#i .. i miss them so damn much this is getting unbearable

[dinzeeyz]

Got a cute prompt to draw the PD boys staring into the backstage of riptide

[amathslutsguidetofandom]

"I'm Taking That As A Yes, Princess"

PAIRINGS: Ghostface!FratPresident!James "Bucky" Barnes x Reader

WARNINGS: Getting alcohol spilt on you, fingering, a bit angsty? (if you squint), semi-bathroom sex, swering, unprotected sex (darlings, please wrap your man's pig in a blanket), p in v, mentions of cum, handjob, a slight hint of a blowjob and slight fluff? (If I have missed anything, please feel free to let me know 😊)

WORD COUNT: 2,922

*not proof-read*

ENJOY!

Walking into the house, you were immediately surrounded by sweaty, sticky bodies. You grimaced at the overwhelming feeling and tried to find a space where you could catch your breath. The kitchen was relatively empty, except for a couple making out on the counter. You decided to mind your own business, reaching into the fridge and navigating past cans and bottles of beer to grab a water bottle hidden at the back.

You twisted the cap off and took a long sip. Everyone was dressed up differently, which made sense—it was Halloween. Instead of babysitting your little cousins, you’d faked being sick to your parents, dressed up, and come to the Alpha Phi house. This wasn’t like you at all. The top student in your class, the teacher’s pet, the early-assignment submitter, the girl who became a TA in her junior year—you were the “good girl.”

So why were you here? Because you’d overheard some girls talking about the infamous Halloween party that the Alpha Phi guys threw every year. And you weren’t the type who usually went to parties. So why this one? Because you’d heard that Steve Rogers was going to show up, and you had a little crush on the star player of the varsity ice hockey team. You’d been trying to muster the courage to talk to him ever since you sat next to him in a lab in your first year. That was two years ago, and you’d been harbouring feelings for him ever since.

Your heart did a little flip every time he smiled at you when you passed him in the halls. Finishing your water, you threw the bottle in the recycling bin and tugged your tutu down to avoid a wedgie. The ballerina costume was a last-minute, twenty-dollar buy, but you were happy with it—the corseted top accentuated your chest, and though the sheer tights were a bit snug, it didn’t bother you too much.

You were making your way through the crowd and spotted a tuft of blond hair. Your heart flipped again. This was it, the perfect moment. You were going to ask Steve if he wanted to go out sometime. He was tipsy enough to say yes, and if he said no, he’d be too focused on his hangover tomorrow to remember your question. You took a deep breath and started toward him.

Then you saw them. You’d thought the rumours weren’t true, that they couldn’t be real. But the sight of Steve Rogers making out with Peggy Carter would be forever etched in your mind, because the pain in your heart was unbearable. You stood frozen, your heart thudding in your chest as you watched Steve's hands roam over Peggy’s body. You clenched your jaw and sniffled, rooted to the spot.

You only snapped out of it when someone spilled their drink on you. “Damn, sorry, gorgeous,” a guy dressed as Fred from Scooby-Doo winked at you drunkenly before chuckling and moving away. You shook your head, trying to clean the alcohol off your costume.

“Hey, buddy. I think you owe the girl a real apology,” another voice piped up. You looked up to see a towering figure dressed as Ghostface, holding Fred by the shoulder. “Now, say you’re sorry—like you really mean it, and none of that half-assed stuff because you’re shitfaced,” Ghostface ordered, crossing his arms. Fred straightened up, looked you in the eye, and apologized sincerely. Ghostface nodded approvingly and sent him away.

Before you realized it, Ghostface had moved closer to you. You turned to see him looking you over, his mask bobbing as if inspecting your costume. He clicked his tongue and put a hand on the small of your back. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

You both walked upstairs, where the sounds of the party gradually faded, and you were grateful for the quiet. You hesitated when he opened a door and gestured for you to go in.

For the first time that night, you spoke up. “Um, I’m sorry, but I don’t even know who you are.”

The chuckle that followed freaked you out a little, but then he reached up to remove the mask.

James. Freaking. Barnes.

You tried your best to mask your surprise, but you were sure he saw it, because the corners of his lips lifted into a smirk.

James “Bucky” Barnes—the captain of the varsity ice hockey team, a good student, a charmer, the president of Alpha Phi, and most importantly, the best friend of Steve Rogers.

You’ve met James a few times here and there. During some of the varsity games. And passed him in the dorms sometimes. He never caused you any trouble. He even offered to help you move-in in your second year when he clearly saw you struggle push your luggage up the stairs.

You were just acquaintances.

You swallowed and timidly walked into the pristine room, surprised by its immaculate condition. “I certainly didn’t expect a frat president to have such a clean room,” you muttered, hearing James laugh at your comment as he closed the door.

“Well, I don’t work well in a messy environment,” he shrugged and walked closer, his gaze trailing over your corset. You backed up slightly at the intensity of his approach, making him huff a laugh. “I don’t bite, princess,” he said, his fingers grazing the edge of your corset.

He gently guided you to the adjoining bathroom. “I’ll have to wash it out a bit. So, if you don’t mind getting your tutu a little damp, princess…,” he led, waiting for your response. You shook your head, signalling it was fine. He nodded toward the counter, and you hopped onto it.

He wetted a towel and began dabbing it on your clothes. “So, what’s a timid thing like you doing at a fraternity party?” he whispered, his focus on cleaning up the stain. You glanced at his concentrated face before looking away. “What? Can’t a girl come to a party?” you replied, defensively, for some reason.

James chuckled, “Oh, a girl can come to a party. But you, you’re not that type of girl, princess.” You raised an eyebrow at him, puzzled by his statement. “I mean, you never come to parties in general. So why the sudden appearance?” He sighed and caged you between his arms.

You tensed, starting to stammer. “Well, I wanted to see someone,” you shrugged, looking down at your hands.

“Yeah?” James asked, his gaze piercing. “Who was the special guy?”

You looked up at him through your lashes, then quickly looked away. He used two fingers to tilt your face toward him. “Eyes on me, princess,” he said softly.

“Steve. I came to ask Steve out…,” you admitted, spilling your secret.

James looked at you with you look, you couldn’t decipher what it was. But you didn’t know what to feel about it. He looked into your eyes for so long, you started to tear up due to the lack of blinking.

“Steve…,” he dragged it, and it made you wonder why. But you didn’t question it.

He continued to dab the wet cloth to your clothes. “You didn’t have to do that you know… The, um, asking the guy to apologize to me,” you broke the silence, because you couldn’t take the stuffy air that was in between the both of you.

James shook his head and chuckled as he dabbed on your neckline. “If I didn’t my Ma would scold my ear off if she knew. And, besides, a pretty girl needs to be treated right.”

You’re breathing stops at that, and you looked up at him with a confused look. He smirked at your expression, “what?” You shook you head and asked him, “you think I’m pretty?”

James scoffed and nodded, “I would have to be blind if I didn’t think your stunning, princess.”

You didn’t realise but your lips and James’ were a hair breadths away. “James…,” you tried to start but James beat you to it, “Bucky, princess. Call me Bucky.”

You gulped and nodded.

“Bucky.”

He groaned at they way his named sounded on your tongue. “Princess, your killin’ me here,” he whispered more to himself than at you. His knuckles gripped onto the counter tight. “Please…,” he muttered.

“Pardon?” you didn’t catch what he said.

“Please let me kiss you.”

You froze, you didn’t know what to do.

You always thought Bucky was hot. Hotter than Steve, but you never had any classes with him to fully judge him. You were a hundred percent sure that if Bucky was your lab partner instead of Steve, you’d totally be crushing on Bucky instead.

And if that were the case, you’d be nodding your head like a mad man. Steve was taken, you were still recovering from that. Bucky, apparently, liked you. Liked you more than you thought he did.

You saw the way his gaze flickered from your eyes to you lips and back to your eyes. Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, and saw his pupils dilate at the movement.

“I-,” you started but your thoughts were washed away when you saw Bucky lick his lips too. You heart thuds in your chest as you feel like the whole world is dark and the spotlight is just on you with the way Bucky looks like you. There’s a small part of you that wanted to feel how his lips would feel against you.

So, you nodded.

Before you knew it, Bucky was standing between your legs and gripping your hips. He then pulled you close and smashed his lips on yours. You took a second to understand what was going on, but when your conscious did come back to you cupped his face and kissed him back.

He licked at your bottom lip asking your permission to open up your mouth and you allowed it immediately. Soon your tongues were dancing together, yours was meek and shy letting Bucky do all the taking over. You wrapped your arms around his neck and whimpers against his mouth, which just made him groan against you.

He moved his lips from your mouth to your jaw, then to your neck. You tilted your head to give him more access, and the more you let him the more your whimpers turn to moans.

He moves his hands all over your body, “this okay, princess?” He whispered against your skin, and you nodded fervently and grasped at his black cloak. You felt him palm at your chest, and you sighed and whispered a, “more, Bucky, please.” He nodded against your skin and moved his hands up your thighs and squeezes the flesh of your thighs.

You felt the heat pool between your things and squeezed them together. Bucky smirked and pushed them away, “nuh uh, none o’ that.” He got closer to you, and you wrapped your legs around his hips and chuckled. His hands moved to your inner thighs, and you gasped out, the wetness pooling more into your underwear.

You felt his knuckles brushed against your core and you whimpered and dropped your head against his shoulder. “Please, Bucky,” you muttered against his costume. Without any other word he ripped your tights at the centre and felt the wet path of white cotton.

“Oh princess, so wet f’me already?” Bucky snickered and you nodded at his question.  He rubbed his knuckles against your cunt’s lips and pressed his fingers harder when he heard your soft mewl. “You like it don’t you, princess?” To which you nodded again and whispered his name breathlessly.

He pushed your underwear aside and sunk his thick fingers in, and you whined at the intrusion. The sweet stretch felt better than your own meek fingers and soon Bucky was pumping his fingers in and out making your legs shake. “I’m not even rubbing your clit, princess. Your legs are already shaking,” he whispered roughly against your ear.  

His thumb started to rub at your clit and that’s when you lost your mind. You mewled and moaned his name as his fingers were rubbing that deep spot in you and his thumb playing with your button has you becoming a wailing mess. He bends down and started to attack your neck. “Fuck, Bucky. Please,” you cried out as you feel your impending orgasm start to build at your core.

Bucky roughly rubbed at your clit and within seconds your gushed around his fingers. You sighed and untensed your shoulders. Bucky brought his fingers to his mouth, closed his eyes and licked them clean. You whimpered at the sight.

You both leaned in and captured the other in a deep kiss, Bucky picked you up like you weighed nothing and exited the bathroom and walked until he placed you down on his bed.

He pulled the Ghostface mask down and leaned to tower over you. You bit your lip, and he chuckled, “didn’t know princess was a bit freaky, hmm?” He unbuckled his belt under the cloak, and you took off your tutu and tossed it somewhere in his room.

When he managed to get his cock out of his pants, your eyes widened as the sheer size of him and then looked at him to see the small smirk that was painted on his lips. “Something wrong, princess?” You gulped and said, “it’s not gonna fit.”

Bucky chuckled and leaned over you once more and whispered into your ear, “we’ll make it fit, princess.” The tone he used made you shiver, and you gripped onto his shoulders and readied yourself. Bucky ran his shaft up and down you’re sit and you whined desperately.

“Bucky, please. I need you,” you squeezed your eyes shut and threw your head back. He tapped your cheek with two fingers and said, “eyes on me, princess.” And with that Bucky slowly pushed inside you. The stretch was so deliciously sweet and painful it made you lose your mind. You both gasped at the feeling of him moving further into you.

“Fuck, princess. You’re so tight,” he grits out as he starts to slowly thrust in and out of you. Your legs wrapped tightly around his waist and your nails raked down his back and he let out a deep moan which made goosebumps raise on your skin.

The sound of skin slapping on skin wasn’t’ as loud as your wails of Bucky’s name and moans. When the tip of him tapped against that spot in you, your eyes rolled to the back of your mind and you squealed, “Bucky right there, oh! Right there!”

Bucky grabbed a hold of the headboard and thrusted harder into you, aiming at that same spot and you felt tears run down the side of face in pleasure. “Fuck, princess. Gripping me like a vice,” he purses his lips as he knocked his hips against yours.

You felt the sheer length of him move in and out of you, your walls embraced him like he was meant to be there in the first place. “Attagirl. Take what I give you, yeah?” He huffed against your ear. The coarse patch of pubic hair that rested at the bottom of his happy trail, rubbed against your clit giving your that nice friction and it made you whine even more.

He pressed a hand against your abdomen and pressed down harder and it made the feeling even better. He saw how you reacted and pressed down harder, and you arched your back at the feeling. With that you felt the climax in you start to rise, “Bucky, I’m so close.” You whimpered as you watched the man wearing the Ghostface mask rut into you expertly.

He threw your legs over his shoulders and rutted into your harder, the band at your core bends and bends until it finally snapped and soon you were coming around Bucky’s cock.

Bucky groaned deeply at you squeezing him tightly, he pulled out and you whined at the loss of the feeling. He was fisting his length at the sight of you post orgasmic bliss and it looked so hot from your perspective. You quickly got on your knees and replaced Bucky’s hand with yours. “Fucking hell, princess,” he ran a hand through your hair and bunched it up at the back of your head. “That’s it, making me feel so good,” he sighed and threw his head back.

He groaned when you parted your lips, the mushroom head of his member inches away from your mouth. He tipped his head back, “fuck I’m so close.” And soon you felt his warm spent spill down your throat. Bucky moaned at the sight, and his chest reverberated deeply when he saw you swallow.

He pushed you down to lay on your back again and he then he laid next to you. You reached up and took of his Ghostface mask so you can his face. “That desperate to see my face? Hmm?” He smirked at your action. You shook your head and chuckled shyly, “maybe.”

Bucky reached up and caressed your face. “You know you’re really pretty right, princess?” You blushed at his comment, “buy me dinner first, Barnes.” Bucky chuckled and then nodded, “are you free this weekend?”

You froze, “you can’t be serious.”

“Well, I kinda am.”

“You are a piece of work James Barnes,”

“Should I take that as a, yes?”

You chuckled and shook your head; you gave him a soft smile.

“I’m taking that as a yes, princess.”

🎀🎀🎀

A fic posted during the midst of exam period?!

I would like to thank @buck-star for helping me with coming up with this idea!

This took a while and it's ALOT, but late night productivity hit me like a freight train haha.

I've one more exam in the next week and I'll be done!

Hope you lovelies liked this!

Lemme know what y'all think of the fic!

Till' then,

Stay Coquette-y,

Anya 🫶🏽🕊️🎀

[sturniowhore]

bsf!Chris hcs

warnings:FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF

A/N: this is my first time writing please be kind!! I hope I didn't do terrible LMAO sorry if some of the blurbs are like really long I can't stop yapping

Dividers: @bernardsbendystraws

Bsf!Chris who's always touching you in some sort of way either having an arm around your shoulders or a hand to the small of your back

You, Nick, Matt, and Chris were waiting in line to check out at a grocery store, they were going to do a blind, deaf, mute baking video but had no idea what to buy so they brought you along to help them. Nick and Matt were In front of You and Chris arguing about something stupid. You were on your phone scrolling through Instagram, Chris beside you sometimes peaking over your shoulder to look at your phone. After a few minutes Chris decided he was bored. He yawned stretching out his arms, his left arm grabbed onto your waist pulling you closer to him and his right fell to his side. You were used to Chris always holding onto you so you didn't mind in fact you leaned into his touch. "im boredddddd" Chris groaned, his left cheek was pressed against the side of your head. You hummed and ignored his antics continuing to scroll.

Bsf!Chris who can't sleep by himself and is always sleeping in your bed

You hear your door opening shuffling coming right after. Your back was turned towards the door not looking back because you already know who it is. Chris climbs on the bed laying down in front of you "hey miss lady" he greets in a hushed tone, you smile and shake your head as his arms pull you closer to him, his chin resting on your head.

Bsf!Chris who always shares his food and drinks with you even though he hates sharing

You and Chris were in his bedroom the AC being on full blast. there was an extreme heat wave going on in Boston and it was unbearable. You were sprawled out on his bed face down groaning and complaining about how much you hate summer, Chris was chuckling on the floor near a fan sipping a cold can of Pepsi. You reach out to the bedside table for your water bottle and realize it's empty and let out a big huff. Chris turns his head to look at you and the empty bottle, he looks down at his own drink. He gets up from off the floor and walks over to you, handing you the can. You pick up your head to face him and the drink. "you sure? I know that's your last one you don't have t-" "Y/n.. just take the damn drink." You were hesitant at first, but still grabbed the cold drink from his hands and took a sip. Your face instantly relaxed and let out a content sigh. Chris grinned when you tried handing his drink back to him "nah, you keep it" and went back to his original seat on the floor smiling to himself.

Bsf!Chris who is always annoying you in the kitchen while you cook/bake because he knows it makes you mad

You were making brownies, Chris watching intently near the fridge while you started to preheat the oven. His eyes roamed over to the island where he sees a bowl full of brownie batter, he smirks and walks up to it dipping his finger in. You turn around and see Chris's finger in his mouth. You were confused at first then you saw the bowl of batter behind him. "CHRIS. You weren't supposed to eat that!" Chris laughs and dips his finger in the bowl again before running away when he sees you glare at him.

Bsf!Chris who always pays for you even if you insist that you can pay for it yourself

You and Chris were at a coffee shop. He didn't wanna be there because he hated coffee but he knew you couldn't live without it so he went in with you. It was your turn to order, you asked for your usual caramel latte and looked at Chris, your eyes asking him if he wants anything. Chris shook his head no and you confirmed your order. The Barista pointed at the small screen In front of you asking for payment, you were in the middle of taking your wallet out from your bag when you heard a DING from the screen. You look up and the screen said payment confirmed, Chris's phone moving back into his pocket. "Chris.. you didn't have to do that." Chris shrugged "I know I wanted to though" his arm moving to your shoulders. You smiled at his gesture, picking up your latte that the barista handed to you. "i'll pay you back." You and Chris walked out of the coffee shop, his arms still draped around your shoulder. Chris laughed "No you won't"

Bsf!Chris who gawks at you when you show him clothes you try on while going shopping with him

"do we like this?" You say in front of the mirror in a fitting room. You were wearing a black mini dress. "does this make me look weird?" Waiting for a response from your best friend, "Chris?" You question when he doesn't say anything you turn around and see him absolutely mesmerized by you. His eyes were wide and his mouth was slightly open. "You okay? hello earth to Chris?" Your fingers snapped in front of his face to get him out of his trance. Chris shakes his head blinking a few times, coming back to reality "yeah I uh.. you look.. beautiful" You giggle at his antics and turn back to the mirror "i don't know if I should get It though.." "NO! I mean- get it, please get it you look amazing I'll even pay!"

Bsf!Chris who gives it his all when playing carnival games wanting to win you the giant stuffy

Chris was in front of a ring toss game at the fair, he saw you staring at the giant hello kitty plushie and he knew he had to win It for you. "Chris c'monnn you spent $25 on this stupid game already I don't need the plushie" Chris waved you off, more determined than ever to get you that plushie even if it meant him getting bankrupt trying. After a few more tries and an extra $20 he finally won the giant plushie. Your eyes lit up when the worker handed the toy to you, squealing from happiness. Chris looks at you in awe, he didn't care that he spent $45 on a carnival game you squeezing the hello kitty stuffy with a big smile on your face was worth every penny.

Bsf!Chris who introduces you as his girl to his friends

You, Nick, Matt, and Chris were at a party. You were hanging out talking to Matt in the corner when Chris called you over. You walked up to him and some of his friends that you've haven't met before, His arm wraps around your waist "This is my girl Y/n, she lives in Boston but is visiting us in LA for a couple days" You looked down at the floor and smiled feeling your cheeks get hot, Chris's arm never left your waist as he continued talking to his friends.

Bsf!Chris who always comforts you when you're upset, always lending you his shoulder to cry on

You were on Chris's bed, your head against the crook of his neck. Loud sobs and thick tears streaming down your face and on to the neckline of his shirt, there was a small pool forming but Chris didn't care. All he wanted was to make sure you knew that he was here for you. "hey its okay.. I got you ma.. let it all out" He coos, his comforting words started to make you feel warmer and safe. His arms tighten around you, rocking the both of you in a back-and-forth motion. His lips graze the top of your head, leaving behind a gentle yet loving kiss.

Bsf!Chris who's always holding your hand and kissing it just because

You and Chris were on the couch watching a movie together. His right arm draped around your shoulders, Your head leaning against him. You were watching Beauty And The Beast, it was your favorite. You had to have watched it at least 200 times but no matter how many times you've seen it, it still brought as much comfort as it did the first time you watched it. Chris wasn't a big fan of Disney princess movies but he knew that you loved them, so no matter what he would always say yes if you asked him to watch one with you. You were singing along to Tale As Old As Time, Chris was also humming to the tune. He glanced down at your face to see you smiling sweetly watching Belle and the Beast dancing. Seeing your smile made his heart flutter, it brought a happy grin to his face as well. Chris's gaze dropped to your hands that were on your lap, his free hand interlocking with one of yours. He brought your hand up to his lips, gently kissing the back of your palm and knuckles. You turn to face him giving him a questioning look, your hand still in his. A boyish smile was shown across his face "what?" he questioned. "what are you doin'?" You laughed. "can't I kiss my favorite girl's hand?" You shook your head in disbelief, a huge smile displayed on your face. "you can but like.. what's the occasion?" He shrugged his shoulders "just because." Chris brought your hand back up to his lips peppering it with multiple kisses. You giggled at his actions before turning your head back to the movie, Your hands never leaving his and occasionally feeling a sweet kiss.

Bsf!Chris who gets insanely overprotective and jealous at any man who tries to talk to you

You and the triplets were at a party. It was your first time in LA so you stayed close to Nick, Matt, and Chris since you didn't know many people. Nick left to go talk to some of his friends and Matt went to the bathroom, leaving you alone with Chris. "Having fun miss lady?" Chris grins down at you, admiring the curves of your body and the sweetness of your face. "Yeah this isn't so bad" You look up at him smiling. You feel someone approach you from behind, tapping your shoulder. You turn around seeing a tall man with green eyes and blonde hair, you had to admit he was kinda cute. "hey! I haven't seen you around before ya new?" He asks you, displaying a charming smile. Chris's grin turned into a scowl. He eyed the man up and down wondering why he chose you to talk to out of all the girls at the party, why did he choose his girl? "uhm kinda? I'm just visiting" You reply to him. The man nods "you come here with anyone?" "i-" You were about to reply but were cut off. "yeah actually shes with me" Chris glares at the man. "oh. sorry man." He nods at the both of you before walking away. You turn to look at Chris, a confusing look displayed on your face "what was that about?" "Y/n, trust me I've heard about him before he's bad news." Chris lied, he didn't know who that man was let alone know if he was a bad person or not. You give Chris a grateful smile, silently thanking him for saving you from potential trouble. "c'mon lets go to Nick" Chris takes your hand leading you away. When you both arrive to where Nick was with his friends, Chris doesn't let go of your interlocked hands. He didn't want anyone else approaching you. He didn't want anyone approaching his girl.

Bsf!Chris who denies he has feelings for you when he knows he does everyone knows

Nick and Matt were in front of Chris, their arms crossed with an annoyed look on their faces. "dude, fucking ask her out already" "ask who out?" Chris responded not looking away from his phone, knowing exactly who his brother was referring to. "Bitch don't act stupid you know who. It's so obvious that you both like each other it's unbearable" "I have no idea who your talking about" "Y/N CHRIS, Y/N." Chris looks up at nick hearing your name. "what are you guys sayin'? were just good friends" "yeah and I'm straight." Chris rolls his eyes at the accusation "you better tell her how you feel before you lose her man" Matt shrugs his shoulders before going to his room, Nick following close behind. "whatever" Chris continues to scroll on his phone, not paying attention to anything on the screen. The only thing on his mind is you.

