of his attempt, his chest shaking lightly with a chuckle.

“Oh, I’m taking that one most serious of them all.”

That he was.

The grin in his voice was infectious, however; you smiled against your will, poking his side lightly with your index finger.

“I noticed… but I forgive you.”

Because you’re really warm and sweet and for a moment, I guess I can indulge in the unhealthy delusion of you doing this because you like me close, postponing the ache of sobering up to reality for later.

“I’m glad. How’s that feel?”

Like I want to stay like this forever.

Like I want you to want to stay like this forever.

You shushed the traitorous voice.

“Warm… comfy,” you added after a while, rewarded by a rub to your shoulder, being pulled impossibly closer. And it felt so good.

“Good.”

Simply holding you and sharing his heat indeed for a moment, he let you soak in the comfort. Seconds passed, maybe minutes; you didn’t count the beats of his heart, but heard every single one of them, soothing, whispering the little lie that maybe some of them were for you.

You didn’t argue; you didn’t quite give in.

When Steve lowly asked you if you wanted to continue the movie, you just nodded, grateful for the distraction of how incredibly right you felt in the little fantasy of yours that this, you being here in Steve’s arms, was exactly where you belonged.

As he reached for the remote, you whispered a soundless ‘thank you’.

His ‘you’re welcome’ was softer and warmer than the blankets.

It was a herculean task to accomplish, fending off sleep, but having being in Steve’s company had rubbed off of you; you were anything but determined. Not knowing what the movie was about and what had happened on the screen in the past minutes – since the movie started, really – you still tried not to doze off at least.

You had a creeping suspicion Steve knew, deducting so from your silence or from the way your body was completely pliant against his, but he didn’t call you out, like the gentleman he was. Instead, he had simply stopped moving, safe from the periodical rise and fall of his chest, serving you as the most comfortable pillow you had ever had a chance of laying your head to, soft and warm and solid all at once.

And he seemed perfectly content to serve as one.

Just for that, you had stopped caring a while ago about his motivations. Had this been just a mission to keep a fellow human warm, so be it. He seemed pleased enough to do so and in your hazy sleepy mind, you knew one thing with absolute certainty – and that was that you did find this all kinds of pleasant too. Should the contentedness of yours come from a different place than his, well, you could deal with that later.

Or never.

You were just… happy and at peace.

You weren’t sure when exactly you had closed your eyes, but you had; your voice was slurring a bit too, your determination to fight your exhaustion clearly not enough to win over sleep.

“Thank ya’ for takin’ care of me, Steve.”

At that, the soft statue under you shifted the tinniest bit, Steve’s thumb brushing your arm gently as his arm had remained around your shoulders. His heart was beating a little fast, you thought absently, lulled back into obliviousness by the vibration of his voice.

“You already said that…” he reminded you, humour and something else, sweeter, laced into his voice. “Anytime.”

You hummed in response, sinking deeper into the softness enveloping you.

“Hey… I mean it, okay?”

“Uh huh,” you muttered again, the dreamland already calling you, insistent and so inviting. “Same… arenchya sleepy? ‘m sleepy.”

Silence only sweetened by his still rapidly beating heart settled, another slow caress to your arm, Steve’s voice reaching you from tender proximity and endless distance all at once.

“Then sleep, doll.”

Mmm.

The dreams wrapped around your wrists like tender ribbons, coaxing you to follow them, pulling gently.

You could give in so easily. Letting the dreamland take you felt as simple as breathing; comfortable and warm, and feeling so damn safe that your heart, while peaceful, was aching a little.

And maybe it was the tone Steve had spoken with earlier – so much emotion weaved into a few simple words, so much meaning – maybe it was the subconsciousness forming your dreams, but the memory of one of your favourites book which you had read multiple times flickered through your mind, making you smile. Or maybe it didn’t – you weren’t sure if you moved a single muscle, your body already floating.

Le sommeil partagé était le corps du délit de l'amour, the line read. A pondering of a man to whom sleeping with women meant nothing but entertainment, no feelings attached; not until he held a woman truly dear to him through the night, having fallen asleep peacefully, at last realizing that what he was feeling was love.

Sleeping with someoneor sleeping with someone, that was at the centre of his dilemma; the sharp contrast, one much more meaningful than the other. One a display of desire; the other, display of trust and love. A corpus delicti of love.

It was never like that for you – to you, the physical only came along with emotional, deep trust necessary to both. Having been learning about who Steve was, your mind argued lazily, there was no doubt in your mind Steve felt the same way about his relationships.

But the fact you could fall asleep right there, in his arms, and it felt like the safest place in the world…

It brought along a different memory; a memory of Steve’s large body curled into itself next to you on the couch, three blankets on top of him, your hands holding his, the contact seemingly somehow chasing away the demons of his past that had come to haunt his dreams. You had found him, lost in his own home, trapped in his own mind. He had agreed on a movie even as it had taken a long time to convince him that you weren’t going to back to sleep in your room while he’d try to fight off the invisible enemies his mind had created alone; so you had settled on a movie marathon instead. He had relaxed eventually, the dreamland taking him again, soft snores a lullaby to you – and you had never spoken about it again besides his quiet, ashamed and painfully genuine thank you the next morning. He had trusted you then, maybe feeling just as safe as you were now, despite you being nothing but an ordinary unenhanced human protecting him from evil.

It was a mirror image to how you were at this moment, you mused sleepily; you made him your pillow and a space heater and the source of comfort, while you tiptoed the line of reality and dreams.

His heartbeat thundered softly in your ear, calming but so vigorous and fast; and it slowly dawned to you that his body had stiffened under yours, the sensation nudging your consciousness and pulling you back, away from sleep.

Before you could voice your concern and confusion, his chest vibrated softly under you; his voice caressed you, tender with a hint of a rasp.

“…oui, c’est toujours vrai,” he whispered slowly, the words not making any sense.

Yes, that is always – still – true, you understood despite not being able to grasp at what he was saying truly or why, even as you knew French nearly perfectly, could probably speak it even in your sleep-

Your eyes snapped open, your heart jumping in your chest so fiercely it hurt.

Yes, that is always true.

It is true-

You had spoken out loud.

You had quoted one of your favourite books to him, out loud, speaking of shared sleep and love, and he had read that book too, you knew as much because you had talked about it before, he knew what that line meant, what it meant to you.

But it couldn’t be. He couldn’t be saying what you meant he was saying-

Except that tone. That soft, soft inflection to his voice, his thumb brushing over your arm again, reluctant but firm, his breath having hitched, awaiting your reaction to this… revelation?

And he got it; all sleep evaporating from your body, realizing you were basically lying on top of him – gods, you had no inhibitions in your semi-sleep state – your heart pounded so wildly your ribcage just might set it free. You gulped, shifting so you could look at him, the world slowly coming back to focus as your mind kept echoing the same words, over and over.

Corpus delicti of love. Corpus delicti of LOVE, c’est vrai-

You found Steve with his head bowed, observing you with patient and nervous anticipation, still holding you close to his body, something softly hopeful shimmering in his irises. Shadows of the evening had fallen over the living room but you could still see his perfect face so clearly, the depth of his blue eyes, the two beauty marks on his cheek, the pink lips looking so soft even as they were lightly pressed in a line – expectant of your response.

Your response to him indirectly confessing to---

Was he in love in you too?

The flicker of something you’d never dare to truly believe was real, because it appeared dangerously like adoration, lit up his eyes at your barely audible ‘really?’, a shadow of anxiety building behind the brilliant speckles of green in his irises when he nodded and waited.

As you processed, Steve never took his gaze off you in a display of bravery you were sure you would never have been capable of.

He had nodded. He had nodded.

Unless you were reading it completely wrong, unless--- unless this was just your fever actually taking over, Steve loved you, or at least was on his way to do so.

The overwhelming euphoric feeling rushed through ever nerve ending like a livewire, lighting your body up, your breathing hitching and expanding in your chest, something prickling in your eyes.

Steve’s Adam’s apple bobbed, gaze flickering over your face, appearing almost desperate to read your reaction since you couldn’t seem to verbalize how you felt.

But how could you let out a single word? He had romantic feelings for you too.

“We… we can talk later, if you’d like. You need your rest too…” he argued in a reluctant whisper.

There was no universe in which you were going to fall asleep, ever again and frankly you admired his self-restraint and willingness to wait after having just confessed he was interested in more than friendship and roommate-ship.

Steve Rogers, your Steve, was holding you in his arms, your bodies aligned, and he had feelings for you.

The soft expression – and the nervous energy radiation off him – whispered urgently of you not having read too much into his gestures, of your naïve hopes not being all that naïve, of all of this being true even as it left like a dream.

Maybe it was. But if it was, you’d cling to it and never let go.

And if it was by some miracle true, you sure as hell would never ever let sleep take you, because then… well.

The corners of your lips twitched minutely in an incredulous self-deprecating smile.

You were thoroughly warmed up, all shivers having subdued a long time ago, but something inside you trembled more than your voice.

“I can’t sleep now... I’ll think I’d dreamed all this up. That it wasn’t real,” you whispered hastily, “I… I want it to be real.”

Tension melted from Steve’s body at last, muscles having been tight as a bowstring easing into their mere usual firmness. His lips, those inviting lips, curled up in a smile, an echo of his eyes twinkling with something soft and exciting.

“Sounds like a dream to me too, yeah,” he admitted, your pulse nearing the speed that would sooner or later surely lead to cardiac arrest, your mind screaming with dozen of swirling thoughts.

He liked you. Steve like-liked you, perhaps maybe, just a little, on his way to love you, shared sleep, trust and love, he had dreamed of this too, he-

“How about…” he hummed, hand slowly cupping your cheek, tilting your head up and guiding you to lift it off his chest, causing your head to spin sweetly.

You could have easily escaped the tender touch; but you didn’t want to, not in a million years. You leaned into it instead, a pleasant twist deep within your belly, a shaky exhale leaving your parted lips, air swiftly drawn back as Steve leaned down, eyes roaming your face for any sign of protest. Finding none, his eyes earned a new kind of glow that warmed you up like no blanket or shower could, his lips neared dangerously, a silent wishful sigh as your fingertips stroked lightly over his chest.

“…we share a moment so real there’s no doubt left?”

There was no doubt left; and not a second of hesitation.

It occurred to you how absurd the reasoning was, to have a real moment, what a feeble excuse; as if you hadn’t dreamed of this before, as if the images of kissing Steve hadn’t haunted your nights, so vivid and so tangible morning had felt like razor tearing the masterpiece of a canvas apart; but that thought was but a silent voice in the very back of your mind and you did not care for it in the slightest.

On the other hand, Steve was right here and you’d do just about anything he’d suggest.

“Yes.”

The second the breathless sound left you, Steve’s lips were pressed to yours, soft and warm and real, an electrifying sensation of right rushing through your very being, proving Steve’s damn point; your dreams could have never done justice to this.

Not to the way his lips moulded against yours, the tentative touch turning eager the very moment you pressed against him.

Not to the way he felt so perfectly solid and soft under your palm, against your side, against your thigh.

Not to the way his hand on your arm curled around your bicep and squeezed when your lips parted for him with a choked whimper.

Not to the way his fingertips caressed along your jaw to your chin, tipping your head back further to truly kiss you.

Not to the way you couldn’t get enough of it, of his touch, of his taste, chocolate and sugar and home, of his scent, invading your senses in the most wonderful attack you’d yield to with delight.

When your lips parted with a gasp, your name like the sweetest endearment on his lips, his forehead rested against yours, sharing your breath, your space, the wild beats of your hearts.

It seemed that some of those beats of his heart truly might be for you; just like quite a few of yours were for him.

And it was beautiful.

An unwitting chuckle spilled from your lips, the euphoria coursing your veins spilling over, rewarded by a soft stroke of Steve’s thumb over your cheek, a deep inhale, your eyes fluttering open to his soft but blinding smile you couldn’t but mirror.

God, he was the most stunning man you had ever seen in your life.

Had you not been rendered speechless by the kiss, his beauty would have done the job.

And if that hadn’t been enough, the way he was looking at you, as if you had hung the moon and the stars and he would have hung them for you if you had just asked – how had you never noticed it before? – now that would have done you for.

You had no words; but it seemed that for the moment, neither did he.

And so your gaze flickered down to his lips, now more tempting than ever, and you let action speak louder than words.

Cupping his face in return, you kissed him again, and let the coincidence or perhaps fate, that had led you to spill your secrets at the precipice of sleep, take reigns again, not at all protesting when Steve’s hands roamed to your waist, a silent invitation for you to move closer in any way you wished.

You let the moment take you wherever it would lead, quite happy if the half-wit you had called yourself earlier that day lost all her wits to Steve’s softly demanding mouth.

Maybe next time you’d get caught in the rain, he’d be there soaking with you; and maybe just like he hadn’t cared for getting his clothes wet earlier either, you’d both stand there in the downpour in an embrace of lovers, caring little for the water dripping all over you.

As long as he’d keep kissing you.

Complete masterlist

Steve Rogers masterlist

Happy autumn, everyone 💕 I know I should be working on my longfic but my brain seems distracted by various short-fic ideas, often fullfilling writing challenges...

I really enjoyed this one 🥰 and I hope that so did you!

Have a lovely autumn!🍂

P.S. - For those interested, the quote comes from Milan Kundera's novel Unbearable Lightness of Being (L'insoutenable légèreté de l'être or Nesnesitelná lehkost bytí).

#elixirscafe #navy and roo's sleepover #sleepover challenge #winds of autumn challenge #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers #captain america #captain america x you #captain america imagine #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fanfiction #caught #anika ann

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nebulousbrainsoup · 1 year ago

Text

quiet

🌙 SUMMARY: sometimes, your boyfriend has a little trouble expressing himself. he gets stuck in that pretty head of his, thoughts swirling like a storm. thankfully, you know just how to help him out of it. 🌙 PAIRING: kang yeosang x gn!reader 🌙 GENRE: fluff, smut 🌙 AU/TROPE INFO: established relationship, comfort after hurt 🌙 WORD COUNT: 1.8k 🌙 TAGS/WARNINGS: non-sexual dom/sub dynamics, stressed yeosang, stress/anxiety reactions, non-verbal yeosang for some of this, explicit discussion/negotiation of d/s dynamics & safety measures, pet names/nicknames (my Sangie, baby, angel, the rest happen in the smut lol), nonverbal cues as communication, subspace, brief mentions of food and eating, cuddling, not proofread 🌙RATING: mature 🌙 A/N: this is... a new venture for me, as far as released fics go. i have about a million blurbs like this that will never see the light of day, but after what happened yesterday... i had to give my boy some comfort. i hope you enjoy <3 🌙 smut tags under the cut ; divs from @cafekitsune 🌙 masterlist | join my taglist | buy me a coffee?