Bsf!Chris who finally gets the courage to tell you his feelings

You and Chris were taking a walk around the neighborhood at night. Both of you were just walking, talking, occasionally laughing and exchanging stories. In the middle of walking you both came across a little playground. Chris took your hand and dragged you inside the playground gates. "Sit, I'll push you" Chris pats the swing. You sit down, both hands grasping at the chain handles. Chris drags the swing back for momentum and gives you a firm push. You swing back and forth, laughing like you were 4 years old again playing on the swings for the first time. Hearing your laughs makes Chris laugh, he loved the sound of your voice, he loved the way your eyes lit up, he loved the way your nose scrunched, he loved...you. The realization hits him and he stops pushing you immediately. Well he always knew but now there was no denying it. "Chris? everything okay?" Your head turns back to face him, looking at him with concern. He looks into your eyes and remembers Matt's words "you better tell her before you lose her." "Hello?? Chris??" You were now off of the swing and in front of your best friend, waving your hands in his face you snap him out of his dazed state. "yeah I uh.." Chris blinked a few times and looked down at your hands, he held them in his interlocking them. "I have something to tell you but.." "but?" "I'm scared Y/n.." Your eyebrows furrow. "Scared of what?" "scared of losing you. i- i don't wanna ruin this." You smile, your hands leaving his and cupping his face. "Don't be silly, you wont ever lose me. I'm not that easy to get rid of." You joke, Chris doesn't laugh. That's unusual, he always laughs. Instead he looks down sighing, his face unreadable. "Chris, you know you could tell me anything" you tilt your head to meet his gaze. Chris makes eye contact with you and quickly shuts his eyes, his lips form into a thin line. "Y/n, I.. I like you. Like really really like you." Your eyes widen at his confession, your speechless. Chris notices and is thinking the worst. "I understand if you don't like me back" "Chris-" "I hope I didn't make this awkward" "Chr-" "I hope I didn't ruin anything, ohmygod please don't stop being friends with me I don't know if I can-" You shut him up by connecting your lips with his. His eyes widen in shock, for a minute he's not moving thinking this is a dream, a dream to good to be true. He comes back to his senses and realizes its real, your really kissing him. Chris's arms wrap around your waist and he kisses back, he lingers for a lot longer then he should not wanting the moment to end and you don't mind, its all you wanted and more.

Bf!Chris who showers you with love any chance he gets.

You were in the kitchen washing dishes from tonight's dinner. You hear footsteps coming down the stairs, not turning your head thinking it was one of the boys who probably forgot something from the living room. Arms wrap around your waist causing you to yelp in surprise. "shh its only me ma" your best friend new boyfriend says from behind you, his breath tickling your ear. "Chris you almost made me break a plate" you whine, pretending to be mad at him. "we have more" Chris's lips attach to your neck, leaving behind multiple kisses. You laugh, turning around to become face to face with him. "What's up?" you question him with a smile plastered on your face. He shrugs his shoulders "jus' wanted to be near you" He says, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "I gotta do the dishes though" "You still can i'll just be here." "You're a big baby" You tease with your back to his chest continuing doing the task in front of you. Chris hums in response his chin on your shoulder breathing in your scent. His arms wrap around your waist, never wanting to leave this position. Never wanting to leave you.

[love44lew]

just like him . max verstappen

彡driver max verstappen

彡genre drunk!max verstappen x gn!reader, angst to fluff

彡summary max comes home drunk after a long night of partying and celebrating another wdc

၊၊||၊ this story has been haunting me for weeks now and im always busy with school or just dont have motivation to write but im glad to finally get the last of it on this sunday evening. enjoy and ty for reading!! ၊၊||၊

彡warnings alcohol, mentions of child abuse

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max stumbles into the door after too damn long trying to get that stupid lock. why was the damn door locked anyway? he roughly plops down on the floor, kicking his shoes off and tossing them to the side without any second thought about them. he’s woozy and his head feels like its full of water and he can barely stand up straight—it was a long night of drinking and celebrating securing the drivers championship.

you would’ve went, but you weren’t feeling too well and even though max had insisted to stay home with you, you refused to let him miss out on celebrating such an achievement; hesitantly he went.

after a long 3 hours of drinking, dancing, partying him and his father had a long talk. a deep one, about his childhood. once again he’d taken credit for max’s achievements, once again telling max he should be grateful for the years of ‘tough parenting’. still the same stupid ass excuse he had to brag about how beating your kids made them world champions, what a way to ruin a night.

max stumbled into the kitchen, the house being left dimly lit since you’d expected him to come home late.

his head—the pounding became unbearable. ever since that talk with him the effects of the alcohol we’re hitting him harder then they should’ve for the amount he drank. he wasn’t drugged, was he? maybe his fathers words is what drugged him—but instead of sending him into a high, they sent him into a deep dysphoria.

he bent over, resting his temple on the cold marble of the island—the sensation easing his dizziness.

water, he needs water. but he couldn’t move from the position he was now.

“max..?” you called from up the stairs.

he just groaned in response

you smiled to yourself as you scurried down the stairs, knowing how he gets when he’s drunk. you were feeling much better than you were before, after throwing up and taking a nap, of course. “maxie,” the nickname rolled sweetly off your tongue, your tone much more comforting and soft. you turned the corner, spotting his tall figure hunched over the countertop his leg bouncing uncontrollably.

“hey, lets get you upstairs, hm?” you rubbed circles on his back as you picked up his arm and swung it over your shoulders. he’s heavy to say the least, so it wasn’t easy getting him up.

“y/n” max mumbled, stopping you at the base of the steps and using your shoulders to help him sit on them.

“yes max”

in your head, you celebrated being able to rest your shoulders for a couple minutes before helping him upstairs

“can you just be honest with me for one second here” his voice was hoarse and low, he could barely make eye contact with you. you can already understand this was a bad trip.

“always, love” your brows furrowed, his tone rising concern within you. there was a pause before he cleared his throat and his ocean blue orbs, that now appeared an almost dark grey in this lighting.

“do you think i’ll turn out like him” he almost whispered, just enough so you can hear him semi-clearly. the words stabbed you in the chest, where could he be getting these thoughts from. and whose ‘him’?

“him..?” you repeated, tilting your head to the side “max what are you talking about?”

“my dad” his eyes finally locked with yours “do you think im gonna turn out like him? what if the day comes where i would try to hurt you, if its by words or trying to put my hands on you? i never want to do that, i dont want that—thats not love. what we have, i feel this is love, but what if it wont be anymore, because of me?..” his eyes became sad, desperate and ashamed with himself, disappointed in himself for something he’s never done but the thought that he could possibly even try to hurt you makes him want to just curl up in a ball and cry.

“max-“ you reached a comforting hand out to him, just for him to reject it.

“no— i dont want to hurt you. you should go and find another guy who wouldn’t ever do that to you. im just like my fuckin dad, i even see his face in the mirror just to remind me of the doom im destined to” he hunches over, buring his face in his hands.

at this point you didnt even know what to say. you obviously are aware of the complex relationship max has with his father but he never never voiced these thoughts to you before, especially when hes drunk. hes all silly and quiet and sleepy usually, something must’ve happened to make him like this. everyone has their fears of inheriting their parents bad characteristics, max has told you about stuff he tries to do differently than him, but you never imagined it being this bad.

max is such a kind soul, he couldn’t even kill a spider. he has no reason to rage if he’s already taking all his frustrations out on track. outside the car he’s a calm dude, you’ve never heard him yell or be nasty to his engineers when he wasn’t on track. of course he has his occasional attitude towards the authority but never further than that. every time he acted out, hes worked hard to fix whatever caused him to do so.

the best thing you could do is just wait for him to finish talking so you could voice your thoughts, which you did so. you sat next to him, resting your head on his shoulder until he calmed town and flushed out all the words he had pent up in his brain. the two of you sat as his sobs filled the silence between you. saying something right away didnt feel like the right move anyway.

“you dont have to be him. youre not gonna be him because youre already better than him. max, youre still in your 20s and look all that you’ve accomplished—stuff he couldn’t dream to do in his entire life. you dont have a reason to end up like him because youre not a fuckin failure.” it might have been a little too much to talk so harshly about his dad, because its his dad. but whatever he did or said to him before he arrived home has caused the love of your life hysterical and paranoid for the future, so right now, he didn’t deserve the babying he receives from everyone around him and max. his sobs had calmed down at this point, the pause was enough for you to continue.

“and about me— i dont want anyone else. of course we’ll have our disagreements, we’ll piss each other off eventually. we’ll exchange words we dont mean and then we’ll immediately regret it after, thats just how things are. but id rather do that with you than another person because i’ll only ever want you. we’re in this together baby—and as long as i have you, theres always something to fight for because you’re worth fighting for. i made that decision the day i fell in love with you, and i never looked back since.” your heart, chest, and throat burned with every word that left your mouth. like confessing your love wasn’t hard enough the first time, here you are pouring it all out again. you keep your heart so sacred, all the world can fight for it and you’d still be stuck on that person you gave it all to. that person being max.

“i can only tell you how i feel, i cant convince you to think otherwise. but remember, i gave YOU my everything because thats the only thing i have to offer. i chose you because i see something in you that nobody else saw before, or sometimes dont even see now—“ not even your own father

“and now its my job to help you see those things within yourself.” your soft hands cupped his face so the two of you could fix on one another once again.

“just think about that”

his saddened eyes widened, like you had planted something in his mind. he melted into your touch, his eyes closing and his cheeks growing a deeper rose than before.

“i love you so much, i dont deserve you” he kissed your hands while mumbling his love for you.

“i love you too, but i disagree” you leaned in closer and kissed the bridge of his nose. he just sighed softly, he didnt feel like staring another debate on who loves who more. maybe in the morning.

max wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you in closer and resting his head on your chest. you wrapped your arms around him, planting a soft kiss on the top of his head. the two of you sat in silence, enveloping in one anothers warmth. his home was right here, with you.

“im thirsty” max mumbles, breaking the silence between you two. you chuckled silently. “okay baby” you helped him stand up and up the stairs, leading him to your room. max threw himself onto the bed. you turned around to fetch some water but a tired hand tugged your wrist.

“dont go” he nuzzled into your palm, his lips brushing over your fingers. “im not going anywhere honey, im just getting water for you” max whined in protest, his face was flushed into your hand like it was his only source of warmth— tingles fluttered your heart at the sight.

“you need water, do you want to be hungover tomorrow?” you leaned on your hip and narrowed your eyes curiously.

“no i need you, now come here im cold” he pouts, tugging your hand harder causing you to fall onto the bed with a cushioned thud. before you could even react, a needy, pouty max had already latched his body onto yours tightly, nuzzling into your shoulder and allowing the scent of his lover consume his senses.

you sighed softly, the messiness of his hair and the way his arms hug your body made you not want to move. your body relaxed in his arms as max’s soft snores muffled into the cloth of your (his) sweater. you raked your fingers through his soft blonde locks until you too eventually fell into your own sleep. the two of you tangled in each other, sleeping peacefully knowing that you both will always have a shoulder to lean on.

[theorist-fox]

Never had a thing

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

I never posted on Tumblr. Is this okay? Anyways, Simon Riley brain rot. That's it. That's the post. Also, you can find this on AO3.

Part 1 >> Part 2

Summary: Simon has to lie low and go dark for an undefined period of time. While trudging along the unbearably long, dark alley that's his life, he finds the light at the end of tunnel, and it's shaped like you. 18+

Word count: 10k CW: smutty!!! jealous Simon Riley BECAUSE I honestly crave that. Soft Simon Riley because I crave that as well.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon had groaned like a battered dog when Price gave him the news that he needed to lie low. “Someone in Konni’s got your name” he’d said. “We don’t wanna take any risks. Just for a few weeks.”

He was sure those few weeks would turn into a few bloody months if he didn’t get a move on. For that, he’d hastily packed his things from the poor excuse of a flat the army had granted him, and started looking for a place to stay that wasn’t in Manchester.

Initially, Simon almost fantasized about buying his own flat. Maybe a piece of land and fulfill the wishes of the outcast that he was – living away from people, giving them the same treatment they’ve always given him.

Too bad he was legally dead. He had nothing to his name if not a grave that didn’t even exist, all his possessions were cursed memories and metaphorical things – a rank he didn’t hold, a flat that wasn’t his. Even his name barely pertained to him anymore.

The SAS wasn’t offering any accommodation, the tightwads. He couldn't buy a house, or rent one. He couldn't lean on any of his teammates, or he'd put them in danger – he wouldn't do it, not to them. Taint their lives with his name and the death it inevitably brings.

Price had helped him settle in a glorified motorway hotel. But he wasn’t picky – after all, he only had to stay for a few weeks.

A few days into his exile, he’d entered a Tesco with his head bowed and his hood on, a surgical mask on his face. A pack of Marlboro was all he wanted since the dodgy motel he was staying at (hiding) didn’t care if he smoked within the room. Plus, he reckoned that the smell of nicotine and combustion was a much better alternative to the rancid stench of mold.

However, as he plucked ten quid from his wallet, his eyes absently fell on a bulletin board behind the store clerk. There were tons of leaflets there: missing cats or dogs, people looking for a job or offering one. And then, a bright yellow paper caught his eye. Whoever printed it lacked taste but sure as hell knew how to catch one’s attention. He’d stopped in his tracks, a tenner between two fingers.

DESPERATE!!! PhD STUDENT LOOKING FOR A FLATMATE. NO SPECIFIC GENDER OR AGE AS LONG AS YOU CAN PAY RENT ON TIME. Two-bedroom flat, third floor, no elevator. If interested, please contact this number.

At the end of the flyer, the paper was cut into tear-off strips, so that interested individuals could rip the section with the phone number.

He liked that first word: desperate. He wondered if this person was as desperate as he was. Would they accept a man who wore a balaclava and looked proper sketchy? How desperate were they, really, if he asked to rent on verbal agreement – no contracts, no signatures whatsoever?

He decided he wanted to test that before he died of mold poisoning.

Nevertheless, when he dialed the number on his burner phone a few hours later, he wasn’t expecting the voice coming through the line. A shriek. A goddamn banshee. Chirpy and cheery, sounding like those damn advertisements on the telly for children’s toys. Whoever was on the other side of the phone was trying to sell.

The obnoxiously happy voice he’d heard through the receiver surely did match the person he found at the door of the flat a few days later - and the apartment itself.

It was a splash of colors Simon wasn’t even sure matched, from oranges and greens in the living room to yellows and blues in the kitchen. Walls of the same room were painted differently, and a brown leather couch lay on a round and fluffy turquoise carpet. A glass coffee table stood in the middle of it, hosting a clay vase with orange tulips.

You were a splash of colors yourself. Bright clothes, vibrant smile, and matching eyes.

Notwithstanding the loud energy that came with your presence, he could see you were tense as you guided him through the apartment. Simon didn’t blame you – he wasn’t the most trustworthy-looking lad. While he’d ditched the balaclava and had decided to go for a surgical mask, even hewould walk on eggshells around himself.

“Only a few weeks.” He’d said, deciding that he could withstand the eyesore that was the decor of that flat. “I’ll cover the rent while you find someone more permanent.”

And to his utter surprise, you’d accepted. He thought it was much too naïve of you, to let him rent without a lease. Without a document, without anything to prove that he'd pay as he'd promised in that listless fashion of his. Maybe you were as desperate as your tasteless leaflet said, in that dive of a Tesco.

He moved in in the span of a few days. You helped him with the boxes, although it was clear he didn't need a hand – especially not from a tiny thing like you. Not that you were small, he was just built like a brick house and you – well, you were made of wood, like in those cautionary tales mums tell their children. Pigs and wolves and shite.

You didn’t question why he wore the balaclava, nor why he never left his room, but sometimes you’d knock on his door to ask if he wanted pizza too, since you were ordering. He’d eat it (and any of his other meals really) in the cramped space he'd managed to rent, hosting only a bed, a poor excuse of a closet, and a desk.

Until one day he heard booming noises coming from the telly in the living room, so he peeked from the door he’d left ajar only to be greeted by Tom Cruise’s mug – Top Gun. 

Silently, he joined you on the sofa and he started correcting the way Maverick held the gun or grunting about how an aircraft couldn't make that maneuver. You never asked how he knew, but it had been a few weeks since he’d moved in and he’d already gathered how brilliant you were. You didn’t need to ask questions to connect the dots.

Simon wasn't keen on giving you his phone number, even the one on his burner phone. The paranoid that he was, and with a bit of experience to back it up, he didn't want to leave you with anything that could connect you to him.

So, you started leaving post-it notes on the fridge.

Dinner leftovers on the second rack. He’d tick off the sentence to let you know he’d read it, whether he ate them or not. Simon had this inborn ability to ghost people even without the use of phones.

Tried a new recipe. Tupperware with the blue lid. He’d write a score out of ten on the corner of the note.

I used your milk for breakfast!!! Sorry!!! He had huffed and grumbled when he’d headed out for groceries afterwards, but ever since that day, he started buying two cartons instead of one.

And he'd leave post-it notes for you, too.

Out for a few days. That’s how he would vaguely tell you he was being deployed. You would always draw a sad emoji next to it.

Watered your plants. Bloody things were more dead than alive. You’d mark down a very happy emoji, going as far as to add two poorly drawn thumbs up.

He barely noticed when his meals started happening on the kitchen table instead of his desk. Similarly, he couldn’t recall when he’d stopped taking pains to ensure your mealtimes wouldn’t coincide.

Friday night pizzas were always shared; it was a silent house rule you’d both agreed on. The both of you on the settee with the carton boxes on your thighs, two cold beers on the glass coffee table, and the telly playing a movie.

Your cheeky arse often chose a war film, and Simon had to refrain from rolling his eyes at how obvious you were being – trying to get to know him.

Zero Dark Thirty.

“Is it true you use callsigns?”

“Yes.”

“You have one?”

“Yes.”

“What is it, then?”

“Classified.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“Negative.”

The hurt locker.

“You ever defused a bomb?”

“Yes.”

“No shit – oh my God. How was it?”

“Dangerous.”

“Why thank you for the chat.”

“No problem.”

“When did it happen? Like, what was the situa-”

“Classified.”

You made a face and mocked his accent. “Classified.”

Apocalypse now.

“You are a bit like Kurtz.”

He gave you a look. “Mental?”

You huffed. “No. I meant the things he says, not the whole insanity bit.”

Simon scoffed but otherwise stayed silent. The film rolled in the background.

He murmured, then. “The horror, the horror.”

And you laughed.

He found it inexplicably easy to strip down for you, until he stood metaphorically naked in front of your eyes. Until he told you his full name and gave you his personal phone number. Until he showed his face.

Until he noticed you'd stopped looking for a flatmate, and his weeks of rent turned into months like he’d initially foreseen, but for another reason entirely. Months turned into years, but he could’ve never predicted anything in his life to last this long.

Until two summers later, while sporting a mundane black surgical mask and casual clothing, he took a photo with you in your doctoral gown, in front of your Uni. The same picture that now hung next to the entryway of your flat.

Until two years became three, and then four.

Until he just kind of… stayed.

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon’s day has worn him to the bone. The only thing he wants now is to go home, down a beer in two gulps, and knock himself out on any flat surface available.

He’s risked his fair share of speeding fines on the motorway, parked the car in the building's garage, and trudged up the three flights of stairs that led to his apartment. When he unlocks the door, he finds a sight that melts his frustration into a puddle at his feet.

You’re lying on the sofa, absolutely unbothered, looking lovely and homely. A lousy romcom plays on the telly. One hand is hiding in the crinkling shell of a packet of Walkers, and your other one is curled around the neck of a Stella Artois. Simon gathers that your workday must've finished a little earlier than normal because you’re already in your loungewear: a pair of loose sleeping shorts and a t-shirt he knows all too well.

All too well, because it’s his. 

And he could give you the benefit of the doubt; after all, you often wear oversized clothes. It could’ve been a laundry mishap; you could’ve absently taken it out of the dryer without a second glance, thinking it was yours. But the blatant British Army patch on the sleeve and his surname written in white block letters on the back give him very little to work with to excuse you. He doesn’t even remember he still owned that tee, probably because, factually, he doesn’t anymore.

It's clearly yours, now.

He drops the house keys in the tray lying on the floating shelf next to the doorway, before closing the door behind him. The sound must’ve alerted you, because your head drops backwards, rolling against the armrest of the sofa.

"Evenin'." You beam, looking at his downward image. Your head lolls and your mouth looks busy chewing on a handful of crisps.

Ever the vigilant bastard, he wants to flick your forehead and remind you that chewing upside down could lead to choking, but you aren’t a child. Although, with the crumbs of what smells like salt and vinegar crisps littering the corners of your lips and the baffling, chaotic way your hair is tied in a bun, you sort of look like one.

You curl your legs to leave a free spot for him, patting your foot on the sofa’s cushions. "Wanna join me?"

Simon hums quietly; his eyes flicker over to the TV for just a glance. He isn’t in the mood for a romcom, not at all. But he does want company. He sighs and shrugs off his jacket before toeing off his boots. His balaclava is snatched off by a tired hand, and dropped somewhere he doesn’t care to check. Only two wide steps with his annoyingly long legs and he’s already by the sofa, flopping onto it like a wet rag slapped on the leather cushions.

He eyes the bag of crisps in your hand and raises a questioning eyebrow.

You’ve learned how silent communication works with him because most of the time (especially after particularly hellish days or long deployments) he wanders around the flat like a haunting specter more than a living being.

You mockingly raise your own questioning brow, but alas, you hand him the pack of crisps he’d wordlessly asked for. And just because you can, and because he’s never said anything when you did it, you stretch your legs to rest over his thighs.

That earns you a grumpy side-eye that softens just as quickly when he spots the checkered pink and green socks he gifted you for your graduation.

Simon doesn’t know much about things like that. He isn’t daft, he knows how big it is to earn a PhD. But presents aren’t his thing, nor are the pleasantries built around big achievements.

At the time, he was just tired of seeing you walk barefoot around the flat and thought you needed those more than anything since, apparently, slippers weren’t all the rage in your book. Surely, before his life-changing present, Simon was used to you asking if he’d seen your other slipper while you stumbled about the flat only wearing one on your feet. He’d find them everywhere: under the sofa when vacuuming the carpet, hidden in a groove between the floor and the kitchen counter, forgotten on the washing machine or in the washing machine.

He’d figured that the only way to ensure you’d avoid knocking your pinky toe on the corner of some furniture was to make sure you couldn’t simply drop the footwear. Socks were it, apparently.

He remembers how your eyes had shone like the bleeding sun when he’d given them to you, how you’d clutched them to your chest as if he’d just gifted you a pot of gold. It had been a lovely sight, one he carefully keeps tucked in the almost empty corner of his mind, the one reserved for happy memories.

Nevertheless, Simon has rarely minded your habit of lounging with your calves across his thighs. The opposite, actually. Your friendly sentiments make him feel like, for once, he isn’t about to get stabbed in the back. Moreover, the fact that he is letting you invade his personal space like that, when he never allows anyone else to so much as touch him, truly is a testament to the monumental trust he’s placed in you.

You take a sip from your beer. "Alright?"

“Peachy.” He grumbles dryly.

Your lips purse to conceal a smirk, but hell is it hard. His dry humor never fails to rob a halfhearted smile from you. He has subconsciously started using it more often than socially acceptable just because of that.

You wiggle your toes against his abdomen, trying to steal a smile of his own from him – even if those tend to appear once in a blue moon.

What you are given, however, is only a slap on the ankle.

Catching on his mood, you down one last sip from your Stella and then you wiggle the bottle at him.

"There," you offer. "Seems like you need it more than I do."

He tosses the bag of crisps on the coffee table and accepts the beer from you, taking a rather large gulp from it. He isn’t a light drinker by any means. In his defense, it takes a whole lot of alcohol to knock him out. He has the metabolism of a properly trained soldier and his liver has processed much worse things than a bloody Stella Artois.

“Why are you being particularly friendly today?” He asks with thinly veiled sarcasm.

He isn’t complaining, per se. But he is a pessimist, one who can’t seem to grasp the notion that people can act accommodating without asking anything in return. Even if that has been your only behavior for the past four years.

Therefore, Simon understands why you narrow your eyes at his question, all offended and a tiny bit sour, as if he’s just asked something outrageous. However, he also knows you’ll brush off his comment because it is true, what he said.

You are particularly cheery.

"I'm back in the game." You state, sounding as if you've achieved some great thing. "I have a date next Friday."

That.

That is what Simon needs to hear in order to give you a genuine reaction.

He raises a single blond eyebrow and glances away from the TV to look at you with that signature hooded gaze of his – the kind that could cut through steel.

“A date?” He grumbles. “Who’s the bloke?”

In response, you squirm a little on the couch to lazily reach for your phone on the coffee table. One of your legs swings to keep your balance, and if Simon didn’t have the reflexes of a sniper, you’d have heeled his face. He automatically grabs your ankle to both prevent your fall and save the integrity of his nose, releasing a sigh – bloody used to it.

You're absolutely unaffected by whatever's happening at the other end of you, awfully concentrated on your task at hand. Fingertips graze the phone enough to slide it closer until you finally manage to have it in your grasp. It’s painfully clear how you can’t be bothered to stand.

You lie back down on the sofa with a sigh, as if that has been an exhausting endeavor.

Simon scoffs.

Your legs return to his lap with apt nonchalance. Then, you swipe through your screen. Simon can only see the phone covering your face from that angle, how the screen light illuminates your features – brows furrowed and the tip of your tongue peeking between your teeth, all focused on finding something on it.

After painstakingly long seconds, you turn your phone to him. Simon squints at the screen and then focuses on the picture you’re showing.

The man is… somewhat handsome, he has to admit. Brown hair, blue eyes, charming smile with possibly fake teeth. Definitely older. Probably a boring, pretentious tosser. Probably wouldn’t appreciate your carefree nature. He wouldn’t return your lost slippers at your door. He wouldn’t buy you socks so you’d stop whining about being on the verge of breaking your toes. He definitely wouldn’t let you paint only one wall of the living room orange, because, in your opinion, having all four would be “too flashy” - as if one on its own isn’t obnoxious enough.