🌙 SMUT TAGS/WARNINGS: clothed sex, dom/sub dynamics, dry humping, cumming in pants, emotional release crying, traffic light check-in system, pet names ([my] Sangie, baby, angel, baby boy, sweetheart, good boy), reader is possessive, gratuitous praise, humiliation if you squint, sub!yeosang, dom!reader

The moment your apartment door swung open, you knew something was wrong. It wasn’t the act itself that threw you; unannounced visits weren’t Yeosang’s style and, as you had come to expect, he had texted you before coming over. There was nothing telling about the way it opened either, the quiet creak of the hinges a welcome familiarity over top of the tension you felt radiate through the space. No version of the sing-song greeting you were accustomed to met your ears as you heard it click shut, and you frowned. The crease between your brows only deepened as you heard his bag hit the floor of the entryway, your jaw tightening.

This wouldn’t do.

Quiet footsteps shuffled toward the kitchen but you paid them no mind, focusing entirely on the pot of soup in front of you. A small, pleased noise sounded from the doorway, and within moments, strong arms were wrapped around your waist and Yeosang was burying his nose into your hair. You basked in the touch for a moment, letting yourself indulge despite your boyfriend’s disregard for your rules. With a steadying breath, you clicked your tongue in disapproval, moving to step out of his grasp as you reached for a cabinet above you. He only coiled tighter around you as you shifted, a broken little whimper leaving him and three gentle taps landing on your hip.

Your heart broke as you settled back onto your feet, recalling a months-old conversation for the hundredth time.

“So, I’m okay with all of that. It’s really stuff I already do anyway,” Yeosang affirmed, a pretty blush coloring his cheeks and ears as he looked over the tablet in front of him. “I mean, I don’t want you to think I’m like… breaking in or something when I walk in.”

You both giggled at that. “So greeting me should be easy, then. We’re starting out simple, Sangie, that’s kind of the point of this.”

He nodded in understanding, fingers tapping against the table. “So, one thing I already do and one new thing.”

It was your turn to nod, a sheepish smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah. It’s kind of selfish too, honestly… I know I don’t have a lot of space, but even just giving your bag a more permanent home than by the door just… feels nice. It feels like you’re not going to run out on me over the little things.”

The look he directed back up at you was one of sheer adoration, and you felt your stomach flip. “Of course I wouldn’t.”

It was your turn to blush. You had to pause, gathering your wits before opening your mouth to speak but, to your surprise, your boyfriend beat you to it. “There’s just one thing. I… Sometimes, if I have a particularly overwhelming day, I don’t always… have words. And I don’t want to keep myself away from you or get in trouble with you on my worst days just because I’m too in my head to speak.”

Something gripped at your heart, squeezing it tight. “We can do nonverbal cues, like we do during regular scenes. You could tap me three times to let me know you’re out of words, if that works? That way you can still use your double tap to safeword, even outside of the bedroom, but you don’t have to push yourself to provide an explanation.”

His eyes lit up, a soft little smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “That’s perfect.”

You had known it would happen at some point, but that didn’t keep your heart from hurting. “Oh, my Sangie,” you murmured, reaching back to card a hand into his hair. Another pitiful whimper left him and some of the tension drained from his shoulders at the attention. “I need to finish dinner, baby.” Again, a whine of protest, and his grip around you tightened. “Angel,” you prodded, and sighed internally when the pet name had him melting against you. “You can have all the attention you want in ten minutes after I finish dinner. Why don’t you go put your bag where it’s supposed to be and curl up on the couch in the meantime, hm? Pick out a show for us to watch while we eat.”

He huffed a sigh but you felt him nod against your neck and squeeze you tight once more, pressing a kiss to your head before heading off back into your apartment. You turned, watching him go with a pained expression.

No, this wouldn’t do at all.

The moment the last drop of soup was gone from both of your bowls, your dishes were swept away, deposited in the sink by your boyfriend, who quickly bundled himself up into your lap upon his return. You chuckled quietly, carding a hand into his hair as you sprawled out on the couch, his ear pressed against your steady heartbeat. Between the dull roar of the drama on the screen, the soothing rhythm of your fingers in his hair, and the warmth of the blanket across his legs, Yeosang quickly found the worries of his day fading away. His mind went hazy as he melted against you, eyes slipping shut as comfort and safety overtook him, lulling him into a familiar, floaty headspace. He felt more than heard your chuckle as you took note of the change, scratching fondly at his scalp.

The drag of your nails sparked the pleasant warmth in his gut to something stronger, a low groan leaving him that seemed to startle both of you. He jolted in your lap, eyes blinking back open, and you chuckled quietly as a flush painted his cheeks and ears. You grinned at him and he whined, burying his face back into your chest. The squirming only brought another fond laugh to your lips, this one cut short in a gasp as Yeosang froze, another whimper leaving his lips.

He was hard beneath his sweats, his length now pressed into your thigh from his shifting. The tips of his ears were tinted bright red, and you smiled fondly as you cupped his chin. He turned his chin up to you willingly, eyes wide and glassy.

“Needy, baby?” You teased, and he nodded immediately in response. “Do you have your words back? You know I don’t like playing if my angel can’t talk to me.”

His eyes left yours for a moment as his brow furrowed in thought, but when he met your gaze again, he nodded resolutely. “‘M green,” he murmured, voice gravelly from disuse.

You beamed at him, shifting to grind your thigh against his arousal and delighting in the weak little noise you pulled from him. “My good boy,” you purred, carding a hand back into his hair.

Yeosang groaned as he shifted up and braced himself on his forearms, burying his face into your neck to press soft kisses to your skin. Slowly, you let one hand drop to his hip, guiding him to grind against your thigh. His breath caught in his throat for a moment, another broken sound leaving him as he quickly settled into a steady rhythm.

“Is this what you want, angel? To grind yourself on my thigh and cum in your pants like a teenager?” He whined, burying his nose against your neck. You sighed as the combined sensations lit a shudder down your spine, holding your boyfriend close to you. “Want me to get you off just like this?” His hips stuttered, and you felt him nod against your neck. “Words, baby.”

“Y-Yes,” he gasped, and you bit your lip to bite back a groan. God, he sounded so wrecked already. Had floating in subspace for you really affected him this much? “If… Wanna take care of you, too, but it feels so good, ngh…”

He trailed off, hips rolling faster against your leg, and this time you couldn’t bite back a quiet, pleased moan. “Don’t worry about me, angel. Tonight’s all about you, okay? My baby boy had a long day,” he buried his face into your shoulder at this, another whine leaving him, and you felt your chest tighten again, “so he gets to choose how he cums tonight.”

Once more, his hips stuttered and his breath caught at once. “Wanna… like this. Then,” he gasped, teeth nipping at your throat as he rutted harder against you, “then…” He trailed off with a high whine, his movement against you becoming more desperate.

“Don’t worry about what comes after, sweetheart. Just worry about now. You’re here, with me, doing so well and looking so pretty for me, and that’s all that matters, okay angel?”

He tensed in your arms, a half-choked sob escaping his lips, and when you felt the first warm, wet tears drop against your skin, your heart dropped. The hand still resting against his scalp dug in and you tugged, trying to pull him away from you. A sound slipped from his lips that was positively wrecked, and one hand snapped up from the couch to bunch your shirt up in his fist. The desperation he clung to you with as he chased his high had you hesitating, but the tension in your shoulders remained.

It seemed Yeosang noticed, his lips pressing urgently over your neck to soothe you, words spilling from his lips unfiltered as you remained rigid. “I’m good, I’m okay, I’m s–so, oh, green, please, it just f–feels s’good and I… need this, need you—”

His reassurance had you relaxing, nails scraping against his scalp once more and pulling another pretty noise from him. “Just feels too good, doesn’t it, angel?” He nodded furiously into your neck and you breathed a laugh, shifting where you sat. There was no denying the effect this—your boyfriend, trembling and sobbing in your lap, overwhelmed with pleasure—was having on you.

Gently, you coaxed his chin up as you had before, meeting his teary eyes with a warm smile. “You look so pretty like this, Sangie. You can cum whenever you want, okay? You have my permission.”

He let out another broken sob, hips rolling against you once, twice more before they stuttered into aborted little jerks. You watched, enthralled, as his jaw dropped open and his eyes blinked shut, the pooling warmth of his release evident even through the layers separating you.

“There you go, baby,” you sighed, leaning in to catch his lips in a deep kiss. You were both breathless when you parted, resting your foreheads against each other. “Feel better?” Yeosang nodded, humming affirmation. “Good. Now, let’s go clean you up, and you can tell me all about those plans you have for later, hm?”

The groan he muffled into your neck had you giggling once more, pressing a reassuring kiss into his hair. This was better.

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questforgalas · 1 month ago

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Storm Blue Eyes and A Scottish Brogue: Reasons Simon Riley Came Back to Life

For @daredaredoodles!! Happy Ghoapmas!!! Here is some very oblivious and very yearny Ghost for you!! Oh, did I mention lots of fluff? :) I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!!!

Thank you @forsaire for hosting!!!!

Ao3 link

Summary: It was supposed to be a holiday season like all of the others - nights filled with reports, and a base haunted by a Ghost while everyone wandered home. Three knocks on Simon's door change those plans entirely.

Words: 5K

No CWs, just tooth-rotting fluff and Gaz so done with these two

It was supposed to be quiet tonight. An intimate date between Simon, the desk in his room, and the pile of reports that magically remain the same height regardless of how many hours are put towards them (a detail Captain Price never misses). Does Simon happen to write a little slower to aid that magical spell so that he has a proper excuse when Price inevitably comes knocking on his door and asks why he hasn’t filed for leave again this December? Possibly, but that little detail belongs between Simon and the twenty minutes during which he contemplates which words to use instead of “infiltrate” and “detonation”.

He should have known nothing ever goes according to plan. Three familiar knocks rapping against the door certainly proved that right.

Cut to Soap MacTavish standing on the other side, a smile curling his lips and azure eyes all the brighter against the navy jumper wrapping across his broad chest. Words were said, something about a night out which made sense since Soap wore dark jeans that seemed made specifically to torture Simon, and there was a glint in Soap’s eye not dissimilar to a child’s on Christmas morning.

Ah, so, Price was picking up the tab.

As Soap stands in the hall, punctuating his pitch to coach the lieutenant out of his room with perfectly placed smiles and a wink or two anyone else would find gratuitous but Simon found infuriatingly endearing, Simon swaps his hoodie for a black jumper, grabs his jacket, and has the door locked just as Soap says, “‘nd it’s not tha team without ma favorite lieutenant.”

The calendars say “December”, but the unseasonably warm air makes the jacket hanging over Simon’s arm feel like overkill, making him contemplate turning around and throwing it through the door, but instead he rolls up the sleeves of his jumper. In the corner of his eye, he sees Soap watch as the fabric folds back and reveals Simon’s forearms - corded with muscle, covered in scars, one completely inked over.

Simon wanted to tell himself that the way Soap ogled at the skin didn’t make his own feel a size too small. He wanted to tell himself the way Soap’s Adam's apple bobbed and the dusting of pink at the tip of his ears didn’t match his own. He wanted to tell himself he wouldn’t tuck this moment away safely in the gilded chest labeled “Moments He Can Pretend” that he stored in the safe recesses of his heart.

He wanted to tell himself all of that, but unfortunately, that would make Simon a liar.

Soap rambles on about some combination of some chemicals that Simon doesn’t understand a lick of - he’s just happy he remembers to nod at points that seem right for it - and they walk side by side through Hereford.

“What fresh hell is this,” Simon mutters, the revelry from the pub greeting their ears when they’re still a block away.

“Don’t fret, Lt.” Soap nudges him with his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s just ol’ Gerry with tha music up because he finally accepted he cannae hear for shit.”

It was, in fact, not Gerry with the music up.

The Green Pony quite literally glows on the corner. Green garland lit with soft, white lights frames every window, and electric candles flicker at the streets. Two wreaths adorned with a red ribbon bow hang on the dark wood doors, and through the windows, matching garland and lights line the entirety of the bar. A large tree pulls it all together, lighting up the far corner much to the chagrin of some patrons looking for a secluded corner away from the crowd.

They shoulder their way through the entry and are immediately sucked into the chaos that is the Green Pony operating over capacity. Behind the bar, Gerry, the owner, a man who Simon is convinced was born in this pub, slings pints and jabs faster than any of the youngsters helping alongside him, and when he catches sight of the two men, he throws a lazy salute and points in the direction of their usual table. They break through the crowd, and the sight of Captain Price and Sergeant Kyle “Gaz” Garrick greets them at their usual booth.

“Well fuck me,” Gaz says as they approach. “Good to see ya Ghost, but you just lost me 20 quid.”

“Pay up,” Soap holds out his hand as he scoots in besides the other sergeant. Gaz grumbles something about “unfair advantages” as he fishes out his wallet, and hidden under a black medical mask, a smile pulls at the corner of Ghost’s lips. A terrible bet by Gaz, really. Might as well be the title of Simon’s memoir:

Storm Blue Eyes and A Scottish Brogue: Reasons Simon Riley Could Never Say No.

Gaz of all people should know this, and Simon’s pretty sure Soap does do.

Simon settles in next to Price who silently nods in a way of greeting, but Simon doesn’t miss the way his mouth curls up in a smile around the lip of his glass. “Never become predictable, Sergeant. Easier to kill that way,” Simon offers. Two pints sit unclaimed on the table. Simon grabs one while nudging the other towards Soap. “‘nd have some respect. I’m worth at least 40 quid.”

“Sound advice, sir.” Gaz tips his glass to Simon then takes a strong swig.

The rounds disappear and reappear over and over. The older patrons begin to make their way home, thinning the crowd some but not enough to avoid Simon’s shoulder - large enough to breach the end of the booth - becoming a human bumper now and again. Someone’s hijacked the jukebox, and Mariah Carey’s been serenading them about Christmas for the past twenty minutes. Price said his goodbyes a round ago, but not before assuring “Yes, sergeants, the tab will still be open,” and he threw that look to Simon that said “They’re your circus now”.

Now, Gaz sits at the table, chocolate eyes glassy under the lights, and a finger absentmindedly circles his pint. A dopey smile sits on his lips, and every few minutes he mumbles along to Mariah before she drowns in the din of the crowd. A word hasn’t been spoken between them since Price left - an understood respect by Gaz who knows Simon’s need for silence as much as Soap’s need to fill the air - and Simon wishes he could enjoy it. He wishes he could give Gaz that much. Instead, a dainty hand attached to a brunette he faintly recognizes from base is demanding all of his attention.