He has to admit, however, that you look beyond excited, and maybe a little enamored. It’s an adorable view, really, and he hates himself for being unable to rejoice about it with you.

"Adam." You tell him his name, even if he never asked. "Thirty-nine. Associate professor of Linguistics at the Uni where I graduated. Found him on Bumble.”

Simon has to physically stop himself from giving a scoff in response to that.

“Looks like a knob.” He takes yet another large gulp of beer, finishing the last drop. You frown, and before you can interject, he adds. “Looks old. Tory, probably.”

You roll your eyes and nudge his thigh with the tips of your toes.

"He ain't a Tory." You scoff. That little frown still lingers on your features, carving a small line between your brows, as if he'd personally offended you.

His comment prompts you to turn your phone to yourself and look at the picture of this Adam lad you found on Bumble of all places.

You look back at Simon and his deadpan stare. Then back at Adam and his million-dollar smile.

Your eyes swivel back to Simon again, and you tentatively ask, "You think he's a Tory?"

Simon places the empty beer bottle on the glass coffee table. The sound somehow makes you take a metaphorical step back. "Nah. He can't be."

You purse your lips, concentrated and slightly, just slightly amused.

Eyes back to Adam. Then to Simon. "Right?"

Simon looks that ounce of smug enough to be considered annoying once he notices how you’re about to go cross-eyed in changing your focus, all hesitant and that bit concerned. He already knows how you have zero faith in your own judgment of character even if you refuse to make peace with it.

A little too naïve for this world. A tad too innocent. When the topic would come up, you’d get all riled up and primitive in your frustration, muttering indiscernible words and expletives that sound like grunts. Brows all furrowed and pretty lips scowling. He'd remind you how you let him in your flat without a single proof that he wasn't a serial killing sociopath, and your mouth would lock in place.

His hand lands on the curve of your foot, smoothing down towards your ankle; the warmth of his palm bleeds through the fuzzy fabric of your socks. He sighs, a little overdramatic as if he were about to tell you some sad, sad news. "Definitely a Tory.”

You want to reprimand his lack of faith in your choice of men. But his hand on your ankle feels so nice and you’re a sucker for physical contact. Begrudgingly, you settle that your bruised ego and your wounded pride are worth the gentle giant’s warmth.

However, the lingering touch does nothing to discourage your fire, so you glower. The least believable thing he's ever seen.

It takes much more to upset a special forces operator with a series of achievements as long as Simon Riley’s. A doctor with a mop of hair lazily tied in a bun, checkered socks in his lap, and residues of crisps around her lips surely isn’t it.

"Well." You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'll ask him on Friday when we’ll have dinner."

He scoffs.

“You’re gonna bring up politics at dinner on a first date, yeah?” A condescending pat on your ankle. “Sounds really romantic.”

His dry humor again. It wins in its intent to steal a chuckle from you.

The fight leaves as quickly as it entered your bloodstream, and you flop on the couch with a sigh, your phone falling somewhere on the turquoise carpet.

"Gotta make sure I ain't dating a conservative." You quip.

Simon watches you clasp your hands over your belly as it ripples with the first waves of a breathy laugh. You crane your neck forwards, eyes squinting in mirth clocking his own.

"He looks like he’d vote Tory." You concede with a laugh and pinch the air in front of your face. "A tiny bit - just a tiny bit."

“A tiny bit?” He snorts. “Lad probably has a framed photo of Margaret Thatcher in his bedroom.”

You laugh again, rubbing an idle hand over your eyes as you shake your head, utterly defeated. He can see in the way your shoulders sag that he’s shattered the careful castle of hopes and dreams you'd built brick by brick around the man.

"God no." Equally as exasperated as entertained, you sigh. "Can't imagine shagging him with the ol' Iron Lady staring at my tits."

He scoffs again at the mental image you have just provided him with. He doubts he’ll ever forget the picture, to his dismay. “Christ. Didn’t need that in my mind.”

In the afterglow of that belly laugh, you don’t notice how he’s somewhat tightened his grip around your ankle. Simon knows you aren’t one to pay attention to those subtleties. Too focused on other people's well-being to realize when yours is being put first. He can already imagine how your heart is unraveling with the knowledge that you’ve managed to make him quirk a smile, however small, even if his day had been a proper shitshow.

The selfless angel that you are.

You turn your eyes to the ceiling, looking for something that clearly isn’t written on the colorful paint of the walls.

"All jokes aside," you murmur. "I hope it goes well."

Your eyes touch his. There’s a melancholy in yours you only allowed him to see. Thinly veiled vulnerability, heart bare just for his eyes.

"Really need a confidence boost," you say with a wistful smile. "And some love on the side."

He mutters under his breath. “Right.”

Simon tries not to wince at your words and what they imply. He thinks you’re too good to rely on other people (men, above anything) to boost your confidence. As if what he thinks are mouthwatering looks, a striking sense of humor and a brilliant mind aren’t enough to make you feel a peg above everyone else.

He hates that you don’t seem to understand it. Hates that you require other people’s approval even when you have a brain that could put most to shame and a series of achievements to boot.

He hates that despite how sharp you are, you’re slow when it comes to emotional intelligence. And it’s Simon fucking Riley who’s saying it, the most emotionally unavailable man he himself knows. It isn’t that you can’t discern signs and tells, you aren’t stupid by any means, but it’s painfully obvious how you just can’t fathom why people would be attracted to you that way. Thus, you’d always dismiss compliments and advances with annoying levity.

In four years, Simon has witnessed all your relationships wither because your lack of self-confidence made you question everything.

Seemingly aware of the tense air your comment has caused, your cheeky grin makes a comeback just to lift his spirits. You wriggle your foot under his grip to get his attention. "You think he'll like my socks?"

Simon has to admit (finally, at least true to himself) that your tireless search for reassurance about your date isn’t exactly doing wonders for his heart or his sanity.

“He’ll love them, you muppet.” He deadpans.

You chuckle at the comment, and then you relax, thinking the conversation over. Comfortable with your eyes on the telly and your hands clasped over your stomach, that gentle feeling of home and familiarity lulls you into a soft rest.

Simon on the other hand, is anything but relaxed. His jaw clenches involuntarily as if he despises even the mere idea of another man getting to see you like this: lying down, all soft and sweet and sleepy in the fuzzy socks he’s bought you. With his surname plastered on your back, of all things.

His eyes flick to the hand on your ankle. He wants to keep holding on tighter and stop you from leaving altogether. Keep you tethered to that couch without ever needing to stand up.

He could tell you to drop it. He could.

But you’re a grown woman, in her prime, with her doctorate and her big girl job that gives her enough money to start a war of her own but for some reason has never decided to pick up her things and leave that shabby flat she shares with him.

And he is poor with words. Communication is a skill he’s never learned, unless it involves extracting precious intel from skin-trading bastards or bloodthirsty pricks. He surely isn’t going to communicate with you that way, even if it's the only one he knows. The realization makes his lips dip into a scowl of self-hatred for being seemingly unable to keep you.

Simon’s eyes rake over your body – your silhouette concealed by his shirt, softly draped over you like finely carved marble. With natural flow, his hand follows the path traced by his pupils, and very deliberately slides up your leg, towards your knee.

Initially, the movement only prompts you to steal a glance from him. But when your eyes land on that frown, as if he were deep in thought, it feels natural, instinctive, to give him your undivided attention again.

Softly, you ask for the second time that day, "Alright?"

He nearly lets out a huff of laughter. Such a simple question yet so goddamn loaded he’s on the verge of blowing a gasket – his patience wearing thin. 

He locks his eyes with yours, only to snark once more. “Peachy.”

His humor this time isn’t successful in the effort of stealing a smile. In Simon’s defense, he hasn’t used it to make you crack one at all.

You frown, a tiny fracture between your brows. A little confused, mostly concerned. He can see it in your doe eyes, how you’re already miles away – overthinking every minute detail you might have missed during the conversation. You always thought so much Simon had joked, once or twice, that your skull was too small to host all that.

Your eyes shift from his face to his hand. Simon dares to be bolder and slides his palm a little higher. His fingers curl around the plush of your thigh.

"Peachy, eh?" You inquire, clearly suspicious of his antics. "You look far from peachy.”

A low scoff slips past his lips.

He is anything but peachy, he’d give you that. He is anything but sweet, far from it. Bitter, would fit better. Jealous, would fit best. He is downright pissed, but not at you. Never at you. He wishes he were a gifted conversationalist, so he could put into words what the idea of you shoving your tits in the face of some twat is making his hackles rise. He barely entertains the thought of you talking and laughing with him, never mind brushing with the concept of you riding the life out of that bastard. God forbid you brought him over and did all that in your flat – his flat.

He swallows in a piss poor attempt at juggling his feelings. His eyes shift to the TV to further conceal them.

“Just thinkin’ about work is all.” He mutters. Simon can almost hear Soap’s Scottish lilt calling him a “pining sod.”

Oh, but you’re an insistent little thing, aren’t you? Simon can hear the sheer doubt in your tone when you hum in response. The slight changes in the vibration against your frowning lips, the curves in the intonation of that simple, but so very telling sound. He catches each and every one of those details like the guard dog that he is.

In his peripherals, he sees the shifting of your eyes, from his hand to his profile. He sees you take in the crook of his nose, broken a few times (a tough job and a harsh childhood did that to him).  His furrowing brows, light honey, like his hair – all ruffled and staticky from removing his balaclava when he got home.

"Work." You deadpan, but it comes out softer than intended.

His fingers aren’t as sneaky as before when they slide further up your thigh. Simon knows you feel that same electric spark because your quadriceps stiffen under his palm.

“Work,” he affirms, his jaw tight as his hand journeys farther to reach the hem of your shorts. His thumb rubs from side to side over the skin at the edge of the fabric, and Christ, he’s fighting the growing itch to just pull them down.

While the two of you have watched plenty of films on this same sofa, in this same position, Simon has never touched you.

As in, touched you, touched you.

He’s averse to that, to anything that isn’t a noncommittal gesture. This one, however, obviously isn’t.

His hand is so big against your thigh, that plush skin underneath his callouses almost makes him feel guilty. The hardened palm used to disperse death shouldn’t touch such soft things. He feels the peachy fuzz brush against the pads of his fingers, he sees how they leave divots in the meat.

It makes his heart beat a little faster, blood pumping in all the wrong places but his head.

His expression is blank, dull eyes staring straight at the television. However, his mind is not as quelled as he portrays. It’s leading him to a very unholy place, where he wonders if your skin is as soft on your belly as it is on your thigh. Whether you’d whimper or groan if he were to flick his tongue over your breasts. If your eyes would roll back, were he to plunge his fingers deep into your core.

So many ifs he wants to put to the test.

He gently skims where your thigh meets your hip, and Simon swears he hears you gulp. He can tell you’re absolutely blindsided. You've been living with him as your flatmate for four years. Four fucking years, and if he ever tried to give you anything more than his usual snark, he might have been a little too subtle about it.

Simon glances at you, before returning his focus to the telly. One look is all he needs to hear your thoughts as if they were his own – the self-deprecation, the anxiety, that tormenting feeling of not being enough.

How torn you look. Stiff fingers curl around air only to release it right afterwards, fighting an invisible enemy. Let him do what he wants, let his hand slide up your shorts, and find the cotton lace of your panties. Or, pull away and retreat into your safe bubble, where no one can hurt you.

As if he’d ever lay an ill hand on you. All you have to say is “Stop” and he’ll take back his arm – cut it off for good measure.

Your eyes are hooded as they turn to look back at the malleable flesh of your thigh in his hold. His fingers disappear under your shorts until the first knuckle. He brushes along the hem of nice lace undies, feeling the rough fabric under the pads of his fingers.

Your voice is deliciously breathy. "Wha' about work, then?"

Avoidance. Normally, he'd let you. If it were any other situation, he'd brush it off with you. He'd keep up with the chat, coddling you in that safe place you seem too keen on spending time in.

Not now.

His head turns back to you; hungry eyes fixed on the way your mouth parts to yield that soft whisper. It makes his eye twitch, a splinter in his veneer.

“Reckon work can wait,” he rasps.

Simon is hyper-aware of how close he is to your core – a knuckle away from the throbbing heat between your legs. He sees your bowed head, eyes lidded with that primal desire he is instilling in you.

You look as if your brain has turned into soup; the ingredients a mix of shared memories and touches – even the most indifferent, neutral ones. To his utter joy, for the first time in your life, it almost looks like you’ve finally turned off your thoughts.

Your jaw clenches in a desperate attempt to get a grip on yourself. He knows you’re confused; he is too. Because it’s wrong to indulge in intimacy when more than just a friendship is at stake. Money's involved, a roof over your heads, a bed to kip, and food in your bellies – four years of shared everything is involved.

But you agree. You nod your head a little dumbly, and suddenly work can wait. To Simon, the fucking world can.

Your voice is a mumble. "Yeah, guess it can."

“Mhm.”

His gaze flicks up to your eyes, depriving your lips of the attention they were given, and he is delighted to see that you’re just as affected as he is.

Simon's fingers get squished between your thighs when you clench them together. He squeezes, feeling how the flesh rolls between his fingers, how it folds where the stretch marks crinkle.

“Lift your leg up for me,” he rasps.

Breath is stuck in your throat in utter anticipation. Simon knows it's been a long time since you've been touched in any way, shape, or form. You could've gone out and found a man willing to have a shag, it wouldn't have been hard to find someone who needed it too – someone as desperate as you look right now.

After all, that single word is the one that led him to you in the first place.

Yet you never did it. Simon has never seen you bring a man, or a woman, back to the flat. Sometimes you’d disappear with a text, saying you’d be sleeping out, but you never brought anyone home. And he never asked why – mostly, because he thought it wasn’t his business. Another part of him, however, was afraid that if he did, you’d take it as an invitation to do so. Obviously, he wasn’t too keen on the idea.

After giving it little thought, you part your thighs for him. One still rests in his lap while the other dangles off the sofa.

There's very little resolve left in you, Simon can tell by the way your eyes are so focused on his disappearing hand, and by the way you shatter when he experimentally glides one finger over the damp line on your panties.

“Fuck.” You hiss, tilting your head back.

You must want him dead, he thinks, as he gawks at the way your throat curves.

“Christ.” He mutters under his breath. He pushes the pad of his thumb down the cotton, feeling how it sticks to your slit. “Barely touched you.”

He wants to take his sweet time. He does. Wants to take it slow, reduce you to a mess of please and more before he finally gives you what you want. But he’s just as desperate as you are, isn’t he? He’s craving, clawing at the walls, to feel you clamp around him. Feel you drip down his hand until his callouses are coated, slick flowing down the crevices of his palm.

He’s no better than you are, currently.

So, his fingers slip under your panties just enough to touch your folds.

You can't help but tilt your head forwards again, only to look down at the bulge under your shorts created by his hand.

But when your eyes flit back to his, he stops.

Maybe he’s gone too far, he thinks. Maybe you’re realizing this is one hell of a mistake that can only end with you going your separate ways, something he will never forgive himself for.

However, it’s then, that you nod. That worry line between your brows, ever-present, seems gone. Smooth skin between your beautiful, beautiful eyes. And Simon feels whole again, feels wanted. The battered hound dog that he is, only useful for one thing and one thing only – sowing the seeds of death, and reaping them afterwards – is wanted.

Not tolerated. Not required, or needed. Wanted.

He knows your brain is turning its cogs, fighting against the fog of a kind of hunger that can’t be extinguished, one that only wants to be sated – by him, and him only.

Why is he doing this. 

What does it mean.

Is it because of the date you should have the next Friday. 

Is it because he's frustrated at work and you’re simply there, lying on a silver platter.

So many fucking questions it irritates him that, somehow, while his middle finger is tracing lazy patterns to part your folds, you’re still thinking. 

He doesn’t allow a single one to leave your lips, because he plunges one finger inside your cunt.

His first if is answered, then. Your eyes don’t roll back like he’d expected.

Your brows flutter to your forehead, and your mouth parts to form a pretty oval. Your chest swells as if you've just taken the first breath in your entire life. Your eyes, hazy and blurred, hold his own. And somehow, that is the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

Your leg on his lap is taut and stiff, toes curling under those loud socks you’re wearing.

Simon takes in the sight of you – all flushed and panting. The only sound in the air is the quiet drone of the telly in the background and your sharp inhales.

He can only describe himself in that moment as wrecked. Maybe even more so than you are right now, all rigid in anticipation of his first movements.

“Keep your eyes on me," he growls out, and when you nod, he curls his pad inside of you.

Your fingers seem to mimic his own, but they grip the edge of the sofa’s cushions instead. Your nails scratch at the leather with such voracity they leave beige lines against the dark brown.

He struggles against the double layer of fabric entrapping his hand to your cunt – the lace scratches the knuckle on his thumb, the cotton of your shorts is a manacle on his wrist. But fuck if he cares about all that when your hips twitch to encourage his movements.

You look ruined. And he loves that – the effect he has on you, the fact that he’s the one to have you like this.

He moves his finger in slow, long strokes. He doesn’t do it to torture you, no. He observes, because for once his constant vigilance is not only useful to quell his paranoia, but also to feed your desires. He tests movements, tries different spots, looking for that one within your walls that will make you scream. 

And he finds it, then – to his utmost delight. Here you are: your breathy moans, soft and honeyed, turn into a stuttering and almost pained "Oh." And he knows he has you under his thumb, all perfect and yearning, unraveling with just one of his fingers. He’s looking straight at your face, not wanting to miss a single twitch of an eyebrow. Your pretty lips are all slick with your spit and they part to release the sweetest sounds he’s ever heard.

His strokes intensify, drawing back as much as he can with the limited movements he has, only to push in and hit ever so slightly that rougher patch of nerves he’s located. He doesn’t want to make you squirm, but he has something tickling his brain – questions. Or better, one question.

He places his thumb over your pearl, unsheathing it from the fleshy hood with a glide. He drinks the way it makes your breath hitch and stutter in sudden hypersensitivity. He rolls his pad tentatively, only to see you grit your teeth and groan – muscles and sinews all tensed up in your neck. It's like molten lava in your belly. It's syrupy hot and gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his finger, down to the knuckle.

“D’you think you’ll need to go on that date on Friday?” he rasps and rolls his thumb again.

His question doesn't seem to make you falter; your hips are unrelenting in their chase for release, as you push against his hand, grinding like your life depends on it. However, he can tell that it irked you. That blissed-out look pinches in frustration.

You're breathless, on a feverish hunt for that taste of heaven his finger’s promising, and Simon has the gall to bring up another man? One he's been mocking for the past half hour? He's surprised by himself as well.

You whine. "Does this look like the bloody time?"

“No,” he concedes, sounding a little patronizing.

He has the upper hand, quite literally, and to give you a friendly reminder of the power he holds, he slides another finger in.

You're absolute putty in his hands now. Your fingers grip at the sofa, your cheeks all flushed and warm. Your back arches, and he knows he just gave you that fullness you've been chasing. The sensation that causes the right amount of pleasure and pain of the stretch. He’s knuckle deep inside of you, his fingers trapped by your velvety walls as he strokes harder, lingering a little longer where you like it, but not faster. He keeps that steady pace that takes your breath away, not forgetting to lavish your clit with attention, and leaves you with just enough air for you to free those clipped and breathless moans.

He’s shameless as his other hand clamps your shin on his lap and pushes it down onto the painful tent on his jeans. He shifts his hip upwards to grind against your calf and hisses when it causes the zipper to graze his cock.

“Gonna cancel it, then?”

It’s bliss. You look like an angel.

"Yeah," you breathe out, a little incoherent. "Cancel it, 'course."

Your voice is more of an unintelligible mumble than anything else – two fingers in and his thumb on your nub drawing idle circles. Perfect pressure. Perfect fit.

He’s never seen you look this beautiful, all abandoned and relaxed, with your big brain he loves so much shut off completely. Synapses only working to generate a wish for release, so sweet and simple, and nothing else. And who is he to deny such a plain request, you sweet thing.

Simon would give you the moon if you asked.

He’s powerless in your presence, undecided if to focus on your face, or to stare at your hardened nipples. They brush against the black training t-shirt he once owned – right below the two crossing swords painted under the royal crown. It should be blasphemous. Should be bloody illegal to sully the name of the monarchy that way.

That is, if he gave a fuck about it. And even if he did, he’d see no wrong in it – because what can you taint when you’re the purest thing he’s ever touched.

Your hips move in tandem with his fingers, your face scrunched in that desperate look of someone who has a piece of heaven just out of reach. He watches you as you fall apart under his fingers and keeps your leg down so he can grind against it. If the situation were different, he’d feel like a wild animal in that regard, but there isn’t a spot on you he doesn’t wish to worship.

Especially now, when you look like this. With your hair sticking to your forehead and loose locks escaping your low bun.

He can’t take his eyes away from you – you have him absolutely entranced.

“s too much.” He hears you whine amongst the mist in his brain

“It ain’t.” He manages to grunt as if it's an order.

And you’re a little insubordinate, because you try and squirm away. But your shorts are his shackles as much as they’re yours – they fasten his hand to your cunt, while locking you against his unwavering fingers.

“Simon,” your voice is so wrecked when you beg. “Please - fuck.”

And how he finds the strength to snark is beyond him. His voice is thick and heavy. “’m tryin’.”

He drags his fingers deep down where yours can’t reach, where he’s found that patch of nerves that reduces you into a puddle of yourself. His thumb on your clit is steadfast, rubbing just above the hood where you’re not as sensitive, only to drag down again and make you see stars.

And the way that string of “Yes” leaves your lips, in that euphoric wheeze that tugs at the corners of your lips, makes his cock ache to be anywhere but in the confines of his jeans.

Your eyes are all glossy when you prop yourself on your elbows to fuel his resolve. Petal lips red and shiny, catching your teeth in an attempt to muffle your moans – bone-deep ingrained insecurity you can’t seem to get rid of. He doesn’t force you, though – he wants to hear you, sure, but most of all he wants to see you crumble to shreds. And if hiding your voice is what you need, then feel free to be his bloody guest.

Your hips stutter and your belly ripples under his large tee draped over it, and he’d recognize those signs anywhere. 

“Cum f’ me,” he orders. “C’mon, love. Give it to me.”

It takes a few more pumps of his fingers, and Simon feels it before he sees it. You clench around his fingers in rippling waves, thrumming rhythmically. Your cunt deliciously threatens to cut them off just above the knuckle.

And fuck, aren’t you a goddamn sight. 

Simon thinks it's almost cathartic to simply watch you. How your head tilts back to hit the armrest of the sofa, the way your toes curl in his lap and your foot on the floor rigidly lifts. The sway of your hips as they undulate to meet his thrusts and the liberating groan that leaves your lips, touching the sky with your fingers.

He unconsciously guides you through it, but truthfully, he has absolutely no idea what to do with himself – not with you looking straight out of one of his most unhinged dreams. His fingers slow down but keep moving relentlessly.

However, it would be a lie for him to say he knows what he’s doing.

You come down from it and your eyes are blinky and unfocused, staring at the ceiling. Your body deflates on the couch, limp and sated. Syrupy and warm. With your chest free to move now that the heavy weight on it has finally been lifted. He allows you this moment of privacy as you recollect yourself, although he truly wants you to look back at him again. He doesn’t want to miss a beat of this, yet he sort of understands.

Your breath comes out in puffs. He’s not faring any better on that note.

"Simon," you breathe, his name exquisite from your lips. "Christ."

He’s gawking. Watching your face for a moment more, he meets your eyes as they flick back to him down the slope of your nose.

Thumb still on your clit, the movements are gentler and featherlight. His voice is hoarse and rough as he speaks. “Alrigh’?”

You chuckle, breathless and a little nervous now that the appetite has been sated – much more self-aware than before.

His fingers are still inside of you and you’re already overthinking this. He knows it. He just hopes, deep down, that you’re not regretting it – because he sure as hell isn’t.

"Peachy.” Is your reply.

Oh, how the tables have turned. Joke’s on him, he’s fed you enough sarcasm for you to start throwing it back at him. Simon feels too weak to even smirk. However, his eyes do narrow, in a similar manner to how yours would at his snarky comebacks.

He gently slides his fingers out of you, mindful of your current sensitivity. He brings the hand up, seeing the gleam of your slick shamelessly coating their lengths down to the knuckles.

“Fuckin’ look at that.” He murmurs, unable to discern whether he’s talking to you or to himself, “Messy girl.”

He thumbs his middle finger and rolls the juice between the pads, thinking; tongue out to lick his lips like the voracious beast he is.

Simon reaches over and brings his hand towards your mouth. A jerky nod of his jaw, “Open.”

He knows he’s already crossed a line the two of you never even dared to toe before. And if he’s going to lose you after this, if you’re going to turn your back on him and leave the flat (leave his life) then he’s going to make the most of it.

Your brows are pinched in sudden uncertainty. A contradicting spectacle, if mixed with the way your chest is still heaving and how your cunt is still wet.

But tonight, you seem eager to catch him off guard, because you oblige. Your lips part and you offer your tongue, never breaking eye contact.

Each time he thinks you can’t look more beautiful you prove him fucking wrong.

He hums lowly in approval, and there’s something dark in that sound. He gently runs his fingers across your tongue, coating it with your taste. Fingertips slide and follow its curve. He stares at you with such an intensity, like he could consume you if he had a mind to. You devour him first, wrapping your lips around his knuckles.

When your tongue delves around his fore and middle fingers, he has to close his eyes. He has to roll his head, releasing the tension in his jaw. He has to, or he’ll cum in his goddamn jeans. The sharp inhale he takes almost burns his nostrils; his sigh heavy and anguished when his lips surrender to it.

“How d’you taste, dove?” he asks, blinking his eyes open.

The way his voice rasps out that pet name, rough like sandpaper, makes a shiver run down your neck. He sees it, the tremor of your shoulders, the goosebumps on your arms.

Simon reluctantly pulls his fingers away only so you can answer. His wasn’t a rhetorical question, and by that blush on your cheeks and the embarrassed hint of a smile on your face, you’ve guessed it already.

"Not as sweet as I thought."

His lips twitch.

“No?” he asks, his voice much too broken for his liking. He brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks, tasting your spit and your cum. A low rumble of a chuckle escapes him – must be a blue moon tonight. “I think you taste pretty sweet.”

This can go two ways: a fairy tale ending, like those romcoms you like to watch, or an absolutely dreadful one – in which you leave. And truly, Simon doesn’t believe in a higher power; God has abandoned him more times than he cares to count. However, he hopes that whoever’s up there realizes that he's owed big time for all the crap he’s been put through.

And he asks for nothing, but you.

His face is hot, and he gathers his cheeks might be a little pink. The rare sight must give you some comfort, the fact that he’s just as overwhelmed as you are, because he feels your leg relax in his lap.

You purse your lips to hide a bashful smile - as if you have any right to be coy right now. "Flatterer."

He hums, seemingly wanting to bite back at you but unable to find the spirit for it. His eyes rake over your body, from your flushed face to your chest covered by his tee, until they land on your quivering thighs, still splayed open for him.

For him.

His hand travels up your leg, following the same route that has led to this. When his palm finally cups your hip, his fingers curl at the waistband of your shorts and tug.

“C’mere.”

You do.

He sees you bend your knees and shift on the sofa so you can crawl to him on shaky legs. As the gentleman he never thought he’d be, he helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap with your knees on either side of his hips.

Afraid you might say something hinting at regret, he selfishly grabs your jaw and pulls you down, finally tasting you the way he’s always wanted. His lips mold with yours, and they’re so soft he has no business claiming them as his own. His fingers tilt your head so he can deepen the kiss, and only when he sees your eyes flutter closed through the slit of his eyelids, he allows himself to surrender to you.

Your lips peck the thin scar on his cupid’s bow, but before you can run away from him (as you should), he captures you once more. He never wants to let you go, so his tongue slides across the seam of your mouth, and you, so pliantly, oblige him.

Your hands are resting on his shoulders when the kiss starts tentatively, while his slender fingers follow the curve of your waist.

But then your nails dig at the fabric of his t-shirt, as if eager to rip it, and his palms journey to your rear. He grips at the flesh through your shorts, before shoving out of the way their distressed hem and directly groping the plump meat of your ass.

The two of you never part. If anything, everything gets more heated.

He doesn’t recall when it is exactly that you start grinding your hips, nor does he remember when his shirt was removed – whether you did it, or if he’s taken the matter into his own hands.

However, he does snap out of it when he feels your palms leave his shoulders to grasp at the hem of your tee. While he wants to feel his skin on yours as much as you do, what’s separating your chest from his is not a mere layer of cotton.

He pulls away and – to his pleasure – he sees you lean in to have more. His hand lands on yours, stopping you.

“No.”

He sees you blink, dazed. A myriad of emotions travel through that pinched expression you wear, thinking like usual that you’ve done something wrong.

He quells your fears in seconds, when his other palm skims over your arm. It journeys unhurriedly, leaving gooseflesh in its wake, until it lands at the base of your throat. His thumb brushes over its column, forcing your neck to tilt backwards and your back to arch, presenting your chest.

Simon models you like clay under his warm fingers, and he takes his time to drink you in and sculpt you as he wishes. Because you seem so docile now that his intents are less covert, clearer.

He brings his mouth to your throat, and his nose scrunches when he presses it against your neck, keeping you still with one thick arm around your waist. With sluggish movements, he tastes the salt of your skin and the tang left by your perfume.

Simon pulls back only to run his tongue from the hollow between your collarbones up to your jaw, feeling right under the muscle how your throat bobs when your breath lodges in between. He curves his head and digs his teeth into the plumper flesh on the side of your neck, enough to get a taste but not enough (never enough) to cause pain.

“Keep the shirt on.” He breathes against your skin, “I wanna fuck my name into you.”

And he does just that.

It’s effortless how he lifts you in his arms, guiding your ankles to lock at his tailbone. Clothes, both yours and his, freckle the floors in a trail that leads to his bedroom. He’s famished; there isn’t a single surface along the path he follows where he hasn’t placed you – if only to savor every piece of you for a little longer.

Until he has you on that bed, the one he should’ve gotten only for a few weeks and instead became his own alcove.

You look wonderful on it.

But you’re even more gorgeous when he sits at the edge of the mattress, facing the full-length mirror in his room, and places you on his thighs to straddle his lap – your back facing the reflection.

He runs his hands over your chest, riding up the t-shirt to your neck only so he can feast on your tits. Grabbing greedy handfuls of fat and muttering unintelligible praises when his mouth all but devours every inch – sucking on your puffy nipples and grazing his teeth around each peak.

Another if is answered by the whimper that escapes your kiss-bitten lips.

You look like an angel, when your soft hand goes to grab the base of his cock and, without much ceremony, you guide it inside of you – sinking on it easy and slow.

You feel like heaven, too, impaled on him. Perfect fit, always made for him, and him only.

Simon’s not sure what he did to deserve you, now riding his cock like you’d been deprived of it your whole life. Unbridled, free. You moan and groan without a care in the world, the hesitation he saw before vanished into thin air – and oh, he couldn’t be more grateful for it.

His hands curl at the hem of your (his, his, his) shirt, lifting it up slightly at your waist, only so he can see in the reflection how your ass slaps against his thighs each time you drop. Or, how your glutes clench when instead of trying to pleasure him, you please yourself – rolling your hips to grind your clit against his happy trail.

Simon’s hands leave the shirt only to grab more of you, kneading at your hips to guide your cunt down his cock until he has you filled to the brim. Your eyes roll back, breath stuck in that pretty throat of yours. He bites at it - laps at the skin like a starved dog.

Simon shattered his chains the moment you came undone on his fingers, and now he knows no restraint – not when he has you like this.

“Look at you,” he growls, slapping your ass only to watch how the fat ripples in recoil in your mirror image.

He grabs the back of your neck and tilts your head downwards. Your foreheads touch as he guides your eyes to look at where your bodies join. The foamy ring at the base of his cock, how the folds of your vulva hug around his shaft and tip at your unhooded clit, all puffy and red.

He tugs at your mound with his thumb, stretching the flesh to expose more. With a deliberate roll of his hips, he makes a show of how effortlessly his cock slides into you, how your cunt greedily stretches to welcome him whole. 

“Look at that.” His voice is equally as raspy as it’s enraptured. “Perfect.”

Using his hand on your nape, he angles your face to kiss you again. He thrusts into you only to have you part your lips in a stuttering moan, and he drinks it dry.

When you resume grinding your hips, he whispers in your open mouth, “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Simon sees how your thighs quiver under the strain of the effort, hamstrings taut and probably burning in the attempt to wrap around his hips. He won’t keep you like that for long, don’t worry. He’ll take good care of you, like he always has.

But now, he indulges in a selfish moment.

Spare seconds in which he watches your reflection bounce on him, and you’re too lost in the feeling to notice how his hooded eyes take in the view.

The profile of your face in the mirror (his little cherub), with your mouth parted and brushing against his temple as he nuzzles your shoulder through the fabric of the shirt. One hand ecloses his nape and your other palm is on his cheek, keeping his head close to your breathless lips. Your eyes are closed in bliss – lashes shy against your flushed cheekbones.

In the scantly lit room, the reflection in the mirror of you two is as dark as everything else, but the stark white writing on the back of your tee has never looked brighter. Your hair sways with your movements, and that RILEY that peeks through your locks has him impossibly enamored of you.

And you’re so smart, he thinks. So clever, because you know, even when your senses are clouded by euphoria and your eyes are closed. You know he’s never had a thing. You know that whatever he’s held, no matter for how long, has always slipped through his fingers before he could even get a taste of it.

“I’m yours,” you whisper in his ear.

And so, Simon surrenders. He’s at your mercy, you have his trust and whatever’s left of his heart – and he knows you won’t break either.

He helps you out of his t-shirt only to hold you bare against his chest. He brings you down with him, lavishes your skin with his palms and his lips. Nose buried in your hair, Simon breathes you in. The smell of sex and the smell of you and how it has him drunk when it whirlpools with his own – a new fragrance, one that burns itself into his brain with the threat (sweet promise) of never letting go.

Because he’s never had a thing, his name barely pertains to him anymore. But the moment he saw it on you, he finally realized where Simon Riley belongs.

[mothwingwritings]

Boyfriend To Death/The Price Of Flesh Sleeping Headcanons 🌙💤🛌

Hello everyone! In between fics I have been working on some headcanons, like this one, for your reading pleasure. :) It's some bedtime/sleeping arrangement scenarios feat. you and our favorite murderous companions. <3 It’s dedicated to all the sleepy individuals out there that just want to hit the hay and snooze the day away-I feel you and you are valid. Also there is a bonus plushie headcanon for each character because why not! If you don’t have at least stuffed creature on your bed, this is your sign to love yourself. Go acquire a friend and snuggle up with him, I demand it. ༼ つ ◕_◕ ༽つ

DUE TO THE NATURE OF THESE HEADCANONS AND THE SOURCE MATERIAL, 18+ ONLY PLEASE!

Warnings: abuse/abusive relationships, noncon/dubcon, forced cuddling, forced interaction, forced relationships, implied kidnapping, being held against your will, reader is threatened and hurt, mentions of/implied sex, very lightly edited.

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Ren/Fox🦊

·         Exceptionally clingy when he sleeps. Honestly like a suction cup. Regardless of if he’s the little or big spoon, he’ll be latched to you the whole night. Wiggle and complain as much as you like, he’s not relinquishing his hold.

·         Even if you two are just taking a little nap together, he always has to have some kind of skin contact with you. Holding hands, cuddling, a limb draped over you, something.  He needs the reminder that you are there and that you aren’t going anywhere, he can’t sleep peacefully without it.

·         He’s warm. Too warm, really. Uncomfortably warm. In winter this poses no problem, but during the summer it’s nearly unbearable. You need to crank the AC to keep yourself from melting into a puddle of sweat, but the added cold only makes him cling to you tighter, increasing the heat. He doesn’t seem to mind the warmth at all and takes offense if you try and voice your irritation, giving you an earful (if not worse) over how you need to be more grateful for the affection he douses you with, warning that if you don’t watch yourself, next time it snows you’ll be camping outside with nothing but the clothes on your back. We’ll see how much you miss his warmth then.

·         He’s a night owl, but he also somehow always wakes up before you do. It’s not uncommon for you to be awoken by an eager beastkin shoving a homemade breakfast in your face, excited to start his day with his love by sharing breakfast in bed with you and watching anime. <3

·         Though sometimes he gets a little too excited in the morning, and if that’s the case you’ll be waking up to a very handsy man pawing at you, kissing any and every place his lips can reach, pressing himself against you so you can feel just how excited he is. It’s a good thing you are in bed because by the time he’s done you’ll be so worn out you’ll need some more rest. ^^;

·         Also, he is an avid fan of plushies. If you also collect them your bed is going to be 90% plushies and he is 100% going to use that as an excuse to be squeezed on the bed with you as close as physically possible so as you all can have room. None of them are allowed on the floor, no man is left behind, and he’ll make sure you all fit whether it is comfortable or not.

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Lawrence🌿

·         Lawrence is the exact opposite of Ren when it comes to contact. Though he may fall asleep with you in his arms (or vice versa), he very quickly grows uncomfortable with the prolonged contact, his body used to being the sole person in his bed. Very shortly after he falls asleep, he will unconsciously push you away to try and create distance. No matter how much he may yearn for your contact in his waking hours, he has no control over his subconscious actions. Often times the shoving is much rougher than it needs to be, abruptly (and painfully) waking you up in the process.

·         However, this does not deter him from making you sleep with him. Even if he ends up damn near shoving you off the bed, he wants you to be close to him for as long as and as much as possible.

·         Lawrence is basically nocturnal, and even if you are also a night owl there are bound to be some times when your sleep schedules don’t fall in line with each other. He gets a little excited when you fall asleep when he is awake, taking pleasure in watching you as you slumber. The way you lay near him, completely unguarded and quiet, only the slow rise and fall of your chest denoting that you are alive at all… It does something for him. More than once you’ve woken up to him standing over you, face flushed and tears in his eyes as he’s pumping his dick to the sight of your passed out form. If you wake before he can finish himself, he’s gonna use you to complete the job.

·         In fact, he just likes to stare at you while you sleep in general. He doesn’t have to feel anxious or worried of how you may perceive his gawking if you aren’t aware it’s happening to begin with. It’s a nice chance to really take in and appreciate your beauty without facing any backlash, and it comforts him to know you trust him enough to fall that deeply into slumber in his presence.

·         Doesn’t really get the point of plushies and never really had a strong attachment to stuffed animals as a child, so he doesn’t have any of his own and has no desire to own any. He thinks it’s cute that you like them though, and won’t deny you if you want to take one or two to bed with you. If you gift him one, he’ll be flustered but thankful, hugging it when he is unable to hug you. The little friend is a perfect cuddle buddy for when your sleep schedules don’t align and he doesn’t want to disturb you once you have fallen asleep.

·         Just be mindful that if he gets agitated or you piss him off, he’ll definitely destroy your beloved stuffies, tearing them to shreds with either his bare hands or any of the gardening  tools he has lying around. He’ll instantly feel bad if you begin to cry over it, but at that point it’s too late. It’s best to stop the tears before he turns the assault towards you.

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Strade🔪

·         Strade is all over the place when he sleeps. It doesn’t matter how big the bed is or how little space you take up in it, his presence is unavoidable. You can try and create as much distance as physically possible, scrunching yourself up in a corner in hopes that he doesn’t come in contact with you, and you’ll still end up with him sprawled all over you come morning.

·         He’s also loud. Snoring, grunting, talking in his sleep, he’s so noisy it’s a wonder you can get any sleep at all. You get used to it after a while (you don’t have a choice), but each time he nudges you in his sleep or wakes you up with a particularly loud snore, it’s all just another unpleasant reminder you are stuck with him, unable to find tranquility even in your dreams.

·         He has a tendency to latch on to and keep a close hold of whatever is closest to him while he sleeps. The moment he looks even slightly drowsy you try and stay away from him, not thrilled with the prospect of being smashed up against him for hours on end while he’s pleasantly off in dreamland. Were it anyone else or any other situation, you may find the clinginess endearing, but with Strade it’s just extremely uncomfortable and confusing. You spend the whole time unsure if you want him to wake up and let you go (and thus have to deal with an alert and active monster) or if you want to remain silent and just put up with it, thankful for the rare moment of peace.

·         He sleeps the best after successfully finding and securing a new victim, the gusto and energy that he puts towards spending time with his new ‘friend’ leaves him completely spent by the end of the day. A tired Strade is usually a good thing for you-if he’s worn out, he’s less likely to bother or hurt you. However the opposite is also true, if he hasn’t been able to blow off steam in a while he’ll grow antsy and restless, and he’s bound to make his lack of sleep and overall disgruntlement your problem. Regardless, you won’t get much sleep either way, as you find no contentment in either situation.

·         Though they aren’t really his thing, he is amused by your plushies. While he can see the appeal of them, the only real interest he takes in them is how you react to them. Which ones are your favorite, do you favor one character or animal over another, do you prefer the big and fluffy or small and squishy? Most importantly though, he wants to know how deeply your fondness for them extends and how/if he can use that as a persuasive tool against you in the future. Should they prove to be a promising means of coercion, prepare for quite a few new plush friends to keep you company in the future. :)

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Celia👩‍💼

·         She’s an early riser. Not necessarily because she wants to so much as it’s engrained in her from years of putting in overtime at her corporate job. If you try and pull her back into bed she’ll gripe at you, but is secretly happy that you are willingly making yourself a scapegoat for her laziness. Though on days she absolutely has to get up early, you best be getting up right alongside her to help her get ready for the day or you will be deeply regretting it. She always takes precedence, you can sleep more when she leaves.

·         She’s on edge most of the time and is overall a very light sleeper. If you snore or toss and turn too much, she’ll get pissed off and roughly shove you awake, grumbling obscenities while complaining about how annoying you are being. If she can’t sleep, she certainly isn’t going to let you sleep either.

·         Even if you aren’t a noisy or restless sleeper, she’ll still find constant things to gripe about regarding your sleeping arrangement. Either you take up too much room, or you are encroaching on her personal space, or you have some other sleeping habit she finds grating that you have no control over because you are unconscious when you do it. She doesn’t ever seem overly pleased to share sleeping space with you, and you often wonder why she doesn’t just banish you to the couch or some other place to get your rest.

·         And yet, she never does make you sleep elsewhere.  In fact, it only makes her MORE pissed off if you suggest it, taking it as a personal offense that you don’t want to spend time with her. She won’t admit it to you, but the act of sleeping near someone she doesn’t positively loathe or who isn’t trying to use her in some way is one of the few things that really brings her peace. Even if it’s against your will, having you in bed with her soothes her. It’s honestly the best sleep she has had in ages.

·         She’s not a huge cuddler, but she does like physical confirmation that you are near. Often times she’ll reach out in the night to grab your hand or drape her arm across your body, never smothering, but just enough contact to assure that you are still by her side.

·         She staunchly refuses to have any stuffed animals in her bed, telling you she finds them childish and stupid (whether she actually feels this way or is just pissed you are trying to bring things into her bed that take up even more space is debatable). If she finds any plushies you are hiding she will most likely throw them away on sight. You may be able to get away with a little one, but that’s only if she doesn’t find it or is feeling extremely benevolent.

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Derek🦂

·         The only time Derek shows any kind of ‘affection’ is when he sleeps. Like Strade, he likes to secure himself to things while he slumbers, and if he doesn’t fall asleep with an item (you) already in his arms at some point in the night, he will subconsciously grab onto something (also you) and not relent until he wakes the next morning.

·         The way he clings to you can almost be considered sweet. Wrapping his arms around you securely, burying his face into your chest or the crux of your neck as he snuggles up against you as close as physically possible, it makes you momentarily forget what a monster the man beside you actually is. It’s almost as if he’s a child huddled up close to a parent, seeking comfort from the things that go bump in the night.  The spell is broken if he happens to be awoken during one of these cuddle sessions, and he’ll take out his embarrassment over the situation by treating you even crueler than he typically does.

·         One of the few niceties he allows you is sleeping in his bed as opposed to the floor-but it comes at a price.  It’s an honor to be able to sleep next to him nightly in his huge, plush, expensive bed, an honor far too good for the likes of you. He expects to be compensated for his generosity, so you’d best be ready to do any and everything he asks or desires at the drop of a hat, no matter how degrading or agonizing it may be. If you want to keep this privilege while preventing as much suffering as possible, you’ll do as he says. (Then again, it’s not like he really needs your active participation to force what he wants out of you, but he does like when you obey him ‘willingly’ and has a tendency to be a smidge less cruel when you follow his instruction).

·         He usually forces you to either sleep nude or in some very compromising/uncomfortable/embarrassing negligee that covers so little you mine as well BE naked. He’s a blanket hog too, and has a penchant for cranking up the AC at night, leaving your only source of warmth to be curling up beside him. You try and fight it at first, but you inevitably give in when the chill gets to be too much (also you aren’t too keen on getting ill in his presence, swallowing your pride is worth it if you can avoid more suffering).

·         He will mercilessly make fun of and belittle you for any stuffed animals you may have or try to sleep with. He’ll infantilize you, asking if you need a binky to go with your stuffy, or tease that he’ll need to put you in diapers so you don’t accidentally shit the bed. However, even with all the constant mocking, he does find it kinda hot when you try and use the plushies as a shield, doing your best to conceal your sniveling face and exposed body behind the fluffy creature as he plows into you ruthlessly. The toy does a shit job shielding you, but it is hilarious to watch you try and hide yourself behind them.

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Mason🐻

·         Despite everything, he’s actually probably the nicest of the lot to sleep with. He’s warm and soft, and when he holds you it’s comforting and shockingly soothing. It’s disconcerting how easily you melt into the same person that caused you so much trauma and torment, haunted by the fact that the arms that now wrap snuggly around you were not so long ago the greatest threat to your life. You don’t know whether you should be more disgusted with him for holding you with such familiarity or yourself for enjoying it as much as you do.

·         The man can sleep almost anywhere. After years of surviving out in the wilderness he has honed his body to handle tough climates and all manner of conditions, granting him the ability to thrive in less than favorable environments. The man could probably fall asleep in the middle of a torrential downpour with nothing but a rock bed beneath him and come out of it completely rested.

·         You aren’t expected to immediately be able to rough it. He realizes this way of life is all fairly new to you and that getting used to nights out in the wilderness has its own learning curve. Because of this, he’s actually surprisingly accommodating about the whole thing. When you camp, he makes sure to bring his best tent and sleeping bag for you to use, even though it’s a hassle to drag around and he himself has long since forgone the need for it. Though it’s nearly impossible to find comfort enough to sleep while stranded deep out in an unfamiliar forest, surrounded by nothing but the pitch black of night, all manner of voracious wild animals, and a serial killer, he does his best to make sure you are adequately cared for and as content as you can possibly be.

·         However you best not slack with your survival instincts, this coddling is only a limited time deal. You proved yourself to him once by pulling through his trial, but that doesn’t mean you have a free ride forever. He’ll pamper you a bit in the ‘honeymoon’ phase, but if you grow complacent and begin to let him down… It isn’t going to be a smooth or happy time for either of you. Its best not to betray his expectations, if you do something overly stupid or otherwise show your survival was just a fluke… your sleeping arrangement is going to be the least of your concern.

·         He finds your affinity for stuffed animals a bit juvenile, but also slightly endearing. He can’t deny how cute you look when you are curled up in his bed, nestled amongst various furs and blankets, clutching tight to your favorite plushie while you rest. He enjoys that sight so much that he decides to make you his own plushie for you one day as a gift.

·         It was a strange little lumpy creature he cobbled together from various fabric scraps and other soft, but unidentified, material, all sloppily hand sewn with little black buttons for eyes. It was a true amalgamation of mismatched cloth and stuffing, and to be honest… You weren’t really sure what it was supposed to be. A bear, maybe? Or a raccoon? Regardless, you take it without question, and once he sees it’s been accepted he’s quick to discard your previous plush. He’s accepting of this hobby to a degree-you can have ONE. And since you were smart and picked the better of the two, you don’t need the ratty old one to cling to for company anymore. You have him and you have his gift, everything else is frivolous.

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[oreosmama]

Voicemails After the Breakup (Haikyuu!! Headcanons)

*GIFs not mine*

A/N: I pity the fools who ignore this a/n bc WARNING, these are hcs without those stupid bullet points bc I have suddenly emotionally decided that they fucking suck. Anyways, I hope y'all enjoy the light angst, for all those survivors who are still vibing in this fandom. Enjoy!

Word count: 1968

Tooru Oikawa:

“I’m totally and completely over you.”

That’s how the message starts. 

Part of you wonders if you missed something, or accidentally skipped ahead. It’s so immediate, like Oikawa could barely wait for the beep before tearing into you. Like he needed to spit poison the second he had the chance. 

And it’s one of those biting remarks that he wants to let fester—for a while, evidently; he doesn’t say anything else for another five minutes. 

All that follows is a loud thud, like he’s thrown the phone away from him. And then footsteps, like he’s pacing, pacing, pacing back and forth, trying to think of more scathing words by burning holes into his carpet. 

You hit a point where you think you should delete the message, maybe try and not care about whatever else he may or may not say after waiting for so long. You nibble on your nails and tug at the snarls in your hair. You pick four pieces of lint off your sweatshirt and seventeen more off the blanket draped over your lap, and you know how many there are because you line them up and count them afterwards as you wait, anxious, listening to your ex-boyfriend’s panting. 

But a small rustle stirs at that five-minute mark, right against your ear. And a sniffle. 