Moments ago, Soap delivered their newest round with a thunk, earning a curse or two from Gaz who saved his pint just in time, but instead of sliding into the space next to Simon - a space he occupied as soon as Price said his goodbyes - he grabbed his pint and beelined to the bar. There, a brunette waited. They were familiar, that Simon was sure of, and Soap kept flashing that smile that Simon was desperate to be turned on him.

And then the hand. The hand gripped Soap’s bicep, gave it a squeeze, and a laugh, airy and bright followed. The hand remained. That smile flashed brighter.

Simon hated that hand.

She was pretty enough. Glossy hair, high cheekbones, an ass Simon assumed would be appreciated by the right eyes. Eyes that weren’t azure blue and rivaled the bays of Islay. Any eyes except those.

The hand slides from Soap’s bicep and cups his elbow. Simon’s knuckles have gone white. He really hated that hand.

“Ghost, mate,” Simon hears from across the table. “Bruv, that glass is about to lose whatever battle ya’ve picked against it.” Simon tears his gaze away from that hand and sets it on Garrick who, bless him, doesn’t flinch. “Mind tellin’ me what that poor glass has done to you?”

“Don’t know what you’re on ‘bout,” Simon answers and sets his eyes back on that hand that’s smartly retreated back to its owner. Lucky her, she gets to keep it.

For now.

Soap’s pint is forgotten on the bartop, he says something to the brunette, and the cute crease that appears when the Scot is trying to puzzle out an equation is between his brows. Simon adores that crease. His hands itch to smooth it out and fight whatever has caused it.

He misses the questioning look on Gaz’s face and when he follows Simon’s gaze. He misses when the sergeant puts two and two together, but what he doesn’t miss is the sigh that’s pulled from Gaz’s chest and the thunk of the sergeant’s forehead against the thick, wooden table.

“Ya’ve got to be bloody kiddin’ me.” Stunned, Simon watches as Gaz thunks his head one, two, three more times, then snaps back up. His face is nothing but anguish. “Talk to him.”

“What?” Simon smartly replies.

“Talk. To. Him.” Gaz accompanies each word with a thump of his pint as if hammering them into the wood would hammer them into Simon’s confused brain.

“Talk to who?”

“Bloody ‘ell!” Simon thinks Gaz is being a bit overdramatic, what with throwing his hands in the air and acting as if Simon is the densest person in this pub. Problem is, Simon has no idea what he’s supposed to be grasping. The sergeant rubs a hand down his face, and once he’s collected himself, the stare he throws at Simon pins him to the booth. “Talk to Soap. I’m beggin’ you, Ghost. Talk to him, and save us all from havin’ to keep watching you two dance around each other like a bunch of school boys who don’t know what a crush is.”

The words make sense. Well, they make sense that they’re words, and they’re going in one ear. But not all of them are processing and some of them are going right out the other ear leaving a jumbled tangle of words like “Soap” and “you two” and “crush” that are rattling around in the empty space of Simon’s mind. Yes, it makes sense that Garrick just said something, but the implications are mad enough that he has half a mind to order him to a psych evaluation at once.

“Might’ve finally lost it, Garrick. Imaginin’ things now.” It’s really all he can muster past his lead laden tongue.

Crushing on Soap, well, that was as easy as breathing. But crushing is too trivial a word, wasn’t it? Crushing was what you did on the schoolyard when the brain hadn’t learned the words that threatened to burst from your heart. Crushing was soft glances across a room and sheepish smiles dripping with honeyed words. Crushing wasn’t a deep seeded trust that you’d make it home alive as long as that one person was beside you. Crushing wasn’t intimate knowledge of a body learned in the lowlight of safehouses while rough hands guided needles through skin. Crushing wasn’t hushed confessions in the dark as you accepted your mortality.

No, Simon did not have a crush on Soap MacTavish, because a crush was too simple. A tapestry of moments woven from a tarmac to now - the bar lights catching the hidden caramel strands of Soap’s mohawk - blanketed along Simon’s very being, and no longer could he ignore that his British heart had a Scottish flag planted firmly in place.

And because life loves to remind Simon that he is not a man destined for gentle touches and even gentler words, he watches as the brunette grasps Soap around the forearm and leads him out of the pub. “Told ya,” the words taste more bitter than he intended. “Imaginin’ things.”

Gaz tracks the pair through the crowd. “I’m the best interrogator on the team,” he says. Simon’s brow shoots up, and he’s about to question what the hell that has anything to do with this when Gaz holds up his hand and continues. “I’m the best interrogator on this team. I can read body language at a level that, often, I wish I couldn’t. The amount of people’s secrets that they don’t even know but I know is a burden I’m cursed to carry.” Pint abandoned and a finger getting closer and closer to Simon’s chest, Gaz continues. “I don’t know what the hell ‘appened in Las Almas…well I do, I read the report, but I mean between you two. I noticed it the moment we stepped into Ale’s safehouse, and it’s only gotten worse since. We, the 141, are a team. Price and I are teammates. You and I are teammates. Johnny an-”

“He doesn’t want anyone callin’ ‘im Johnny.” Amusement dances across Gaz’s eyes, and Simon knows he fell into his trap.

“Exactly. Anyone except?” Gaz takes Simon’s glare as confirmation. “All I’m sayin’ is, Soap and you? You’re more than teammates, Ghost. You’re the best in the world - as much as I ‘ate to admit it - not because of hours of training together or years of missions. It’s like you two are one soul, it’s absolutely mad to watch. And it’s not just on missions either. Ya both have a starin’ problem, that’s for sure. Though neither of you would know because it’s always when the other isn’t lookin’.”

“We - what?” Simon can’t fit Gaz’s words into his understanding of his relationship with Soap.

“The heart eyes? At each other?” Gaz flutters his lashes, and Christ, it actually gets a chuckle out of Ghost, as annoyed as he is. “Ya’d think for someone whose eyes are the only part of his body he shows, you’d be better at schooling them, but I swear I’ve seen those lines at the corners actually melt whenever Soap walks into the room.”

Oh, Gaz is proper teasing now, and Simon wants to smack the smirk right off of his face. He wants to tell him he’s delusional and that he can’t accept the image Gaz is spinning because it means taking the feelings he keeps packed away in that gilded chest in the safe corner of his heart and laying them all out there. Yet, the denial never comes, and instead, he feels his traitorous mouth curl up.

Is that…relief easing his chest?

Gaz’s face softens. “Remember the first thing ya told me when I joined the team?”

“Our job doesn’t guarantee tomorrow,” Simon says automatically. “Take the good moments while ya can. Don’t know ‘ow many ya’ll have.”

“Maybe time to start takin’ your own advice, huh?”

“Who’s advice we takin’?”

Gaz and Simon jump at the new voice, both reflexes fast enough to keep the pints from spilling over. Simon peers up, and his heart stutters. There stands Soap with cheeks rosy from the cold, and Simon has well and truly lost it because he desperately wants to loop his arm around Soap’s waist and tuck him into his side to keep him warm.

“Just Ghost’s words of wisdom,” Gaz supplies easily.

“Ah, only an eejit wouldn’t listen to the Ghost.” Soap stares down at the table, and he clears his throat before he continues. “Actually, Lt. I - I was hopin’ I could pull ye away?” He rubs the back of his neck, and the red on his cheeks spreads to the tips of his ears. “Unless ye don’t want to! Dinnae me - mean to interrupt, probably discussin’ something - never mind I…”

“Relax, Sergeant.” At the sound of Simon’s voice, Soap’s shoulders drop and his breaths come easier. He meets Simon’s gaze, and Simon has never seen this look in those storm blue eyes. Timid. Unsure. Bashful? “Was just finishin’ up. Garrick, ya good?”

Gaz waves him off. “Out of ‘ere. Your dark cloud is bringin’ down the festive mood.” He throws them a wink and stands from the table, smoothing out his jumper as he eyes six feet of muscles and a jawline that could break glass leaning on the bartop. Instead of walking around them, Gaz cuts right between Simon and Soap, and just before he steps away, he leans into Simon’s ear. “Talk to him.”

The hour hasn’t cooled the air so Simon and Soap opt to wander through Hereford instead of hailing a cab. Simon blames the beer and Gaz’s words buzzing in his ears, but he feels attuned to every one of Soap’s footfalls and every sway of his arms. The street is empty, plenty of room to stroll, yet the two of them walk with barely a hair between them. A tug Simon will always follow, and maybe Gaz hasn’t completely lost it, because Soap does too.

But because Simon can never make things easy for himself, he says “Where’s the brunette?”

Soap looks at him, face scrunched and that crease is between his brows. It would be so simple to reach out and gently smooth his thumb along it. “Wha’ brunette?” Soap asks because he can never make it easy for Simon, either.

“The brunette at the pub. Seemed…cozy.” If a sniper took him out, Simon wouldn’t complain.

“Cozy?” An incredulous laugh circles around the word. He’s really going to make Simon spell it out.

“Ya. Cozy. Thought, well, -” Simon picks at the nonexistent lint on his sweater. “Thought she was makin’ good company.”

Soap is silent, and it’s making Simon’s skin crawl. He focuses on his steps, one in front of the other. He creates a new mission right then: get back to base, say goodnight to Soap, and not emerge from his room until everyone has left for the holidays. He has rations hidden in his desk, he can make it until then.

“Oh, Simon,” Soap says softly between them.

They don’t speak for the rest of the walk, but there’s a spring in Soap’s step, and whatever millimeter of space that had existed between them is eaten up entirely by the Scot. When they arrive on base, Simon prepares his goodbye, ready to go down his hall while Soap goes down his, but when he turns to depart, Soap grabs his wrist and guides Simon with him.

They arrive at Soap’s private room. The Scot jumbles his keys, nearly dropping them on the ground, and struggles to get them into the keyhole. Simon thinks to point out that the process would probably be easier if Soap just let go of his wrist, but call him weak because that touch is more intimate than any stitch Soap has put in his body.

Finally, the lock turns, Soap pushes open the door, swiftly kicks it closed, and the two of them stand in the soft glow of the lamp on the bedside table.

He’s been in Soap’s room plenty of times before, but this, this moment is different. A delicate thing Simon could almost hold in his hand, and he hopes that door never opens again. Hopes that they can stand here away from the responsibilities and the enemy bullets and bask in the warmth of this thing between them. This thing that Simon prays to a God he doesn’t believe in that he’s no longer imagining and is ready to stop ignoring. Since the pub he’s felt exposed, as if every emotion he’s tried to hide away for the better part of a year is now written across his skin for a pair of azure eyes to read. As he spies the rapid rise and fall of Soap’s chest, he thinks he’s not the only one.

Words sit on his tongue, but just before they tumble from his lips, he pulls them back. He’s pictured this moment 1000 different times and 100 different ways. None of it practiced. He has to get this right. He takes a breath. He has to figure out a way to tell Soap that if he wants to take the plunge, Simon is on the ledge with him, but he also wants to leave the door open so that if he’s misread everything, nothing needs to change between the two of them. The jumper is beginning to cling to his back.

But it’s Soap who speaks first. “I got ye somethin.”

“Ya got me somethin’?” Simon repeats back.

“Aye. It’s - one second.” Soap steps around him and rifles through his jacket. When he straightens, a dark rectangle is in his hands. He holds it out to Simon who has lost all function of his arms and stares at the object.

“What is it?”

“A present.”

“A present?”

“Holy ‘ell, Simon. Yes! A present! Ye know what a present is, aye?”

Simon is only more confused by the answer. Soap shoves the rectangle into his chest, and Simon’s brain catches up fast enough to wrap his hands around the object that he now realizes is a thick, wooden box.

“For me?” Seems his brain hasn’t moved past two word sentences though.

Soap rolls his eyes and his hands plant his hips. “Yes, it’s for you. It’s what I was talkin’ to Heather about.”

“Heather?” Christ, Simon needs his brain to wake up.

“Aye, Heather. The lass at the pub. She helped me get this.”

“So, ya weren’t -” Simon feels his ears burn. “Ya weren’t…flirting?”

Soap’s eyes widen for half a second, and then he tries to hide a startled chuckle with a cough as he looks down. Simon’s pretty sure he hears “Fuckin bampot” mixed in there. When Soap looks back up, he seems shy, almost embarrassed, cheeks back to that pink that’s starting to drive Simon wild. “No, Lt. Heather gets handsy after some pints, but I wasn’t flirtin’ with her.” Azure blue locks him in place. “I had someone else in mind for that.”

Bloody hell. Simon’s first instinct is to retreat. Flirting wasn’t wholly a new thing between them. They’d lost comms privileges on more than a few missions with Price - Gaz never had the power to pull the plug though he always made his grievances known - but it was all coy, innocent, dangling off the edge of friendly banter. None of it was ever so brazen, so laid out in the open. But here was Soap, taking the first step, leaving a small part of himself bare, waiting to see what Simon would do with it.

“You didn’t have to,” Simon says, holding up the box.

“I wanted to.” It sounds so simple coming from those lips.

Simon’s jacket joins Soap’s, and he holds the box in both hands. What he mistook for black is actually a deep, rich mahogany polished by an expert hand. The box easily lays in his palms, and he’s acutely aware of Soap watching him as he lifts the lid. Simon’s breath catches.

The inside is lined by a black silk, and nestled in the middle lies the most beautiful knife he has ever seen. He can tell that the blade is of the best steel, a straight spine across the top meets a point sharp enough to tear through his toughest gloves. He runs his thumb along the edge to the heel and revels at the ease with which it knicks his skin.

Where the blade is all wicked grace, the handle is a work of art. Stunning black onyx catches the light as Simon delicately lifts it from the box. At first glance, it’s smooth, but when he rubs the stone with his thumb, he catches other carvings. He moves to the bedside table, and when he holds it under the lamplight, Simon nearly drops the knife.

Sapphire blue and rich hazel streak through the black stone, tangling together perfectly. Simon turns the handle. On one side is a blue bar of soap. It matches a doodle Simon has seen on scraps of paper left in briefing rooms and napkins in the mess and on the corners of his reports when a certain sergeant comes to visit. He flips it, and on the other side is a hazel ghost. Another doodle Simon has spied on the pages of a journal kept close to that same sergeant’s heart.

“Do ye like it?” Soap shifts on his feet. He’s rubbing the back of his neck again, and Simon fights back a laugh.