“Fine.” Oikawa’s voice cracks. “You win.” 

You suck in a breath. 

“What do you wanna hear? That I miss you?” He sniffles again, then scoffs bitterly. “That I miss you so fucking much I can’t sleep at night? That my bed is so fucking cold now I can’t even stomach sleeping in it? That every girl I see I automatically compare to you because I have to—I just fucking have to, all because she’s not you. And it makes me sick.”

His chuckle is sour and crackles harshly into your eardrum. “Am I stroking your ego enough, sweetheart? Because you win. You fucking win.

“I want you back.” 

He sighs, and it sounds like he’s rubbing his forehead. 

“I need you back.” 

More beats pass in the silence. More sniffles, too, but stretched out, like he’s trying to steady his breathing. 

You don’t think it’s helping him any. As you wipe the cuffs of your sweatshirt underneath your eyes, his voice returns, thoroughly raw and wounded. It squeaks out of him, barely above a whisper. His voice is so loud and tender, like he’s cradling the phone against his cheek. 

Your hand against his warm cheek, curled over that pink skin, fingertips inches away from brushing through those soft strands, wiping tears. That’s what you wish it was. 

“I didn’t know…” 

A shaky breath. You hold yours in return. 

“I didn’t know anything could hurt this bad.”

He swallows thickly. 

“Those last few moments after you left—I thought that would be the worst of it. When you just walked out. And I keep seeing you do it, over and over and over, in my head like I can’t help but torture myself with it.

“I never knew it would get so much fucking worse.”

He whimpers a little, and your heart constricts unbearably. You tear at the damn thing buried underneath your sweatshirt, massaging the skin like it can soothe that phantom ache. 

Oikawa must hate you. Maybe he hates you like you hate him: not because of the breakup, but because you can go for weeks without seeing him, holding him, kissing him, and everything still hurts like that last time. 

“Thing is, I could’ve sworn you weren’t always in my life. It’s been two years. Only two years. And yet I can’t remember a damn thing before us. It feels like it was always us. Some fog, and then you, and then everything afterwards. Everything that was us.”

“And I hate that we had it so good, YN. I really do. Because missing you has been the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

The frustration in his voice is familiar, a sickening sense of deja vu around it, and you latch a hand over your mouth at how vividly the image comes to you: Oikawa tearing his fingers through his hair, teeth gritted, cheeks flushed and shiny. Like when he lost a game, but different somehow. 

Like this was something he didn’t even know he could lose.

He’s crumbling in a way he doesn’t know how to stop. That ugly part about having something wonderful and new—the moment it’s gone, what the hell are you supposed to do then?

“I just—Goddamnit, I can’t stand how badly it hurts anymore. I can’t,” he cries, desperate and aching, like his hand is fisting at his heart. You can hear the breath hitching in his throat, the hiccuping breaths after his sobs. You can hear every tear, feel it against your own cheeks, a soreness building at the front of your skull. 

Too many tears. Your body is screaming at you, too many fucking tears. 

But it’s him and he was yours and you were his. 

Were. 

You were his. 

You had no idea how much that single thought could make your entire chest throb. 

Oikawa inhales, and it makes your heart race against the thick wall caging it in, squeezing against it. 

“I need to see you.” 

He says the thought like it’s just slapped him across the face. 

“I need to go see you, I—I have to.” 

He mumbles to himself unsteadily, like he’s rocking back and forth. Debating, really, what he’s supposed to do, if he should do it at all, if it’s right after everything.

You should probably think he’s wrong.

You probably shouldn’t be curled over your phone, eyes wide, mouth open, not making a fucking peep. Waiting to hear what he’s going to do. 

Maybe—just maybe—you shouldn’t be telling yourself that as the voicemail counts down to its final seconds, if he decides he’s not going to go to you, that you’ll definitely be going to him.

“I can’t just sit here. I can’t stay in here, without you. This isn’t right, I—”

Your breath hitches when you hear the frantic jingle of keys. 

Then the sound of a door slamming. 

His footsteps racing down his apartment’s stairwell.

A car engine revving. 

“I need to see you.” 

And the voicemail ends. 

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Satori Tendou: 

The message begins with a scoff of utter disbelief. 

“Is that what we’re doing now?”

He pauses, almost like he thinks you’re going to respond. 

“Heard from someone that I suddenly have syphilis. Yesterday, I had herpes though, so I guess I’m gonna have a tough week.”

A rustle like he’d shaking his head, like he can’t fucking believe it. 

“And sure, okay, I figured that’s fine. You can say all that shit, and it won’t really stick because everyone knows it was us and that it’s you and you’re hurt.”

He sighs. 

“But I saw it, sweetheart. I saw it.” The phone whines like he’s adjusting it against his face, and his voice is suddenly lower, darker. 

“You don’t get to have it both ways, you know. You can’t spread all that shit—all those rumors about how shitty everything was and how we didn’t have anything going for us—and then turn around two days later wearing my sweatshirt. And you don’t get to wear that necklace I gave you for our anniversary and then run away from me the second you see me. That’s just not fair—you’re not playing fair anymore.”

Something swishes around like loose clothing, and a large huff greets your ear from what must be Tendou collapsing into a seat. When his little sounds become quieter, that relentless humming and the excitable clicks of his tongue against his teeth, you figure he must have put the phone on speaker and balanced it on his knee like he always did. Mid-conversation with Ushiwaka, he always used to spin his phone with those long fingers, or bounce the damn thing up and down against his frantic leg. 

And the voicemail came through late last night, one of those dead hours where the only ones awake were Tendou, his scrambling thoughts, and the moths flitting back and forth outside his glowing window. He was always awake, always thinking, always doing something. 

When you’d first broken up, after one long, wrenching fight where you’d both lost your voices and the frustration welled so high you just couldn’t breathe anymore, you’d been thankful for the idea of sleeping soundly for the first time in months. 

You’d been wrong. You weren’t even sleeping anymore; just long, slow blinks where your phone screen would magically turn from 3:45 a.m. to 7:25 a.m., and in five minutes you’d have to get up and slug your way through another day. 

Tendou had been the same. Those naturally wide eyes sagged under the pressure, and the curve of his spine had deepened like he’d been hauling the lack of sleep everywhere he went. 

He must be sitting at his window now, at this moment in his message, pale skin aglow with wispy tendrils of moon. And he’s calling you. And he saw everything you’d done. 

“Not fair. Not fair at all,” he whines, teasing. Always, always teasing, and if you hadn’t heard the slight cripple in his voice on the last word, you’d have gone on thinking he viewed it as one big joke. 

You’re sure he heard the same thing you had—that he couldn’t keep acting like it was all fun and games. His usual, cat-like smile surely fell into a pert little frown, pale lips twisting like he’d sucked on a lemon. 

No fun, no fun, no fun, he must have been thinking. 

“Ya see, I thought we had a little deal,” Tendou drawls. “You’d talk smack and start dressing all pretty just to spite me, and then–and then I’d go ahead and delete all your pictures and put your name as ‘Bitch’ in my phone. And in, like, two weeks, we’d just be two ships, whoosh, whoosh, passing each other on the high seas of life, ya know?”

He breathes a ghost of a laugh. 

“But, sweetheart, you look like shit.” He chuckles for real this time, and it’s disgustingly hollow. “I’m not even kidding. Like someone ran you over three times every morning—it’s horrible, really.”

You curl into yourself even further, and you’re smiling, grinning, lips peeling with how much you’ve cried and how little water you’ve drank after. You hate him; God, you hate how he can make you laugh and cry at the same time. 

“But that’s okay, I’ll give you a pass just this once. I haven’t deleted your pictures yet, so I botched my end of the deal, too.” Tendou tsks his tongue. 

“I won’t go easy on you, though. Here–here, how’s about this: for every day you stop wearing my clothes—because they look horrible on you, sweetheart; really, you’re painful to watch—I’ll delete one of your pictures, eh? That means, in about–uhhdivideby365daysinayearignoringleapyearbullshit–ah, seven years, I’ll have held up my end. S’that good with you?”

You lean your head back, letting the tears flood your hair as he chuckles to himself. 

“Fuck it,” he says after a pause. Hopeless. Breathless. “Fuck it.” He must be gnawing on that pale lower lip, biting and nibbling until it bleeds. Because he lets something go to sigh again, and he must have smacked his head against the wall, and then you think he sniffled. 

“I still want you. I’ve always wanted you. And I’m tired of missing you and wanting you. Doing both hurts too much.”

Tendou soughs.

“So I’m still your Chicken Tendy, baby. Always. And I’ll be here when you're ready, syphilis and all.”

[mafiaanomaly]

"Can't wait any longer"

Tw: Smut, PUBLIC smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex (Don't be silly, wrap your willy), quickie, swearing.

Summary: You and your husband Miguel can't seem to wait until after dinner to get each other alone.

"Ya'know, you've always looked so sexy in red."

You smile softly, fixing your earrings in the mirror one last time before turning toward where he was seated on the bed.

His gaze is already on you, filled with so much desire and love that your panties almost drop. You forgot how good he looks in a suit. Hair slicked back and the first two buttons of his black dress shirt undone. Not to mention his ass looked wonderful in those black slacks. Under any other circumstance, you would've had him laid in the bed immediately. But you hold it together.

Miguel watches you walk to him, hypnotized by the sway of your hips and the confidence of your walk in those damn heels.

God, he wanted those red bottoms in the air. Sitting pretty on each side of his head as he fucked you.

You can see the way his thoughts are headed by the way the red in his eyes seem to darken.

"No. Miggy, you promised." You playfully grabbed his cheeks and gave them a soft pinch. "You said we wouldn't miss this reservation. You swore. I got the shit on camera. We are not missing this dinner."

Miguel cursed under his breath. He doesn't regret the promise.

After all, you two had been trying to find the perfect day to have a date. But with Miguel so busy keeping the multi-verse intact and being the leader of the spider sociaty, and you were busy with running missions and leading other groups, there were hardly any days where the both of you could make time for each other.

Except for today. And you were not missing this opportunity.

"I know, sweetheart... Fuck, who bought you that dress? I might just kiss them."

"Well, I'm done using the bathroom if you need a minute with the mirror." You giggled as Miguel rolled his eyes, standing from the bed and offering you an arm.

"I'm guessing that means you're ready, mi amor?"

You smile softly at him and rise on your tiptoes to plant a small kiss on his lips.

"Only if you are handsome."

You should have taken Miguel's offer.

The whole dinner, you're forced to stare ahead of you at this chiseled, muscular, sex god.

You don't have to worry about Miguel, who remains on his best behavior. You have to worry about yourself.

You try, you really try, to listen to Miguel as he cracks joke after joke about his countless experiences. But you can't ignore the sticky wetness in your panties and the continuous throbs of your clit.

Miguel seems unaware of your distress, laughing out at his own jokes and wiping away invisible tears.

The heat gets so unbearable to the point to where you're one push away from ending this date early. And that push finally happens when Miguel looks up at you and flashes the overconfident smirk you fell in love with all those years ago.

You need this man right now.

Carefully slipping off one of your red bottoms, you raise a foot, hesitantly running it up Miguel's leg.

He cuts himself off with a slight flinch before looking at you, his eyes widened in surprise.

You bite your lip and peek at him through your lashes, hiking your leg up high enough to rub along his inner thigh.

His face becomes bright red and he clears his throat, straightening up and looking around in embarrassment.

"Mi amor? What are you doing...?"

You don't answer him immediately, letting your leg graze his semi-bulge that protrudes from his slacks. He lets out a soft grunt, trying to cover it up by swiping a hand down his face.

You lick your lips, red lipstick staining your tongue.

"I kinda have to use the restroom, Miggy..."

The grip you have on this sink honestly could have broken the thing.

You stare into the mirror in front of you, watching your husband's face as he fucks you from behind.

He'd lifted the back of your dress to rest right above your ass and slipped his cock out of his slacks for easy access before bending you over the restroom sink of the restaurant.

You both have a hard time keeping quiet. You muffle your moans and whimpers by biting your arms, nails uselessly scratching at the porcelain material of the sink as you hold onto it for dear life.

Miguel however, doesn't care much for quietness as he groans low without restraint, pounding into you with so much fervor that a loud slapping sound resounds around the small room. Your and his skin contacting with each hard and deep thrust, leaving red marks on your ass.

He stares at you through the mirror, cooing at how adorable you look.

"Oh, look at you Mi Corazon. You love it so much you're drooling all over that pretty dress. Making such a mess, pussy so drenched it's getting my pants wet. Oh no- Don't cry, sweetheart. You're doing so good for me. You can take it for a little longer, can't you?"

God, he makes you such a fucking mess.

Your body's on fire, drool and tears are drenching your dress, your pussy feels so worn and stretched it may never recover, and you're covered in sweat.

Yet you can't be bothered to care because your husband, Miguel O'hara, is rocking your fucking world right now.

You feel yourself getting close and are reduced to nothing but a desperate, babbling mess. You beg him, demand him, tell him you'll do anything if he'll just give you that sweet release you've been waiting for.

And when his hands grip your hips tighter and his thrusts become sloppy, you know he's about to give you exactly what you want.

And so he does. He cums with you and inside of you, throwing his head back. His voice cracks as a loud moan is released from deep within him. His entire body shudders and he takes a moment to catch his breath.

And you do too, spent and slumped on the clean restroom sink, drool and tears drying all over your face and dress.

You're pretty sure he just slutted you out.

There's silence as he pulls out of you, his release dripping from your poor hole.

The two of you make brief eye contact before bursting into quieted laughter.

"What the hell happened to having a 'proper date', hun?" Miguel asks, cleaning you up and fixing your dress for you. "I mean, not that I'm complaining-"

Before he can finish his sentence, the sound of banging startled you both.

"Hey! Whoever is in there needs to come out right now! You're both officially banned from this establishment!"

You and Miguel both look at each other.

"Well, shiet."

[eternalguk]

Losers || jjk. (M)

I get lonely when you're not here, and this darkness appears, leaving me stranded.

↠ Pairing : Jeon Jungkook x Female Reader

↠ Summary : Jeon Jeongguk. Your brother's best friend, your mom's favourite human, and the man who is saved as, the certified asshole, on your phone. With black hair and piercings, tattoos and skinny jeans… Jeongguk has been your worst nightmare since you were 18. Six years later, getting along with him is still impossible. The only difference? His pastime then was to steal your diary and read it aloud. Now? Well… let’s just say, it’s most definitely not the same.

↠ Genre : pwp, brothers best friend au, age gap au, fuck buddies au (angst, fluff & smut)

↠ Warnings : explicit sexual content, swearing, bickering but they’re actually flirting, teasing (a lot of it), making out, grinding, dirty talk, degradation, breast play, unprotected sex (be safe), kinda dom!jungkook, power bottom!jungkook, riding, begging, creampie, mentions of oral sex, mentions of one-sided feelings and i think that’s all.

↠ Word count : 1.6k

↠ A/n : hello <3 here’s a little something that i put together when I was bored! I hope you enjoy brothers best friend!Jungkook as much as I did whilst writing. Your feedback will be appreciated 🤍. Happy reading 🦢

↠ Song : meddle about - Chase Atlantic.

You’re full. So damn full.

Jungkook’s thick and imposing cock is nestled inside you, the delicious stretch causing both of you to unleash the most desperate sounds.

“Ride me,” Jungkook’s voice is husky, and very evidently quivering with lust and need.

You gulp, licking your swollen lips before lifting yourself up and lowering yourself inch by inch, until he’s all the way inside again. The pressure between your legs is unbearable, body craving relief.

“Fuck,” Jungkook grunts, his fingers boring into your hips. “So greedy for my dick.”

And the taunting is back…

You roll your eyes, lifting yourself up again and slamming down so hard that you both groan. “And who was begging me to ride their dick?”

Jungkook whispers a string of curses, before thrusting himself upwards. “A-and who… who was begging me to have sex with them in the first place?”

You.

The answer was you, and you couldn’t even try to defend yourself.

Your brother had finally left the house, and in other words, you and Jungkook were finally able to fuck.

So here you were, in the living room, relentlessly riding your brother’s best friend.

Now, you weren’t that bad. Yes, you had made the first move, but Jungkook was no innocent bystander. Your thoughts linger back to where the shenanigans began.

“Hey princess,” Jungkook smirks as he saunters into the living room, interrupting your peaceful evening. “Missed me?”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the flutter in your stomach at the sight of him. “Not even a little bit, asshole.”

“Stop lying,” he sings as he reaches over to take a chocolate covered strawberry from your plate. “I know you did.”

You remain silent, hoping he gets the cue and leaves. You don’t forget to mentally curse your brother for leaving you with this man-child.

Jungkook chuckles and you already sense a foolish comment about to leave his lips. “I know you love me, Y/N.”

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “In your dreams, Jungkook. Your dick? Maybe. You? Never.”

He moves to take a seat on the couch adjacent to you, his gaze lingering a little too long. “You look cute when you're angry.”

You flush, hating how easily he gets under your skin. “Shut up, let me read.”

But instead of retorting, Jungkook leans closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Make me.”

You swallow hard, feeling a rush of heat between your thighs. "You wish."

His lips quirk into a smirk as he leans back, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Maybe I do.”

You grit your teeth, resisting the urge to kiss him. Why did he have to be so damn infuriatingly attractive?

As the evening wears on, your banter escalated into a full-blown war of words, each insult laced with underlying tension. But beneath the surface, there's something else brewing—a desire that neither of you wants to acknowledge.

The three previous altercations between you and Jungkook had led to sex… there’s no way you were going to let that happen again.

“I’ll just go keep myself busy with Areum. You know your really pretty friend? She’s been begging me to come over.” Jungkook grins mischievously, knowing he's finally pushed you to your limit.

But instead of storming off in a huff like usual, you surprise him by closing the distance between you, lips crashing against his in a heated kiss.

He responds eagerly, his hands tangling in your hair as he deepens the kiss, your bodies pressed together in a frenzy of need.

“Fuck, you drive me crazy,” Jungkook murmurs against your lips, his voice husky with desire.

You smirk, trailing my fingers down his chest. “You love it.”

He groans, his grip tightening on you as he whispers, “I’d be a liar if I said no.”

And that was what had brought you to your current state. You begin to ride Jungkook in a fast, unrestrained pace, leaning forward so your clit can brush against his pubic bone, deepening your own pleasure.

“So big, Jungkook.. So deep,” you moan gratifyingly, throwing your head back as you relish in this complete heaven.

Jungkook smirks whilst watching you fuck yourself on his cock, pleasure vividly overtaking you as you roll your eyes with each bounce. “Good girl, ride my cock just like that.”

“J-Jungkook,” you whine faintly, his hands forcing you down completely and making you go faster. His low grunts and growls of your name make you warm up more, adoring the pleasurable sounds he makes. Your eyes meet his and you heat up as he gazes at you with lust stained eyes.

“Feels good?” Jungkook asks, helping you bounce on his dick. He looks extremely sexy right now with swollen lips, tanned skin and messy, tousled hair.

The sound of heavy breathing and the way his cock easily slides in and out of you reminds you just how blissful it is to be intimate with Jungkook. It was a shame you couldn’t call him yours.

“Mhm,” you inform him, slowly riding his dick up and down, your cunt swallowing his thick girth with ease and allowing yourself to be distracted from mellow thoughts. Jungkook thrusts up and you gasp at the sudden action, whining his name louder.

Jungkook scoffs at your reaction, smirking as his hands come to rest at your hips. You notice his lust filled eyes and it urges you to ride him faster.

“Going to miss this pussy when I leave,” Jungkook grunts, his deep, throaty voice making your heart race faster.

You ignore the ache that settles in your heart at the thought of him leaving.

“Mhm.” You respond, too overwhelmed by the feeling of Jungkook’s cock deep inside.

Jungkook’s lips brush over your clavicles whilst his hands slide up and down your back, eventually stopping on your ass, grabbing it to help you ride him. Your hips rock back and forth at a steady speed, relishing in the current moment.

“Ohh fuckk,” you cry out, savouring each drag of his monstrous cock. Your hips continue to rock back and forth and Jungkook simply wishes you both were on a mattress right now so he could pound into you hard and fast. You feel the way he contains himself from thrusting upwards, knowing very well that he’ll lose control.

The mere sight of you in the throes of pleasure, throwing your head back and lustily moaning has Jungkook weak. Your partly lidded eyes, flaming skin and heaving chest tells Jungkook all that he needs to know. You look alluringly beautiful, using Jungkook’s body to catch your release.

“Always ride me so fucking well, baby.” Jungkook rasps, lips moving to wrap around your nipples and sucking on them vigorously. He fondles with the other, neglected breast, pinching at your nipple and your whines only heighten.

“You look so sexy and you’re all mine,” he growls, his hips moving to thrust up against yours. His throaty voice impels you to shiver, dominance and possessiveness lacing it. “No one else can have this.”

“All y-yours, baby,” you croon, your walls tightening and clenching as his low grunts and moans turn you on. “There’s no one who’ll make me feel like this.”

And that’s true. You have no clue if you’ll ever stop craving Jungkook. The idea of him fucking someone else, paired with the idea of someone else fucking you, leave a distaste in your mouth.

“I’m close, Kook,” you whine whilst reaching for his veiny hands to rub against your palpitating clit. Jungkook understands the message, instantly moving his hand to thumb against it. He circles his finger around the bud and you helplessly mewl, aching to come.

You pull on Jungkook’s tresses as your hips begin to stutter in their grinding. “Such a good girl for me, always so good.” He encourages you and that simple sentence is all you need as your pussy clenches and slick cum squirts out of you.

“Just like that, baby girl. Just like that,” Jungkook harshly breathes, painting your insides with his seed. He lifts his hips, fucking into you through your orgasms. You moan loudly before falling against his chest, pressing firm kisses against his sweaty neck.

“I love it when you come inside me,” you purr, sucking deep, purple marks into his skin. Another thing that should not be happening. Looking after a baby, Jungkook’s baby to specify, was not something you imagine yourself doing anytime soon.

A husky moan escapes from Jungkook as he pulls your face towards his, pressing a searing kiss onto your rosy lips. He kisses you with love, purpose and sincerity. The third thing that should not be happening right now.

You shiver at the feeling of his cock being nestled inside your wet, warm walls. Jungkook’s hands move to your ass, gently grinding you against him. You pull back and are met with a sly grin on your temptations face.

Temptation was the word your mind had settled with. Is that what he was?

“Again?” He cockily mutters, moving forward to rub his nose against yours.

“Well, why not?,” is all you whisper back before pressing your lips against his, swallowing his giggles as you push him to lean against his seat, ready to be destroyed all over again.

Jungkook’s fingers are lost in your hair, and his other hand rests against your waist, gently caressing your exposed skin.

You think back to days upon days with him, starting with a simple kiss to now fucking at every chance you get.

You dwell on your feelings for the man in front of you. Who would’ve thought that the Jungkook you passionately hated would be the one who’s on your mind constantly? The one who’s name comes to mind first thing in the morning. The one who’s worth every risk and battle.

Maybe you could tell him, whisper your fondness for him in his ear, but you don’t.

Instead, you snuggle into his warmth, hoping it’ll satiate your aching heart for now.

And there we go. I hope you enjoyed! Feedback and comments are always appreciated ; it really makes me feel better about what I write so please do tell me what you think of this if it is not too much of a hassle <3

Until next time,

🤍

[ghost-whump]

Shower Day

CW: kidnapped whumpee, defiant whumpee, sadistic whumper, waterboarding(?), hypothermia (mentioned), nudity (mentioned), let me know if I missed anything!

Whumper entered the basement with loud, clunking steps down the stairs. They flick the light on when they reach the bottom.

“Hh—” Whumpee hissed and covered their eyes, heavy manacles pressing coldly into their cheeks. “Fucking hell.”

“Rise and shine, fuckface.”

With a drawn out groan, Whumpee blinked until the light wasn’t so painful. They scooted farther back into “their” corner of the basement, drawing closer to the wall, as if they could be absorbed into it.

They turned to face the wall, the smallest act of defiance they could express, “Go away.”

“No can do, Whumpee,” Whumper’s footsteps grew closer, “It’s shower day for you.”

That perked them up. A shower? A real, honest-to-god shower? Hot damn, that sounded good! Whumpee managed the barest hint of a smile at the prospect. Their hair, caked with blood and grease and other various substances, grew unbearably thick and disgusting to even think about. And that’s not even mentioning their soiled clothes.

Rubbing at their eyes, Whumpee brought themselves to turn around. And their smile dropped.

Whumper held a hose and a bucket.

At their pained expression, Whumper chuckled, “Oh? You thought you got a real shower?” They put the bucket on the floor and took a step closer, “Sorry for the mislead, Whumpee.”

The water hit them suddenly. Frigid, icy water hit their skin like a jet — definitely enough force to bruise, at least. They cried out, futilely holding their arms out in front of them. The cold water sprayed onto their body like bullets, dousing their hair and clothes all in less than a minute.

Then, the water tapered off.

Whumpee spit some water out of their mouth. It tasted like shit, nothing like the refreshing hose water they’d had as a kid.

“Whoops.” Whumper smiled.

Then it started again. This time, with so much pressure, Whumpee was knocked back into the wall. The hose turned off.

Whumpee heaved, “Fuck yo—ACK!”

Over and over, the water turned on and off, on and off, on and off. Friction burns raised on their arms from where they tried to protect themselves. The chill of the cool, stagnant basement air started to seep into their skin, sending a shiver through their whole body.

“That should be good.” Whumper dropped the hose to the floor (much to Whumpee’s relief) and turned their attention towards the bucket. They pulled out a gray towel and turned back. “Give me your clothes now, Whumpee.”

They stood there, shivering. “What?”

“You heard me — give me your clothes. They’re all soaked now.” Though they spoke pragmatically, their grinning leer said anything but.

“Fuck n-no. I-I’m not getting n-naked in front of you.” Their teeth chattered loudly, telegraphing how cold they really were.

Whumper turned around, picking the bucket back up. “Fine, then. No towel for you, I guess.” They started back towards the stairs, “A shame, really. I had it heated up on the radiator and everything. It’s supposed to be even colder tonight, too. I’d hate to have my poor Whumpee freeze…”

Whumpee remained silent.

“Well, goodnight, Whumpee.” They flipped the lights off.

“W-Wait!”

The lights turned back on as quick as they shut off. Whumper turned, so so slowly. “What do you say?”

“Pl-please?”

this has been sitting in my drafts for SOOO long and i’ve never posted it. since i haven’t written anything in a while, i thought i might as well post it lol

thank for reading!!!

General Tag: @morning-star-whump

[jamjaemin]

⌗︙・choi san — fingering! ⸜⸜・

he has you sitting with your back against his chest, legs hooked into yours so you can’t squirm too much.

When he slips his fingers into you and you arch your back in response, he grabs your chin and pulls you to his face. He wants to see how you react to him,

having you in front of a mirror and playing with your perfect cunt was just something san needed in order to get him through the day. He‘s so busy all the time! And now he have all the time. His slow strokes in you deepened with every movement of his, feeling how you turned more wet while your pleasure grew almost unbearably strong.

“baby quit moving.” san‘s grinning against you with that damned smile of his that had your chest heaving violently, his pointer and middle finger prodding against your hole before plunging them deep inside your cunt again. “You‘re swallowing them all in, did you miss me so much?” you can only respond in struggles and incoherend babbles, juices leaking out of your sobbing hole and staining the surface underneath you. San was so gone, he just wanted to taste you already! you can be certain he‘s going to eat you out properly after he finished playing with you. <3

Author’s note: !!!! SURPRISE BESTIES!!!! I literally watched san's fancam 230923 and got inspired by how damn good he looks, he's my bias in ateez after all and i cant hold myself back, how was my first ateez fic by the way?! Hope y'all liked it!.

[teenidlegirl]

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ౨౿  ׅ ۟   ֪ 𝓕eel 𝓨our 𝓗eartlines ۪ ׂ   𓈒 ୭

꒰⠀⠀⟡⠀.⠀vaquero!miguel⠀𝓍⠀fem!reader⠀.⠀⟡⠀⠀꒱

‧ ִ ۫⠀♱ 𝓢𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. your family bought a new ranch next door to the o’haras. both families grew acquainted with each other. you and the eldest o’hara brother grow an interesting bond which lead to something more but your father isn’t necessarily fond of.

‧ ִ ۫⠀♱ 𝓒𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓. rancho!au, neighbors/enemies to lovers, forbidden love, fluff, angst, drama, tension, arguments, jealousy, smut, protected sex (yessir), fingering, truck sex, swearing, pet names, happy ending, hispanic/latina!reader ( mdni )

new start at a new home.

your parents bought a new ranch after selling the old one. it’s been in your family for generations but the time has come for a new home. however, there’s another ranch property next door.

the o’hara ranch.

rumored to be a woman and her two sons. according to your parents, they weren’t opposed to have another ranch near their property. in fact, thrilled to have neighbors. that ranch your parents bought hasn’t occupied in a few years.

the opportunity to meet them is the day you move.

the radiate sun was your enemy. the humid air made the move unbearable. a layer on sweat glistening over your skin from walking back and forth carrying boxes. summer is the worst time to move.

one particular box was a bit heavier than the previous ones you carried. your hand fails to grip it from underneath, causing it to slip out of your hands before another pair of hands catch it in time.

“i got it.”

a rich, baritone voice makes you look up to who it belongs to. your eyes dilate immensely.

a man who towers over you to a insane level. way too tall for the average male. thick brows with a pair of brown eyes. sharpest cheekbones you’ve ever seen on a man, so sharp you’ll get a paper cut if you drag your finger over it. and last, a set of very plump lips.

ay dios, he is handsome.

“cuiadado con eso.”

carlos, your older brother, walks by. “ay tonta, i told you i’ll get it pero no haces caso. gracias, miguel.” he turns to the man standing in from of you.

oh that’s his name.

you just roll your eyes at your brother. face turned to the said to conceal your embarrassment and frustration. cheeks slightly flushed.

“todo bien, carlos. i manage to catch it in time before miss manos de trapo here dropped it.” miguel chuckles, shooting a glance at you for emphasis.

your mouth dropped in offense and he smirks.

what an ass.

well yes, you were dumb to believe you could carry that damn box and should’ve waited for carlos to come get it. you were being stubborn but also trying to help as much as possible.

both men laugh at your reaction.

“cabrones.” you grumble, looking off to the side.

“cuiadao, hermana. don’t be mean to our neighbor.” carlos teases, nudging your shoulder.

you figured this man, miguel, is your neighbor. one of the o’hara brothers. one of the sons.

“well, i don’t think i’m the mean one when he’s talking shit about me with my brother.” you deadpan.

that elicits a chuckle from the said man. “ay chiquita, i’m not being mean. just stating the truth.” a teasing smirk graces his lips.

“no me llamas eso, cabrón.” you glare up at him.

the smirk grew wider. you want to slap it off.

“oh okay! lets get a move on, vale?” carlos clears his throat, sensing the tensions between you and miguel. clearly he didn’t expect this.

you walk away in a sassy manner, not sparing one last glance at your asshole neighbor. what you don’t see is him watching as you leave. brown eyes following your figure before he heads inside the house to put the big box away.

⠀⠀⠀⠀𓂃 ୨ ₊ 𓂃 ౨ৎ   𓂃 ₊ ୧   𓂃

it’s been a few weeks since you settled into the new ranch. you’ve grown to adore it. decorating your room was your favorite part. throughout those few weeks, you and your family quickly accustomed.

the only thing you weren’t accustomed to was the weekly visits from your neighbors. your dad, brother and the o’hara brothers been working together with both ranches. your mom and their mom, conchata, have grown to be friends. you don’t mind conchata or gabriel, the younger o’hara brother. the woman seems very nice and caring. she adores her two boys with all her heart. very determined and resilient woman. her husband died when the boys were young so she raised them on her own since. an admirable woman. gabriel is such a sweetheart, completely different from miguel. you first met him and he was very polite but also a big flirt. you like him more.

miguel, the o’hara sibling you dislike. ever since he started working with your dad and brother, you practically see him everyday. his large frame catching your eye form the window or porch. luckily, there hasn’t been many encounters other than quickly glances and smirks. he’s too busy working to talk to you and you prefer it that way.

however, you can’t deny observing him from afar as he worked outside. always wearing a pair of blue jeans con sus botas. switches between black, white or gray shirts that hug his muscles a little too tight. so tight you can see the outline of his abs. so tight on the sleeves his biceps are on display, those hairy muscular arms. flexing whenever he grabs or works on something. you’ve noticed la virgencita hanging around his neck when he passed by you at the ranch one day. he also wears either black or tan hat. when he takes it off, those messy brown curls are revealed. you bite your lip when he runs a hand through those curls then quietly curse to yourself when you catch yourself in the act. you hate him, not like him.

seeing that stupid smirk on his face when he notices you makes your body ignite on fire. brows furrowed and hands balled into fists while your heart beats like crazy. his entire existence makes your skin crawl. you’ve only met the guy for a few weeks and you despise him. he drives you fucking insane.

why do you wear the cutest outfits when he’s there? why do you apply extra perfume when he’s there? why do you check your breath a million times when he’s there? why do you keep doing these things?

he’s driving you fucking crazy.

⠀⠀⠀⠀𓂃 ୨ ₊ 𓂃 ౨ৎ   𓂃 ₊ ୧   𓂃

as you exit your room and step foot into the kitchen, your mother asks if you’ll take fresh lemonade for the men. part of your wanted to rip your hair out because you know you’ll run into miguel. as the obedient girl you are and know not to argue with your mother, you make the lemonade and take it outside.

carrying the tray of four lemonades, you walk over to the ranch. as you approach the table, you notice miguel at the stables from across. you were lost in trance as he maneuvered with the horse he was dealing with. quickly blinking, you snap out of it and place down the tray of lemonade. the family dog lola, a german shepherd, comes to your side. you happily pet her, smiling her happy face and wagging tail.

“nice to see you again, chiquita.”

the smile on your face vanishes and is replaced with a irritated look. slowly turning around, you see miguel standing in the opposite side of the table.

damn how the fuck did he get here so fast? he was literally just at the stables a few seconds ago.

“i said don’t call me that, cabrón.” you scowl.

“ay no hagas asi, hermosa. you love it when i call you that.” the bastard smirks as he drinks his lemonade.

“you’re so fucking annoying.” you spit. “rude and never listens. i applaud your mother for putting up with your stupidity.” you look away, arms crossed.

you don’t see his smirk falters a little. “hermosa, i’m not being rude or trying to be. it’s just teasing.” he sound a bit serious but you don’t buy it.

“whatever.” you roll your eyes. “vamos, lola.” you tap your thigh to signal her to follow you back to the house, which she did with her tail wagging happily.

a pair of brown eyes follow you, watching you leave. you fail to see the slight slump on his shoulders. miguel sighs before taking a another sip of the delicious lemon then heads off to join the others.

you and miguel both fail to see a third set of eyes form afar. a light, skeptical frown settles on your dad’s face as he witnessed the interaction. he can sense the tension and it didn’t sit right with him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀𓂃 ୨ ₊ 𓂃 ౨ৎ   𓂃 ₊ ୧   𓂃

one evening, your parents decide to host a carne asada for family and friends. that also means the o’haras were invited, meaning miguel was invited.

oh you wanted to die.

but family members and friends would be there so you’ll be distracted with them. as long as you stay away from miguel, you’ll be fine.

after a fresh long shower, you wear a cute gingham dress con tus botas blancos. you add a few small white bow clips in your hair as accessories to feel more cute. makeup and hair done.

the background is filled with people, relatives and friends. loud music playing from the speaker. food on the table ready to be served. oh the delicious smell consumes your senses, making your tummy growl. you grab yourself a plate of food then venture off to meet up with your cousins. it’s been a while since you’ve seen them so you wanna catch up.

after finishing your food, “la chona” starts playing and everyone goes berserk. once you throw away your empty plate, you and your cousins rush to the dance floor along with everyone else and dance.

while dancing, a young man approaches you with a gentle smile. he’s introduced as javier, son of one of your father’s friends. tall, dark brunette, quite fit but not too much, sweet and handsome. you two dance together as you talk and occasionally flirt. apparently, he’s a comedian because he’s been making you laugh every time he tells a joke or funny stories.

what you fail to notice from afar is a pair of brown angry eyes. watching your every move the entire evening. miguel never took his eyes off of you, only when someone was speaking directly to him. the minute you stepped foot into the backyard, his pupils dilated and heart raced in his chest. how gorgeous you look that cute dress and tus botas. watching you dance for a bit finally gave him the courage to join you until that idiot waltzed in. his grip on his moledo tightened when javier wraps an arm around your waist and pull you closer towards him. his grip was so tight, miguel almost broke it in his fucking hand. a sting of jealousy and slight possessiveness bubbles in his chest. a huge frown on his face. oh he is pissed the fuck off. he didn’t like this encounter one bit.

after drinking lots of water and jamaica (drink), nature calls. quickly telling javier you’ll be back, you make a beeline for the house then the bathroom upstairs. luckily, no one’s in the house so it’s empty inside. after doing your business and washing your hands, you fix your appearance. detangling your hair and patting down any creases on your dress.

a subtle knock on the door makes you jump a little. “just give me a minute!” you call out nervously.

it truly caught you off guard. there’s a bathroom downstairs but perhaps it’s occupied too. there’s the master bathroom but supposed people don’t want to invade your parents’ privacy.

you finish fixing your appearance so the next person doesn’t have to keep waiting. just as you unlock and open the door, a gasp left your lips.

“miguel? what the fuck?”

the man stands before you. however, his sour expression captures your attention. you don’t have time to say anything else when he silently enters the bathroom, causing you to step back. he close the door behind him, his gaze never leaves yours. anxiety consumes your body at the sudden proximity. the hallway bathroom is quite small, leaving barely any room left for you to step back.

“miguel, what the fuck are you doing?”

“you seem having fun tonight.”

your brows furrowed. “it’s a party, of course i’m having fun.” you cross your arms.

“a little too much fun.” he takes one step closer.

“the fuck are you talking about?”

“ese pinche huevón who’s been probably telling you shitty jokes or whatever.” he takes another step.

javier. why the hell is he talking about him?

“you’re spying on me?! what the fuck, miguel? what’s wrong with you? what’s your problem?”

“my problem?” miguel’s frown deepens. “that fucking idiot had the fucking nerve to come up to you, dance and flirt with you like that.” he takes a step closer with each phrase.

you flinch when your back hits the wall. now miguel stands right in front of you. bodies merely touching, barely any space between you two. his hot breath hitting your face, or forehead due to the height difference. you have to crane your neck all the way up just to meet his gazes. your heart pounds in anticipation, lashes fluttering.

holy shit, he’s jealous.

“so you’re telling you have a thing for me this entire and decided to wait until i was with another guy?” you were half assumed and surprised.

his pissed off demeanor falters a little, softening up a bit. “y-yes…” miguel admits shamelessly, broad shoulders slumped a little. “i wanted to tell you but you hate me so much and refused to talk to me so i didn’t really have the perfect chance.”

you huff, shaking your head. “of course i hate you because you’re a fucking asshole. always throwing smartass remarks or insults at me.”

“i wasn’t insulting you, or at least i wasn’t my intention.” miguel frowns. “i was teasing because i like you, chiquita.” he said softly.

oh your heart did a summersault.

“seriously?” you were surprised wholeheartedly.

miguel scoffs, rolling his eyes with a smile. “que si, tonta. i’ve liked you since the moment i met you, catching that big box you almost dropped.”

you cringe at the memory. if only you knew how stupid you looked carrying that big ass heavy box. if only you knew he was watching.

“and i know you like me too.” miguel leans closer.

“it’s a mixture of infatuation and hatred.”

“see, infatuation.” he smirks smugly.

“don’t push it, cabrón.” you glare at him.

miguel lowly chuckles, amused by your sassy attitude. his eyes drop to your lips. glossy and begging for his. “do you know how many times i wanted to kiss those pretty lips but knew i couldn’t?”

your heart flutter at that confession. you wanted to say the same about his lips or wished he did kiss you but you decide to tease him.

“that’s too bad you couldn’t.” you fake pout, tilting your head in a teasing manner. “i was thinking the same with javi.” a smirk graces your lips.

you watch his brows furrowed immediately. that seductive look replaced with a pissed off one. his jaw clenches at the name of that guy.

damn, jealous looks so good on him.

“he’s so sweet and very attractive. a great dancer and has very kissable lips.” your smirk grows smugly.

there was no time to reaction when miguel grabs the back of your head, pulls you against him and smashes his lips on yours. you can’t resist smiling at his eagerness as you both endure in a messy makeout session. his lips devour yours with such hunger, basically eating your face off.

your arms reach up to his shoulders and wrap around them, standing on your tippy toes due to the height difference. miguel’s back is slightly bent so he can reach you but doesn’t give a shit if it hurts. both his hands travel down to your waist and pull you closer so there isn’t any space left between you two.

broad hands roam over your back, groping each curve. you melt under his addictive touch, becoming putty in his hold. you gasp when he lifts you up in his arms, grabbing the back of your thighs. your grip on his shoulders tighten instinctively. miguel plants you on the sink and settles himself in between your legs.

his lips trail down to your jawline then in the crook of your neck. you dig your fingers into his brown curls while the other hand wrapped around his thick neck. your eyes closed, relishing those kisses on your neck. a gasp left your lips when you feel his lips sucking that sensitive spot on your neck.

his hands fiddle with the top strings of your dress that conceals your breasts. after leaving a mark on your neck, which he smiles satisfyingly at, miguel trails down to your chest. he quickly glances at you for approval and you eagerly nod. untying the strings, miguel dives into your cleavage. leaving hot open-mouth kisses on the soft skin. his hands cupping and kneading your breasts. a soft moan escapes your lips at the sensation. throwing your head back, resting against the mirror. you take off his hat so you can play with his hair, tossing it on the toilet seat. he kisses, licks, and kneads your covered breasts with such desire and affection. he lets out a muffled groan when your fingers tug on his hair.

miguel moves down your body, leaving a trail of adoring kisses on the fabric of your dress. grinning at how your body sweetly responds to him. just as he reaches down to the one place where you desperately want him, he moves away and stands up.

“aww…” miguel mischievously chuckles at your pout and pissed off expression. “you thought you’d get what you want, huh bebita?” he brings a hand to your chin and lightly tilts it upward to meet his eyes.

“asshole.” you scowl, swatting his hand away.

“ay bebita, no hagas asi.” he taunts with a head tilt. “you were drooling about that huevón a few seconds ago. don’t you want him?”

you glare at him and he laughs, completely unbothered by it. oh you want to slap that stupid smirk off his devilish handsome face.

“es la verdad, hermosa. don’t you want him here instead of me?” his fingers lightly brush against your exposed thigh, sending jolts of excitement through your body. the hem of your dress scrunched up a bit.

you know he knows the answer. of course he’s fucking teasing you about this.

“i’m going to rip your balls off.” you threaten.

the bastard chuckles. “i don’t think you wanna do that if you want me.” very slowly, his fingers trail up your thigh, more towards your inner thigh. he chuckles again when your legs twitch at his touch.

“fine, fuck this shit.” you move to jump off the counter but his hands firmly hold you in place.

“ay bebita, you’re so stubborn.” miguel coos, gently tracing your cheek with the back of his index finger. “i’ll give you what you want—“

“ay no me jodas, miguel! just fucking touch me.” grabbing the back of his neck, you yank him towards you and smash your lips on his.

the movement caught him by surprise but indulges in it. his fingers trail up your inner thigh, sliding under your dress. you softly gasp when you feel his fingers gently rubbing your cunt through your panties.

“fuck— estas mojada, bebita.” miguel groans at the feeling of your soaked panties, all because of him. the pad of his fingers rubbing your covered pussy lips. he feels himself grow hard in his jeans.

his fingers slyly slide under your panties and play with your little cunt. a soft moan leaves your lips when he rubs your throbbing clit. fingers rubbing and flicking almost experimentally.

“you want me?” he whispers against your lips as his continues playing with your clit.

“fuck, yes~” you moan, cupping his face.

your lips collided again in a heated kiss as miguel slowly slides in two fingers in your pretty little pussy. you moan a bit louder in pitch at the sensitive before his other hand covers your mouth.

“as much as i want to hear those pretty sounds, can’t let anyone hear.” miguel whispers, a mix of seductiveness and sincerity. the last thing he wants is getting caught in your house.

he pumps his fingers at a slow pace. endless moans falling from your lips but muffled. fuck his fingers are so thick and long. they feel so fucking good.

“fuck, so tight, bebita.” he groans when your walls clench around his fingers. “driving me fucking insane, how you clench around my fingers like that.”

his fingers soon pick up pace. thrusting in and out of your tight cunt. instinctively, you roll your hips to meet his thrusts. desperate for more. miguel buried his face in the crook of your neck as he continues fingering you. you have one arm wrapped around his shoulders while leaning on the other, gripping the ledge of the counter for dear life.

you squeal when his thumb flickers your puffy clit as his two fingers continue pumping into you. your walls clench harder around his fingers.

“you’re gonna forget about that pinche huevón and think about me, si hermosa?” he asks, lips against your ear. “porque you want me, verdad? because i want you.” he states wholeheartedly.

you nod while being a babbling and moaning mess. miguel leaves kisses on your neck as he keeps pumping his fingers into you. with a few more flicks to your clit, you come with a muffed moan. gushing over his fingers, coating them in your sweetness.

very slowly, he slides out his fingers from your now sensitive pussy. you lean back against the mirror as you try catching your breath and recover from your high but his hand on your waist prevents you from slumping completely. miguel examines his two fingers glistening in your sweet nectar. two clear strings connect between them as he spreads them apart. he brings them up to his lips, licking off your sweetness. a moan of satisfaction.

“sweet, just like i imagined.” he hums contently.

grabbing a few sheets of toilet paper, miguel gently cleans up the mess in between your thighs.

“you okay?” he asks sincerely, tossing the toilet paper in the trash while his free hand gently moves away strings of hair from your face.

“yeah, never better.” you let out a weak laugh.

miguel smiles at your cute little laugh then gently kisses you, which you happily reciprocate. one hand cupping your cheek and the other on your thigh.

a ding! from your phone breaks the kiss. grabbing it next to you and looking at the screen, you see a text from your mom asking your whereabouts.

“gotta go before my mom flips out.” you chuckle.

“understandable.” miguel chuckles with you as he gently lifts you off the counter by the waist and carefully sets you on your feet.

you quickly glance down at your phone then at the huge bulge in his jeans. “sorry…” you shoot him an apologetic look.

miguel shakes his head with a soft smile. “no te procupes, bebita. maybe next time.” he winks as he helps you fix your dress.

you swat his arm and he laughs as you both exit the bathroom to rejoin the party.

⠀⠀⠀⠀𓂃 ୨ ₊ 𓂃 ౨ৎ   𓂃 ₊ ୧   𓂃

a forbidden romance between you and miguel blossomed. however, there were suspicions. conchata knew the minute she caught miguel staring at you from afar numerous times. it makes her smile to see her son falling in love. she knows you’re a good woman and treats you like her own. you’re perfect for her son. gabriel knows as well, he has seen the intense encounters between you and miguel. arguing and brickering but also longing gazes when one isn’t looking. he would give miguel shit and tease him all the time. suppose all that teasing finally paid off.

your mom is like conchata and every other mother. adored to see her daughter falling in love despite the tension between you and miguel. carlos was skeptical at first but accepts it because he knows miguel is a good man. your father, on the other hand, isn’t too thrilled of the idea. it’s not that miguel isn’t a good person but because he’s a known womanizer. your dad has seen the various women swinging by miguel, flirting and battering their lashes at him. he doesn’t want you to fall victim into lies. that’s why he’s been a bit harsh towards miguel lately.

although you’re unaware of everyone’s suspicions, you and miguel keep it very secretive. sneaking off to secluded places like the stables. have heavy makeout sessions, miguel fingering you. unfortunately, things couldn’t get spicer without almost getting caught or someone calling your name.

one day when your parents were gone into town, miguel sneaked you into his truck. he parked in a secluded area on the outskirts of the ranch.

“miguel, we can’t do this. what if they’re looking for us?” you can’t resist giggling as his lips leave butterfly kisses along your neck. you sit on his lap, straddling him in the backseat of his truck. both of you shirtless, you remain in your bra.

“your parents are out and won’t be back for a while. besides, gabriel and carlos got us covered.” his large hands roam over your body.

“miguel!” you swat his shoulder, giggling.

“¿que paso, bebita? they’ll let us know when your parents come back, lo prometo.” he continues those kisses among your neck.

you sigh softly, trusting him with your heart. you grow putty in his hold like always. his large lands roaming your body. your lips meet in a passionate kiss. your hands cupping his face. the tips of his fingers fiddle with the hem of your white skirt. you assume he wants to do the usual but the pleading look in those browns eyes say otherwise.

“do you… do you wanna do this?” he asks anxiously, eyes boring into yours.

you know immediately what he’s asking.

“yes.” you nod sincerely, caressing his cheeks.

“are you sure? i don’t wanna pressure you.”

your heart melts at his caring words. “si, bebito. i trust you and i want this.” you wrap your arms around his thick neck. “i want you.”

fuck. that’s all he needs to hear before worshipping the goddess you are. miguel captures your lips in another kiss. his fingers slide underneath your skirt not only to make you cum first but also to prep you.

after making you cum over his fingers twice, you were prepped enough. miguel hurriedly reaches a hand in his front pocket and pulls out a condom. he rips the tiny packet with his teeth. the sight makes you bite your lip. you follow suit by lifting up your skirt as he yanks out his aching cock from its confinements. the tip angry and red, desperate to be inside you. he rolls the condom over his cock. a shared moan mingles in the air as you slowly sink onto his cock. you grip tightly on his shoulders as support. his own gripping your hips.