The absurdity of it all, that Soap could be nervous right now.

No. Not Soap. Not anymore.

Johnny. His Johnny. He’s always been his, from the tarmac to now as Simon stares, gobsmacked, at this immortalization of them in stone. At this declaration of every intention and feeling and dream Simon’s been too afraid of. Johnny’s blue streaking through the darkness, dancing perfectly with Simon’s hazel. Ghost and Soap always side by side. He decides right then that he’s done tucking the feelings away in that gilded chest. He’s done with moments that live only in his fantasies. He’s done pretending he’s ok with it being just Ghost and Soap forever and that he hasn’t craved Simon and Johnny.

So yes, it is absolutely absurd that Johnny could be nervous right now.

“Heather’s da used tae be in tha service ‘nd makes these custom now. I ken you’re picky about the blades. Think I drove ‘er up the wall goin’ back ‘nd forth makin’ sure it was the best -” Johnny is rambling, and he’s looking everywhere except at Simon. If he was, he would have seen Simon reverently place the knife back in the box. He would’ve seen Simon rip the medical mask off of his face, and he would’ve seen Simon eat the space between them in two strides. If he was, he would’ve been ready when Simon cupped his face, and crashed their lips together.

Simon has no idea what he’s doing. He doesn’t know how to do soft and gentle. He doesn’t know how to exist in a space where there’s acknowledged interest that’s so much heavier than a tumble in a bed. He doesn’t know how Johnny MacTavish, full of joy and thunder and blazing glory, found his way into Simon’s endless darkness. But Johnny kisses him back and grips his jumper, and Simon’s heart is no longer his own.

“Hi,” Johnny says once they catch their breath, and Simon can feel the smile against his lips.

“Johnny,” Simon mumbles, and it sounds like a prayer. He pulls Johnny closer and feels the strong muscles of his arms circle around Simon’s waist. He cradles Johnny’s face, thumb softly rubbing against the stubble on his cheek, and he leans in again. This, Simon thinks, is his own personal version of heaven.

They’re pressed together now, chest to chest, and Simon is certain he’d be fine dying right here.

“How long?” Johnny asks, and he leans into the palm of Simon’s hand.

“Fishin’ for compliments, Sergeant? B’neath you.” There’s a swift slap on his shoulder. Simon nuzzles into the crook of Johnny’s neck to hide his smile.

“Awa’ an bile yer heid.” There’s no bite in the words. “How long?”

“Las Almas,” Simon admits against his skin. “The way you looked at the rig when the missile ‘it. I couldn’t look away from you. Still haven’t been able to.” He pulls back just enough to rest their foreheads together. “And when I saw Graves bullet ‘it…well, not even Price would’ve been able to keep me from huntin’ him down.”

“Hells bells, Simon. That was over a year ago!”

Simon ignores the outburst and kisses a rough, uneven scar barely hidden within the sergeant’s hairline. Johnny’s newest, only a couple weeks old “But then Makarov -” It takes a moment to fight past the lump in his throat. The arms around his waist tighten.

“In the hospital, I promised meself - “ Johnny turns his face into Simon’s neck, “that if I made it out, if I got one more shot, I was done runnin’ from ye.” He pulls back, freeing one hand and brings it up to cup Simon’s cheek. “While I lay in that bloody bed, all I could think was, ‘Ye didn’t get tae tell him. Ye didn’t get tae tell him, and now he’ll never know.’ So let me tell ye now.” Johnny cups beneath Simon’s jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze. “I love ye, Simon Riley. In this life and the next, I will always love ye. God help any sorry soul that ever tries to take ye from me, because I will burn this world tae tha ground until I find ye. I don’t know how long this life is willin’ to give us, but I’ll take whatever it’s generous with as long as it’s with ye.”

And well, Simon isn’t quite sure what to do with that.

There’s a jumble of emotions rattling around in his heart threatening to spill into his gut if he thinks too hard about it. He’s aware that Johnny is staring at him, adoration and patience swimming in stormy blue, and his hand is softly carding through the curls at Simon’s nape. He remembers Johnny back on that tarmac - nearly two years ago now - brash and cocky and willing, and wonders what would have happened if he’d known how his fate was written, how his own heart was on the line. If he had known on that first mission what that annoying sergeant would come to mean to him, what would he have done? Would he have kept Johnny at arm’s length, protecting him from the jagged mess that is Simon’s darkness? Standing there, basking in the glow that is his Johnny, he doesn’t think so. He doesn’t think he could have.

Simon threads a hand in the back of Johnny’s mohawk - it’s beginning to flirt with deregulation - and snakes the other around his waist. “Take the good moments,” he mutters in the space between them.

“Aye,” Soap says, smile bright in the lowlight. “Take the good moments.”

So, they spend the evening trading lazy kisses and honeyed words. At some point, boots are forgotten and jumpers join a pile in the corner. They tumble into bed, legs tangled, and even as sleep takes them, not an inch of space is allowed. Johnny’s breaths fan across Simon’s chest, deep, content. Sleep is pulling at Simon’s lashes, but he fights it a little longer. In his last moment of consciousness, he grazes a finger along Johnny’s hairline, catching on the rough scar, and he thinks the memoir needs a title change:

Storm Blue Eyes and A Scottish Brogue: Reasons Simon Riley Came Back to Life.

And in the morning, there’s a folder waiting on Price’s desk. He sips his coffee, picks it up, and smiles at the familiar weight. When he flips it open, there’s simply a location: Glasgow.

“Merry Christmas, Simon,” Price says and watches a jeep pull out of the base.

Johnny is singing Mariah at the top of his lungs, and Simon doesn’t remember the last time he was this content. The mask is forgotten on the desk in his room, and a new knife is tucked by his side. They turn onto the highway, Glasgow waiting, and Soap lays his hand out between them.

Simon can feel it, the wispy end of a filament stretching between them. The past collisions and the future moments. He can see it, that future laying on the other side. That future full of lazy kisses and even lazier mornings. Of days together, never questioning if the other walks through the door. Of Christmases in Scotland and maybe a cabin one day, too. For now, they have to make due with stitches in safehouses and easy touches in helis. Stolen kisses in private rooms and hidden words between the commands.

For now, he reaches over and takes Johnny’s hand.

#my first ever exchange!!!!#this was so fun ahhh!#ghostsoap #soapghost #ghoap #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #call of duty #2024 ghoap holiday exchange #tay writes

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fanaticsnail · 9 months ago

Text

Grand Line Playgroup

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 1,200+

Synopsis: Adoptive parents have all taken the initiative to join together with their children to form: Grand Line Playgroup. This is the way it usually goes at playgroup: filled with shenanigans, support, and most importantly love for their children.

Themes: the adoptive parents of one piece, all children are all relatively aged 3 to 7, but Robin is 10, au they all live, modern au, platonic, not an “x reader” fic, parenting drabble, fluff, nonsense.

Parents: Mihawk, Rosinante (Corazon), Bellemere, Dadan, Zeff, Uncle Beckman, Shanks, Garp, and Smoker.

Children: Perona, Zoro, Law(rence), Nojiko, Nami, Uta, Ace, Sabo, Luffy, Sanji, Uta, Koby, Helmeppo, Robin, and Tashigi.

Notes: A small drabble about what it would be like if the one-piece characters were adoptive parents to an assortment of their toddler counterparts. This silly brain-worm was brought to you by several conversations with @feral-artistry & @writingmysanity, and the bestest aunties @since-im-already-here & @sordidmusings. This worm got to me and I needed to get it out. Links: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Tag List: @mfreedomstuff, @gingernut1314, @vespidphoenix, @i-am-vita

Dracule Mihawk arrives at Grand Line Playgroup ten minutes early every single Tuesday. He has a personalized gothic embroidered bag for both of his children filled with snacks, changes of clothes, water bottles, first aid kits, and a book for him to read while his two children play.

He wears matching nail polish with his daughter, Perona: today, she chose pink with black accents. He has parenting down to a fine art, everything always perfectly planned for any circumstances. Zoro takes out a collection of sporting equipment and begins kicking around a soccer ball as he waits for his friends to join him.

The next to arrive is Donquixote Rosinante. He always attempts to get there early: set up his variety of bags to ensure his son, Lawrence, has everything he needs to enjoy his time at playgroup. His hair is a blonde, fluffy mess of mopped curls, his clothes disheveled and askew, but his smile is always cheerful despite his constant exhausted exasperated state.

Law is a quiet child, not really engaging with Perona as she sets up a mock tea-party, nor Zoro as he kicks the ball against the wall. He, instead, opts to sit quietly alone and read a picture book in comfortable silence.

Mihawk offers Rosinante a moist towelette, gesturing wordlessly to his lips, cheeks and right eye where Law graffitied art with permanent marker on his face as he slept. Rosinante gives him a gratuitous smile, huffing his laughter as he scrubs at his face with the towelette.

The next to arrive is Rosinante’s old work colleague, Bellemere, with her two daughters in tow. Nami and Nojiko were walking arm in arm before rushing off to join Perona in her tea party. Bellemere gives Rosinante a clap on his shoulder, nodding her acknowledgement to Mihawk before taking her elected seat.

As the clock ticks over to 10am: a small bundle of nervous, chaotic energy bounces inside the door and over the walls. This flash of black hair was followed immediately by a small blonde child that stares, unblinkingly, at Law. Dadan is exasperated as she carries an older and asleep Ace in her arms, attempting to catch up with Luffy to rein him in and set up.

Rosinante springs into action, offering to ferry Luffy towards his regular playmate, Zoro. As Luffy nearly joins Zoro, he is instead drawn to the sticker book Law is holding containing bugs, beetles and arachnids. Luffy becomes entranced by the stickers: and he and Law begin cataloging them by shape, size and type over pages of lined paper.

Dadan sighs, already exhausted although her day has barely begun. Rosinante smiles and fawns over the two dark-haired boys before resuming his seat beside Bellemere, talking about the latest gossip at his old workplace and the shenanigans his colleagues' love lives.

As if on queue, Ace wakes up and immediately springs out of Dadan’s arms, hurrying over to Zoro and joining him by kicking the ball against the wall. Sabo backs into the corner of the room and glares with his pale, blue eyes at Perona’s tea-party with intrigue.

After Dadan, in comes Benn Beckman with his niece, Uta. Uta bounces on her heels as she runs over to Sabo, doing all in her power to make the small blonde smile instead of glare. She has a cheery disposition, guaranteed to always get a smile out of the quiet boy the longer she sings and pulls faces at him.

Zeff is the next, his young son, Sanji, sprinting towards the soccer ball and easily stealing it away from Zoro. They immediately get into a heated fistfight: legs and limbs flying as they butt heads as to who's turn it is to kick the ball next. Mihawk sighs, immediately rising to his feet to play referee to the match as Beckman places Uta's bag beside Perona's.

Arriving late, and with his two adoptive sons Koby and Helmeppo, strolls Garp. Dadan glares at him, up turning her lip in a snarl as Garp shepherds his boys into the room. The tension is thick between these two due to Garp's history of dropping off children at Dadan's and not returning to raise them himself. She refuses to help with the latest two additions to his family, although she cares for them greatly. Sabo nods at Koby, Helmeppo scoffs at Uta.

Another late arrival is a larger gentleman with his quiet and older daughter, Robin. Sir Crocodile is dripping in luxury brands, gold rings and smells of expensive colognes. Robin immediately humors Perona, Nami and Nojiko by playing mother in their tea party adventure.

“Mihawk,” the larger man gruffy nods in acknowledgement.

“Crocodile,” Mihawk mirrors his tone, gesturing with his chin to take a seat beside him. Sir Crocodile takes his seat before unrolling the newspaper tucked beneath his arm and beginning to read.

As the children interact together, the more talkative parents swap parenting advice amongst one another.

Rosinante asks for support with Law's current food aversion. How does he get this child to eat grained carbohydrates without him gagging about the fact it's bread? Dadan is a seasoned expert in parenting at this stage, still ignoring Garp as Garp speaks to Mihawk about his blonde son’s latest interest in kendo.

Bellemere joins in the conversation, Mihawk leaving as the topic changes to work and joining beside Beckman who is silently brooding on the chair beside Crocodile.

“No Shanks today?” Mihawk quips at the larger man.

“No Shanks today,” Beckman parrotted in return with a disgruntled and gruff growl.

As if the mere mention of his name summoned his presence, in comes the red-haired Shanks in a lazy and cheerful stupor. His socks are raised to his knees, tucked into some comfortable sandals on his feet. His cargo shorts are tied loosely on his hips by a brown belt, and his patterned shirt is open to expose his bare chest.

Glasses are lying lazily on his head as he extends an enthusiastic smile at the children before acknowledging the adults. An enthusiastic chorus of “Uncle Shanks!” echoes throughout the playspace, a flash of small bodies immediately moving to tackle and engulf the redhead in a warm embrace.

Shanks falls on his ass, holding high his coffee cup as he laughs at Luffy, Uta, Ace and Sabo as they enthusiastically clutch at him with grabby hands. Their faces all shine with the utmost adoration at the redhead, who shoots Beckman and Dadan a wink while mouthing: “I'm still the favorite.”

Beckman sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as Dadan rolls her eyes at him.

The adults are finally all gathered for their children’s weekly playgroup, the kids settle into playing amongst themselves once again. Shanks offers Beckman a smile before offering him the half-drunk coffee cup. The taller man takes a sip, choking on the liquid as the surprising burn of warmed alcohol scorches his throat so early in the morning.

As their meeting draws to a soft close, a knock at the door interrupts their close knit conversation.

“I heard there was a playgroup in here?” a gruff voice rumbled at the door. White hair and the scent of tobacco immediately sprung through the hallway. In arrived a large gentleman, another common associate of Garp, Bellemere and Rosinante who immediately sprung up to greet him.

Smoker presented ushered a quiet child into the room, her uncertainty was one the children knew well. Immediately, Luffy sprang up from his arachnid archiving with Law and went to introduce himself to the girl. Smoker smiled at the interaction, nodding to Tashigi as an indicator for her to go ahead and play, before joining Bellemere and Rosinante.

“Finally decided to foster, Smoker?” Bellemere smiled, embracing him into her warm and welcoming arms. Smoker returns her gesture, tapping her on the shoulder and releasing her from the embrace.

“Foster? Not a chance,” he smirked, pulling away and smiling at the purple-haired woman, “Adopting.”

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dinsbeskar · 27 days ago

Text

Ran To The Devil (Sauron/F!Reader)

...he was waiting

When all things must end, what does your heart tell you? And will you listen?

Sequel to Shelter In The Storm; finale in the series // AO3 Link incoming

Soundtrack: Through Glass by Stone Sour (I love an encore. We've used it before and I'll use it again!!), Die With A Smile by Bruno Mars and Lady Gaga, When It's All Over by RAIGN, Sinnerman (Nina Simone's version is the best but also Iyeoka does a banging cover; this is where our title comes from), Kiss Me Harder by Jordan Fiction, Ain't No Grave (Epic Trailer Version) by Hidden Citizens

A/N: please enjoy the final chapter of Sauron and our reader!! It won't be the last I write of them, but it is their final story chronologically.

idek guys, apparently when the world is ending, these two fuck.

for real, all your support has meant so much to me, this fic has been a labour of love, ngl, and all your feedback and ideas and likes and reblogs have contributed so much, you have no idea. Thank you so much, I appreciate all of you 💜

Warnings: 18+ only!! Smut, angst, tiny wee bit of fluff?? Canon ending, kinda, gratuitous smut, like why are they tearing each other's clothes off now?? Come on guys. P in V sex, bitey!Sauron (man's vampire side kinda comes out in this lmao), blood, mark_me_down_as_scared_and_horny.meme, subterfuge, we moving in the shadows, canon death lmao listen I warned you (but it's okay!!)

Word Count: 5k!!

"I have to go, Mithrandir, my fate is his, remember?"

"It does not have to be so," the old wizard says sagely, knowing your mind is made up. "You have suffered enough, they will not have you share in his punishment too."

You nod, but your heart wants what it wants, and it wants him. It aches for him as it always has.

"Deep down, I think I always knew, regardless of any good I have done to outdo him, I knew it would be the two of us at the end." You won't cry, your tears are long spent, but something in the wizard's sympathy pricks your tear ducts, and you have to turn away.

"Don't tell the others. At least not until I am far enough away. They won't understand."

He grasps your hands, one over the other, and gives you one final approving nod.

"I will do what I can for you, Amarië."

You share one last sombre look, before you take off at a gallop, through the broken gates of Minas Tirith to your doom.

The tower is deserted. The entirety of Barad-Dûr seems to have emptied onto the ashen fields before the Black Gate, not a single orc in sight as you stroll right in.

You can feel him now, stronger than ever in the back of your mind.

Úthaessel... you hear your name as if on the wind, a breath in your ear, and you shiver. Long has it been since he has called you his temptation.

"I'm coming for you, husband, are you ready for me?" You cannot help but challenge him, now in the final hours of these dark days. They have to be, or all your suffering would have been for naught.

A large iron-wrought door falls ajar to your left and you pull it open with all your might. The corridor behind it is dark, but as if he heard you wish for light, the torches on the walls set ablaze all at once.

"Thank you, love," you mutter under your breath; the flame nearest you seems to flicker in response.

Now that you know he is here, a power still to be reckoned with, you are more nervous than you ever thought you would be. You grip your sword pommel, more out of habit than any thought of using it. After all, what use has a sword ever been against his sorcery?

The door at the end is grander than the rest, polished with refined edges that the other metalwork in the tower lacks. It more closely resembled something you'd have seen in Eregion, all those centuries ago. This is the one, you realise. He is behind it, and you have no idea what you will find.

Is he confined to twisted black armour, or perhaps something more wraith-like will greet you? You had vowed to him once that you would always want him, unconditionally love him however he came to you, and your heart aches in remembrance for those golden days when you could make such promises without any thought as to how you might be tested later.

Even as you stand outside, holding your breath like you clutch your sword in your hand, he plucks the notes of your soul as effortlessly as when you first met, unseen but perceived in the melody of your enjoined fëar.

You hold the smooth, curving handle for a moment, take a deep breath, and swing it open.

The walls are lined with bookshelves beyond count, and there is a tiny, softly-lit reading nook by the window. It is undisturbed, just as you left it when you undertook your journey with the Fellowship. You ache to sit down, to take a book and just forget. However-

"That is not the page I left it on," you smile, rolling your eyes. "You're getting sloppy, husband of mine."

His attention to detail is actually superb, but you can't resist teasing him for the tiny clues that immediately stand out.

"This cushion is more worn at home. I sit more on its left than the right, this one is practically new. I might have to take it with me when I leave." You cannot help but mock him, hoping for him to reveal himself.

"Somewhere a little more familiar then..." His dulcet tones startle you, as you feel hot breath on your neck; you turn around, blade at the ready, but hear only distant laughter in response.

As you get your bearings once again, golden sunlight streams in through large windows, cushions and blankets strewn everywhere as you once liked in your apartments in Eregion.

"I always liked that bed. Never did find one more comfortable, except perhaps in Imladris. I suppose you wouldn't know." You recall how he had always remarked on the softness of your bed, delighted in laying there for hours with you; twisting the knife about these lost centuries has the desired effect.

"So what surroundings would my darling wife prefer? Perhaps... ah-"

You blink and the room has opened up into a forest glade, rays of sunlight brushing your temples through the trees, rushing water at your back.

"Is this better?"

A tall figure wreathed in golden light emerges from the brush, and your heart wrenches, skipping a beat as it did when you first laid eyes on him.

He looks just as he did on that warm lazy evening, when the world was young and you were innocent.

"This is cruel, even for you."

He cocks his head and looks down at you, having closed the gap between you so swiftly you swear you had no time to escape him; that is what you tell yourself anyway, as his hand wraps around yours so sweetly, so delicious in his gentle touch, that you cannot break away.

"Never, never to you." Gods, he is so tender, he almost makes you forget why you are here, what is taking place right outside.

"Your cruelest torments were reserved for me, or have you forgotten?"

A shiver runs down your spine as he reaches out and tucks your loose hair behind your ear.

"We do not recall these past centuries the same way."

"We never did. What with you being a power-hungry megalomaniac."

His nostrils flare but his smile intensifies, chilling you in the most conflictingly delicious way.

"I promised I would never leave you, and I kept that promise. Even when you did not reciprocate." He almost seems to scold you, the smile never leaving his face but not quite reaching his eyes either.

"I ran across Middle Earth to be rid of you, but perhaps I was too subtle."

"I gave you everything, and you abandoned me!" He raises his voice in indignation, the first sign of a crack in his facade.

"I abandoned you because you gave me everything! The moment you made the rings, what little hope I had in us vanished. You gave me everything I never wanted, and once you put that ring on my finger, you robbed me of a life free of you."

His face hardens into an ugly grimace, an expression not entirely at home on the face he has chosen; never an unkind word was spoken between the two of you before you knew who he was. Perhaps that was always the problem.

"Everything I have done was for you. They are a pair, our Rings, you were meant to join me!"

"I wasn't talking about the two, but of the rest. You'll never learn! That by needing to control Middle Earth, it slipped through your fingers as if it were sand."

"The battle is not decided yet." His smug expression churns an anger in your stomach that spreads through your entire being, limb by limb, until you want to rail and scream and curse.

Instead you collect yourself.

"I thought you perceived all from up here. Do you truly not know what awaits you?" Now it is your turn to be smug.

That delicious tic in his jaw jumps again.

"The plot to destroy my Ring? How could I not, you've hardly been subtle, my love. And you forget a crucial detail." He says, taking your hand on which your gifted ring shines in the illusory sunlight.

"Subtlety was never my strong suit." You shrug. "And you're right. Though perhaps, my love," your tone becoming cutting, "you should take a closer look."

His smirk turns sour, becomes a glare of wrath, betrayal writing itself across his handsome features.

"When?" He asks, looking down at you, holding your hand so tightly it hurts. "When did you swap them out?"

"So you don't perceive everything then." You can't help but smile.

The final detail in your plans had worked. With Elrond's help and the gifts of his finest blacksmiths, you had managed to forge an exact replica of your Ring, smuggling the real one to Frodo before he split from the company.

"Keep it secret. Keep it safe." You had said to the hobbit all those months ago; it was imperative that no-one knew yours too was headed to Mount Doom.

You realise with a tinge of sadness that you would never get to thank Frodo for all of his trials in getting it to the mountain.

"You really didn't notice, every time we spoke. I was sure you would, was terrified in fact. That's why-"

"You weren't sleeping." His jaw is set and his eyes are hard; his anger is palpable now, you could cut through it with a knife.

"I was sure you would realise. After all, you did always have such attention to detail. I guess being trapped in a tower for millennia might drive one to distraction, though." You should stop mocking him, but all of your plans coming to fruition was too delicious a victory.

All the scenic trappings he has conjured disappear, and are replaced with a terribly familiar sight.

Dust and smoke fill the air, seige horns bellow outside, and the ground shakes violently. The razing of Eregion, the event that broke your relationship.

"Sauron, enough!"

His face twists. "I never liked the way that name sounded on your lips."

"I never liked the way it tasted."

Thousands of years have passed since this day, but you would never forget the ice cold fear in your veins, and the white hot shame of knowing it was your beloved who had brought your city to ruin.

Visions come unbidden to your mind's eye, memories of him rutting into you like a wild animal, uncaring of the battle outside, of who might see or hear. You remember telling him no, as your body screamed yes, as he delved into your mind, soul, cunt, and claimed you again and again as the battle raged on, until you were a shaking, whimpering mess, begging him to just take you one more time.

"They told me I had atoned enough for your sins; that I could be free of you. But I knew there was no freedom in Valinor that would taste as sweet as bringing about your doom myself."

"Glad to hear you still think of me, even as you avoided my attentions." His charming smile does nothing but infuriate you.

Well. Not quite nothing.

You cross the space between you, reaching up for him, his face already lowering to yours as you dance to the same beat you always have endured.

His lips on yours feel like a blessing and a curse, your hearts finally beating as one after an age apart. Your soul soars, entwined with his, your fëar revitalised simply by your proximity, by enjoining yourself with him again.

He groans, low in his throat, reaching for you, entangling himself in you, refusing to be parted from you once more.

Questing fingers slip under your waistband, one hand working to remove your belt as the other delves for the hot wet prize he has been denied for so long.

In the back of your mind, a tiny voice reminds why you're here, why you haven't been here for an age, why you shouldn't let him ruin you again-

"I've missed you." His voice, low in your ear, sends arousal pooling in your core, a throbbing in your clit that you can no longer ignore, and you can't help but arch into him, pressing against him to kiss him harder.

He picks you up effortlessly, coaxing your legs to wrap around his hips, before slamming you against some solid surface that feels most likely like a wall, not that it matters now.

You're already stripped below the waist, you don't even recall how he did it, the urgent need coursing through the pair of you like nothing you've felt in thousands of years.

His fingers at your clit anchor you to reality, so in danger of floating away and letting him finally claim you as his Queen.

His eyes are black, dark veins in the sockets like the tendrils of his power that wrap around your heart and pull you to his will.

"You want this as much as I do." He murmurs, his teeth worrying the sensitive pointed tip of your ear.

It feels like worship, it feels like having the world in the palm of your hand, it feels like home.

Your eyes fall closed as he gathers your wetness, smearing it on his length, stroking it firmly as he takes you in.

"Look at me." His hand on your chin tilts your head to face him as you force your eyes open, fixing your gaze on his mouth as he licks his fingers clean.

"You've missed me." His self-satisfied smirk and heavily lidded eyes should irritate you, but it only drives you further into his arms, heat pooling in your core as you roll your hips against his.

"Of course I have. I love you, I miss you, I want you-" your desperate ramblings are cut off as he claims you, burying himself to the hilt, his teeth on your neck.

"Please... please, love." You don't know what you're begging for, your mind clinging to any semblance of logic and reason, but he knows what you want, has always known your deepest darkest desires, and loved you all the more for them.

His teeth on your neck sink into tender flesh, sharp pain giving way to bliss, rivulets of blood running red down your collarbone, his tongue chasing every drop.

The dull bite of his fingernails in your back mixed with the sharpness of his teeth penetrating your skin, the burn of his cock inside you, seemingly growing larger, harder with every thrust, as Sauron gives into his more bestial nature; after denying yourself for so long, one last time with your husband feels like paradise.

An age apart can only be satisfied by fucking you senseless; he needs to feel all of you, needs to you to feel all of him, needs to consume and be consumed.

Ever the wordsmith, but he isn't sure he could ever say it aloud, just how much he needs you, how much he's missed you; but you know because you feel it too, as your souls sing the harmony only the two of you can hear.

You can feel the tower shake, but perhaps it's only your husband's desperate thrusts inside you.

He's so focused on your pleasure, on taking what he needs from you, that for a moment, just a moment, his mask slips.

Your skin crawls, your limbs shake, and you can't help the gasp that escapes you.

It isn't that he isn't beautiful. He is, terribly so.

You were the first and only being to set eyes on his true form after the fall of Númenor, and it comes as no surprise now, but somehow you had forgotten, or blocked out, the striking nature of his appearance.

To look upon him is to know the sublime. Beauty and terror in one visage, dreadful to behold but captivating.

It is only for a moment, but it shakes you to your core, and he pulls away, leaving you breathless, your blood running cold in your veins.

"Love-" you begin to call after him but he turns on you, hand at your throat so quickly, so close to dragging you up the wall by the neck, your hearts racing.

"How can you call me that? After that- after what you just saw?" He growls into your neck, burying his face in your hair, nose at your jaw, anything but precious eye contact.

"Do you think me so fickle, so shallow, that I would be daunted by your darkness? I see you. After all this time, I see you, for what you truly are. No more deception, no pretty disguise. I promised you once I would never care what form you took. I keep my promises, love."

He kisses you hard, running his hand down your back, as the other grips your hair and pulls your head back, baring your throat.

"Show me."

His teeth falter on your neck, as your whisper reaches his ear. He regards you with as much softness as he can muster, letting his deception melt like iron in the forge, remade anew.

No pretty face, no gorgeous facade to hide behind.

You feel like your heart might beat out of your chest to join his, cold terror washed away by the heat in your core and the yearning in your heart.

He lets you drink him in, your fingers gingerly tracing old scars on his deathly pale skin.

"Is this what you wanted, wife of mine?" For the first time in an age, he sounds uncertain, a tiny tremor in his voice.

Anyone else might have missed it. But you know him too well.

You can only nod, melting into his embrace once more, drawing out the inevitable as he rolls his hips into yours once more.

A piercing shriek overhead, coming from somewhere close to the tower, distracts you long enough to gather your senses, even as he is wrapped around you, blood and fire and ash just outside.

"Surely you must know it is all in vain." You manage to choke out, his cock leaving little room for the air in your lungs.