“breathe, bebita.” he advises in a soft tone.

fuck he’s so big. when you first got a glimpse of it, you believed it was impossible for it to fit. of course it’ll be hard to take him. his soothing rubs on your thighs relaxes you a little as you try adjusting to his size. any “stop” or “wait” convinced him to pull out but you told him. just need time to adjust.

once you had time to adjust, you couldn’t hold back a moan at the feeing of being utterly full. he’s so deep inside, you can feel him in your tummy.

you both moan in unison as you slowly roll your hips. you move up and down in a slow pace, riding his cock. fuck he feels so amazing.

“fuck— asi, bebita. ride me.” he praises so sweetly.

you oblige, riding him. you didn’t save a horse but you’ll definitely ride a cowboy.

miguel soon picks up the pace due to your pleading for him to go faster. rolling his hips to meet yours. hands gripping your hips, your skirt brunched up in his fingers as his cock pounds into your tight little cunt. moans and groans mingles in the steamy air. the windows begin to fog up. miguel throws his head back against the seat, relishing the feeling of your pussy squeezing the life out of his cock. he’s practically going insane at the sensation.

self-resistance flies out the window as miguel quickly turns you both over. you lie down on the seat and he hovers above you as miguel continues thrusting into you. your hands grip onto his back, nails leaving scratch marks and crescent indents, eliciting a groan from the man above you. miguel doesn’t give a shit. in fact, he loves the idea of seeing your scratch marks when looking at his reflection. it’s a reminder of you and your love for him.

due to his rough thrusts, the truck shakes. luckily, the area is secluded. miguel groans when your fluttering walls clench around his thick length.

“shit— you clenching like that is driving me insane, bebita.” miguel moans.

you can’t even response since you’re a babbling mess underneath him. the bulbous tip of his cock repeatedly hits your cervix, making you arch your back off the seat like waves.

miguel can’t help but smirk at your trembling form. brows scrunched up and mouth letting out the sweetest sounds he’s ever heard. a literal angel underneath him. one hand reaches down in between your bodies and flickers your puffy clit. you let out a squeal at the sudden sensation, arching your back off the seat for the millionth time.

“let go, mi vida. i got you.” he coos in your ear.

with a few more flicks to your clit, you come with a loud cry of his name. coating his condom covered cock with your sweetness. oh that sight is forever imbedded in his mind. how beautifully you sang out his name as you each the pinnacle of ecstasy.

miguel soon followed suit. his hips stutter before letting out a groan as he releases thick hot ropes of cum into the condom. secretly wishing it was your pussy but protection comes first. his thrusts slow down, riding out both your highs before stopping. he buries his face beside yours, panting against your ear as you both recover from your highs.

after a few minutes of recovery, miguel lifts up onto his elbows and looks down at you. “you okay? did i hurt you?” he voice his concerns, gently moving away strings of hair sticked to your forehead.

“no.” you shake your head. “i’m okay.”

he softly smiles at your answer. worries washed away. leaning closer, miguel captures your lips in soft, gentle kiss. “té quiero.”

“té quiero.” you softly smile at him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀𓂃 ୨ ₊ 𓂃 ౨ৎ   𓂃 ₊ ୧   𓂃

your parents decide to head to town again to buy some stuff. carlos left to meet up with some chick he met at a bailé the other night. that means you’re left alone, which also means miguel comes over.

you both makeout on your bed. hands roaming each other’s bodies. a soft sigh escapes your lips as you feel his lips pepper your neck with kisses, playing with his hair. that’s going to be the hundredth hickey he has left on you. the amount of concealer you applied on the dark mark so your family doesn’t notice says a lot. neck, breasts, inner thighs. marking you endlessly and making you feel like a dalmatian.

“que linda eres.” miguel mumbled against your soft skin, lips peppering adoring kisses.

a gasp leaves your lips as you feel large hands squeezing your breasts. “miguel~ my parents will be back soon.” you whine then followed by a giggle, tugging on his curls to gain his attention.

“the marketplace is packed. they’ll be gone for a while so we have time.” he kisses your worries away.

you softly sigh as miguel travels down to your breasts and makes out with them. calloused hands kneading them through your dress.

“my favorite pillows.” miguel mumbled between kisses and licks on the soft mounds. his fingers spread the opening of the top of your dress to gain more access to your cleavage.

“you act like they don’t hurt because of your big ass head.” you deadpan, still playing with his hair.

“well, that’s why i massage them.”

you can’t see him from this angle but you know he has the biggest smirk on his face. the thought makes you lightly slap his head, earning a chuckle from him.

those adoring kisses trail down to your tummy then back up your body towards your face before your lips collide once again. as his hand slwoly trails down towards your inner thigh, scrunching up the hem of your dress, the sound of the door opening cause you both to jump in surprised. miguel hurriedly lifts off from the bed. your eyes land at the opened door to find your parents with shocked expressions. your father face is red of anger, profoundly pissed off.

“te mato.” he glares towards miguel. fists fidgeting at his sides but never makes a move.

“papá, pro favor—“

“no me hablas.” he points a finger at you, sending the same glare then looks back at miguel. “i trusted you with this ranch. with this home and you betrayed that with taking an advantage con mi hija.”

“papá, no! please—“

“señor, i’ve never took advantage of your daughter or your trust. i respect and love your daughter with everything.” miguel defends himself.

you watch your father’s eyes narrow at miguel’s words. “you don’t truly love my daughter if you allow other women to chase after you.”

both yours and miguel’s heart drop at that accusation. anxiety invades your body. you whip your head at miguel with a shocking expression. he meets your gaze with the same expression but also a look of hurt. your heart breaks at the sight. you know it isn’t true but your heart says otherwise.

miguel looks at you with remorseful eyes then looks back at your father. “pro favor, señor. none of those rumors are true. i walk away from those women, they never leave me alone. the only woman i want is your daughter.” he states sincerely.

a pregnant pause fills the room. the tension lingers in the air. you watch as your father exhales heavily then takes a step towards miguel.

“you’re banned from this house and ranch.” he states through gritted teeth. “and you’re banned from speaking to my daughter. if i ever catch you near her, té mato. entiendes?”

miguel briefly looks down with a frown. shoulders slumped in defeat and frustration. much to your and his dismay, he agrees with a nod. your heart breaks, tears swelling in your eyes. grabbing his hat from the bed, miguel shoots a brief sad glance at you before exiting your bedroom, walking past your parents.

“y tú…” your father turns to you. “you don’t leave this house.” and with that, he walks away.

you collapse on the floor and break down into tears. the wall broke and the waterfall fell. your mother swiftly comes to your aid and pulls you into a tight, comforting embrace. you weep into her shoulder as you cry out your broken heart.

two hearts broke that day.

⠀⠀⠀⠀𓂃 ୨ ₊ 𓂃 ౨ৎ   𓂃 ₊ ୧   𓂃

she knew something happened.

the minute her eldest stepped foot into the house and stomped his way upstairs to his room without greeting her meant something was wrong. conchata knows her children well like most mothers do. she has her assumptions but rather know the truth.

with a sigh, she placed down the knife and heads upstairs to consult with her eldest son. she leaves a subtle knock on the door.

“mijo? estas bien?” she knew he wasn’t but she hopes he’ll allow her entry.

no answer.

she frowns but her concern increases. “mijo, if there’s something wrong, you can tell me.”

footsteps past by behind her. turning around, she sees her youngest walking by.

“do you know what’s wrong con tú hermano?”

he shakes his head. “no, he walked passed me at the ranch without saying anything.”

she frowns once again as gabriel heads towards the bathroom. glancing back at the door, she lets out another sad sigh before walking away.

later that evening, miguel finally makes his appearance. as she prepares the table with food, conchata noticed her son walking in.

“mijo, qué paso? did something happen?”

he remains silent but helps her with preparing the table. his face lacks of emotion, or at least lacks of his normal content self. mouth flat and tired eyes.

“miguel, por favor, dijeme.” the woman pleads. “is this about her?”

now he finally speaks.

“i’m banned from their ranch.”

conchata’s heart stops for a moment. “banned? como?” she sounds in disbelief but also concern.

his head hangs low, refusing to meet her gaze. “su papá doesn’t approve of me.”

now she feels heart drop. “doesn’t approve you? como que he doesn’t approve my son? you’ve worked so hard helping him at his ranch. he has lost his damn mind ese pinche cabrón.”

“he doesn’t approve me para su hija!”

now conchata is speechless but still in disbelief. “pero… you like each other…”

“pues el no le gusta porque he thinks i flirt with lots of women and believes i took an advantage of his daughter. believes i don’t love her.”

fury boils in her blood for your father to say such vile things about her son. but also heartbroken to see miguel so upset. she’s aware of his unpleasant encounters with idiot women so throw themselves at him, making him feel uncomfortable. it makes her want to give putasos con la chancla for bothering her son. she also feels for you too. understanding the dealing with heartbreak. of course someone gets in the way of true love. always a misunderstanding.

“ese cabrón knows nothing of my son.” she states firmly. “i know my own son and he’s nothing like those pinches mentiras. you’re a good man and have a good heart. i know you love her and she loves you. as much as i want to go beat that man con la chancla,” that elicits a chuckle from miguel. “i don’t want bloodshed between families because they’re good people and have been kind to us.”

the tension eases a bit on his shoulders. pleased to hear his mother’s supportive words.

“i know heartbreak isn’t easy, mijo… pero she’s a smart girl and she, and su mamá, will talk some sense into that man. it may take some time but don’t give up hope, her.” she gently takes his hands in hers.

the corners of his lips curl up into a soft smile. “yo sé, gracias mamá.” he pulls her into an embrace.

“siempre, mijo.” she hugs him back.

miguel wasn’t giving up on you. no, never. all he wants in his life is you. he’s willing to do whatever it takes to show his love for you. hoping it’ll change your father’s mind about your relationship.

⠀⠀⠀⠀𓂃 ୨ ₊ 𓂃 ౨ৎ   𓂃 ₊ ୧   𓂃

you don’t even know what day it is. you’ve been cooped up in your room since you’re not allow to leave the house. each day has been filled with tears and anger. tears stains on your pillows are proof of the heartbreak. your mom had to change them twice because of your mascara stains on them. anger boiling in your veins. pissed off at your father’s insane behavior about this shitshow. your mom and carlos have been comforting you. your mom soothing your broken heart with hugs and forehead kisses. carlos also gives hugs and tells his stupid ass jokes.

your father hasn’t spared a glance at you since the argument, as if you don’t exist. it hurts since you’ve always been his little girl. it hurts he disrespected miguel with those hurtful lies. it hurts he stripped your experience of love away from you.

besides moping and crying, the only things keeping you occupied is watching tv, scroll on your phone, draw or paint, listen to music, and sleep. your dad really meant not leaving the house because you can’t even visit the stables to greet the horses. your only source of happiness during this period of misery and imprisonment is lola. she’ll join you on the bed when you take naps. play with her, tossing toys at her.

it’s just been so fucking miserable.

the only chance you’ll get to see miguel is whenever he’s outside. you sit by your window and observe him working on his family ranch. you know he knows you’re watching him. god you miss him so fucking much. his kisses, his hugs, his voice, his hands.

you can’t text or call him since your dad deleted his contact off your phone when you left your phone in room behind when you visited the kitchen one day. at least he didn’t delete gabriel’s so you had some type of method to keep in contact with miguel. you’ll text gabriel, asking how his brother is doing. upset and frustrated were what you were expecting.

the love of your life stripped away from your heart by the hands of your father. how fucking sad that is.

you want to make him understand but the man is stubborn as hell and believes his opinion is the only relevant opinion. you understand your mom’s frustration with your dad after years of marriage.

you need to make him understand.

⠀⠀⠀⠀𓂃 ୨ ₊ 𓂃 ౨ৎ   𓂃 ₊ ୧   𓂃

your growling tummy sends you downstairs to retrieve a snack. heading for the kitchen, you see your parents talking. your mom preparing for tonight’s dinner while your dad drinks a glass of water. he must’ve returned from the ranch.

a wave of determination courses through your veins. you’re fed up with this nonsense and imprisonment. he has to respect your wishes and life. although you’re his youngest and only daughter, you’re a grown woman. you have your own goals, wishes, desires for your life. he can’t strip that away from you. this is your life and he needs to understand.

“papá.” you stand near the kitchen island.

the man turns around and sees you. a frown settles on his face. “¿qué quieres?”

your fists tightened. “this needs to stop.”

his frown deepens. “ya te dije que no.”

“this is ridiculous!” you exclaim with your hands in the air. “you can’t ground me for falling in love! especially with someone who’s a good person!”

“he is not a good person.” he sets the now empty glass of water down on the counter with a bit of aggressiveness. luckily it didn’t break. “ese huevón flirts with a bunch of women behind your back. you can’t love someone if they lie to you.”

“he doesn’t flirt with them, papá! those women flirt with him!” you cry, making him go silent. “they throw themselves at him and it makes him uncomfortable. women twice his age! he tries to be polite and tell them he’s not interested. he already told me about this.” a thin layer of tears forms up in your eyes. “he said he’ll never betray me, never break my heart because he loves me, papí.”

your father only remained speechless. your mother too, who stopped cooking since you spoke.

“being with miguel, i’ve never been so happy. he makes me so happy.” you smile sadly. “yours and mom’s relationship is what i’ve been seeking for. being together for many years, spending the rest of your lives together. i found that with miguel. he’s the one i want to spend the rest of my life with.”

a sorrowful look in his eyes. your mom is on the verge of tears, happy tears of course. she couldn’t be more proud of you, defending yourself and miguel.

“please don’t take that away from me.”

the crack in your voice makes him wince. the anger now vanished, replaced with sorrow and regret. seeing his little girl on the verge of tears breaks his heart into a million pieces like any other parent.

“i… lo siento, mi cielo.” he covers his mouth with a hand. sighing as regret plagues his body. “i’m so sorry… i didn’t mean…” the next few words died when he feels you arms around his body, embracing him.

“yo sé, papí. yo sé.” you whisper.

he accepts your embrace, not wasting a second. “i was just protecting you from heartbreak. i couldn’t bare to you see like that.”

“i know.” you sniffed, smiling a little.

“but i was wrong about him… ay dios, all those things i said. now what you told me…”

“he’ll forgive you.” you pull away, softly smiling. “miguel knows you were protecting me.”

he nods sadly. “still, i need to apologize to him. lo siento mucho, mija.”

“it’s okay, papí. thank you.” you hug him one last time before your mothers joins you both.

it was going to be okay.

⠀⠀⠀⠀𓂃 ୨ ₊ 𓂃 ౨ৎ   𓂃 ₊ ୧   𓂃

your father apologized to miguel. he immediately accepted because he understood your father’s reasons. the apology concluded with a hand shake before your dad pulls miguel into an embrace. everyone was pleased the shitshow was over. conchata also accepted your father’s apology. no bloodshed was made. just two happy families.

the words “son-in-law” accidentally slipped through your dad’s lips and it made you and miguel flustered a little. it was pleasing to know your dad was envisioning a future of the family including miguel.

afterwards, you and miguel finally pursue this relationship without fear. opened to the world.

riding in his truck, you drive to the beach. windows down and the hot summer breeze flowing through your hair. parked in the same secluded spot from previous times, you and miguel share a little intimate moment. lips connected in a passionate kiss.

with one final kiss, miguel sucking your bottom lip, he slowly pulls away to admire you. eyes filled with adoration, simply and only for you.

“té quiero tanto, mi alma.”

you softly smile. “té quiero tanto, mi vaquero.”

little did you know five years later you and miguel would have a ranch and family of your own. a daughter who’s an exact replica of her father. like your parents, you and miguel spend the rest of your lives together. like true soulmates.

◟ ࣪⠀ׅ ♱⠀𝓝ote. this is probably one of best fics i’ve written imo. holy shit the creative flow was flowing with this, lowkey proud of it. this is most definitely one of my favorites.

© teenidlegirl. don’t steal, plagiarize, or translate my work. ♡

[ba9go]

i don't care if you're contagious

bakugou katsuki x gn!reader (zombie apocalypse au)

in which katsuki promises to never leave your side.

katsuki trudged through the wreckage strewn about the street, the chaos of the apocalypse swirling around him. he had seen countless horrors, but none compared to this.

he sees a young boy sprinting away from a twisted, zombified woman. his mother. the child is sobbing, and katsuki's first instinct is to rush in and protect, but one of the other pro-heroes beat him to it.

'fuckin' hell,' katsuki thinks as he continues down the ruined street, steps heavy with disgust and frustration. his stomach twists and katsuki feels sickened at the cruelty of it all.

his eyes darted from one horror to another — crumbling buildings, abandoned cars, the unsettling sight of undead creatures stumbling, crawling, lying amongst the wreckage.

after days of this god-damned apocalypse, katsuki's gotten somewhat used to it. the stench of decay. the incessant groaning ringing in his ears. it was sickening.

and worst of all? you were missing.

it's been roughly 72 hours since katsuki's seen you (yes, he's keeping track), and katsuki's frantic.

katsuki knows you're strong, knows how capable you are. but even so, the situation has only gone from bad to worse, and anything could happen.

katsuki doesn't know what he'd do if he lost you.

katsuki knows he can't afford to dwell on things like that. each time he feels himself worrying about you, he shoves it all aside, because he knows — if he lets himself think about it, his mind would simply spiral, until it drove him completely crazy and to the brink of breaking down.

and only god knows how bad katsuki wanted to break down every passing moment without you, without knowing that you were okay.

katsuki doesn't think too much about what could happen. the thought of you lost in this madness, possibly hurt (or worse), was simply too unbearable.

instead, katsuki thinks about your sweet voice, telling him to stay strong, reassuring him that things will all be okay.

sometimes, in the quiet moments between the chaos, katsuki would close his eyes and let his mind drift back to the last time he saw you.

"katsuki," you murmured, reaching up to hold his face. your touch is always so gentle, and yet katsuki swears that it's the only thing keeping him grounded in this fucked-up situation.

"y/n'," katsuki exhales with a shaky breath. he leans down and presses his forehead against yours. his hands tighten their grip on your waist as he pulls you in as close as he can get. "i don't know if i have it in me to let you go, darlin'."

"i know, katsuki," you sighed, caressing his cheeks with your thumbs, and katsuki's chest tightens as your eyes start to water. "i'll be back later, alright?"

"i'll be waiting," katsuki thinks you already know this, but he tells you anyway. "i swear to god, i ain't lettin' go of ya when ya come back to me."

"sure took your sweet time comin' back to me, didn't ya?" katsuki chuckles as he approaches the familiar figure staggering through the debris.

it was you.

the infection had twisted you into one of them, with deathly pale skin and jerky, unnatural movements. yet even in your zombified state, katsuki knew it was you.

slowly, you turned around to look at katsuki impassively. katsuki's heart clenches at your empty stare, but he can't bring himself to walk away from you.

"been lookin' for ya, ya know?" katsuki laughs, even though it's strained. "had me lookin' like the clingy one, sweets."

you stumble towards him with outstretched hands, and all katsuki can think is that you're reaching out to him, and he's rushing to you in an instant.

before he reaches you, you sway on your feet and fall to the ground on your knees. katsuki curses under his breath and he kneels in front of you, holding you by your shoulders to steady you.

"are you okay?" is what katsuki wants to ask, but he realises with a shudder that it would be futile. instead, he closes the distance, his hand gently cupping your face.

"damn it, y/n," katsuki voice breaks. "i've been looking for you. i looked everywhere." katsuki searches desperately in your eyes for any trace of emotion, of recognition.

you let out a weak, garbled noise, but you don't lean into his touch, and katsuki thinks for the first time since this shitty apocalypse that his world might finally be crashing down around him.

'no,' katsuki thinks. he finally found you. this was no time for him to break down. he had to be strong, for you.

"i'm sorry i took so long," katsuki forces a small smile. "m'here now, yeah?"

katsuki wraps his arms around you and pulls you in towards him like he's done countless times in the past.

katsuki closed the gap between them, his lips pressing against yours in a kiss.

katsuki doesn't pull away until your hands are on his shoulders, pushing him away as if in protest. it was so like you, and katsuki couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped him.

"i told ya i wouldn't let go of ya, didn't i?" katsuki smiles, even as he feels himself growing faint. "a promise's a promise, darlin'."

bbbbrrrrrraaaaiiiinnnnnnsssssssssss...

taglist (thank you for your support!!): @anicaaa67 @maddietries @valeriyaaak @v3n7s @deimosjay @zaiban2989 @girls-overflower @notmeduhh @dreamcastgirl99 @busdriver-move-that-ass @atashiboba @kathsuhki @armeenix @channnee @sukunasbottomlefteyeball @kenqki @vikizzy @thesimpybitch @eempxth @hanta-seros-wifey @itztaki @thekidscallmebosss @crimsonrubie @babylambdietcoke @suki0

[borntoyearn]

Everything hurts. Your boobs, your lower back, your legs...fuck everything aches. It's the last month of your pregnancy and you want to die. Not literally, but god these last weeks have been hell. Simon has been so damn patient with you– just yesterday you snapped at him for "crunching too loud" on his cereal. He apologized and sat at the other end of the couch.

He's been an angel, and you want to cry for how mean you've been to him. He swears he gets whiplash from your mood swings, but he wouldn't have it any other way. You're carrying his baby– he has no right to complain about your moodiness.

Uncomfortable is the word you would use to describe the last days until you become a family of three. You can't even sneeze without peeing a little, its fucking embarrassing. Most of all, the new ache between your legs is insane. It's so sensitive down there, when the inseam of your leggings brushes the nub just right, you almost whine.

Simon's almost-new-dad status doesn't help. He works around the house and looks so fucking sexy doing it. You came back from a walk some days ago and found him sitting in the nursery, brows furrowed trying to decipher the crib instructions. You fought every urge not to pounce on him. Today though, its unbearable. You need to cum, like...right now.

"Babe my boobs hurt," the first hint...well, hardly a hint. But it's a start. Simon only humphs in response, apparently the documentary on Machu Picchu is more important than your current predicament.

"Uh hello? They fucking hurt, Simon" you press. Okay, watch your tone, breathe...he's just invested in the Incas right now.

"Can you help me?" you plead. Now he turns to look over at you. "What do you need, love?" his tone is calm, even that makes you feral. But fuck, what do you need? Well...

"Take off my shirt please" you give him your best doe eyes. Simon puts down the remote on the coffee table and scoots closer to you. "Arms up princess" your pussy pulses at the nickname, "My bra too please, it's killing me." He takes both garments off so gently. "That all you need?" Fuck no, not even close.

"Take your shirt off."

"Mine? Why?"

"I want you hold me."

He complies, of course he does. Simon has been fighting the horny demons too. Jerking off doesn't even help anymore– he needs you just as much as you need him.

His shirt is off and he lays down, you lay next to him. Chest to chest...or belly to belly is more accurate. It's just not enough. You grow impatient, "Babe, I need you." It's barely a whisper, but dripping with want. "I don't think we can anymore, doll." You want to stomp like a child. Your current position only lets you nudge his foot with yours. "Please baby. I think I'll die if I don't have you." He chuckles, "I'm so serious, Simon. If I don't cum in the next thirty minutes you wont have a wife anymore." He doesn't say anything, but you know he's thinking.

"Okay, flip over" Fuck yes. Finally. It's happening. You miss him...so much. The last time he took you to pound town was after your baby shower, two months ago.

You're on your back now and Simon is on his knees between your legs, looking down at you. "Promise me you'll tell me if it gets too much." He's serious and you shudder. "Yeah, I promise honey." He leans down and gives your cheek a kiss, then your forehead, and finally your lips. "Thank you" he says. He dips his head to plant wet kisses on your neck, your collarbone. He lays his head on your chest for a moment, and continues on his venture. Your breasts are equally as pleading as you are, begging to be touched. He gives them a light squeeze, he knows they're sensitive. Then he suckles on your left nipple, massaging the other. You mewl...its been so long.

You two used to go at it daily, even earlier in your pregnancy. Then your body started to change and things started to get uncomfortable, so sex was off the table until the baby arrived. Right now, you're so happy. His mouth feels amazing on your tits, but you need him somewhere else.

"Simon, baby" you manage to speak, "need your mouth on me"

"It is on you" he challenges.

"You know what I mean."

"I don't think I do" oh he loves you like this, he'll make you beg if he has to. But you don't have the patience, not tonight.

"On my pussy. Need your mouth on my pussy." You moan and arch into his touch. You can't even see that his hand is under your shorts and panties. Another belly problem.

"I've got you mama, don't worry." You swear you cream. He takes off your shorts and scoots back to dip his head between your legs. He presses his nose into your clothed core and inhales deep, "Fuck you smell amazing." Simon can be so nasty, but you love it.