"What do you mean, darling wife?" He draws back to regard you, still convinced of his triumph. "I see no victorious party yet. Half a day and your beloved free peoples will be under my rule. There is no will mighty enough to challenge me."

He angles his hips just right to make you see stars on every thrust, and before long, you're clenching around him, his own peak following yours in quick succession.

You're starved of breath but you lean your forehead against his and whisper, "Except mine. Even now, you are blind to what is happening on your doorstep."

His power was often difficult for you to use, to control, but you had centuries to learn how to wield it like a sword and shield. And a door opens both ways. With him inside your mind, you could step inside his, and use his Eye to watch for Frodo undetected.

His eyes widen as he realises far too late. He sends out his ringwraiths but it is for naught. The Ring falls into the fiery chasm from which it was made, and just like that, it is over.

He reaches for you, and without any thought of doing otherwise, you let him embrace you one final time as you both go to meet your fates.

When you wake, there is nothing. No up, no down, no light, no dark. It is, to say the least, disorienting. After a while in your own head, you begin to sense movement, glimpse shadows out of the corner of your eye, and some sweet song echoes far off, the like of which you have never heard.

A warmth begins to flow in your fingers, as you regain your sensation, sitting up slowly to take in your surroundings.

A hand on your shoulder warns you to take it slowly, and you look around, unflinching but curious. Whoever it is, they mean you no harm; somehow, this place feels familiar.

It takes you a moment, a century, you can't be sure, but your surroundings come into focus, and the being beside you helps you to your feet.

She is beautiful, like nothing you've ever seen. A sheer veil adorned with tiny shimmering crystals falls across her perfect face, making her appear as if-

"She who weeps." You exhale slowly, in disbelief.

Her smile is so radiant, you can hardly believe she is known for her tears.

"You would know me best of all. It's why I was chosen to greet you, to take you where you need to go." Her voice passes straight through you, soothing your aching bones, washing away your grief.

Nienna stands and takes your hand, helping you to your feet. Guardian of grief and pity, it is only right for her to meet you at the end.

"So these are the Halls we are promised after death. Shame." She looks at you questioningly and you shrug. "After all this time, I was hoping to see-"

You cannot finish that sentence. You have arrived in Valinor, you have been granted entrance to these sacred Halls, against all odds, and yet your heart still clings to him.

It is as if she reads your mind. She probably does, now you stop to think.

"You wonder of his fate." She smiles, a sweet mixture of understanding and sorrow.

"He is the other half of me. I cannot help but be pulled along in his current." Surely she must understand, cannot possibly judge you for your soul's basest desire.

"You can see him. If that is what you wish."

You stop in your tracks, your surroundings and present company all but forgotten, as you realise all may not be lost.

"He is here? But I thought-"

"He was destroyed. But it is impossible to annihilate such a spirit as Sauron wholly. Especially as he has an anchor." She looks pointedly at you, and a shiver runs down your spine; even after millennia of fighting him, he wasn't gone, because of you. "There is a shred of him left, and he has been asking of you."

Your heart sings; perhaps all is not lost, the other half of your soul anchored in purgatory waiting for you, holding on for you to join him.

"Where is he? I do not feel him?" The emptiness in your soul had plagued you since waking, but you had assumed it was because half of it had simply ceased being.

"Somewhere safe. Somewhere he cannot exert his will. And if you choose to be with him, you cannot return here. It would be your fate as well, until the ending of days."

"Is it what he wants?" Ever the dutiful wife, if Sauron wishes to be left alone for all eternity, you cannot deny him.

"He needs clarity. You are his clarity."

You nod, weighing up in your mind whether he would truly want to be bound to you with no other company for the rest of his days.

"And what about my rest? Do I not deserve peace?"

"Would it be peace without him?"

It is not a difficult decision.

"Take me to him."

The wonders of this new land stun you as you pass through them, never to see them again. But there is no doubt in your mind that this is the right course.

Slowly all fades until there is nothing again, only soft song that ebbs and flows to a crescendo, that breaks upon your arrival in your new purgatory.

You look around and tears spring to your eyes, though you try to deny them. Golden sunlight, soft petalled carpet, endless forest greets you.

"We're back." A breathless whisper that none can hear now, for you are truly alone in this endless wonderland.

It doesn't take you long to find him, the familiar melody of his fëa calling out to you as it always has.

A large iron wrought throne sits in the middle of your glade where you'd first met, the sight jarring. Upon it he sits, almost deliberately lounging as if enjoying the rotten fruits of his labours. But you know different, and the second your gaze falls on his, the facade begins to crumble.

"They told me you were coming." Beneath his cracking exterior, he sounds utterly defeated, and despite yourself you feel pity for your beloved in such a sorry state; after all his evils and malice, he is trapped here in paradise, unable to weave his songs and spells.

"I had to see you for myself. I didn't believe it."

"Now you have. Take heart and rejoice, your king is overthrown." He tries for condescending disdain, but all you hear is a broken man.

You should not pity him, you know it is all for naught, that he deserves this fate.

But to be cut off from the Song is punishment enough. He does not need your wrath too.

"How can I rejoice? The only thing I can take heart in is knowing I have you to myself, for all the ages of this world." To you that sounds like bliss, after endless wars and malice, but you imagine that for him, it is probably torture.

A cruel final trick of the Valar, sublime in its judgement, equal in its share of heaven and hell.

"They said you did not have to stay. That you could leave me if that is what you choose." His golden eyes drop to the floor again, refusing to witness your rejection for the umpteenth time.

"I suppose I don't. But I did wonder what eternity would look like without you."

"This is hardly the paradise you deserve," he scoffs, casting his gaze anywhere but on you.

"It could be. If we are together, it will be." You kneel down, looking up at him, begging him to listen.

"You could choose any other fate, why would you stay here with only your broken husband for company forever? Eternity is a long time."

"That is exactly what I thought. Forever is too long a time to be without you. We've spent so long starved of one another, I can suffer that fate no longer. I choose you." The words tumble from your lips before you realise you had in fact made up your mind, as if your body already knows your decision and grew tired of waiting for the pair of you.

He refuses to look up at you, fingernails digging into the armrests, head hung low. He is sure this is yet another trick of the Valar, perhaps to taunt him with the promise of one good thing in his everlasting purgatory. The promise of breaking his master's curse in defeat, to have and to hold you until the end of days, sounds far too good to be true. Sauron, defeated, is not the man you married. Thankfully.

"I ruined you." He mutters, almost too quiet to hear.

You kneel before him, taking his hand in yours.

"You remade me."

"Not in the way you deserve." He looks up then, and his face is red, eyes wet and puffy; your heart aches, wrenches in two at the sight.

"But in the way I needed."

He gives a derisive snort and turns away.

"No, look at me." You turn his face back to you, forcing him to meet your gaze. "I would not be the person I am without you. You did that. For good or evil, I am yours, and you are mine. All we have is each other. If you'll have me now."

His face twitches, but he doesn't reply, fixing an impassive expression that gets under your skin immediately. After everything that he has put you through, he can listen to you now.

You grip his face urgently, softly, all at once, pulling him to really look at you, imploring him to listen.

"You swore to me once that you are my home. Do you remember?"

He sighs, a long exhale, before finally looking up at you of his own accord.

"Of course I remember. I remember it all."

"And I am your home? We swore, a long time ago, but it still holds, does it not?"

His face twitches, and his fingers flex as if to release themselves from their claw-like grip around the twisted armrests of his throne.

"Do you regret it? Any of it?" The moment the question escapes your lips, you wish to take it back.

At that, he looks up at you, carefully regarding you as if you'd asked him to reveal the secrets of the universe.

After what feels like eternity, he answers you.

"I regret losing you." His tongue forms the words as if through cotton wool, unused to expressing anything but surety, his will to dominate all but spent.

"I regret that too." You whisper, taking his hand in yours.

"Mairon... my love..." You can't help the tears that well from the depths of your heart, as you use his true name for the first time in centuries.

His breath hitches and he reaches out for you, tracing your cheek, marvelling at the glittering tear tracks on your skin, his illusion of neutrality finally broken.

"We have fought too long and too hard for this to be our ending." You pour all your energy, all your love and devotion into the bond the two of you share, hoping maybe he remembers the feeling.

"So let us find another one." Tears blind you as you speak, but to wipe them away would mean letting him go, and you refuse to do so; instead he does the job for you, cupping your face gently, wiping each tear away as they fall.

"I choose you," you whisper, emphasising every word, your heart swelling as his tearstained face breaks into the first genuine smile you've seen in centuries.

"I choose you. I always have." Your voice cracks as he pulls you to him, claiming your lips with such tender passion that you melt into his embrace, his kiss an answer in itself.

Finally you feel whole. For the first time in millennia, you are home.

#sauron x reader #annatar x reader #halbrand x reader #my fic #enjoy guys and happy new year!!!#I'd love a comment or two bc this has been such a labour of love #but all your support has been very much appreciated 💜💜💜

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joelalorian · 9 months ago

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Petals of Affection - Part I

A floral mystery in three parts featuring Jackson!Joel x f!reader

Summary: A secret admirer gifts you a different flower and a riddle ten times before you put the clues together and discover that he's been right in front of your face the whole time.

Written for @morallyinept's Flora & Fauna challenge. Please check out all the wonderful works created in Jett's honor!

I know enough about flowers to fill a thimble. Really, all I know is how to kill them, accidentally or otherwise. Everything to do with the flowers in this story is courtesy of Google, so please suspend disbelief at how some of these could exist in Wyoming, yada yada. I just picked ones that fit the narrative.

Word count: 4,284

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, humor, cursing, gratuitous use of poor floral descriptions, scheming, clueless reader, fluff, eventual smut, alcohol, food, coffee, terms of endearment. POV flops around like a fish outta water. Reader has no physical description aside from having hair that gets frizzy with humidity and often dirt-covered hands, because greenhouses, ya know? No use of y/n, none whatsoever.

Dividers courtesy of the wonderful @saradika-graphics. Gif chosen because of the wonderful floral wallpaper ;)

Hope you enjoy!

Part II | Part III | Masterlist

An oasis in a world rife with death and devastation, you clung to the life the reinforced walls of Jackson offered. After years of struggling to survive each new day, you felt like you could finally take a deep breath. Everyone was no nice and welcoming, some more than others, and you slipped right into the fabric of the small community.

Within a month of your arrival, Maria assigned you to the greenhouses, having picked up on your knowledge and love of plants – particularly flowers. You must have bored her to death one too many times regaling the language of flowers over a bottle or two of aged wine while seated together on her couch. The two of you became fast friends, the kind that felt like you’ve known each other forever. It was exactly what you needed, longed for even, after long bouts of solitude.

Being close to Maria meant you visited their house often. And equally often, you would find Joel Miller there, deep in conversation with his brother about one matter or another. His eyes always flashed when you entered the house, and he’d stop mid-sentence to greet you with an effortless, “Howdy darlin’” as you followed Maria to the kitchen.

Soon enough, the soft greetings turned into more substantial conversation as the four of you dined together or gathered at Maria and Tommy’s for game night, playing whatever new board game the men found while on patrol. Laughter and friendly arguments filled the air on those nights, making it easier than ever to forget about the carnage and desolation beyond the walls.

Tonight, the four of you played Scrabble – it took Tommy finding three sets of the game to get all the letter tiles required to actually play – and your belly hurt from how hard you laughed whenever Maria challenged Joel on a word. He was better at the game than you would have thought – his reserved nature and southern twang not giving away how well-read he was.

“Denied! Fartlek is not a word, Joel. There’s no way!” Maria insisted, not willing to give into Joel’s apparent triple word score on the word that would have him take the lead in total score.

“Is to a word,” Joel returned stubbornly, refusing to remove the letters from the board. “Look it up if ya don’t believe me. It’s in the fuckin’ Oxford dictionary.”

“Oh, it is, is it? Is it in the Cambridge one, too? What does it mean then?” Maria wasn’t backing down, ripping a battered dictionary right out of Tommy’s hands to see for herself.

“Hey! I was looking it up,” Tommy yelped, shooting a wink at you as you both watched the drama unfold.

Ignoring his brother, Joel rattled off something about the word being related to running. At least, that’s what you thought he said, you were too busy fighting back tears from laughing too hard. Sure enough, he was right.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Maria grumbled, flopping back into the couch cushions. “It’s a training technique for running. Screw you, Miller.”

Unsurprisingly, the game ended shortly thereafter with Joel the victor by a healthy margin. After helping to clean up, you offered appreciation and hugs to Maria and Tommy for a delightful evening. “Next time, let’s play something less…”

“Cerebral?” Maria supplied with a frown.

“Annoying?” Tommy interjected with a grin.

Joel stayed quiet, a half-smile gracing his lips as he waited for you to finish your sentence.

“Just something that doesn’t require a dictionary or cause so much arguing,” you laughed. Waving between Joel and Maria, you added, “You two can never agree on anything! See you all tomorrow.”

“I’ll walk you home, darlin’,” Joel said, rushing to put his jacket and boots on and catch up with you. When you opened your mouth to let him know you’d be fine on your own, he added, “Gotta check in on Ellie anyway.”

Maria and Tommy shared a look as Joel opened the door to usher you through. You caught them and frowned, feeling like you weren’t in on a joke or something.

The two of you walked in comfortable silence, the last remnants of winter’s snowy wrath crunching beneath your boots the only sound. You looked up at the night sky as you walked, gasping at the flash of colors in the otherwise darkened sky. Joel stopped, following your gaze upwards as you both stood mouths agape.

“That’s the northern lights, right? I’ve never seen it before.”

“Mmhmm. Aurora borealis. Pretty amazin’.”

“Beautiful,” you sighed, breath a cloud billowing in the crisp air, eyes soaking in every bit of the cosmic phenomenon.

You didn’t realize it staring up at the sky as you were, but Joel’s umber eyes were fixed on you when he replied, “Sure is.”

You stayed like, shoulders gently bumping as you both enjoyed nature’s show, until the temperature dropped further and you shivered. An awed smile remained plastered on your face the rest of the walk to your house, one Joel would never forget.

The dichotomy of the humid, warm air within the greenhouses and the chilled breeze outside confused your body, but you loved it. Sure, the humidity did nothing good for your hair, leaving it a frizzy mass around your head sometimes, but the dewy feeling on your skin always reminded you of childhood summers spent at the beach.

Tending to the various fruit and vegetable plants all morning, in what you deemed Greenhouse 1, you saved your favorite duties – the ones associated with flowers – for the afternoon. While you enjoyed caring for all the plants, you loved tending to the flowers, humming as you pruned and replanted clippings, expanding your every growing collection. If the patrol teams kept bringing you seeds and specimen back, you’d need yet another greenhouse. The council would just love that.

The creak of the door to Greenhouse Two drew your attention shortly after you switched gears and you stood, brushing the dirt from your jeans before glancing up. Your face shifted into a soft smile at the sight of Joel standing hesitantly just inside the door.

“Hey Joel, what did you bring me today?” You knew he had patrol duty and likely found some interesting plant during his travels. “Better not be western baneberry again. You know how poisonous those berries are!”

Stepping forward, Joel chuckled as you teased him. “I know now! It was one time and you’ll never let me live it down, will ya?” Thrusting his hand toward you, he dropped a small pile of seeds onto your dirt-covered palm. “Not sure what these are, but we found down by the ol’ mill. Might be something cool.”

“Might be,” you hummed, poking the seeds a little. Hopefully the cold didn’t get to them. You grabbed the nearest pot, quickly filled it with soil and sprinkled the seeds in as you tilled the top few inches. “We’ll find out soon enough what kind of treasure these are.”

Leaning back against a messy tabletop, hands on hips, Joel watched you tend to the new addition before finding the perfect place for the pot, nestled on a table amongst other seedlings. “Do you –”

Joel’s mouth snapped shut as the greenhouse door banged open next to him, a boisterous voice carrying into the warm space before its body did.

“Tangerine! Check out what I found today,” Alex, another member of the patrol team, called as he strolled right past Joel without acknowledgement. Younger and not as broad as Joel, the man held a growing affection for you, which irked the older man.

“Alex,” you sighed playfully. He was cute in a youthful, untrained puppy kind of way and had an annoying habit of calling you nicknames that made no sense. “I told you to stop calling me that. We don’t even have tangerines here.”

Snickering under his breath, Joel observed the younger man falling all over himself to impress you. Why you indulged the idiot, he would never understand.

Alex waved you off. “You love it, and you know it. Lookit here,” he said, thrusting his hand toward you. Slight though he was, Alex had large hands, and in his right one were three clusters of small, bell-shaped blooms with a purple hue.

“Prairie bluebell! Where did you find these?” Your face lit up as you took the blooms in a gentle grasp, admiring them for a moment before setting to work on replanting.

Alex prattled on boastfully about finding them just off a rocky path down near the river while Joel focused on watching you work. When Alex finally paused for breath, you chimed in with some flower lore.

“Did you know that bluebells are often called fairy flowers? It is said that the bluebells are rung to summon fairies to a meeting. But, since fairies aren’t always good, the flowers could be enchanted leaving anyone who wanders into a ring of bluebells lost in fairy woods.”

Joel snorted at the idea of Alex becoming lost in fairy woods, never to be found again. If only they could be so lucky, he thought. He knew there was more you could share about the symbolism of the delicate flowers, but it would be lost on someone like Alex.

Rolling his eyes, Joel was about to take his leave when Alex blurted, “Would you join me for dinner tonight? I heard they just got in some fresh venison.”

Absorbed in your work, you hardly heard him, and Alex repeated himself, a hint of annoyance in his tone. Joel froze, holding his breath in anticipation of your answer. Please say no, he thought. You could do so much better than this moron.

Brow furrowed, you stared at Alex, considering your response. “Like a date?”

The younger man nodded eagerly, a broad smile spreading across his lips. You glanced at Joel, not certain what you were hoping to see, and found him staring back, stone faced, arms crossed in front of his chest tightly. Giving you nothing to work with, your shoulders slumped, resigned. “Sure, I guess.”

Not the most enthusiastic answer, but you couldn’t remember the last time you went on a date and Alex was the only one asking.

You didn’t even realize Joel moved until the door closed heavily behind his retreating form.

The breeze carried a sense of change as you strolled home from your shift in the greenhouse. The weather was finally warming, ever so slightly, as Mother Nature loosened her grip on winter, letting spring slowly creep in.

Mixed emotions tumbled through your mind as your feet carried you through the streets of Jackson by muscle memory alone. Alex asking you to dinner caught you off guard – you had a feeling he was interested, but he never made any sort of bold move. The fact he finally did while Joel was standing right there threw you off balance.

Did you even like this guy?

Sure, Alex was attractive, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and tanned skin. But his personality made him seem more like a golden retriever, goofy and too eager to impress, than someone you could fall for. It made you wonder if there was any substance lurking under the surface.

In the absence of any other offers, did it even matter?

No, you guessed it really didn’t.

These thoughts carried you right to your front steps and you stopped, taken by the presence of something unusual waiting in front of your door.

A solitary stalk with a gorgeous jasmine bloom, a slip of paper wrapped around the stem held in place by nondescript string.

Picking it up, you held the flower to your nose, breathing in the rich, sensual aroma. The scent brightened your mood, and you slipped the scrap of paper from beneath the string. You whispered the words printed in a block scrawl you didn’t recognize.

Joyful moments shared; the answer lies in the air.

What did it mean?

Glancing around, you searched the street and neighboring homes for a sign of who might have left the flower and note for you. The only people in sight were your elderly neighbors, married couples, and the kids from a few houses down. None of them would have left you such a gift.

Who in the world left this for you?

Would Alex do something romantic like this? You doubted it, but what else did you have to go on?

Once inside, you trimmed the stem and put the flower in a container on the counter, placing the scrap of paper in front of it.

You gazed at the flower, mulling over the riddle before you. The note indicated that you’ve shared moments with whomever left the flower. Jasmine itself symbolized love and romance. You made friends with a lot of people since you came to town – too many shared experiences and moments to choose from.

Twenty minutes and too much thinking in circles, you were no closer to understanding the clues and teetering on the verge of being late for your date. You needed more data before hazarding any reasonable guesses.

“Why do you torture yourself like this?” Tommy questioned. Sitting at the bar watching his brother pining over you was not his idea of a fun Friday night. “You should just bite the bullet and ask her out already.”

Joel shook his head. He had no explanation for why he hadn’t made a move yet. For months now, he knew he liked you as more than friends, pined over you in silence, yet he never took the next step. Joel Miller was not a coward, but his fear of losing one of the few friends he had left in the world had him frozen in place, afraid to make any moves. He couldn’t take that chance. Finally putting words to the feelings roiling inside him, he told his brother as much.

“I get it, brother. I do,” Tommy replied, thumping Joel on the back in commiseration. “But can you really say you’re ok watchin’ her go on dates with asshats like Alex? ‘Cause that’s gonna keep happenin’ unless you do something about it. And I don’t mean killin’ the dude.”

Joel shook his head. Hunched over the bar, shooting surreptitious glances your way, he had to admit Tommy was right. He could think of few things worse than watching you go on a date with someone other than him, especially with dipshits like that guy.

“I ain’t killin’ anyone, but I do have a plan. Already put it in motion, in fact.” Picking at a scratch in the bar, Joel shifted his gaze from you to Tommy. “I might need your help with some of it. Maria’s too.”

“Oh yeah? Tell me all about this grand plan then.”

Unsurprisingly, the date was a dud.

Alex had the personality of a goldfish rather than a golden retriever, and the two of you had nothing in common. He also interrupted you mid-sentence no less than three times – once could be considered a mistake, but three times was an unforgiveable offense as far as you were concerned. You stopped making an effort about halfway through dinner and wished for a hole to open up beneath your seat and swallow you whole.

Worst of all, he acted like an entitled dickhead when you refused dessert, thanked him for the date, and let him know there wouldn’t be a second one. He’s lucky you didn’t knee him in the nuts before walking away from the table.

How unfortunate that dating sucked nearly as much now as it did before the fucking apocalypse. It was unfair, really. At what point did being a woman stop sucking?

Lamenting your lack of success in the relationship department, you trudged home. You wondered what Joel was up to – you caught a glimpse of him at the bar with Tommy earlier and he didn’t look happy, but you didn’t see him when you left. Part of you longed to visit him, maybe have a drink and sit on his porch gazing at the stars together like you’ve done before. But it was already late, and you didn’t want to bother him. Hell, he could have a woman over already, which would be mortifying if you interrupted. The thought sank unpleasantly in your mind until you got to your house and pushed it away.

A little gift waited for you on the porch, just like earlier. An orchid this time. Symbol of love, thoughtfulness, and charm. Your index finger traced the delicate petals with the gentlest touch as a smile slowly crept its way across your lips.

Another note was attached, and you plucked it from beneath the same kind of string, eyes devouring the words.

Overwhelmed by your grace, the answer hides in this place.

The flower wasn’t completely cold, so it had to have been left recently. Brow furrowed; you glanced around but there was no one in sight. You wracked your brain trying to figure out the identity of your secret admirer, but you were at a loss. Prior to dinner, you briefly thought Alex was the culprit, but now it was obvious he didn’t have a romantic bone in his lanky body.

You heart knew who it longed for it to be, but you refused to consider it. He didn’t want you that way, of that you were certain.

Giving the orchid the same treatment as the jasmine earlier, you tucked the stem into the same container and placed it on the coffee table so you could admire the blossoms while you fell asleep on the couch. After all, why bother with a big bed without someone to share it with?

Saturdays were your day off, but the sun shining through the curtains you forgot to close the night before ruined your plans of sleeping in. Grumbling at the unnecessary brightness, you stumbled into the kitchen desperate for coffee. The coffee tin felt light in your hand when you reached for it and, sure enough, you saw nothing but a tiny amount of powdery remains of coffee beans at the bottom.

God dammit. Barely eight o’clock in the morning and this day already had two strikes against it. It wasn’t looking good so far.

Not caring that you still wore the clothes from your date the night before, you quickly brushed your teeth and finger-combed your hair into submission before leaving the house. Pausing at the door for a moment, you debated whose house to go to. Joel always had coffee – it was his drug of choice – but Maria and Tommy were closer.

Not awake enough for decision-making, you let your feet carry you in whichever direction they wanted… which was exactly three feet onto the porch before they stopped. Another flower with a note sat waiting for you.

Your mood brightened considerably at the sight of the double-flowered, funnel-shaped Eustoma, petals a pale purple. The rose-like flowers weren’t native to Wyoming, but you got lucky months ago when someone found a seed packet. You were shocked the seeds were still viable. Did someone pluck it from the greenhouse? You gave away a few cuttings not that long ago, but unless they were replanted, there’s no way they’d last this long. It had to be from the greenhouse. Where the hell else would they get one?

The addiction-like need for coffee temporarily forgotten, you rubbed the Eustoma gently against your nose, confirming the lack of scent when you breathed in and wondered what the little note would say this time.

Endless thoughts of you, the answer is in the view.

Stepping back into the house, you added the flower with the others, mulling over the symbolism of the Eustoma. Whoever left it must be trying to tell you that they appreciate and admire you. But when you add it with the others, what did it all mean?

As good as you were with flowers, you were awful at solving mysteries. A detective you were not. Besides, it was still too early for this kind of puzzle.

The desire for coffee returned and you left the flower quandary behind as you made your way to Joel’s.

Joel didn’t expect to see you today, his day looking up when he opened the door to find you on his doorstep. His heart immediately sank when he noticed you wearing the same clothes from the night before, hair mussed.

“Your date must have gone well,” he said, eyes roving over your clothing, knowing his tone was less friendly than you were used to from him. “What are you doin’ here this early?”

You were clearly thrown off kilter by his remark, frowning as he stepped back to let you in.

“Wha—” you started to question him but shook your head. “I just came to see if you had any spare coffee. I ran out without realizing it.”

“Didn’t have any to offer Alex this morning? That’s a damn shame.” Joel felt the heat of your confused gaze on his back as you followed him into the kitchen.

“What are you talking about?” You sighed, staring at him with furrowed brows.

Avoiding your searching gaze, Joel poured a cup of coffee, adding the perfect amount of sugar you liked, and glowered at the cup as he handed it over. “You’re wearing the same clothes as last night. I assume you did the walk of shame this morning only to find you didn’t have any coffee.”

“It’s too early for your judgmental shit, Joel. You can be a real ass sometimes, you know that?” You turned to leave, mind trying to wrap itself around why this day was turning out so oddly. Mercury was in retrograde again, it had to be. You and Joel never spoke to each other like this. As you reached the door, not caring that you basically stole his coffee cup, you called over your shoulder, “And the date wasn’t even like that, for the record.”

“You’re welcome for the coffee,” Joel muttered as you let yourself out of his house.

“You didn’t have to be such a dick, you know.” Ellie appeared around the corner; arms crossed over her chest.

“I know. I couldn’t help it. The thought of her with that jackass just…” he sighed. “I got a little carried away, but it’s fine. The plan is still in play. Did you take care of what I asked you to?”

“You come up with some strange plans, old man. Yeah, I got it done.”

Fed up with the day and everyone in town before noon, you hid away in your house for the rest of the day. The interaction with Joel weighed on you the entire afternoon and well into the night. What was up with him? Were you being too sensitive, taking his comments personally?

If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was jealous you went on a date with Alex.

Unsurprisingly, you slept poorly and woke up groggy and unfocused Sunday morning. It was going to be a long day in the greenhouse if you didn’t find some coffee to power you up. Getting ready earlier than normal, you planned to stop at Maria and Tommy’s to see if they had coffee – there was no way you were going back to Joel’s after yesterday.

Opening the door to another brisk, early spring morning, the glint of sunlight on the porch drew your eyes to yet another flower waiting for you. Four in a row now, how long would this carry on for?

One of your favorites, you picked up the stalk with six lavender blossoms, violet in hue, and breathed in the fresh, light scent, savoring the sweet undertones. Fingers caressed the downy leaves, making you feel calmer, mellower, which was exactly what you needed.

You kept sniffing the floral scent as you read the accompanying note, finding it fitting.

Lost in your scent, the answer is present.

“Tell me you have a secret admirer!”

Startled, you gasped, gaze shooting to Maria as she approached your house, two mugs of coffee in hand. You face shifted into a smile at the sight.

“I’m… um, I guess. I’m not sure?” You shrugged accepting the mug Maria held out toward you. “Thanks for this, I ran out.”

“I heard,” she replied. “Joel’s on the hunt for more, don’t worry.”

“Of course he is,” you rolled your eyes.

“Soooo…” Maria gestured to the flowers and note in your hand, seeking an explanation. “I feel like there’s a story here.”

“There is, I just don’t know what it is yet,” you admitted. Inhaling the calming scent of the lavender once again, you added, “This is the fourth one I’ve received. Each one has its own riddle. Let me show you.”

Leading the way into your house – you still had an hour before your shift started – you showed Maria the flowers and each note that accompanied them. In small print, you added what each flower symbolized to the corresponding note and numbered them in the order you received them, hoping every little detail would help you sort out the puzzle.