You jerk hard when he presses a kiss to your pussy. He sits back a little, concerned. "You okay?" you can only nod in response. You're dizzy already and he hasn't even taken your panties off. He goes back to the task at hand. Simon drags his hands down your waist, hooks his fingers on the waistband of your panties and slides them off. The sight is to die for. Your clit is so big and puffy and red, practically screaming to be played with. He cant help but ask. "Are you in any pain, love?" you laugh. He takes that as a no.

Simon's tongue licks a fat stripe over your folds. You might die, fuck you're gonna die. He parts them and licks at the center. The way he suckles on your clit is fucking divine. Everything feels so much more intense with the pregnancy. Your legs are already twitching. Simon's tongue flicks over the angry red nub. It's getting you to the edge, fuck its too soon though. You want to cry, it cant be over yet.

"Baby no more please!" It's all you can manage to squeal. He sits back, breathless. Your juices coat his lips and chin. You wanna kiss him so bad. "C'mere please." You grab at his tattooed bicep and pull him on top of you. "Need your cock" you plead in his ear, "I need it so bad."

"Baby we cant, I'll hurt the ba-"

"Just the tip." Your negotiation skills are terrible, but you literally need this, "Please just rub your tip on me. That's all I need."

How the hell is he gonna say no to that? Simon gets up to take off his sweats and briefs. His cock springs up to his abdomen, you can see the pre that has smeared all over the tip. He gets on top of you once more, your legs immediately wrap around his waist.

"You're shaking, you cold?" Fuck you are shaking, his tongue on you and the sight of his dick have you fucking shaking. "No not cold babe, just fuck me please." Simon shakes his head and laughs, he'll never get over how needy you can get. He doesn't want to make you wait much longer, maybe you will die if he takes another minute.

He grabs his cock and rubs it between your folds, the tip bumps against your bundle of nerves– you both sigh at the contact. Once his dick is coated enough, he slides into your clenching hole. Simon has to remind himself that its just his tip for today, but the way your walls are fluttering on his head and sucking him in more...he's fighting every urge to not bury himself balls deep in you. You're a moaning mess at this point. He's moving his hips just enough to slide his cockhead in and out of you. You're almost there, but just need a little push. So you grab Simon's thumb, suck on it, and you guide it down to play with your clit. He looks at you and nearly cums too– his heavily pregnant wife, her legs spread wide open literally creaming on his dick. It could be his own personal porno.

A few more quick strokes of his cock send you over the edge. Your back arches and you moan loud, relief and pleasure wash over you. You have to smack his hand away from your pussy from the sensitivity. Simon is fucked out, he's chasing his high too.

"Where do you want it?" He's frantic, hopefully you read his mind.

"On my belly..wan' it on my belly" you respond, breathless. That was it. That was his push.

Simon pulls out and strokes himself a couple of more times. His tip a lighter color than before he fucked you, it's probably the layer of your cum. He puts his hand next to your head and leans over you. The slick fwop fwop from his dick makes you dizzy all over again. He cums hard. His seed shoots out in long strings over your tummy. He groans loud next to your ear.

"Fuuuuck, look at that. Look at the mess we made." It is a mess. You can't see the dark spot the couch has now, but that's something you'll deal with later.

Simon is still staring at the marking he gave you. He reaches over and grabs his cellphone. It'd be a sin if he didn't capture this moment. He then grabs his tossed shirt and cleans you up, stomach and pussy.

"I can't get up" you whine.

"C'mon we have to shower."

"Carry me" you jut out your bottom lip. He can't help but kiss you, his darling wife.

So carry you he does. He also washes your hair in the shower and gives some extra love to your belly. As many changes that you both have gone through, he's content to know that you'll always want him, and he damn sure will always want you.

a/n: literally ignore this rushed ass ending y'all 😖 dad!simon brainrot is tew real !! maybe i'll write some headcanons since i am not able to write long fics like this one without sounding silly LMAO

[bunnylovesani]

Miss Congeniality

Chapter 4

Content warnings: MDNI, soft dom ani, smoking weed, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, humiliation kink, dirty talk, ani likes getting slapped, aftercare, general smut with fluff

WC: 2.7k

Your last competition marked the end of pageant season, giving you plenty of time to figure out how you were gonna break the news to your parents that you were done with it all. You’d finished high school over a year ago and were now stuck in a rut; what’s next for you? If you weren’t going to college and weren’t competing for any more titles, what did life have in store? You struggled to imagine a world beyond the 4 walls of your room and your plushy pink bed laden with stuffed animals.

You'd gone out with your family last night to the fancy new Italian place- with your pageant victory and Jaden landing his first job since dropping out of college, there was plenty of cause for celebration. It quickly went awry when you made some distasteful jokes alluding to your status as the golden girl; your father didn’t much appreciate your increasingly rebellious attitude and left the restaurant before dessert could be served.

To your surprise, his displeasure didn’t affect you nearly as much as it normally does. When someone’s mad at you, you’re unusually unbearable about it: you follow them around like a puppy who’d lost its ball, whining and apologising until they caved and showed you affection. But not today. How could you when all your thoughts were consumed by someone else? You looked for him everywhere, sitting on the chair at the edge of your bed or round the table at dinner- Anakin’s absence was sorely felt now that you'd grown accustomed to his frequent pop-ins and tag-alongs. You wondered if it would be strange for you to be the one coming over for once.

You'd always imagined him living in either a frathouse hovel or some kind of unsanitary bachelor pad- but standing in front of the steel gates of the apartment complex, you were pleasantly surprised. You punch in the code he texted you when you announced your arrival and the gate doors swung wide open. Climbing into the elevator to reach the 7th floor, your hands feel clammy and there's bile rising up your throat. You'd never visited him before and the fact that you'd invited yourself over on an impulsive whim had you second-guessing everything.

The elevator doors open and he’s right there, leaning against his apartment at the end of the hallway. You wonder if he waited outside for you so that you wouldn't have a chance to turn back at the last minute. Clearly, he knew you better than you gave him credit for.

“There you are. Took you long enough.” He smirked, leading the way into his apartment as you followed behind him like a lost puppy.

As soon as you stepped foot into the place, your nostrils filled with the musky scent of weed, smoke wafting over from the sizeable brown blunt he held between his silver ring-clad fingers.

“It’s barely noon.” You scolded him as you took a seat on his black leather couch.

“Did you come here just to nag me? Maybe you should take a hit, it’ll chill you out.” He plonked onto a bean bag opposite you, spreading his long legs out and inhaling another drag.

“I didn’t come here to get high.” You huff, wondering why you were acting so high-strung when in fact, you weren’t opposed to the idea.

“No, I don’t suppose you would. You probably couldn’t handle it anyway and I have no interest in spending the night babysitting. In more interesting news, I heard you had a fight with daddy last night.” He spat cockily- damn Jaden and his big mouth.

“Bold of you to assume I’d be spending the night. And it’s none of your business.” You cross your arms, slowly filling with regret for coming here. Why was he being such a dick?

“Wow, you’re acting even more bratty than usual. Didn’t think that was possible. Why are you even here?” He puts the blunt out half-smoked, leaving the remainder resting against the ashtray.

“I, I don’t know…I just thought-“

“Let me take a wild guess. You wanted to piss daddy off by sneaking off to see your brother’s older, bad influence of a friend. Thought you’d push some boundaries and try to prove to yourself that you’re not just a stuck-up little good girl. Well, you failed.” He cocks his eyebrows at you.

“I am neither stuck up nor a good girl! Just because I choose to behave myself instead of acting like an animal doesn’t mean I’m not capable of all the things you are.” You feel your blood pressure rising.

“Prove it.”

“Oh and I bet you would just love it if I put out and debased myself for you. All you want is to get me high and fuck me- I know what your intentions are and it’s not gonna happen buddy.” You get up, marching across the room and heading for the door.

“That’s rich coming from someone who screams my name when she cums.” He states matter-of-factly and you stop in your tracks.

“That’s right, sweetheart. I heard you. Acting all high and mighty when you’re the slut here. Admit it, you want me.” He walks towards you and turns you around to face him. Before your brain can catch up with your body, your palm swings around and makes contact with his right cheek, smacking him with the intensity of a whip cracking.

“Feisty. I like it.” He holds his hand up to his reddened face, somewhat shocked but not angry. “Are we done now? I’m really not in the mood to argue.” He smirks at you, pulling you in by the waist and instantly softening your attitude.

“I’m so sorry! Oh Ani I don’t know what came over me, ‘m sorry!” You attentively caress his cheek, inspecting how hard you slapped him. You acted like your reaction was a result of him calling you that word- but if you were honest with yourself, you knew it was because he was right. If you weren’t in denial, you’d realise you loved the way the insult rolled off his tongue and loved how it made you feel even more.

“I’m so embarrassed.” A blush creeps over your cheeks at the thought of him eavesdropping on your most intimate moments.

“Over assaulting me or over touching yourself thinking about me?” He traces his hand along your shoulder.

“Both.” You give him a snarky glare. He was enjoying this too much.

“Well if it makes you feel any better, you’re not the only one who’s done that.” He flashes you a grin before relighting his blunt and scurrying down the hallway into his room.

“Huh, done what? Ani? Not the only one who’s done what?” You follow him down the hallway giddily and stop outside his bedroom door. Blunt in mouth, you see Anakin right before you - taking off his hoodie, shirt getting caught by the tight material and revealing his tanned v-line and happy trail on full display. You couldn’t help but stare at the veins trailing down his lower stomach and leading into his boxers, gulping as you admire the perfect dark blonde tuft of hair growing in a neat line below his belly button.

“God it’s hot in here. What were you asking again?” He asks, folding away his hoodie and taking a long drag.

“Umm, uh it’s nothing. Hey, can I have a puff?” You point at his blunt in curiosity, trying to banish the sinful mental images flashing through your head.

“But princess, it’s barely noon.“ He berates you mockingly and you roll your eyes.

“I was a little tense earlier, ‘m sorry.” You sigh and twiddle your thumbs. “It’s just that I’ve never tried it.”

“Come here.” He beckons you over to his bed and sits you on his lap. “You can try a few drags but only a couple. I don’t wanna see that attitude of yours come out when I cut you off. Now are you gonna be a good girl and listen?”

“Yes Ani, I promise!” You nod along and wrap your arms around his neck.

“Alright sweetheart, here ya go.” He hands you the joint and you take your first hit, coughing and spluttering as a burning sensation spreads through your lungs.

“Ani, this is awful! How can you smoke this?!” You scrunch your face up, disgusted by the strange new feeling.

“That’s because you’re doing it wrong, silly. Inhale slowly, like this.” He demonstrates and you follow his lead, taking a smoother drag this time.

“There you go baby, you’re a natural.” He chuckles and snakes his hand round to rest on your bare thigh. “What kind of outfit is this, huh? Are you trying to seduce me or something?” He snorts, playing with the short frills of your mini skirt.

“No! I just thought it was pretty.” You chirp innocently.

“Pretty slutty, yea.” You gasp and slap his chest.

“Will you stop hitting me?!” He exclaims, digging his fingers into your thighs.

“I will, just as soon you stop calling me a slut!”

“Why, when I know you like it.”

“So do you.” You’d noticed him shuffling around and adjusting his sweatpants every time you’d playfully hit him and you weren’t that oblivious as to what that meant.

“Is that why you do it then?” He says after a little pause, gaze dropping to focus on your parted lips.

“Um…uh, I” You stutter as you feel your panties getting wet and your brain getting hazy- partially from his intense gaze and partially from the blunt.

“Aw, is it getting to you now? I see your eyes glazing over.” He takes the blunt out of your hands and takes another puff himself before putting it out. “That’s enough.”

You’re too busy fixating on his thumb which is rubbing feather-light circles into your inner thigh to notice.

“Stop it, you’re making me feel tingly.” You bat his hand away.

“Oh yeah? What kinda tingles?” He disregards your command and returns his hand to its original position.

“The kind that make me feel fuzzy inside…” You utter in a hushed tone, starting to sway a little now that your high had hit you.

“Lie down f’me babe.” He guides you off his lap and onto his bed. “So you’ve never had anyone help you make those tingles go away?”

“Nuh uh.” You shake your head innocently and he grins, starting to lift your shirt and press light kisses up and down your tummy.

“And would you like it if your Ani was the first?” He looks up at you, speaking so softly you could barely hear him.

You choked out a “yea!” before covering your face with a pillow, embarrassed by Anakin’s insistence on eye contact as he slid your skirt off and started fiddling with the waistband of your pink panties.

“Don’t be shy baby, I wanna see that pretty face of yours.” He groans as he hooks his fingers around your underwear and slides them off before spreading your legs and admiring what’s between them.

“Anii, what are you doing?” You squeal, face burning with shame, barely able to meet his intense gaze.

“Stop squirming, will ya? I’ve been dreaming about this moment for months, let a man take in the view before he dives in.” He grazes his thumb lightly over your clit and lets out a moan. “Goddamn baby, I’ve barely touched you and you’re soaked. You have a habit of ruining your panties, don’t you?”

You whine at his patronising comments, feeling overwhelmed with arousal and embarrassment.

“What a pretty pink pussy…” He mutters to himself and you feel yourself being pulled into a narcotic-induced daze, everything around you growing hazy and numb.

You’re brought back to life when his tongue dips into your folds, licking a wet stripe up your clit that makes your body jolt with pleasure.

“Fuck!” You yelp unexpectedly as your thighs start trembling- you don’t ever swear. He looks up at you as he flicks his tongue repeatedly over your swollen pussy, maintaining a tight grip around your hips to ensure you can’t escape.

“Already shaking, princess? You virgins are so sensitive.” He sneers before resuming his torturously pleasurable routine. You moan and pant as waves of euphoria wash over you like never before. You’d touched yourself a few times but you’d never experienced such mind-numbingly sensual gratification.

Just as you thought the pleasure couldn’t possibly escalate, he pushes one of his fingers inside your tight little hole. You gasp at the intrusion and before you can properly adjust, he shoves another one in until he’s massaging your insides with a beckoning motion.

“Shh, baby. Shh, it’s okay.” He hushes you comfortingly as you squeal and whimper. He resumes tonguing your bundle of nerves as you grab onto his unruly blonde curls, needing something to ground you in case you floated away in ecstasy.

“You taste so good princess…you like my fingers, huh? I can see you do, you’re gushing all over me.” You blush at his crude words as he slaps the side of your thigh and dives back in, continuing to eat you out for what felt like hours. He worked you up to the brink of your orgasm several times- before stopping abruptly, ensuring you were sobbing with pleasure before he even considered releasing you.

“Bet you’re gonna think twice now before coming to my house with that attitude again.” He grunts, silver rings pounding against your pussy as he continues stroking you with increasing intensity.

“Mm, please! Please Ani, please let me cum. You were right, I am a good girl, I’m your good girl! Please daddy, I can’t take it anymore!” You wail, half out of your mind and nauseous with pleasure.

“Daddy, huh?” He smirks, satisfied that he’d tortured you for long enough. “Alright baby, let go for me. Cum all over my fingers sweetheart.”

With one final resounding moan, you cum so hard the world starts spinning and you see stars, glistening brightly and jumping across the room. You take deep gulps of air to try and calm your erratically beating heart as Anakin lifts himself up to lie down beside you.

“Breathe baby, just breathe.” He pulls you into his arms and places his hand in an open palm over your heart. “You did so good. Here angel, drink some water.” Handing you the bottle, you only then realise how dry your mouth feels from the blunt.

“Ani? How did you manage to get it all so wet after smoking?” You ask weakly after taking a few sips.

“Most of that wetness wasn’t from me, sweetheart.” He mumbles into the crook of your neck, before planting a few kisses there. “Do you wanna spend the night here?”

“Mhm! Yea Ani I’d love to!” You chirp sweetly.

“Alright baby, why don’t we get you changed into something more comfortable and then we can watch something?” He plants a delicate kiss onto your lips and gets up to peruse through his wardrobe. “How about this? It’s my favourite band tee.” He throws you a black shirt with a metal band graphic printed across it- you recognise it instantly as one of his most worn articles of clothing and your heart swells with joy. Eagerly, you throw it on and giggle at how oversized it is on you.

“I love it!” You wrap your arms around yourself and take a deep inhale: woody cologne, weed and peppermint gum. “It smells like you too.”

“Oh no I’m sorry, maybe I forgot to wash it- let me get another one-“

“No Ani, I love it! You smell amazing.” You pull him back down into the bed with you and roll on top of him, wanting to be as physically close as possible. “Baby? I feel bad, you made me feel amazing and I haven’t...well, done anything.”

“I couldn’t give less of a fuck, princess. Now, what do you want to watch?” He rolls you over, wraps his arm around you and reaches for the remote.

Next Chapter

[alienoresimagines]

can you write [knuckles] for a kiss on the hand? thank you!!

I'm sorry this took so long, I hope you're still around 🥺❤️But here it is, 1.8k long despite my best efforts at keeping it under 1k 😅 I hope you'll like it 💕 Also on AO3 My other Clegan fics here

Never Coming Down (With Your Hand In Mine) | Buck x Bucky

The radio they managed to find doesn't tell them much of interest regarding the Allies’ troops and their progress, but writing any tidbits of information down gives John something to focus on that isn't this camp, this life that isn't really a life but that isn't death either, just some in-between that John is stuck in, unable to do anything or be useful. One foot in the grave and every day wishing a bit more it was both. In the darkest corner of his mind, he thinks that perhaps his death would save Gale from tiring himself to the bone trying to keep John tethered to Earth. Maybe, at least then, he could be useful to Buck. 

The thought is squashed away almost immediately, guilt crawling in his throat. Those few days after Gale had gone down over Bremen were the worst in John's life. The certainty that he was now a piece of something that would never be whole again, with no home to fight for anymore, had been the most excruciating pain John's ever known. Over the course of just a few months, he’s lost more friends than he can count, each loss cutting deeper. But losing Gale hadn’t just felt like losing a limb. From the moment Red’s distorted voice reached his ears through the phone - “He went down swinging, John” - he was an empty shell walking, his chest hollow with no heart, some vital part of him missing. No matter how miserable this camp makes him, wishing such agony on his best friend, his better half is unbearable. If only to spare Gale any additional pain, he’ll plant both feet in the mud until they stop trying to get him closer to that barbed-wire fence. 

Yet, despite desperately wishing Gale out of harm’s way, his being chained to the dirt with him is John’s saving grace. In the darkness of the Stalag, Gale shines brighter than the North Star, and John fights every day to keep himself from the fog in his head to grasp at this soft golden light. It's easier at night, the weight of Gale in his arms a grounding presence, the distinct smell of him feeling more and more like home, but John is starting to make it through some days always there too. Listening to the radio also helps, especially when most days, it's just him and Gale at the table, the others keeping watch on the guards from outside. Soon it'll be too cold for them to do so without it being suspicious or dangerous for their own health, but for now, John is glad he gets to spend more time alone with Gale. His ma always said he fights tooth and nail for those he loves, and right now, he's desperately grasping at the fading rays of sunlight, selfishness be damned.

Today, the BBC doesn't have any interesting news to keep hold of his attention for long, so he mostly scribbles down what he hears without making sense of the words strung together, too focused on the solid presence of Buck on his right. With both of them being right-handed, it would have been too much of a hindrance to be pressed close enough for their shoulders to touch, but their knees knock together every so often, like silent banter. It sends sparks of warmth down John's spine, the focused tilt of Gale's mouth only amusing him in his boredom. In the past five minutes, he's sent his knee against Gale's in soft presses, alternating between lingering and fleeting touches until the word B-U-C-K is successfully floating in the air, though the man himself seems entirely unaware of it, tongue darting between his lips in concentration. Bucky's debating coding G-A-L-E, just to see if the rare occurrence of his given name will snap the other out of his focus when said man grunts softly as he scribbles, pencil scratching the paper as it nears the edge. John mindlessly hands him a blank piece of paper, more than attuned to all the different ways the other has to ask for something without voicing his desires, eyes trained on the stray blond curl falling on Buck’s forehead. Without lifting his eyes from his piece of paper, Gale extends a pale hand to take John's offering, the contact of their fingers sending a jolt through John's blood. He lets out a yelp, slightly jerking back before diving in to hold Gale's hands between his own, Buck's sound of confusion and protest as his pencil is thrown out of his hold swallowed by John's cursing.

"Jesus, Buck, your hands are fuckin' freezing." John doesn't feel particularly warm but the difference in temperature between both their hands is such that he half-expects the air to start hissing. How Gale can still move his fingers is a mystery to him, and his gut goes tight with worry. Trying to rub warmth back into those hands, John brings them to his face so that he can blow hot air on long fingers. He's deeply aware of how intimate the gesture is, especially in a place like this, and he can feel heat rising to his cheeks but he focuses stubbornly on his task. Keeping his eyes on those hands he’s never held so close to his face is a necessary precaution to ensure he doesn’t dismiss any inch of skin in his mission to warm them enough that he doesn’t have to worry about them falling off, and it has the additional effect of allowing John to study them without fearing being caught.

Gale's hands truly are beautiful. They've always been, and in the years he's known the other, John has spent more time than he probably should have admiring them. How they wrap in a strong grip around the yolk to wield a metal fortress effortlessly, how long, slender fingers bring a toothpick to the plump curve of his lips. Calluses on fingers and rough palms that were still so gentle and kind when they tended to John's wounds just a few months ago. Today, they look frail and dry, the knuckles angry red and cracked from the cold. It hurts to even look at them, those hands that were more suited for piano and gently guiding horses across fields now cracked by misery and cold. Acting on an urge, he presses a kiss to the knuckles of both, a silent promise to warm them and get them better, to get them far from weapons and barbed fences, and back to horses and piano and books.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Gale blinking owlishly at him, perfectly still. Between them, the radio crackles, words floating in the air but never making it to any paper. After a few more seconds, Gale's voice rises too, soft despite his usual deep southern drawl.

"I need my hands back, Bucky." John frowns, still rubbing his palms over Gale's hands to warm them. Admittedly, he knows Gale can't write with his foot, even though imagining it almost makes him smile, but really, nothing the BBC is broadcasting right now is worth the risk of Gale losing his hands to the cold. Unconsciously, he brings Gale's hands closer to his face, just shy of nuzzling them with the tip of his nose, already thinking of all the ways he could get them warm. It would be, like many things, easier at night. With the cold, everybody has taken up to sharing a bunk and no one would notice if Gale's hands were pressed to his skin, under his shirt. Even though the thought of those icicles against more sensitive skin than his palms isn't exactly a pleasant one, he'd do it in a heartbeat. For the day, when it would be too risky for John to hold Gale's hands in his pockets, maybe he could find him some gloves, at least make mittens out of socks, to soften the blow of the cold and the sting of the wind. 

"Bucky ?" Eyes snapping to Gale's, he finds him with his head slightly tilted to the side, cheeks red from the cold. It's then he realizes he still has both of Gale's hands in his. The other looks at him and then back at his paper before raising his brows in a silent question, making John huff. Reluctantly, he lets go of Gale's right hand but immediately cradles his left hand on his lap. He hopes Gale will be satisfied with this, but the other keeps looking at him insistently, a fond glint in his eyes but brows slightly furrowed, as if his left hand being held in both of John's is a math problem he can’t solve.

At the silent question, he rolls his eyes and makes a show of putting his own left hand on the upper part of Gale's paper, making sure it doesn't move from its spot on the table. The paper is smooth against his fingertips, contrasting with the rough feel of the wooden table that has given them more than their fair share of splinters on his palm. He misses the feeling of Gale’s hands in his. For a moment, he had felt whole in a way he usually only feels at night. Gale's hand is starting to get warmer in his, the skin rough from the cold, but John has never held something as delicate and precious as it, save for Gale himself.

Resting their joined hands on his lap, he intertwines their fingers and fights down the blush he can feel creeping up his neck, eyes resolutely on the paper in front of the other. There’s no reason to feel nervous, they’ve slept in each other’s arms so often by now it really shouldn’t matter, but something about the fact that this isn’t about survival forces him to take a deep breath before moving. With one slide over the bench, his side is pressed to Gale’s, shoulders rising and falling in tandem. He’s glad to notice that Buck isn’t as cold as his hands, warmth seeping from his side to John’s as rapidly as the tension leaves the set of his shoulders until he’s pressing back into John.

They'll work slower like that but Gale doesn't protest nor take his hand away, only resettling slightly so his thigh also rests against John’s. Tentatively, he risks a glance at Gale and finds him looking down at the table, face still red but from something John has an inkling isn't the cold anymore, biting his bottom lip softly but mouth nonetheless quirked upwards. It takes every ounce of strength and self-restraint in him not to kiss him, to smother the affection blooming in his chest. Instead, after a bit of silence in which he feels he might suffocate on pent-up love, John squeezes Gale's hand in his and the other seems to focus back on his task, startled. Clearing his throat, Gale starts scribbling again, pointedly avoiding looking to his left, but John doesn't mind, a smile spreading his cracked lips, fondness written plain on his face as he doesn’t look away for a second.

On his lap, Gale squeezes his hand back.