Maria looked over everything, smiling softly at each note. “Whoever this mystery man is, he’s quite romantic.”

“Right?”

“What do today’s flowers mean?”

“In the context of the rest of the flowers so far, love and devotion,” you replied, heat warming your cheeks.

Maria whistled softly. “Someone is down bad for you, girl. Any ideas who it could be?”

Shrugging defeatedly, you admitted, “Not a clue. The one person I’d want it to be would never do something like this.”

Maria hid a smile behind her mug as she sipped her coffee. “How can you be sure?”

tbc

#jettsflora&faunachallenge #writing challenge #joel miller #joel miller x reader #the last of us #joel x female reader #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fandom #pedrostories

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tinypandacakes · 24 days ago

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Trapper, Keeper Ch. 17: Promise

Tags: smut, dubious consent, dark romance, power imbalance, gaslighting, manipulation, yandere, Stockholm syndrome, injury recovery, fluff and smut, slice of life, implied non-consensual drug use, size difference, gratuitous use of pet names, metaphors, and descriptions of König's eyes

WC: 14.3k [total 189.9k]

“Did you see? I finished the puzzle,” you said, a little breathless, as you sat up and tilted your chin toward the coffee table.

“Very good. You finished faster than last time,” he noted, reaching out to stroke your hair behind your ear. “What a clever little rabbit.”

Your cheeks blazed at his words, and you turned away to avoid meeting his gaze. Not too long ago, you would have thought that type of compliment was patronizing. But now, it filled you with effervescent warmth low in your belly. The comment felt genuine, meant as praise and not condescension. You peered up at him for the first time since coming back into the cabin.

Wild firelight danced in König’s eyes, molten amber flickering over blue, warm and inviting. Intense. Doting, like he would reach up and grab the stars if you asked, tug down a handful to light the ceiling of your shared room at night if you said you were afraid of the dark.

It almost hurt to look at him like this. So you sheepishly crawled back into his lap instead, earning yourself another soft rumble of laughter.

“So sweet,” he said.

Sweet.

He kept calling you that, even though you felt anything but most days. You’d been sour to him from the beginning, abrasive as a lemon, sending electric zings down the side of his jaw and neck every time he tried to get a taste. But despite that, he kept coming back bite after bite, chewing through your tough peel only to find your bitter pith caught between his teeth.

König leaned left and right, a subtle, soothing movement that you weren’t sure was more for your benefit or his. But as he rocked you, your acidity mellowed.

He poured affection over you like cream and sugar, tempering your tartness. You softened like stretched taffy as he embraced you, pulled you thinner and thinner as your pliable body warmed against his chest. Soon, you were small enough to cling to his teeth and curl up beside his molars, saccharine enough to melt away the enamel and give him a toothache.

You can read the entire story on AO3 ☺️ please consider leaving a kudos and comment if you enjoyed it. Comments are so encouraging, and I love to hear what you think!

If you’d like to support my writing and fuel my caffeine habit, here’s my kofi >:3 https://ko-fi.com/tinypandacakes

#könig x reader #könig x you #könig x y/n #könig smut #trapper keeper #könig #könig mw2 #call of duty #könig fanfiction #könig call of duty #konig x y/n #konig x you #konig call of duty #konig x reader

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crushedbyhyperbole · 11 months ago

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Cherry Pie Kiss

Slice Two

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader

Summary: Out on the hunt, out of state and out of options; with your life on the line, Dean makes a call you're not happy with. Just when you thought you couldn't take any more, he brings a peace offering.

Haven't read Part One? - Catch up here.

Words: ~3.5k

A/N: This is part 2 of 3 of what started as a short one shot, but someone asked for another slice of pie so I'm here to deliver. There isn't any smut in this part (its all going to be in part 3 😂) but there are graphic depictions of gore, violence and death which is why I ask minors not to read or interact. Reader is female but generic, and obviously has feelings but is kind of stuck in this hate to love him type thing which carries on from part 1. I hope you enjoy the read and are ready for the goonfest and gratuitous smut coming in part 3.

Warnings: gore, death and gruesome depictions of canon-type violence, profanity as standard for my work, bit of angst, bit of fluff right at the end.

***Minor do not read or interact***

Dean Winchester. You hate him. His saviour complex, his unwavering strength, the way he’s so damn selfish though not in the ways that count… But boy, can he wear a pair of jeans. Phew-ee!

You hate that you can’t stop looking at him, leaning on the jukebox of the bar you’re in, feeding it quarters in exchange for some feel-good tunes. Ugh! Asshole!

Tonight had been a tough night. Even Sam was feeling the burn. Out on the hunt, out of state and out of options, the three of you had played a Hail Mary and it had paid off. Those damn vamps had just kept on coming. Sam was down and you were in a bad way with what felt like a hoard of those fuckers piling into the abandoned factory to make a meal out of you all. Starting out, you had all been so sure that you had this little group in the bag but, as per usual with these goddamn things, the plan didn’t pan out.

Dean had dragged you and a semi-conscious Sam into a tight space between the machines. One way in, one way out. You were both toast if you were found and of course you would be found; the vamps had your scent.

Groggily, you watched dean uncoil something from his pocket and string it across the opening at about neck height.

“Guitar string.” He winked at you as if this idea was the best idea he had ever had and should have been plan A from the start.

“We’re fucking bait?” You hissed furiously. No, surely not? Dean would never use his brother as bait. Would he? “Goddamn asshole!” You snarled with as much vitriol you could muster between your gasping breaths and painful ribs.

He just gave you that weary look he had been wearing for the past hour and shrugged his shoulders before pulling out his machete and hiding himself out of sight. “Get ready.”

You brandished your blade and hauled yourself to your feet, ready to fight. There was no point wasting any more breath insulting him. If you got out of this alive, you would have plenty of opportunity to call him all the names under the sun. IF you got out alive.

The first vamps that found you came rushing in, right down the tight alley framed by the large machinery and with a sharp twang, Dean’s trap garrotted them straight through, taking their heads clean off. Of the next three, the wire took the first two but the third approached cautiously despite you calling him to come get you.

Dean ran out from his hiding place and attacked the vamp from behind, slashing at the guy’s thick neck twice in order to cut all the way through. As the body fell you saw why the vamp had stopped – the trap had remnants of flesh and blood along it from its previous victims making it easier to see. You wiped your sleeve along it to clean the bits of hanging flesh off making it almost invisible again. Dean gave you an impressed nod.

Another two vamps fell to the wire but the last one got snagged as she fell, snapping it and making it useless. Well, it was a good idea while it lasted, you thought.

It took you two a little while longer to attract the remaining few vamps who obviously knew something was up. Sam was in no fit state, still groaning on the ground. You were weak and in a lot of pain but you kept swinging your blade, struggling to breathe let alone stand.

The fight had been brutal and both you and Dean were covered in blood by the time it was over. You were on your knees, slumped over a vamp you had had to hack into to remove the head, your blade surely blunt by now. You were ready to close your eyes and give up when Dean pulled you to your feet.

“C’mon,” he said gruffly, “up and at’em.” Helping you out over the pile of decapitated bodies, he hauled a now mostly conscious Sam through the mess.

You had made it to the Impala and, for once, Dean hadn’t grumbled about getting blood on Baby’s seats but throwing a couple blankets down instead. Sam slumped in the front while you crawled in the back, weary and sore. Your eyes met Dean’s in the rearview mirror but yours flicked away immediately, unable to look at him without getting angry. When you looked back so did he, like he knew you’d be looking, and held on, asking if you were okay without actually asking. If he really cared he wouldn’t have used you as bait.

You let your head fall back onto the seat and closed your eyes frustrated by his dichotomy.

After a while on the road, Dean turned the radio on, breaking the silence which opened the door for you to say what was on your mind. Sam hadn’t been bothered one bit by the fact that Dean had used you both as bait, but you were furious.

“It worked, didn’t it?” Dean snapped, frustrated by your anger.

“I hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah, you and a whole long list of other people. Aint nothin’ new.”

Around five miles out of Crocker, Missouri, Dean pulled into a truck stop complex which had a convenience store, gas station, diner, a small motel and a dive bar. The dawn was still hours away and the need for a couple of hours sleep in a comfortable bed was showing on all three of you. Sam was the cleanest so he made the arrangements; two rooms because there was no way you were sharing a room with that asshole after what he did. You were just as likely to fuck him out of anger as fight him at that point.

You used the showers in the truck stop to clean off all the blood and get into some clean clothes, relishing in the feel of the warm water and decent water pressure. You felt a slight pang of guilt that someone would likely be picking vamp chunks out of the drain in the next couple of days but it passed quickly, it probably wasn’t the worst thing these truck stop attendants had seen over the years.

Refreshed by the shower and a take-out burger from the diner, you decided you needed a drink or five, which sounded good to Sam and Dean – you all deserved it.

So, here you are, several drinks in, pounding another tequila shot, trying not to stare at Dean Winchester’s ass while Sam bids you goodnight and takes himself off to one of the two rooms you had paid for at the run-down motel on site.

It seems as if you’re not the only one with an eye for a firm ass in tight Wranglers; a scantily clad barfly sidles up to Dean and strokes her hand down his back as he plugs his final song into the jukebox. When her hand reaches that ass of his, he straightens and turns, grinning at her with that look you know means he’s going to ride her all the way to dawn.

You can’t watch this. You don’t have the stomach for it, not tonight. You pound your remaining two shots and eat the lime slice, peel and all. Then you’re up off your stool and pushing past Dean and his lady friend, and out into the night where the air cools your heated skin but not your confusing emotions.

In the second of the two rooms, you look at your bruised face and neck in the mirror. No wonder he didn’t look twice at you, you’re a mess. It shouldn’t pain you like it does to think of him with another woman. He asked once and you said no, so that is the end of that. Plus, you hate him, can’t forget that. Still, it gives you some small satisfaction that he now has no empty room to take his new friend to so he’ll have to bang her in Baby, on the bloody blankets. With a spiteful smirk you flop on the bed and fall into a light disturbed sleep.

A loud knock on the door wakes you up with a start. At first you don’t know where you are. So used to your room in the bunker, you had almost forgotten what it feels like to sleep that first night in a new place, never truly resting for fear of attack. It’s only an hour or so since you left the bar and you’re groggy from the tequila and from the waking.

You don’t turn on the lights when you go to the peephole, looking out with your pistol muzzle pushed up against the flimsy wood door. Dean sways on the other side, his head turned as though he’s listening.

“Sam’s in the other room,” you call, clicking the safety back onto your pistol.

“I know,” he grumbles, “open up. I got something.”

“It can wait until the morning.”

“Can’t wait,” it sounds muffled, “owwww!” he hisses.

“What the hell,” you sigh, sliding the chain and turning the handle.

Dean stumbles in with his mouth shaped like an “O” as he slides two bowls onto the unit next to the TV, shaking his hands afterwards as if burned. You close the door and engage the chain out of habit.

“Got you something.” He grins goofily, obviously much more drunk than you had left him in the bar, and you wonder what happened to the barfly. Surely the womanizing Dean Winchester hadn’t banged and dropped her in that short a time?

“It’s two in the morning, Dean.” You wipe a hand down your tired face, lifting your eyes again to see him handing you one of the bowls from the diner.

“Peace offering.” He says with a smile as he pushes the hot ceramic into your hands, his eyes glistening with mirth and the effects of all the whiskey he shot back earlier.

You look at what he brought you and your heart almost stops. It’s a steaming hot piece of cherry pie, drizzled in a large puddle of vanilla custard just the way you like it. You look at his, with his tiny dollop of cream just the way he likes it, and you can’t help but smile.

“Why?” You ask as you sit on the edge of the bed with him in the chair by the TV, the bowl in your hand, spoon loaded with goodness.

He finishes chewing a piece of the hot pie, sucking in air to cool it in his mouth before he replies. “I know you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” you admit too quickly but the words are out now whether he believes them or not.

“And I know it’s my fault,” he looks at you with those eyes, “I shouldn’t have made things awkward from day one. So, I’m sorry about that.”

“Thank you.” You never thought you would ever hear Dean Winchester apologise, or what you would say in return.

“I didn’t know how to take the rejection,” he sighed heavily, “especially not from someone I have this amazing chemistry with, y’know? But that’s on me.”

What great chemistry did Dean think he had with you? All the years you had known him, you’d harboured a bit of a crush on him but he always acted like you were one of the guys. When you two crossed paths it had felt effortless to slip into the old camaraderie but he treated you like a sister, a fellow hunter, until you had shown up on his radar this time covered in blood and all kinds of messed up and he’d gotten all pissed and… ohhhh.

“You were right all those years ago when you said hunters shouldn’t get close,” he continues, “I should’ve listened and never asked that question.”

You remember the conversation clearly. It was something you had said because you thought it was what he wanted to hear from you. Younger and more naïve, you had thought that what he wanted was for you to be like one of the guys so you had said the words and hoped that you could remain where you were with him, always close but never at risk of blowing everything. Over time you had begun to regret that decision, and as soon as he started acting like an asshole it had been easy to trade the feelings you had for ones of resentment.

“I wish I never said it. I didn’t realise what I would be losing when I asked.” He looks at you again, beseechingly. “Do you think we can start again? Be friends like before?”

You think about it for a moment but the more you think the surer you are that you can’t go back. You can’t know these things and have these experiences and go back to the beginning.

“No, Dean, I don’t think we can.” Your words are soft but the devastation in his eyes is sharp and painful.

You stand, placing your untouched bowl on the bedside table, and walk towards him. His bowl is empty now, but there’s a little piece of pie left on his spoon when you take it from him. He’s confused but follows your every movement with a mixture of sadness and reverence.

The pie is sweet on your tongue and the way his eyebrows raise when your lips close around the spoon brings a cheeky glint to your eyes. You sit on his knee, wrapping one arm around his shoulders while the other pulls the now clean spoon past your lips. You swallow with a sigh. His hands go to your hip and thigh to steady you as he looks up at you.

You dip your head slowly and he tilts up to meet you, his eyes flicking between yours and your mouth. He tastes sweet just like you do when you lay your lips on his, a soft kiss that is both the testing of waters and the soothing of sharp emotions. He squeezes your thigh tighter for a brief moment and you pull back to see the questioning look on his face.

“But you said…”

You shush him with a finger laid over his lips. “I know what I said.”

“Then what did you mean?” He swallows hard, licking his lips nervously afterwards as if you’re about to pull the rug out from under him.

“I wish I’d said yes.”

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